by Saumya Dave
“That’s great. You need someone social. Just don’t go looking for things to pick on now,” Simran says, pointing a stern finger in his face. She and Sheila have heard of too many instances where Vishal rejected someone for some minor “issues.” Vishal’s parents remind him every chance they get that if he would just be a little more open-minded and a little less picky, they could help him meet the perfect Indian girl who meets all their standards.
“Where’s your fiancé?” Vishal asks, looking over Simran’s shoulder. “How are you guys?”
“Yeah, things have been great since he’s been back from Africa.” She nods. “I can’t believe it’s already been a month. He’s getting ready to study for his finals. I guess everything that happened while he was gone could just be attributed to a rough patch. We’ve gotten our rhythm back. And he appreciates that I’ve been essentially living at his place, making him snacks while he studies. He really has been trying, for the wedding and us. He even watched Miss Congeniality with me on Sunday for the millionth time.”
She reminds herself of a quote she once picked up from an episode of Oprah, her go-to source for wisdom when she came home from school. In a relationship, always trust that the other person is doing the best they can.
“You both always make it through,” Vishal says. “I mean, shit, that’s why you’ve been together this long. So then I take it you’re no longer talking to Neil?”
“Uh, well, not really.” Simran turns toward Vishal.
Vishal raises his eyebrows. “Seriously? You are still talking to him?”
“Sort of,” Simran says.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t feel like I can just stop talking to him,” Simran says. “There’s something about him. He’s brilliant and inspiring, yes. And he makes me want to do more. Think outside the box. But he’s also the kind of person I’d want to be best friends with.”
“I do get that.” Vishal motions to the bartender for another bottle of Sam Adams. “Is there any harm in being friends with Neil?”
“No harm, I guess, except Kunal’s still uncomfortable. That’s part of the reason things have been going well. Neil and I have dwindled down to texts,” she says.
Simran’s mom and Nani used to tell her that men didn’t have to give up much for marriages to work. Women had to leave their family, join another one, put aside their own aspirations on a whim, and sever any ties from their pasts.
“Neil’s actually at a place close by,” she tells Vishal. “Asked if we want to join.”
“Why don’t we go and say hi?”
“And have Kunal freak out? No, thank you. We’re supposed to be wedding planning, and you know what a beast that is. You’d think it would be easy for my family because we’ve already done this for Ronak, but it’s an entirely new ball game when you’re the bride’s side.”
“Don’t even get me started. I’ve had enough of that crap,” Vishal says, referring to his older sister’s wedding from the previous year. “These Indian weddings are out of control. We decide we want to go all out and have the traditional events and then it just becomes overwhelming as shit. In some ways, we take the worst of Indian and American customs.”
“But that’s the thing. You can’t just half-ass any of it,” she says. “Like, for Ronak’s wedding, my parents couldn’t leave anyone off their guest list. People get so offended. And then, when they say they’re coming, you have to take care of them. We had two guests call and say they couldn’t drink tea-bag chai. It had to be fresh. And the world apparently stops if Indians don’t have their chai three times a day, so my mom had to teach the chef at the Plaza how to make proper Indian chai. Can you believe that?”
“Sadly, I can,” Vishal says, and we both chuckle. “Our parents get so caught up in what other people think, how we’ll look. If we looked past all of that, we’d see a lot of fear.”
“I agree. In that way, wedding planning has just been an exaggerated version of my typical life plus Excel spreadsheets. And of course some unavoidable family drama,” she says, chugging her vodka cranberry.
“Jesus, the family drama.”
“I guess it’s inevitable. You don’t really have a chance to learn all the shit about someone’s family, or your own, until it’s time to plan a wedding. I didn’t know Kunal’s mother cared so much about what dishes should be served at the wedding lunch or where we would do the mehndi, because we need enough space for the henna tattoo artists to set up stations. And then the bride and groom have to be the messengers of their parents and balance everyone’s needs. It’s so awkward.”
“Have your parents and his been fighting?”
“They’re definitely on the verge. I know my parents can be crazy, but they’re mine, so it still makes me defensive if Kunal points out anything.” She laughs. “But I think we may need to stage an intervention with our moms. They’re disagreeing about everything. I can talk to my mom openly and tell her to calm down. But it’s a lot harder for Kunal. He’s not used to talking back to his parents. But we’ve promised each other again and again that we’ll be a team with our parents. We’re thinking of planning a meeting with them, because no matter what happens, they cannot meet by themselves.
“You know, it’s weird,” Simran says. “Everything seems to be back to normal. School, Kunal, my family. So I don’t know why it feels like things could just fall apart any second . . . or get worse if I make one wrong move. Maybe I’m just being one of those annoying Millennials who can’t deal with adulthood.”
“Maybe it’s fear?” Vishal suggests. “Or adjustment? There are a lot of things going on at once. I mean, you’re about to finish your master’s program, you’re planning your wedding, and your brother just got married, so of course your entire family is on edge.”
She considers his point. With so much going on, maybe some anxiety and uncertainty are inevitable.
Before Simran can answer, they’re interrupted by Kunal’s arrival. For a few minutes, everyone asks him about Africa, medical school, his family, and wedding planning, all out of pure politeness since they’ve already heard about all of these from Simran. He discusses his life with expansive hand gestures, the knowledge that the world is his to take.
Kunal kisses her when they’re alone. “Are you having fun?”
“Of course I am.” She gazes around the room. “I can’t believe we’re actually planning our wedding.”
Kunal wraps both of his arms around her and places his head on top of hers. It’s one of those easy, intimate gestures that can only happen with someone who’s familiar with your body. She sinks into him and relishes his firm grip.
“I can’t believe it, either,” he says, shifting his gaze toward the ground. “I haven’t thanked you for calling my mom and checking in with her about wedding stuff. It means a lot to me that you’re doing that.”
She takes a sip of her vodka cranberry. “Sure. It’s no problem. And you can call my parents sometime, too. I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”
He nods. “You’re right. I’ll do that.”
She forces herself not to ask him why this never occurred to him before, when it was so clear to him that she should be calling his mother. Then she reminds herself that this isn’t even all his fault. Their parents and even a lot of their friends still abide by the idea that a daughter-in-law should be putting in more effort toward her in-laws than a son-in-law.
Always trust that the other person is doing the best they can.
Kunal ruffles her hair. “I think my mom finally feels like she has something to look forward to that doesn’t depend on my dad’s approval. Not that he’s been able to focus on anything, anyway, with his job hunt and all.”
Pratik Uncle has mastered the art of having his kids crave his affection because of how much he withholds it. Since high school, Simran’s seen Kunal caught between resenting his dad while still ne
eding his approval.
“How is that going, by the way?”
Kunal shakes his head. “No luck yet.”
“It’ll work out, sweetie. An opportunity will come,” she says.
“I want to believe that,” he says. “But it’s hard seeing all of the stress it’s causing for him . . . and my mom.”
“I know,” she says. “But you’ll keep being strong for them. I know you will.”
“I hope so.” He kisses her forehead and gives her a we’re-in-this-together type of look.
She leans against his chest and recaptures the feeling she’s always had with him, the one that makes her excited for the future, for a time when they can be a real team.
From the beginning of their relationship, there was a connection that allowed both of them to confide more in each other than they ever could to anyone else. It’s a freedom Simran’s parents are missing. Even though they routinely discuss the intricate details of their work—frustrating patients, insurance issues, the other hospital staff members—there has always been a strict, almost professional, level of distance with their disclosures.
She tucks her head under Kunal’s chin and relaxes, feeling like a chubby, satisfied cat. Things can start going back to the way they were supposed to be.
Kunal nods and motions to the door. “Jigar and Rekha just got here. Let’s say hi quickly and head out. I’m ready to get to bed.”
Kunal always jokes that he needs Simran to socialize, even with his two closest med school friends. You’re better at talking to people than I am. She often reminds him that there’s nothing wrong with taking a few minutes to ask someone how they’re doing. At his med school winter formal, she ended up in a twenty-minute discussion with the dean and his wife, which then led to them going to their Upper East Side apartment for dinner.
Simran turns around to see Jigar and Rekha handing their IDs to the apathetic, tattooed bouncer.
The conversation among the four of them takes its usual route, which starts at small talk and ends at medicine. With the all-consuming nature of medical school, she can understand why many of their classmates broke up with their significant others. (When she went out with them after their first exam, Jigar provided her a very drunk explanation of his own breakup . . . and the mechanisms behind alcohol metabolism.)
Simran clears her throat, hoping that they’ll switch to a topic that she can contribute to. “So, what are you guys doing this summer?”
Jigar mentions something about the dean’s coveted sponsored Costa Rica trip being full and claims that Kunal is the “top choice” on the waiting list.
“You know you’ll get it,” Jigar says. “I bet your fiancée will even help you write the perfect follow-up letter to the dean that’ll convince him. Right, Simran? Of course, if you wrote the letter yourself, it would probably work, since the dean loves you.”
What the hell is he talking about?
“Of course she’ll help,” Rekha says. “She even packs Kunal’s lunch sometimes! I don’t know how he got a woman who is so much hotter and nicer than him.”
She pats Kunal’s shoulder. “You’re really out of your league, buddy.”
Kunal smiles. “I’ve always known that.”
If Simran met Rekha in any other setting, she’d want to be her friend.
Damn her.
Simran prays that her face isn’t flushed. “Wait, are you guys talking about the big dean’s trip? The one that’s for the whole summer?”
She thinks back and remembers that at some point in the last six months, Kunal mentioned the dean’s yearly medical mission trip. The med students are handpicked, usually only third- or fourth-years. The selected students are always eventually inducted into the school’s two honor societies—AOA and Gold Humanism—which then ensures they’ll match into their top-choice residency program. Kunal’s plan was to apply next year.
“But you’re going to go next year, after the wedding. We discussed us going on a mini-moon and then a real honeymoon later just to fit the trip in for you. Why are you talking about this now?”
She inhales deeply, waiting for Kunal to tell her that all of this just happened. They share big things with each other. They have to.
Jigar grabs her shoulder. “We made him apply for this summer.”
The bar becomes quiet and blurry. Thoughts burst in her mind, one after another.
She turns to Kunal. “You applied for a trip this summer? Are you serious?”
Kunal is buzzed and relaxed, which only irritates her more. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It all happened so randomly. Honestly, it was a joke because there was no way I thought I’d get in this year.”
“When were you going to tell me this?”
“I’m so sorry. I . . . forget to tell you.”
“You forgot?” She means to raise her voice but can only emit a whisper. “Seriously?”
“There was so much going on while I was there, and you and I barely spoke.” His face stiffens. “But of course I wanted to let you know. I really did. I promise you I didn’t think I had a chance for this at all.”
She struggles to keep her facial expression intact. “Kunal, can you help me with something?”
She guides them outside the bar. There’s a sign boasting one-dollar Jell-O shots in neon green chalk. People are being spit out of clubs and into twenty-four-hour pizza shops. A girl bends over a trash can as her boyfriend makes a frantic bun with her hair.
“Weren’t you going to apply for that trip next year?” She feels a stab of sadness, then worry. Is her fiancé really planning to be away again? And without telling her?
“I was. I am. I just thought I’d take a chance this year. Just to show interest.”
They stand by a filthy window. She pictures their acne-skinned, bright-eyed high school selves staring at them through it. What would they think of older Simran and Kunal?
“How could you apply for a trip like that without even talking to me? I don’t get it.”
I want to spend more time with you. I want to matter more, she wants to say but doesn’t. Can’t.
“I really didn’t mean to,” he says. “I told you I’m sorry I forgot. I really am.”
“That’s it? You just forgot to mention a trip that takes up an entire season? Not to mention, we’re supposed to be planning our wedding! I thought we would be doing it all together, as partners. I thought you cared about doing it that way, too.”
“I do care.” He shrugs and tilts his head down. “I’m sorry. Look, I love you, and I made a mistake by not telling you. Please, let’s just have fun and discuss this later.”
“Discuss what exactly? When did you submit the paperwork for this?”
She almost retracts her question. Maybe she doesn’t want to know. Maybe she cares about him too much to be angry about something that makes him happy.
“Simran, this is no—”
“WHEN?”
“In Africa.” Kunal refuses to look at her. “Around five weeks ago.”
She tells herself to take a deep breath, to remind herself that she loves him, and that’s what actually matters.
But she hears herself blurt, “Five weeks? Five weeks? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Kunal stays silent. He is not kidding.
“I can’t take this shit.” She raises her hands in the air.
A group of drunk college students saunter past them, unfazed. That’s the nice thing about New York: privacy in public.
“Can’t take what?” Kunal asks, as if to say, What now?
“There’s always something. I love you so much, but I don’t know. Is this how it’s going to be? You doing things without even considering telling me?”
She tries to tell herself she’s just had too many drinks. It’s not that she’s becoming the type of woman she swore she’d never be.
&
nbsp; Kunal clenches his fists and paces toward the curb. “No, it isn’t always going to be like this. God, Simran, do you always have to make a problem out of everything? You always make me feel like I’m screwing up. Not doing enough. Whether it’s for you or the wedding, it never ends. I’m stressed enough right now. And you know I’d never want to hurt you. I. Just. Forgot.”
The rational part of her tells her to stop talking. Stop thinking. Because when she’s drunk, her anger takes on a magnetic quality and tends to attract all the frustrations she’s been storing inside. She thinks about how she’s been living out of a drawer in Kunal’s room since he’s come back from Africa. They order takeout and eat it in front of the television when he isn’t studying. They visit his family when he’s free. His life. His way. His time.
“No. No, no, no, I will not let you make this my fault,” she says, stomping toward him. “I will not!”
There’s a staccato of high heels and leather shoes against the sidewalk. The air is heavy with summer and sweat. Things that usually signal a carefree time but for them now only manage to make the atmosphere more charged.
“I can’t deal with you right now,” Kunal says. “I have too many other things going on.”
Kunal has refused to fight at night since he started medical school. A fight makes it too difficult for him to go to sleep, which makes it too difficult for him to study the next day. So when things start to escalate, he shuts down.
“I know you have a lot going on. Things way more important than KEEPING YOUR FIANCÉE IN THE LOOP.”
It’s official: she’s lost it.
Kunal gazes at her, then kicks a stray beer can out of his way. “I should go. We can’t talk like this. It isn’t going to go anywhere.”
“So you’re really going to just walk away?” She watches the beer can roll and let out a low-pitched rumble until it hits the side of a brick building.
When he doesn’t say anything, she adds, “Please, Kunal. I just want to talk. Please.”
