by Saumya Dave
“Yes. I can wait if she’s with patients.”
Susie lowers her voice to a whisper. “Are you sure you meant to call here?”
“Yes,” Simran says. “I know she’s busy, but it’s important.”
Simran pictures her mother at work, whisking past hand sanitizer dispensers and stacks of patient charts and nurses in flowered scrubs. She feels a quick pang of sadness. My mother. Her patients.
On Susie’s end, the background shifts from chatter to silence. “Simran, your mom isn’t in the office. She already quit.”
“She what?”
“Quit. Uh, were you not aware of this?”
“No, of course I was.” She clenches her fists. “I just didn’t realize things were already, um, official.”
“Well, we guessed that she got another opportunity. She’ll be in and out to wrap things up with her last patient appointments this week. I’ll tell her you called when I see her, if that’s okay?”
Simran hangs up the phone, wanting to tell Susie she’s not sure if anything will ever be okay again.
Nandini
Nandini rehearsed her farewell speech for the hundredth time. I’m leaving the practice. Dr. Goldstein will be taking over your care. We’ll review your labs, medications, and follow-up appointments to make sure everything is in place.
It was the same speech she had given all her patients this week—105 down, 45 to go, and then she’d be done with her work here.
Her first patient, Ms. Morris, comes in with blurry vision. Her blood sugar is over four hundred, so Nandini calls her family to drive her to the emergency room. The next patient asks Nandini to examine all five of his children. The afternoon passes this way, in a blur of dosage adjustments, referrals to specialists, and the sound of forty pairs of lungs inhaling and exhaling. Nandini steps out of the building for twenty seconds to scarf down a bag of almonds. Three of her late-afternoon patients are smoking in the parking lot. She realizes she hasn’t given her farewell speech to anyone.
There’s a dull throb in her lower back that she’s become used to. When she paces back into the office, Terri, one of her nurses, is waving her arms and pointing to three doors that have a red tag on them, indicating they have a patient waiting to be seen.
The last patient comes thirty minutes late for an annual well check. Nandini waits in the exam room and inhales the scent of rubbing alcohol and Lysol. There are jars of cotton balls and gauze pads next to the sink. Everything in its place. Sterile.
After the patient leaves, Nandini checks the hallway and ducks into the closet at the back of the office. It’s stuffed with two large filing cabinets, one swivel chair, and stacks of patient charts across the floor that resemble a game of dominos.
She slumps in the chair, her head against her knees as she spins around. Her phone vibrates every two minutes. She holds down the power button until the screen is dark.
This is my last time in this stuffy place. I’m never going to sit here again.
The thought loops around in her mind, as if to make sure she really is ready to leave. Every decision in her life has been this way: certain until that last second, that last sliver of doubt.
She jumps at the knock on the door.
Three no-nonsense thumps of knuckle.
“I’ll be right out!” she yells.
Three more thumps.
Nandini opens the door.
Ranjit is on the other side, still in the black scrubs he wears on surgery days. He looks older. Or maybe she never bothered to notice that his hair had become more salt than pepper.
“Oh.” Her breath catches in her throat. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he grunts.
She steps outside the closet. Two nurses pretend they’re not watching them.
“Let’s step into my office,” she says, pacing in front of him, and closing the door after they’re both inside.
Nandini scoots into the black armchair behind her desk while Ranjit settles into the tan one in front of it. It’s strange seeing her husband sitting where she’s counseled countless patients and their families on labs, CT scan results, and treatment plans.
“I don’t know what to say to you,” she says.
Ranjit stands up and clenches his fists. “You don’t know what to say to me? Why don’t you start with what the hell you’re doing? You have the audacity to GALLIVANT WITH THAT DHORIYO and then tell me you have nothing to say to me?!”
“That’s what you think all of this is? That I’m having an affair with Greg?” She snickers once. Twice.
Ranjit sneers and narrows his eyes. “I’m glad you find it hilarious that you’re an unfaithful wife. No wonder our daughter’s life is the way it is. Look at her mother.”
Now Nandini stands up. She doesn’t care who can hear them. “I’ve done everything for Ronak and Simran. They know that. And you know that. Don’t you dare start with me about my parenting. Or anything else, for that matter. You have no idea what it’s like for me.”
“Really? What don’t I know?”
“All of it. Your sister and brothers watching and judging every single thing I do. You refusing to see any fault with them. Because it’s just expected for me put up with all of that with a smile on my face. Even if that means working at a job that drains me. I’ve revolved my entire life around our family, and I will not listen to you say otherwise.”
She suddenly recalls something she told Simran years ago: arranged marriages come with their own brand of insecurity, a stark awareness that there are always things that will remain unshared.
“Really?” Ranjit asks. “You won’t listen to me say otherwise when you walk out on our family because you’re with another man?”
“I’m not with him, god damn it,” she says, gripping the edge of her desk. Her hands are chapped from years of washing and sanitizing. “Dr. Dalton—Greg—is sick. He has ALS.”
“ALS?” Ranjit takes a step backward.
“Yes. It’s rapidly progressive. That’s why he wants me to take over his job.”
“The Baltimore job,” Ranjit says, as if understanding her for the first time since they started talking.
Nandini nods and takes a deep breath. “Yes, the job is at Hopkins. In Baltimore. I wanted to tell you this before. I tried at the engagement party and then you just stormed out and we haven’t really spoken that much since.”
“And that’s all because of me?” Ranjit challenges.
“It’s also because of me,” she admits. “I didn’t want you or Simran to find out about this that way, at the party of all places. But Greg didn’t realize that, and it came out. Anyway, it’s not easy for me to talk to you, and I wasn’t sure how you’d take this.”
Ranjit falls back into the chair and gazes at the wall. “You’re actually telling me that you were, are, taking a job in Baltimore?”
Just spit it out, Nandini, the voice in her head says. Say what you’re really thinking for once instead of worrying how you’ll be perceived.
“I’ve wanted something like this for years, for so long that I didn’t even think it was possible anymore. And then, when I thought it was the right time, so much happened. Pratik Bhai became your office manager. Everything with Simran. It’s always my life, my wants, that are put on hold. And you don’t seem to get that. Nobody does.”
“So that makes it okay that you kept it from me?”
Nandini shakes her head. “No. I’ve tried to tell you before that I’ve needed something different. But you’ve always said I need to keep this job, so I can take care of the family. And, you know, I think I finally accepted that I wasn’t able to connect with patients or practice medicine in the way I thought I would. But then Greg reached out because he needed someone to take over his job. I said no at first, but he was persistent. And when I learned more about the job, it was harder to look away. It’s a light patient load, with
some afternoons free for giving lectures, or doing research, or advising residents. I mean, a chance to work in the way I’ve always wanted!”
“So, what?” Ranjit asks, wringing his hands together. “You just accepted something in another state? What were you going to do? Send me a postcard after you arrived?”
She bites her bottom lip. “I was going to talk to you about it after the party. But when I saw your reaction, I knew you wouldn’t understand. You never did. I thought that at least if the kids were settled, it would make things easier for everyone.”
Maybe she needed both of her children to be married for the same reasons she needed them to be polite and get good grades. It told her that she had given them a good life. It told others that she had done her job.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” she says. “Everything’s more complicated now, especially after the fiasco with Simran. And I know none of this is your fault. I was never meant for this type of life. You’ve been good to me. You really have. It’s just always about everyone else. Kids. Family. Patients. You and I have barely ever focused on anything else, let alone each other.”
Ranjit sighs. The lines around his eyes deepen. He always appears refined. Nandini remembers the first time they were allowed to be alone, one hour after they first met. They sat on the swing on her parents’ veranda, the warm wind pushing through the windows, bringing in the scent of jasmine flowers and chili powder.
She faced him. “I’m difficult. You won’t be able to handle it.”
He chuckled. “I like that you’re difficult.”
Now he places his face in his hands, which are as equally chapped as hers. “I’m going home. Clearly you still have a lot to do.”
“Can’t we talk some more?” she asks as he steps toward the door.
“I think we’ve talked enough,” he says, closing the door behind him.
Twelve
Simran
Are you ready?”
Simran turns to Nani. She’s wearing her favorite peach cotton sari. Her hair, streaked with gray and white, is tied into a low bun, and is sealed in place by the string of jasmine flowers Simran bought this morning.
“I don’t know if we should do this,” Nani says.
Simran removes Nani’s tan chappals from the rickety shoe rack. They’re imprinted with the outlines of her size-5 feet, her long toes.
“Yes, you should. They’re waiting for you. Come on.” Simran links her arm through Nani’s, which seems frailer compared to even one week ago. The gate groans as Nani closes it behind them. Everyone else on the street is taking an afternoon nap.
In the rickshaw, Simran hands Nani the folders they’ve put together over the past week. “Do you want to go over anything?”
Nani shakes her head. “Whatever’s meant to happen will happen.”
“Don’t think that way. If there’s anything I’ve realized over the past several months, it’s that nothing’s going to change just by sitting around and throwing pity parties.”
“That’s what I used to tell you. Does that officially mean I’m irrelevant? Have you and I switched roles?”
“No, of course not. Never.” Simran studies the contours of her grandmother’s face, wondering if its details will ever fade from her memory.
Baroda whirls by during their rickshaw ride: men in faded kurtas pushing vegetable carts, women in saris balancing brass pots of water on their heads, the occasional pair of cows along the perimeter of the street. Simran wraps her dupatta around their mouths and noses to block out the puffs of exhaust and dust.
The rickshaw’s engine putters into a decrescendo as they reach Alkapuri.
“That’s it, right?” Nani asks, pointing to the building Simran was in just two weeks ago. It seems smaller today. More likely to cave in. Trap them both.
Simran nods, and they walk toward the steps. Nani puts both of her hands in Simran’s. They climb step by step. Nani doesn’t lose her breath once.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Simran asks.
Nani holds her hand up.
Translation: Don’t ask me that again.
Bharat Bhai’s secretary asks them to wait in two gray chairs, the kind with thin, pointless armrests. The carpet is puke green. Simran inhales and squeezes her hands together until her knuckles are white. It’s better not to say anything to Nani right now. This is no time for a pep talk.
Five minutes later, Nani and Simran walk toward a door that says CONFERENCE in black letters. There’s a long mahogany table with six people on either side of it, Bharat Bhai at the head. Shafts of sunlight poke through the opaque windows.
“Welcome, Mimi Ben,” he says, clasping his palms together, bowing his head.
Nani returns the gesture.
“Shall we start?” he asks, and Nani nods.
The room is quiet as everyone on the school board faces them. Simran’s underarms start to sweat.
Nani makes her way to the front of the room. “Good afternoon. My name is Mimi Kadakia. There are a lot of reasons why I should be an official teacher at Xavier’s school.”
Within seconds, she’s rattling off all the things Simran has discovered through her evenings reading. Simran compiled everything into two separate documents, one for Nani, another for her to reference as she works on her own article about these issues.
Nani starts with the facts. The value of educating a young woman in India. The way girls who work outside of their homes end up earning more money for their entire community, have decreased risks of dying from early pregnancy, and are less likely to be victims of domestic violence.
Then she transitions to the specifics. How her course would be designed, from the exams to the essays to the weekly syllabi. The lessons of the Indian goddesses tied to modern-day life. She talks about Pallavi, her goals and potential, how she’s getting pulled out of school.
She’s a natural.
Simran’s heartbeat slows down. Everyone in the room is paying attention, nodding their heads, unbothered by Nani’s strained voice, her heavy breaths. It’s the type of magic that only exists when you watch someone doing what they were always meant to do.
Bharat Bhai stands up. “That was wonderful, Mimi Ben.”
Nani bows her head in a gesture that’s both triumphant and grateful.
One of the board members, a thirty-something woman with thick eyebrows and glasses that remind Simran of a fly, raises her hand. “I just have one question: How can you guarantee that you’ll be able to, how do you say, handle the rigors of teaching all day?”
Nani furrows her brow. “I don’t understand?”
“Most of our teachers are young. Energetic. Yes, you have been coming to the school every day for some amount of time. But without any official experience in teaching, we do have to make sure you can do the job.”
“I guarantee that she’s more energetic and committed than any of the other teachers you have,” Simran says.
The woman doesn’t look at her. “I’m sure you understand. We’ve had unconventional teachers before. It has been a liability.”
“A liability? Like the conventional teachers who skip their own classes?” Simran asks, and Nani grabs her wrist. Simran can hear her mother telling her to shut up.
“Mimi Ben, do you feel comfortable signing a one-year contract?” The woman peers at both of them, almost as if she knows that within one year, Nani’s delicate cells will have already betrayed her.
Nani looks toward Simran and then back at everyone else. “Well, I guess if I have to commit to one year, it’s better that I don—that I think about this for some time and get back to you later.”
“So, you’re not sure?” Bharat Bhai asks. “Really?”
“No.” Nani faces the ground and lowers her voice. “I can’t sign a one-year contract.”
The board members stare back at her.
“I,
well, am not able to—”
“What she’s trying to say,” Simran interrupts, “is that she can’t sign it herself. We both have to sign it. Because we are going to teach the class together.”
Nani turns to her. “Simi?”
Simran clutches her shoulder and faces the board. “I know. I know. I should have jumped in earlier and told them I’m going to help you start the class. Once it’s established, you’ll be able to manage on your own.”
Bharat Bhai raises his eyebrows. “Is this true?”
“It is,” Simran say. “We’ve been working together to make the ideal curriculum. The thing is, nobody expects anything from these girls. They need encouragement from as many people as possible. People who believe in them to be something besides wives.”
The way Neil believed in her. She pretends he’s in the room, telling her to keep going.
“That sounds nice in theory, Simran,” Bharat Bhai says. “But we don’t have enough staff to follow that type of long-term plan. And what about payment? We can’t afford to pay both you and Mimi Ben a full-time salary.”
“That’s fine,” Simran says.
“It is?” Nani asks.
“We’ll figure it out. How about I e-mail you our curriculum, and in the meantime, you’ll put the contract together?”
Bharat Bhai nods. “Yes, I think that sounds good.”
“Okay, we’ll be in touch!”
Despite the silence and somber surroundings, Simran feels like she and Nani were just announced as winners at the Oscars. They should be making a tearful and touching acceptance speech. Any second now, someone from Fashion Police will push a microphone in their faces and ask, “So, how does it really feel?”
And then she thinks, Neil. I am embodying Neil. Neil is the reason I thought any of this was possible.
Before anyone else can interject, Simran says, “We should be going now. Thank you!”
She pulls Nani’s wrist and guides them out of the room.
* * *
— —
They buy glass bottles of Limca and bars of Dairy Milk chocolate to celebrate. The shop owner gives them a complimentary packet of Indian-spiced hard candies when they tell him the news.
