by Saumya Dave
“So call him,” Sheila says.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what he’d say. We both set that August 20 date. I don’t know how he’ll react if I try to contact him before then. But, man. . . .”
“You miss him?”
“I do,” Simran says.
“Of course you do. How could you not? You’ve been talking to him almost every day since high school.”
“True. . . . Ugh, let’s change the subject,” Simran says. “How are things with you?”
Sheila grunts. “I don’t know. At your engagement party, I told my parents everything about Alex.”
“And?”
“At first, my mom acted like she didn’t hear me, so then I had to repeat myself. Then she turned to my dad, who basically took over after that, because my mom was stunned. God, she was so freaking dramatic. She started laying down and fanning her face and mumbling some bullshit about her blood pressure. Then my dad began firing all these questions, which I think were supposed to be rhetorical but I answered anyway.”
“Like what?”
“Like, ‘Why did we ever move to this country?’ and ‘Where did we go wrong as parents?’ and ‘How could you do this to us?’”
“That’s terrible,” Simran says. “I’m sorry. But that took a lot of courage on your part to be straightforward with them.”
Simran has always pushed Sheila to stand up for herself when it comes to her parents. They know she gets guilt-tripped easily into doing whatever they think she should be doing.
“It’s fine,” Sheila says. “I wouldn’t tell them this but they made me doubt things with Alex. They asked me what it would be like to have an ‘outsider’ with me at all family events and what that would mean for our kids. They think I could get anyone and don’t know why I’m settling, so to speak. Then, of course, my dad kept going. He thinks our generation is going to have a lot of divorce because we don’t know how to pick partners. But I don’t know. I’m just not going to talk to them.”
Sheila and Simran, all grown up and not on good terms with their parents. Simran can see their ten-year-old selves looking at them, shaking their frizzy-haired heads in disappointment.
They talk for a little longer, and then Sheila says, “I know you probably have to go, but there are some other things I forgot to tell you. You’ll see this soon enough anyway, but I think Neil might be dating someone.”
“How do you know that?”
“It was in some gossip blog that the NYU people were reading. Apparently another writer.”
Simran stops herself from asking any questions, questions she has no right to. Instead, she pictures the female equivalent of Neil: a girl who is beautiful in an I-read-a-lot sort of way, who wears mascara and crisp, white button-down shirts. She has a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she pictures them flipping through the Sunday New York Times, holding hands inside a hipster coffee shop, or taking a selfie on the steps of the New York Public Library.
“Also,” Sheila says, “you should check in with your family. Ronak told me some things have happened since the party. He wouldn’t get into it with me over the phone, but, I don’t know, he sounded off.”
Simran hangs up with Sheila. But before she calls her parents, she dials Bharat Narayan’s phone number.
Nandini
Dear Simran,
For years, I thought you could look into my eyes and see that I’ve been lying. You could see past the facade I put up for the world. You could tell there are gruesome, shameful stories I’ve kept locked in a box, stored deep inside myself. But I concealed it. The way I learned to do. The way I’ve done since. It’s taken me years to realize that the things I’ve hidden have had a far bigger impact than the ones I’ve revealed.
I was scared then. But I’ve only been more scared since. Becoming a mother has a way of coating your life with a thin layer of fear. Every day, I feel as though I’m running from it—what happened and everything else that’s been with me since. Self-hatred. Lies. The way people looked at me. Shame.
It consumed my identity more than anything else, especially the things I took pride in. More than being my strong mother’s daughter, or an older sister, or a doctor. Everything that made me me seemed to crumble and no longer mattered. I spent years running or hiding or running and hiding. I hated myself for bringing this on my family, for what this did to my parents’ sense of stability.
That’s what a secret like this does to you. It corrodes you. I used to have large aspirations. Images of my future that were infused with possibility. I used to think of movies where women had British accents and men had shiny shoes. I was starting to become a strong new woman, someone I could be proud of. And then she got taken away from me and I wondered if I only dreamt of her existence in the first place, if she was ever real. Because once she left, the only thing I had was the feeling that I was to blame for all of it. I learned to accept whatever was handed to me instead of fighting for more. Sooner or later, the world shows you what you deserve. And I knew I didn’t deserve anything.
After I met your father, I felt something that seemed like hope. I thought I could start over. That’s what you and Ronak were to me. A fresh start. A chance.
But I know now that nobody can run away from their past.
If I ever give you this letter, that’s what I want you to take away from it. Don’t ever run away from anything. Run after what you want. Run toward something greater than anything I could ever give you.
Love,
Mom
Eleven
Simran
Bharat Narayan has to be at least seventy years old, with white Einstein hair that spreads in every direction like a cloud. He wears a navy blue kurta top with white linen pants and looks like he meditates every morning.
“So, what can I do for you?” he asks, folding his veiny hands together.
Simran gave herself a little pep talk on the way here. You can do it, Simran. You’re confident. You’re capable. It was inspired by one of her favorite episodes of 30 Rock. Liz Lemon always knows how to pump her up.
She shifts in her chair. “I’m not sure yet. My understanding is that my grandmother, Nani, Mimi Ben, is concerning some of the students’ parents because of her visits.”
Simran gives him a quick recap of their conversation with Deepak Bhai. Her Gujarati has become stronger, more accurate. A sign that she’s been in India for three weeks.
He nods and folds his hands together. Simran wonders if he’s telling himself that Indian girls from America are too outspoken.
But a second glance reveals that he’s interested, not appalled.
“Yes, I am aware of that,” he says. “Did Mimi Ben ask you to come here on her behalf?”
“No, not at all.”
Nani thinks Simran is at the bookstore down the street, not in Alkapuri, a town that’s a fifteen-minute rickshaw ride from her house.
Bharat Narayan’s entire office is covered with trinkets from around the world: a miniature black-and-yellow rickshaw, a blue porcelain baboon covering its eyes; a paper fan with a watercolor of two women in high buns and kimonos. A stark contrast to the orderly books and humming computers in the psychology building. Simran wonders if staying calm amid the clutter is some type of mental experiment for him.
“What doesn’t make any sense to me,” Simran says, “is how some of these teachers don’t even show up, and then my grandmother, who shows up every day because she wants to, has to deal with opposition.”
Bharat Bhai leans back. “It’s complicated.”
“Meaning?” Simran asks.
He raises his eyebrows. “Xavier’s has a high need. People—young, qualified people—are not willing to live near the school. We can’t take the best of the best teachers in Gujarat. They all want to go to bigger schools in bigger cities. There isn’t enough st
aff to monitor how much the teachers teach and if they show up or not. We simply don’t have that luxury. So we have to take who we can get and then we have to keep them.”
“And the curriculum? The things the girls are taught in the classroom? Who decides that?”
“Designed by the school board. Look,” he says, fiddling with a blue fountain pen on his desk. Surely a token from one of his trips. “I’m sure you know we have enough trouble keeping enrollment at our school. Girls leave for all sorts of reasons: their families want them to get married or help at home or can’t afford sanitary napkins and school tuition once they start menstruating. It’s all unfortunate, yes. But if we make their parents uncomfortable with what they’re learning, then we risk getting to a point where we don’t have a school left.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“We are going to have to ask Mimi Ben to stop coming.”
Simran slams her hand on the scarred desk, surprising both of them. “You can’t do that! That’s ridiculous.”
“I don’t want to. I really don’t.”
“Then don’t,” Simran says.
“I might not have a choice,” he says, his eyes widening. She thinks she believes him. But she can’t digest what he’s saying. She won’t.
“There must be something you can do. Anything.” Simran’s mouth becomes dry as she pictures Nani’s reaction.
And even though she knows that it probably won’t help to argue with Bharat Bhai, she can’t accept this. Her mother would know what to do right now. She’d manage to bitch out the school board while still getting her message across.
Bharat Bhai shrugs and leans forward without saying a word, which conveys enough. Simran gazes at the wall above him, with its framed degrees from some school in Delhi.
“I’m going to look into some things. I’ll be in touch.” She stands up and wishes she was wearing a blazer or something she can button. A gesture like that would make a confident and conclusive statement right about now.
Instead, she says, “I should go.”
The rest of the office building is a conglomeration of cubicles and computers, employees in off-white button-downs and black slacks, dashing to their next tasks like fruit flies. Simran pushes open the double doors, which are opaque from dirt and rain stains.
The air outside is heavy with dust and heat. There’s a Havmor café across the street, nestled in between shops that have sari-draped mannequins in their windows. Simran pictures her mother walking on this exact road.
She can’t go back home and face Nani yet, so she sits inside Havmor and orders a glass of Indian cold coffee: coffee blended with vanilla ice cream.
How is she going to break this to Nani? Simran knows how she’ll handle it. On the outside, Nani will act like she’s fine, as though she was prepared for this. But really, she’ll be crushed.
Families collect around Simran, enjoying butterscotch ice cream, Nani’s favorite flavor. She considers getting some to take to Nani but decides against it. It’ll melt before she’s home.
Simran steps out of Havmor and walks toward the busy street, where all sorts of vehicles are going in every direction. In India, drivers honk more to assert their presence rather than to scold, so there’s a constant cacophony of honk, honk, honk. There are no accidents despite the lack of traffic lights or marked lanes. Several rickshaw drivers are sitting on the sidewalk and smoking cigarettes.
She’s hit with a pang of nostalgia for New York. For her old life. For Seamless delivery and Sephora. People her own age. Knowing how to get from one place to the next.
Simran considers raising her hand for a rickshaw but finds herself crossing the street, back toward Bharat Bhai’s office.
* * *
— —
An hour later, Simran tiptoes back in the house. Nani’s asleep on her recliner and doesn’t hear Simran. Five issues of Stardust magazine are on the table next to her. They have pictures of Indian celebrities on the cover, with stories in large hot pink font that make People magazine look like high-class literature:
Will the Katrina and Salman Love Story Ever End?
Abhishek: “I Know What I Want.”
Who Really Caused the Rift Between Sanjay and Shah Rukh?
Simran covers Nani with a thin, beige blanket.
She’ll tell her about her idea later.
* * *
— —
“I think it’s time we call Mom,” Nani says that evening as they’re eating bhindi shaak that’s been simmered until each piece of okra is soft and charred.
“You’re ready to tell her about your you-know-what?”
“No. But you should talk to her. About everything. And then maybe she can tell you about her matters.”
“I don’t know. It might be too soon.”
“It’ll never feel like the right time,” Nani says, the mixture of encouragement and tenderness in her eyes bringing back memories of when she used to help Simran with her homework. “She should be awake by now. I used to always call her at this hour.”
“I don’t even know what to say. Where to start.”
Simran hears the last words she and Mom exchanged. The resentment coalesces into sadness and confusion.
Kavita takes the dinner dishes into the outdoor sink in the garden as Nani and Simran go into the living room. A gecko’s outline appears behind the light. It scurries toward the cracked ceiling when it hears them.
Simran removes the cordless phone from its charger and punch the digits for Mom’s cell phone, which goes straight to voicemail. She dials their home phone number. Her stomach seems light, as though there’s air under it.
Five rings.
Simran checks the time again. Her parents couldn’t have left for work yet.
“Hello?”
“Daddy?”
“Simi—Simran. Hi.”
I miss you, she wants to say.
Pressure builds behind her eyes. She takes a deep breath. “How are you?”
“Okay. Fine. And how are you? How is India?” His tone is even, with a forced detachment.
“Fine. I’m having a good time with Nani.”
I’m sorry for everything.
“Are you going to work soon?” she asks.
“In a little bit,” he says.
“Anybody still discussing the party? I mean, I’ve been here for a month, so I hope it’s out of everyone’s system. . . .”
Dad sighs.
They both know the real answer. Of course everyone’s still discussing the engagement party. Their out-of-town guests left right away, as though their family’s shit show could be contagious.
“Well, okay then,” Simran says.
Silence.
More silence.
She waits for him to say everything will be fine. She needs to hear him say it.
Simran glances at Nani. “Is Mom there?”
Dad sighs. “No. Mom is not here.”
“But it’s not even seven there. Did she go into the office early?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Not sure?”
On his end, Simran hears the sigh of a closing door. “It’s hard for me to know Mom’s schedule when Mom hasn’t been here.”
“What? Where has she been?”
His voice becomes soft. Strained. “Somewhere else. She moved out.”
“When?”
“Earlier this week.”
She almost expects him to say he’s joking, that Mom’s just in the living room, reading the Health section of the New York Times.
But when he doesn’t say anything, her hand starts to shake.
“She just left?” Simran asks, picturing her mother at home, how she runs their family, the way she accounts for everything in a manner that’s exhausting but inevitable, as though she never knew any other w
ay.
“Well, she did say she’s coming back tomorrow. That she just needed a little space for a few days. So I guess I should be grateful for that.”
“Is she going to Baltimore?” Simran asks.
Dad sighs. “At some point, yes. I overheard her making plans with her friend”—his voice catches when he says “friend”—“but I don’t know when she’s leaving.”
This is Simran’s fault. They both know it. If she could have just kept her shit together, her mother wouldn’t have been compelled to stay in a hotel for a few days. The thought of her dad sitting alone at home, eating day-old Taco Bell, waiting to hear from her mom, is too much to bear.
“Have you tried calling her?” Simran pictures her mother slipping into a car with Dr. Dalton. It doesn’t make any sense. She knows her mother cares about Dad; maybe not in the way Simran cares about Kunal, but still, she wouldn’t just leave.
“Just once,” he says. “But she’s an adult. She knows what she’s doing. How her actions affect other people.”
“Do you think she’s been unhappy?”
“I’m sure a part of me realized she had been . . . absent . . . for some time. But I don’t know. Maybe I overlooked it. Or ignored it.”
He keeps going, and Simran wonders if he’s talking more to himself than to her.
“You know, when I met her, she was so different from any other woman I’d known. Confident. Fearless. And now, she’s worn down. Indifferent.”
“I don’t see her being indifferent,” Simran says.
Dad doesn’t respond.
Simran tells him she has to go, hangs up the phone, and calls her mom’s office. She waits through the standard menu options and presses “1” to make an appointment. It’s the only way to speak to a human being at a doctor’s office.
“Livingston Family Medicine,” says a chirpy voice on the other end.
“Susie, hi. It’s Simran. Can you tell my mom I’m on the phone?”
“You want to speak with Dr. Mehta?”
