by Saumya Dave
She turns back to the wine list. When she and Ranjit moved to America, they and so many of their friends were doubted because of their accents. After 9/11, the racism took on a new texture, one that became laced with fear. Not to mention that being a woman meant even more judgment and questioning from peers and patients than Ranjit ever had. The sheer audacity of people, to think they kne—
“Nandini,” Greg says, interrupting her thoughts. “Your mind is racing. I can see it on your face.”
“You’re right. I need to take a breath,” she says. “I read this quote that said, ‘If you want to imagine what a woman’s brain is like, imagine a browser with three thousand tabs open.’ Couldn’t be more accurate.”
She didn’t expect Greg to understand. He had been raised in Westchester by parents who were on the board of every big museum in Manhattan. His family portraits, all pressed shirts and light and bright colors, reminded her of Polo Ralph Lauren ads. Before he had gone to medical school and later become her attending in residency, he had been a professional football player.
But despite his life of privilege, or maybe even because of it, she was shocked when he took her aside after her first patient presentation and said, “You’re smart, Nandini. Really smart. I know it’s tough here, especially for you. But you can go really far if you want, and I’m going to do my best to make sure you’re given the opportunities you deserve.” In India, there were so few women in scientific fields that mentors were unheard of. But here, an older white man stuck to his promise for her. Greg made sure Nandini had access to the best mentors for her research projects and then nominated her as Resident of the Year.
“So is that why you still haven’t officially accepted my offer?” Greg asks now. “Because you think you’ll be discriminated against?”
“That is a part of it, yes,” Nandini says before she tells the waiter she’d like a glass of Malbec. “We both know your patients and your entire office staff would be shocked to go from having you as a head doctor to having me. But there’s also that tiny part about me having to relocate to Baltimore while, you know, my entire life is in New Jersey.”
“There is that,” Greg says. “What did your family say? I’m sure they’d want you to make the right decision for your career.”
Nandini faces the empty plate in front of her.
“You still haven’t told them?” Greg asks. “Why?”
“I can’t. I want to so badly. And I thought that once my kids were settled, it would finally be my time. But there’s so much going on right now. Ronak just got married. Now it’s Simran’s turn, and things aren’t quite as . . . smooth. I don’t know if I can throw this at my family right now.”
“They’ll understand. They know you’ve hit a wall at your job. And I understand why you feel indecisive and hesitant. I get it. But this is a chance to practice medicine in the way you always wanted, the way you were meant to.”
“I know,” she admits. “But as much as ideas like ‘lean in’ and ‘women’s equality’ have become mainstream, it’s different with Indians.”
“Meaning what?” Greg challenges. “That you think people will talk about you?”
“Not think. I know they will.”
“So what? Let them talk.”
“It’s really not that simple,” Nandini says.
Greg has no idea what happened in India all those years ago. Like Simran, he’s blissfully unaware of the corrosive damage that could come from people talking, how it can ruin everything you worked for, everything you thought you could become.
“All I know is that we don’t have that much time. You’re going to have to tell me yes or no soon.” Greg extends both of his palms. “My hands feel even weaker than they did last week.”
Nandini takes a large gulp of wine. “I promise I’ll have an answer for you soon.”
* * *
— —
“There she is!” Payal yells as Nandini walks into her living room.
“Sorry I’m late. Can I get anybody more tea or food?” Nandini removes her gold stud earrings, a family heirloom Mami gave her on her last trip to India.
“We’re fine.” Payal pats her stomach to indicate she’s full.
“I see that,” Nandini says.
They’ve certainly made themselves at home. Nandini and Ranjit’s living room has been transformed into a Baroda sari shop, complete with the multiple cups of chai. Yards of bright orange, turquoise blue, and deep purple saris are unfolded across the sofas. The floor is covered with red velvet boxes, each one nestling gold-and-crystal jewelry.
“Is that your new set from Delhi?” Charu points to a pair of enormous diamond-and-gold necklaces between Payal and Preeti.
“You know me. I couldn’t resist.” Payal beams and tilts her face downward in a gesture of feigned modesty. She rubs her face. Her eyeliner and lipstick remain intact. She often provides a loud thank-you to the power of Chanel’s makeup, but everyone knows she had permanent makeup tattooing done two years ago.
“Hmph.” Charu runs her fingers across the rows of winking diamonds.
Nandini suppresses a laugh. Charu pretends not to be affected by expensive jewelry when really, she’s impressed by plenty of things, whether that’s how much her peer’s children make at their first job, the number of letters after someone’s name, or how many likes can be collected on filtered Facebook photos.
“You must be so excited about Simran’s engagement party,” Sonali, Payal’s permanent sidekick, says. Preeti nods in agreement.
“We are,” Nandini says. “I think it’ll be fun. And so many people are flying into town!”
“What color is Simran wearing?” Payal asks. “Please don’t say something neon. I’ll have a heart attack if I see another Indian girl in that ridiculousness. Since when did resembling Gatorade become classy?”
Nandini laughs. “Don’t you worry. Simran will be in pale pink.”
Payal leans back in relief. “Haaaash.”
Sonali’s hands sweep over two silk saris as if they’re her precious pets. “I wish my Dinesh would just settle down already. These kids now just keep swiping right or swiping left or doing other good-for-nothing things. When I ask him, he has the audacity to say, ‘Mom, you just want to plan a wedding.’ Now when was that considered a crime? And think about it for me. I have three sons. I’m ready for a girl in my home!”
“It’ll work out. Just be patient, and have faith,” Payal says as she rubs Sonali’s back. Nandini can picture her real thoughts in the air in front of them: If you pray enough, Krishna will make sure your son marries a woman who kisses your ass and only expresses anger in the most passive-aggressive forms.
Sonali smiles. “You’re lucky to have a daughter, Nandini. They care more. They want to make sure the parents are okay.”
“That’s true,” Nandini agrees. “The way a daughter shows love is different. Incomparable.”
Charu raises her nose into the air and gives Nandini a side-eyed glance. “And everything is going okay with the wedding planning so far? No issues?”
She knows what happened with Simran and Meghna. She knows. She knows. She knows.
Nandini gives her a cold, hard stare. “No issues. We are just fine.”
The next hours are filled with the women exchanging opinions on one another’s saris, cooking tips, and run-of-the-mill resentment toward their mothers-in-law. Nandini laughs along with their stories.
It occurs to her that she would have liked this years ago. Not as much as the other women, but it would have still been pleasant, nice. But she’s felt different lately—as though she no longer fits. There’s a divide between her outside and inside now. Not that anyone can tell. They may even think she’s fully in the moment, not thinking of anything else. Lying, she’s realized, is like most things. It gets easier with practice.
She excuses herself to start cleaning up.
In the quiet, large kitchen, she starts rinsing the dishes. The remnants of Gujarati food—serrated cilantro leaves, the greenish brown sauce of curry, and thick, yellow trails of daal—swirl down each plate and coalesce before disappearing into the drain.
Our food was designed for women to be bound to the kitchen, Mami often said. There was the binding of the dough, the cutting of the vegetables, the spicing, the cleaning, the arranging . . . Nandini was exhausted just thinking about it.
Charu approaches the sink. “Let me help you.”
“I’m fine, really.” Nandini wants some more time alone. She hasn’t even had a chance to process her dinner with Greg.
“It’ll go faster this way. You rinse. I’ll load.” Charu opens the dishwasher and holds out her hand.
Nandini gives in, too tired to put up a fight. She passes Charu the rinsed dishes until all the plates and bowls are finished. Nandini gets the larger pots from the stovetop. She turns on the overhead fan to air out the lingering smell of cumin and turmeric.
“You know,” Charu says, “everyone is so excited for the engagement party and, of course, the wedding. I can’t believe the entire extended family is coming. Even the ones who’ve never been to America! So things really are going well?”
“Like I said before, yes.” Nandini forces her voice to keep a light, pleasant tone. “Things are fine.”
She glances at Charu and notes the difference between her and the other women here. Sonali and Preeti are quiet and simple, which makes them ideal company for social events but also guarantee she’ll never be very close to them. Payal may be superficial, but even still, she’s sincere. Charu has a subtle, dangerous manipulation about her. Nandini finds this interesting considering that Ranjit doesn’t have this trait at all. Then again, his relationship with his sister works because they keep their interactions light and pleasant, never going below the surface.
“Good. Both your kids are getting married within a year. That’s a big deal,” Charu says.
Nandini nods. Yes, a wedding is the last large occasion she will throw for her children, but it is more than that. It is the culmination of what they all built in America, the struggles they overcame.
Charu leans against the dishwasher door and tosses the light pink dupatta of her salwar kameez over her shoulder. “Ranjit told me Simran has been asking you a lot of questions?”
“Such as?” Nandini pretends to focus on soaking pots in the sink.
“She’s curious about your marriage. Naturally, right?”
Her words make the evening take a sharp turn.
“Simran’s fine.” Nandini’s voice lowers into a murmur. “And we know how to deal with things as they come up.”
Scrub, scrub, scrub. Squirt soap onto a sponge.
“You know,” Charu says, no longer loading any dishes, “it’s important that certain incidents are kept in the past. We wouldn’t want anything to ruin her engagement. She still has one entire year before she’s married.”
“Why would anything ruin my daughter’s engagement?”
Nandini can already hear Ranjit’s voice: She’s just trying to help. He is perpetually blind to his sister’s intentions, the same way he never notices his brothers nudging the check in his direction when they go to restaurants. Charu sponsored Ranjit and Nandini to America, and ever since she’s cashed in one favor for a lifetime of obligation.
And she could never talk to Ranjit about it, at least, not to the extent that she would have preferred. That was one of the many things nobody ever told her about an arranged marriage. There was no expectation to communicate, to expose one’s emotional exoskeleton for the sake of connection.
And why were people constantly telling her what to do? Whether it was Meghna or Charu, she was always answering to others.
She forces herself to think of her future. There’s a chance she could have something greater than this. Something of her own. Something she’s hoped for for so many years.
“You of all people know how a boy’s parents can get,” Charu says, interrupting Nandini’s thoughts. “If they think a girl comes from an improper family, they can cut things off. All my brother wants is for his children to be happy. Settled.”
“That’s all I want, too.”
“And it’s important to me that he’s content. That you aren’t planning to do or say anything that will jeopardize plans. What happened in India should be kept in India. If the wrong things get out, everything can be broken. Obviously, you already know that.” She says this as if she’s a strict schoolteacher and Nandini is an eager first-grade student.
Charu can remind her of the scandal as much as she wants. She doesn’t know what really changed Nandini from the inside.
“And anyway,” Charu continues, “I know Simran is very attached to her cousins. It would be a shame if they all drifted apart because of things they’re better off not knowing.”
Years ago, hearing something like this would’ve terrified Nandini. But now, she places her hands on her hips and leans closer to Charu. “Nobody would dare take things out on Simran that aren’t her fault. I’ll make sure of that. And she will, too. My daughter won’t be pushed around by anyone. And I won’t let you threaten her future with my past.”
Nandini wants to scream at Charu, Get that stick out of your ass! She has imaginary arguments with Charu in the shower, where she pelts her with a slew of curse words she’s learned from American shows.
Charu gazes at Nandini, as if trying to study her face. “You must be relieved. After everything you’ve all been through, Simran has grown into such a kind young woman. I know she had her ups and dow—”
“Like I said, she’s fine,” Nandini says, remembering that Simran still hasn’t called her back today.
She soaks a yellow-and-green sponge in the sink. “I’m going to finish cleaning up. Please, go sit and enjoy your tea.”
Charu doesn’t move.
Nandini faces her. “I’m not kidding. You should leave. Now.”
Five
Simran
Thank God you’re here,” Vishal says as Simran walks into Wicked Willy’s, their go-to grungy bar on Bleecker and Sullivan. “I’ve been such an awkward third wheel with Sheila and Alex. Trying not to fall asleep.”
“Nobody can tell. You need to go into politics,” Simran says. “Or rather, anything that requires constantly masking boredom and fatigue.”
“You mean like my current, soul-sucking job?” he asks, referring to his position as a financial analyst at Goldman Sachs. “Ah, that’s the privilege of our generation, right? To be entitled and bitch about our jobs and flirt with the idea of doing something else, something grander, only to jump back on the goddamned hamster wheel the next morning.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Simran laughs and sits on a barstool next to him as Vishal orders their drinks. “Where’s your girl? Ami, right?”
He nods. “We haven’t caught up about her, or anything, in so long.”
“I know! There’s been so much going on,” she says.
“Yeah? Wedding planning been crazy? You’re practically at the one-year mark.”
“Oh, I know,” she says. “Yeah, the planning has been crazy, and I’ve also been working a lot for school. It’s really picked up, and I’ve had to buckle down. Make sure all my shit’s together.”
“How’s that going?” Vishal asks.
“Fine,” Simran says. “I’m putting together my final project for the program. It’s been a lot of work. Sometimes, I lose motivation—”
“Don’t we all?” Vishal asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Definitely. But it’s fine. I’m getting through it.”
“Well, you’re almost done,” Vishal says. “It’s a big year for you, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. There are so many things going on. And it almost feels like they’re happening so quickly that I can’t p
rocess them all. Or really grasp how much is really going to be different soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m excited, and I’ve prepared for all of this for so many years. But I guess I’m beginning to see that there are expected things I have to do . . . for work and the wedding. I just want to make sure that in the midst of all that, I’m still me. That I don’t let parts of myself slip away in the name of being a good Indian girl.”
“Ah, a good Indian girl.” Vishal leans back and peers at Simran as though he’s seeing straight into her thoughts. He has that ability to be an active, nonjudgmental listener, something Sheila often lacks. Simran’s worried that if he keeps his eyes on her, if she keeps talking, they’ll stumble into a territory she won’t be able to climb out of.
“Anyway, this is way too heavy of a talk for a place like this,” Simran says as she motions toward a group of college kids taking tequila shots. “Tell me about you and Ami.”
Vishal has been on every app and matchmaking site that exists. Simran and Sheila have heard stories about his adventures everywhere from Dil Mil, Coffee Meets Bagel, and his favorite, Bumble. Though Simran commends his persistence, she’s worried those apps make it easier to assume there’s always another option close by. Her uncle Rajan Kaka claims many of these sites work similarly to arranged marriages in India, by aligning people based on their values, family backgrounds, views on finances, etc.
Vishal and Ami met through Tinder of all ways. To be fair, it was sort of an accident. He signed up as a dare, and Ami made a profile before realizing it was a full-on hook-up app. (Simran had made a note to herself to remind Rajan Kaka that Tinder was nothing like an arranged marriage setup.) They’ve been dating for two months, and tonight will be the first time Sheila and Simran meet her.
“Ha-ha. She’s not here yet. And she’s not my girl. Yet.” He drums his palms against the bottom of his light green polo.
“Ooh, so things are going in that direction?”
“Yeah, our last date went really well. And so far, there’s nothing wrong with her. She’s really bubbly, always talks to strangers. I like that.”
