by Saumya Dave
Four
Simran
The next morning in lab, Simran reviews research study after research study until the computer screen makes her eyes sore.
Her master’s in psychology program is a mixture of lectures and research. People complete the program to apply for a PhD or do further clinical research, since the program isn’t enough to be a licensed psychologist.
She only has one month left in the spring semester, and after the summer, she’ll be done. The date, October 1, has been circled on her calendar since she started. Simran thought becoming a therapist would mean she’d someday see patients in her cozy Park Avenue office and say things like, “So, tell me about your mother,” before jotting down their responses into a leather-bound notebook and helping them arrive at a life-changing breakthrough.
Instead, she spends most of her days sitting in lectures, analyzing research papers about psychotherapy, and wondering about which greasy food cart she’ll pick up lunch from.
She scrolls through her text messages. The last one is from Neil.
Neil: How are the article ideas going?
Simran: Actually about to do some research now. At school so have to be shady about it since I should be working on my psychology project.
Neil: Ah, got it. Good luck being shady!
Simran: That’s so nice of you to even check in. Thank you.
Neil: I was wondering how you were doing . . .
Simran: I was wondering how you were doing, too
She puts her phone away just as she hears some footsteps behind her.
“Everything okay there, Simran?” Dr. Bond, the head of the lab, asks while clearing his throat.
“Oh, hi!” Simran swirls her chair around, almost knocking over a mug of lukewarm coffee. Her eyes meet his brown, short-sleeved, flannel button-down shirt as she keeps a sheepish grin on her face.
He glances at her computer screen. A HuffPost article about how women are perceived in the workplace is prominently displayed. This is her luck: her adviser doesn’t stop by while she’s sifting through research studies. He comes in during the one minute she’s doing research for a potential article. At least she closed the one from Cosmopolitan titled “The Complete Evolution of Kim Kardashian’s Hair.”
Dr. Bond is usually in his office or off at meetings where he creates dozens of new project ideas. He stays at school until eight every night and then takes the train back to Westchester. When anyone meets with him, he offers them a cup of Earl Grey and biscuits from his hometown of Newcastle, England.
He raises a graying eyebrow and motions to Simran’s screen. The man never expresses blatant anger, and she still can’t decide if that’s scary or commendable.
Kunal would freak out if she told him about this. He believes it’s inexcusable to not focus at school. His mind doesn’t even wander during hours of medical school lectures, so he wouldn’t understand why she had to read random articles when she should be doing her project. She wonders if that’s why she hasn’t told him that school’s felt a little tougher lately.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts to Dr. Bond. “I was just . . . finishing something up before I got started on my data analysis.”
Translation: I’m bored.
“Okay,” he says in an I-don’t-believe-you tone, holding out the second syllable of “okay” so it sounds like more “okaaaaaaaaaaay.”
Simran considers offering a guilty laugh but decides she’s not graceful or cute enough to pull one off. Before she turns her head back to the (now-blank) computer screen, he pulls up a chair next to her.
“Oh, hello,” she says, as if seeing him for the first time.
The clock says it’s almost eleven fifty. In ten minutes, she’s supposed to meet Sheila, who is in a neighboring lab doing human rights research.
“Simran, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Dr. Bond says. He takes a quick glance around the room to make sure it’s empty. “There has been some concern about the way you’ve been lately.”
“The way I’ve been? What do you mean?”
“I was at lunch with some of the professors, and your name came up,” he says. “There was more than one who thought you haven’t been as focused.”
“Really? Me?”
He nods and gives her a look that’s a mixture of sympathy and something she’s never seen on him before: disappointment. For a second, her parents’ faces flash through her mind.
“I, um, I’m sorry,” she says, slumping in the chair. “I’ve just had a lot going on lately.”
Dr. Bond and Simran exchange a tight smile. He buttons his tweed jacket. Dr. Bond must shop at a store called Tweed Daily. She’s often pictured his closet as the tweed version of Doug Funnie’s, the cartoon character she loved as a kid who had twenty versions of the same outfit.
“I promise I won’t let any concerns come up again,” she says.
“Well, it’s getting a little late for that.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I’m afraid you’re in danger of being on academic probation.”
“What?” she whispers. “How is that possible?”
“For starters, your exams didn’t go so well last week, and as far as your research evaluation goes . . . well, you missed the last two meetings.”
She turns away from him. Even though Ronak has been the star student of the family, she’s never had a teacher be concerned about her schoolwork. Sure, her report cards always said something along the lines of, Simran is interesting in that she either reads books or talks too much. There’s no middle ground. But nothing like this. Plus, her neat handwriting and punctual completion of assignments showed that she was motivated and wanted to make something of herself. And academic probation? Indian kids don’t get put on academic probation.
Dr. Bond leans forward. “Simran, you and I both know that I’ve always raved about you: your potential, your connection with others. God knows we don’t have enough people here with a real personality. I know you can do great things for this field. However, if you don’t start improving, then we will have no choice . . . but to let you go.”
“Go? I can’t go,” she insists.
“I know that’s a difficult thing to hear. But our program is competitive, and we have to have faith that our students will represent us well once they matriculate. A big part of your next step—whether that’s a job, a PhD, what have you—is the recommendations you get from the faculty. You know that the deadline for deciding what you want to do is coming up. None of the professors will want to write recommendations for clinical work or further schooling for a student who isn’t able to keep up. If your performance isn’t to par, you won’t be able to graduate with a degree from here.”
Dr. Bond keeps talking, but Simran shuts him out. Not graduate? There’s no coming back from that type of low blow. Her stomach churns as she pictures telling her family and friends she doesn’t have a career.
“Please,” she begs, cutting him off. “Please let me make this up somehow. I can turn all of this around. I will.”
“Do you like it here?” he asks. “Really like it?”
“Yes,” she blurts. “Of course.”
It’s true. She’s enjoyed learning about everything from organizational psychology to generalized anxiety disorder. Dr. Bond has been a supportive mentor. Her classmates are compassionate, never cutthroat. And in many ways, she’s found the environment to be more laid-back than undergrad.
So then what the hell has been wrong with her lately? First, the Neil situation, and now this? Has she been more out of it than she thought? This is the period of her life when she’s supposed to step it up and become a real adult. She can’t believe she’s allowed herself to slack now.
Dr. Bond is still looking at her, probably analyzing her shifting facial expressions. Psychology classes have taught her how to read body languag
e. Right now, Dr. Bond’s downturned eyes and his hand propped under his chin reminds her of the way Kunal looks when watching that commercial about abandoned kittens and puppies needing a home.
She faces him and says, “I want to be here and finish what I started. Please.”
“I hear what you’re saying. It takes a lot of work to become a therapist. Think about everything you’ve already invested. The undergraduate classes, applying here, starting research, preparing for exams. I don’t want all of that to disappear for you. But it’s not all up to me, Simran. You know that.”
“I do,” she says, her pulse quickening. “But I can fix this.”
“We’ll see,” he says as he gets up to leave the lab. “I think we should talk again soon. There’s a lot you and I can discuss.”
“I agree,” she says. “Can we meet sometime this week? I’m going to come up with a plan to handle this, and it would be helpful to go through it with you.”
He nods. “I think that sounds like a great idea.”
She clenches her fists around a stack of paper. She needed this kick in the ass. Sure, things with school may be monotonous now, but just like any relationship, it’s not right to let complacency erode the future. She needs to get to work.
The words circulate through her mind. Academic probation. Academic probation. Academic probation. She texts Sheila about rescheduling lunch. Then she removes a piece of paper from the printer and makes lists. One for how to improve on the last set of exams, another of the professors she can meet with during office hours, and lastly, points for the next time she speaks to Dr. Bond.
* * *
— —
Forty-five minutes later, Sheila approaches Simran’s desk.
“Hey, sorry I had to cancel lunch. Can we meet sometime later?”
She nods. “Sure.”
Simran glances up at her. Sheila’s cheeks are flushed, and her eyes appear swollen.
“What’s wrong?” Simran asks.
“My parents definitely know I’m dating someone,” Sheila says. “They just don’t know who.”
“That’s a good thing,” Simran says. “They’d freak out if they knew who.”
“Yeah, I know,” she agrees glumly. “But it’s just weird. I mean, it’s been weird, and I didn’t really expect anything else. Like yesterday, we’re hanging out, having this great conversation, and my dad calls and I had to tell Alex not to talk or make any noise, so my dad couldn’t hear him. It’s so fucking shady.”
Simran scans the lab. No sign of Dr. Bond. She still shouldn’t leave.
“Sorry I’m having a major meltdown,” Sheila says. “It’s just been a really rough day. Are you okay to talk about this now?”
“I can talk for a little bit,” Simran says. “Let’s get some food. You shouldn’t keep all of this bottled up.”
In a matter of months, Simran’s program will be over and Sheila will quit her job to start law school at NYU. They had this silly idea that they could always coordinate their careers.
“Do you really think your dad knows?” Simran asks once they’re in line at their go-to falafel cart. They don’t have time to go to the café across the street that’s famous for its Instagram-worthy avocado toasts.
“I have no idea. You know how he is,” Sheila says.
Sheila’s dad should have been in the CIA. The scariest part is that he’ll never let on just how much he knows. He just waits for his kids to come clean. With a potbelly and full cheeks, he’s always reminded Simran of a teddy bear (one who could claw the shit out of you if you deceived him, of course).
Sheila’s dilemma began with an innocuous LSAT study date, which led to post-exam drinks in the West Village, and then a series of hookups in the following months. Even though Sheila never saw it getting this far, Simran knows that she secretly takes pride in the fact that, unlike her last boyfriends (all Indian), Alex is her intellectual equal, and their evolution from a friendship has made things go smoother than anything before. They’re the type of couple that spends Sunday mornings drinking French-pressed coffee, reading all of the New York Times front-page stories, then watching the latest episode of The Handmaid’s Tale.
Simran was there the first time Sheila tried to bring up the topic to her dad; not Alex specifically, but the idea of interracial marriage. She was received with the disheartening “after all the sacrifices we made in coming to this country, the only thing we ask for is you don’t disappoint us” speech.
Simran listens to her but keeps her commentary brief. Sheila often just needs to vent and rarely takes any advice given to her. They both pretend not to notice.
Just as Simran is about to tell her that they should get back to their desks, Sheila asks, “So you’re still in touch with Neil, huh?” The skin around her mouth tightens. Her eyes dart to the side.
“You’re doing your judgmental face,” Simran says.
“No, I’m not!” Sheila says.
“You are. Just say what you’re really thinking.”
Sheila faces her. “I don’t know how to really say it.”
Simran gives her a look that says, Since when do you struggle with what to say?
“I guess I’m torn,” Sheila says.
“About what?”
“That night at your party, you just looked so in awe. And you get this weird smile when you mention him. I get that he’s exciting and inspiring and happens to be hot in a bookish way. And I wouldn’t want you to miss out on that type of connection. There’s already enough drama when it comes to planning an Indian wedding, and I’d hate this to be a part of it for you and Kunal. I just want you to be careful.”
“I am careful,” Simran says.
And I love my fiancé, she says to herself, as she pictures Kunal’s curly hair and rough hands. She wishes he was back home already, that their lives could be normal again.
“If you say so.” Sheila’s look conveys the sense of understanding that’s always been the foundation of their friendship: I don’t totally get what you’re doing, but I respect you figuring it out.
Sheila squeezes her curly hair into a no-nonsense bun. She has the type of beauty that’s debatable, with tiny eyes, full lips, and a five-six build that borders on what Indian aunties would call “healthy.” Not tender, girl-next-door pretty, but astute, I’m-your-boss attractive, the ideal kind for an aspiring judge and women’s rights advocate.
Simran tells Sheila she’ll call her tomorrow. She needs to get back to work, and they could stay outside for the entire day if given the chance. They pulled an all-nighter the first time Simran stayed at Sheila’s house, when they were eight years old. That was the same night Simran learned that Sheila rarely cried, not even while they watched The Lion King, which made Simran a sloppy mess. Sheila also hated Lisa Frank stationery, while Simran begged her parents for it. In fact, they’re still so different that most people are surprised that they’re friends, let alone best friends, as though friendship is something that can be plugged into an algebraic formula. What everyone doesn’t see is that in addition to the potent power of history, they also have some of the same contradictions: a love for trashy reality television and classic literature, a need to be career- and family-oriented, and a tendency to take on too many side projects.
Simran’s steps back to lab are swift, ready to prove Dr. Bond wrong. Columbia’s campus makes her wish she was a photographer. They pass the empowered statue of Athena sitting on her throne with a leafed crown. Her arms are raised, and her palms face the sky, as if to say, Welcome to my place.
Simran’s phone buzzes with a text message.
Kunal: Got a little Internet access! See you in one week.
Simran: Can’t wait for you to be back.
Kunal: I know. I miss you.
Simran: I miss you, too.
Kunal: I miss your body. Need to grab your butt right when I see you.
Simran: LOL, you’re ridiculous . . . but I miss your butt too.
She inserts a heart emoji into her last text. If she could call Kunal, he’d know what to say, how to comfort her. She reads her texts again. He’ll be back in seven days. Her life will make sense again.
Outside the lab window, there’s only New York and the unimposing, soft pink of spring. A group of fit, chic twenty-something girls, all in Alo workout clothes, probably walking from their SoulCycle class to Sweetgreen. The day hangs on to her shoulders the way all heavy things do.
If Simran’s parents heard her conversation with Dr. Bond, she doesn’t know if they’d yell or sit back in shock, wondering what they had done wrong. Kunal would start coming up with an action plan. It would probably be a distilled version of the one he made for himself in high school to ensure the highest GPA in their school’s history. Meet with teachers outside of class. Ask about extra credit. Double up on courses to add more A’s to your transcript.
She sits in front of the computer and reviews the list she made earlier. She clicks on the tab for the Internet and prepares to send out a slew of e-mails. She types and revises and types and revises, unaware that slowly, things will fall apart.
Nandini
“Remind me to pray that in my next life, I come back as a white man,” Nandini says as she scans the long wine list.
Greg, her former attending from residency, tilts his head back and laughs, the same low-pitched chuckle that he had in residency. “It’s not all that it’s cracked up to be.”
“Please.” Nandini rolls her eyes. “When I walked in here, the hostess took one look at me and I knew she was thinking that I was in the wrong place.”
Greg raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure that wasn’t just in your head?”
“No! Even when we’ve been meeting vendors for Simran’s wedding, I can tell that they’re judging us, maybe comparing us to some Indian family that was terrible to work with, since, you know, we’re all the same. The discrimination never ends.”
