Well-Behaved Indian Women

by Saumya Dave

  Simran takes a deep breath and opens the car door. The garage doesn’t have its usual scent of gasoline.

  She has three options:

  Tell them about her idea to put the engagement on hold.

  Tell them about school.

  Tell them about both.

  The first choice is the most logical. They can all start damage control, make the necessary phone calls. The second can wait until later, say, after she’s had time to run away and establish a new identity.

  Simran walks toward the door. All she wants to do is run upstairs and reread Their Eyes Were Watching God. She loves the way Janie searches for her identity and becomes independent after years of being afraid and unsure.

  There’s a rumble of laughter on the other side of the garage door.

  “Is Dad watching a movie?”

  Mom shrugs. “I haven’t seen him today. He left early this morning to meet with a potential new office manager.”

  Simran removes her cream Tory Burch flats and steps into the house. The television is turned off. Two pairs of unfamiliar brown men’s loafers are side by side in the kitchen.

  She pokes her head back into the garage, where Mom is still standing by the car, dazed. “Who came over?”

  “I didn’t even realize someone was here,” Mom says.

  “Someone’s always here,” Simran says, and they scoff. Since she was little, they’ve joked about how Mom’s a constant hostess, whether she wants to be or not.

  “You’re telling me,” Mom says. “Oh, well. They’ll leave—eventually—and then we can all talk.”

  Typically, when an uninvited guest comes over, Mom rushes to the kitchen to boil a fresh pot of chai and arrange snacks in tiny glass bowls. Today, she slips off her faded black flats and slings her arm through Simran’s.

  “Come. Let’s go say hi.”

  A knot of dread tightens in Simran’s stomach. The same type of dread she used to have in PE class when they’d have to climb the rope in front of everyone. She’d feel her loose, unstylish shorts clinging to her sweaty legs and pray for the entire thing to end.

  She steps into their house. Before she can call her dad, she hears it: the deep bass, the quick sentences.

  Simran paces toward the living room.

  “Kunal?”

  He stands up. “Simran. Hey.”

  He’s sitting on the beige sofa, their beige sofa, next to his dad, Pratik Uncle. Simran’s dad is across from them on an armchair.

  “What’s going on?” Simran asks, standing still, taking note of the Parle-G biscuits on the coffee table. She and Mom have joked about how after so many years, Dad still can’t host properly.

  “Yes, what brings you here?” Mom stands behind Simran. And then, as if noticing her own raised eyebrows, she adds, “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Dad and Pratik Uncle motion for them to join the conversation.

  Simran and Mom avoid eye contact and sit on the love seat.

  “Nandini Ben, please know that Meghna and I want this time to be as pleasant as possible.” Pratik Uncle leans forward and clasps his hands together. He’s wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt, starched no doubt by Meghna Auntie. It’s the kind Simran’s dad has on in sepia-toned pictures, the ones her mom lost or threw out in a fit of Diwali cleaning.

  Mom nods and offers a smile that’s more a stretch of her lips than anything else. “That’s what we always hoped for.”

  “Then let me say that we should not have any more misunderstandings during this process,” he says.

  Kunal and Simran exchange a questioning glance. Did their moms talk without them?

  “Since it’s clear we are all on the same page, I thought it would be good for us to show our commitment. To becoming one family,” Dad says.

  Simran grips her knees. “What does that mean?”

  “That means that Pratik Bhai has agreed to be my new office manager.”

  Mom doesn’t bother keeping her voice soft. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier,” Dad says. “Isn’t it a great idea, Nandini? And you can even help him learn about the practice.”

  “We can’t thank you enough,” Pratik Uncle says. “Ranjit and I were also discussing something else. Since your family is coming into town soon, how do you feel about making an official announcement to everyone about this at the engagement party?”

  Arranged marriages were traditionally run in one manner: the parents met, introduced the children to each other, and made plans. Somehow, Kunal and Simran have gone in the opposite direction. She wonders if things would have been the same if they had met through Shaadi.com, the Indian online matchmaking site that Ronak used, where parents often write profiles for their daughters that say, “Fair-skinned, docile girl seeks nice man,” regardless of whether that’s true. She pictures Kunal reading her honest profile: “Stubborn, confused bookworm seeks intelligent, patient man who wants to live in a big city.”

  Pratik Uncle smiles. “I’m just sorry we didn’t do anything like this earlier. Not that I can count on Kunal to be on top of these types of things.”

  Kunal offers a nervous laugh and keeps his back straight. Simran wants to give him a hug, assure him that he hasn’t done anything wrong. Kunal’s dad has always had a way of bringing him down. While her mother’s words have a similar way of stabbing, she and Simran share a friendship that Kunal and his dad lack.

  “Well, if these are the plans, then we’d better get started,” Mom says, staring at her feet, the color draining from her face. “Let me get you all something proper to eat.”

  “Also, we have a list of some of the Hindu traditions that our family has in every puja. I’m sure you and Meghna can go through those together and decide which ones are most appropriate,” Pratik Uncle says.

  While Dad and Pratik Uncle talk, Simran stretches toward Mom. “What about the thing you wanted to talk to us about?”

  She puts her hand on Simran’s wrist. “It was nothing.”

  “Really? It seemed like something.”

  “There are more important things happening now,” Mom mutters. “There are always more important things.”

  “Ranjit, Pratik Bhai.” She clears her throat. “About those traditions for the engagement puja, of course, we’ll want to respect the wishes of our families. But I think it would be right for Simran to decide what she is or isn’t comfortable with. I’m sure Meghna Ben would agree with me that it’s not fun to be a bride and have no choice in anything, right? It certainly wasn’t fun for us.”

  “Nandini, we can finalize those little details later,” Dad says.

  Translation: Let’s not sound too forceful in front of them. They’re still the in-laws, the ones we have to look good in front of.

  “Yes, of course,” Mom says, her voice polite but firm. “I just wanted to say that while the kids are here.”

  Simran always expected her mother to micromanage every detail of the wedding, making it more about her as Simran’s part became smaller and smaller, like a house you drive away from but still watch in the rearview mirror.

  But now, for the first time, Simran sees another side of the woman her mother is, two versions sitting side by side. She’s the woman who encourages Simran to call her future mother-in-law three times a week. She’s also the woman who pushes Simran to have a career, something of her own. The woman who visits Dad’s family every evening but also refused to quit her job, even when it may have been the easier thing to do.

  Maybe her mother is also in a constant battle. Simran wonders how many times Mom was trying to protect her and she misunderstood. She wonders if men always held her back, in one way or another, and if her choices simply came down to what was best for Ronak and Simran instead of what would have fulfilled her.

  Simran stands up and races to the kitchen. She needs
to get out of here. “Mom, I’ll get the snacks. You stay here.”

  “I’ll help you,” Kunal says as he stands up.

  “No, it’s okay,” Simran says, rushing ahead of him. Before he catches up with her, she yells, “I just have to get something from my room!” and leaves him in the kitchen.

  Simran runs up the staircase. Her heartbeat quickens. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

  She slams her room door, sits down on her bed, with its white canopy and lavender sheets, and puts her head between her knees. There’s a stack of Baby-Sitters Club books at the foot of her bed. She remembers how those books made her want her own group of cool female friends. She was even inspired to start her own babysitting club. Okay, fine, it ended up being a club comprised of only her, but still. She studies her walls and examines the posters of boy bands and chubby babies that have been there since elementary school.

  Maybe her life has always been like this bedroom: unchanged in the hopes of preservation but now just out of place. She’s had the same best friend and boyfriend for years. She’s always been near New York City, to the point where saying “the city” couldn’t mean any other city. What would it be like to blow up her life, start over?

  She reaches for her cell phone and scrolls toward Neil’s contact information.

  “Hello?” His voice is lower than usual.

  “Hey. I’m sorry, did I bother you at work?”

  “It’s fine. Give me a second to step out.”

  Her throat tightens as she hears his background change from a murmur of conversation to silence. She pictures him in a conference room with a long mahogany table and gaping windows that overlook a Tetris-like Manhattan. A grand space for grand people with grand ideas.

  “I’m sorry,” Simran says again. “I thought we should talk.”

  Neil clears his throat. “Yeah, I didn’t really know what to do after that.”

  “I didn’t, either.”

  “And it’s been a while since we talked,” he says. “So I figured you didn’t want to be in touch.”

  It’s been weeks since we kissed, Simran thinks. I’ve kept track of every day that’s gone by since then.

  “I shouldn’t have let that happen,” she says. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I know that’s the cliché people use when they do something fucked up, but it’s true. I’ve never done anything like that before. And I’m sorry.”

  “Does your fiancé know about what happened?” Neil asks.

  Your fiancé. The words seem to come out in slow motion.

  “I was going to tell him today and talk to him about taking a break, but then some other things came up that I wasn’t expecting.”

  “So, then, no, right? He doesn’t know?”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Simran grabs a throw pillow from her bed and wraps her arms around it. “I’m sorry for everything. I’ve never met anyone like you, and I didn’t think it was possible to have such an instant connection with anyone. And now, things are complicated. I thought I could cut everything off with you, but I can’t.”

  “You don’t get to have it both ways, Simran,” Neil says, his voice becoming quiet.

  “I know I don’t.”

  She hears him walking back and forth. She bets he’s wearing shiny designer loafers. “You need to figure out what you want. With this situation and with all the other shit in your life. You claim you want to do certain things, but then you just end up doing what everyone expects you to do.”

  “You’re right. And I wish it were simple to just do that,” Simran says.

  “Of course it isn’t simple. That’s the point. But I’m . . . older than you, in case you didn’t notice,” he says, and she laughs. “I’m not going to sit around and wait for you to make up your mind.”

  “You shouldn’t. I’d never expect you to,” she says. Of course men like Neil Desai don’t need to sit around and wait for anyone. “There’s a lot going on right now, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “I can see that. Well, I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell you this, but maybe it’ll make things easier for you.”

  “What?”

  “I’m leaving for China this week.”

  “China? Why?”

  “They want me to put a more global focus on my column, not just focus on American economics. The managing editor suggested I start there. And if I like it, I might stay.”

  Neil was about to live on the other side of the world, and Simran would get married, live a quiet life, and dig him from her memories whenever she and Kunal had a low moment.

  They hang up a few seconds later. Simran buries her head into her pillows.

  There’s a knock at her door.

  “Just one second!” She sits up.

  Dad walks inside her room and closes the door. His mouth is turned downward, and his shoulders are slumped.

  “Dad, I was just talking to my fr—”

  “Don’t,” he says, holding up his palm. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Alone.”

  “Why?” Simran asks.

  Dad never asked to talk to her alone unless something was concerning. When she was younger, it happened more, for everything from her report cards to her failed driver’s license test to college rejections. Mom was always harsher when Simran didn’t accomplish something. She’d lecture Simran about the importance of discipline and hard work before rushing off to her clinic. Dad could approach these things with a calmer, more curious angle. He’d ask to talk to her in her room, turn off his pager, and sit on the edge of her bed, waiting for an explanation. He seemed more like a therapist than a surgeon during those moments, and Simran often wondered if that sense of calm guided him in the operating room.

  “You haven’t been yourself lately,” Dad says now. “I know you think I probably haven’t noticed, but I have.”

  Simran frowns. “You have?”

  Dad nods. “More than you realize. You’ve been distant on the phone. And, I don’t know, not as excited as I thought you’d be. There’s something off. And I don’t even want to get into who you were talking to.”

  “No, that was just . . . nobody.” Simran’s voice is strained and hushed.

  Dad sits on the corner of her bed the way he used to, the way he hasn’t in years. “I’ve never told you this, but after your mother and I got married, we had to forgive each other, let a lot of things go from our pasts, in order to move forward.”

  “Okay . . . ,” Simran says, even though he doesn’t seem to be waiting for her acknowledgment.

  “And really, she had to do more of that for me,” he says. “And was it tough? Yes, it was. Were there times we wondered if we’d make it? Yes. If someone is willing to put in the hard work to deal with life—real life—with you, you can’t just take that for granted.”

  He squints. Simran and her dad have never discussed romantic relationships or love or anything in that realm. Their care for each other tends to emerge in the form of logistics: Did you eat today? How much sleep have you gotten?

  He stands up and walks toward her room door. “Just think about it, beta. Really consider what you’re willing to throw away and if it’s worth it.”

  He keeps her door open. The floorboards groan as he descends the stairs.

  Her phone buzzes with a text message alert.

  Mom. Did you get the snacks together? Pratik Bhai and Kunal are still waiting.

  Simran goes back to the kitchen, where there is no sign of Kunal, and removes plastic bags of chakri and sev from the section of the pantry that’s reserved for Indian snacks.

  “There you are. Finally.” Kunal comes behind her and puts his arms around her waist. He smells like the Axe body wash his mom buys in bulk from Costco.

  “It’s weird that you can be this close to me here,” Simran says. “I’m so used to sneaking around with you in this house.”

  “
Sneaking around in person and on the phone,” he reminds her. “I’ll never forget how quiet your voice was whenever you called from your closet . . . after your parents were asleep. You were always so scared of getting caught.”

  “Yeah,” she says, pretending to focus on removing plates from a cabinet. “So, how have you been?”

  “Don’t make small talk like that. I’ve missed you. And I know I’ve been wrong.”

  “No, I have,” she says, all of a sudden feeling heavy. Kunal’s always had a way of eroding her emotional calluses.

  His voice softens. “I’m sorry about everything. I should have told you I applied for the dean’s summer trip. I don’t mean to take you for granted. I really don’t.”

  Simran checks the hallway between the kitchen and the formal living room. The coast is clear. “I know you don’t. It’s my fault.”

  “No, don’t say that. Look, I’m sorry about my dad and me coming over here, and now our dads working together. It was a surprise, and I think our parents just wanted to move things along. You know it’s always been hard for my parents that our family is not as well-off as yours. Maybe I’ve always had a chip on my shoulder about that and didn’t realize that. My dad’s always made me feel not good enough because that’s what he thinks about himself. But it’s hard balancing that and feeling like I have to take care of my mom. Sometimes, growing up, I felt so lonely and isolated. I would have drowned in that if it wasn’t for you and how you’ve supported me.”

  Simran touches his forearm. “I can’t imagine how difficult it’s been with you and your parents, in so many ways. You do so much for your family, and I really respect that.”

  Kunal smiles. “Trust me, I know there’s a lot our parents won’t ever get about our relationship, but there are things we can learn from them.”

  “Such as?” she asks.

  “They didn’t give their marriages any choice but to work. I want that. And we could even look at what they haven’t done and learn from that. Wouldn’t it have been nice if your parents went on real dates? Alone?”