by Saumya Dave
If Vishal was here, Simran would have told him she doesn’t know if she’s supposed to ignore any thought of Neil, or if she should send him an e-mail or text. Doing nothing doesn’t seem right.
Simran asks Sheila the last time she spoke to Vishal.
“It’s been a while. He’s all work and Ami. And you know”—she leans closer—“he kind of told me she’s not so excited about his two best friends being girls.”
“He told me about that, too. And well, who can really blame her?” Simran asks Sheila. “Maybe this was always going to happen and we were spoiled with him being single.”
“Yeah, I guess . . . ,” Sheila says. “We’re all growing up. Moving on.”
“We are,” Simran says. “It’s weird how that happens.”
“Yeah, seriously. Anyway, it’s good you’re doing all this planning when you have . . . time.”
“I do have time right now,” Simran agrees. “I mean, a little less than before, since my parents were getting antsy about how I was going to make money. They were right, so I decided to stop tutoring on my own and start teaching a GRE course with a test prep company.”
“But that’s not your career,” Sheila says. “It’s how you’re paying your bills for now.”
“I know,” Simran says. “Obviously I’m going to have to make some significant lifestyle changes for now, but that’s fine. This is how it has to be until I have a better idea of where my career is going.”
Simran has noticed the different ways her friends and family have tried to mention her lack of a real job or plan. There’s a unique type of rift that forms between you and everyone else when they can’t figure you out, put you in a safe box.
There’s no need for Simran to sugarcoat something anymore just because everyone else is uncomfortable with it. “I’m going to stay back in India for a while after our wedding shopping.”
“For what?”
“To be with Nani at school.”
“I don’t get it,” Sheila says. “You go to India . . . and then what?”
“And then . . . that’s that,” Simran says. “I was happy when I was there, and she and I were doing something together. Something that impacted people. I haven’t ever felt that way before. About anything. And if I want to write about people, I have to learn about the world. Actually see things . . . see people.”
“Yeah, but where does it all lead? What’s the point?”
Simran’s not sure why, but she stops herself from telling Sheila about a project she just started working on and the new applications she’s filled out.
“The point is that I’ll be fulfilled. That’s enough of a point,” Simran says, her voice becoming firmer. “This allows me to focus on the girls, which is great. I’m so sick of thinking about myself all the time. And I can do what I think is best. I really don’t need to explain myself to anyone.”
“Okay, okay,” Sheila says. “I get it.”
They both know Sheila doesn’t get it. She’s almost done with her first semester of law school, and like Kunal, she knows that the point of anything is to get to the next step.
“I’m not trying to be annoying,” Sheila says. “It’s just that you’re so smart and could do so much. And I want to make sure you don’t lose sight of that.”
They’re interrupted by Sujata, who whisks toward them and apologizes for the wait. She’s thin, around forty years old, dressed in a black T-shirt and black leggings, and has a single streak of hot pink through her black hair. A belt of makeup brushes is slung around her waist. Everything she does is swift: the way she talks and opens the tubes of makeup, how she arranges bottles of hair product in front of the mirror. According to New Jersey Indian wedding gossip, she can get a bride completely ready in two hours. Namita’s makeup took two hours on its own.
Simran and Sujata spend a few minutes talking about Simran’s ideal makeup and hair looks for the garba, wedding, and reception. Simran shows her pictures she saved from Instagram and points out the longest fake eyelashes she’s comfortable with. Sujata rubs Simran’s face with a makeup-removing wipe and starts applying primer.
She gulps down her champagne before Sujata starts experimenting with lipsticks. In an attempt to change the subject, Simran asks Sheila how things are with Alex.
“Actually, they’re better,” Sheila says.
“Seriously? You mean, with your parents?”
“Yeah, so after that initial meltdown they had, or rather, that my mom had during your engagement puja, I told him we should just keep our distance for a while. Honestly, it was pretty embarrassing to know that they were discriminating against him and he was aware of it. But he’s tough. And he was pushy about us spending time with them.”
“So have you all been talking?”
“Yes. And we just went to brunch.”
Simran widens her eyes. “You and your parents and Alex went to brunch?”
Sheila nods. “At Friend of a Farmer. Two days ago.”
“Damn. How was that? Did the pumpkin pancakes help ease the tension?”
Sheila laughs. “It was awkward at first for sure. Alex and I made a list of conversation topics in case there was a lull. And I had counterarguments prepared if they started attacking him.”
“Not surprised. You’re already set to be an amazing lawyer,” Simran says. “So, how’d the conversation flow?”
“I think my parents were taken aback by how friendly he was. And you know my mom, she’s so susceptible to compliments and charm. It was my dad I was worried about, but Alex impressed him with all his finance knowledge. He even gave my dad tips. In a way, I think they respected that he took so much of an interest. Maybe I should call Shalin and thank him for that.”
Shalin is Sheila’s ex-boyfriend from NYU. He was the “perfect” Indian guy on paper: conventionally handsome, pre-med, from a good family, a talented Bhangra dancer. But as he and Sheila dated, she realized he was a narcissist. Everything always had to be about Shalin. He even talked about himself through an entire dinner with her parents. Their relationship was like a lot of college ones, high highs and low lows. Sheila dumped him after he told her he was a catch and she could never do any better. In a movie-worthy conclusion, Shalin didn’t get into any of the medical schools he applied to and has become that sad college graduate who still goes to NYU parties every weekend, where he lurks on younger girls.
“Oh, Shalin. The Warner to your Elle Woods. All the way up to when he told you you weren’t smart enough to be a lawyer,” Simran says.
“Seriously,” Sheila says. “I was so Elle Woods with him, minus the fact that I’m not girly at all. Or blond.”
“True. But still. What a fucker,” Simran says.
“Yeah, thank God I dodged that bullet. And I’m glad I recognize that now. You were so amazing, listening to me vent about him all the time. And then being there even through all this Alex stuff.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Simran says.
Sheila smiles. “I’m glad all of that’s figured out now. And I want to make sure you’re okay, too.”
Simran is glad she can’t speak as Sujata applies lip liner, then a gloss. For the first time, Simran sees the connective tissue between her and Sheila fraying. Sheila’s so sure about what she wants. She wants to be a judge but also has an urge to be married and have kids by a certain age.
Sujata stands in front of Simran. “You’re done! Ready to look?”
Simran’s stomach twists as she says, “I’m ready.”
She closes her eyes as Sujata spins her chair around. When Simran opens them, a more glamorous version of her is staring back. A bride. She squints as if she’s trying to register herself.
Sujata enhanced Simran’s large, almond-shaped eyes with smoky eye shadow and fake lashes. She contoured her cheekbones with the right mixture of bronzer and highlighter. Simran pictures a tikka on her head
, a dupatta draped over her bun. Kunal’s going to see her this way. She’s going to be a wife, for God’s sake.
She takes another glance at a future her. Her brows are furrowed. She straightens them out.
“You should relax,” Sujata says with a quick pat on Simran’s shoulders, which she didn’t realize were raised.
“Yes, I should,” Simran says. “I don’t even know why I’m feeling . . . uneasy all of a sudden.”
“It happens with brides sometimes,” Sujata says. “It can be a surreal thing for them. And if you don’t get your makeup done often, you might not be used to seeing yourself like this.”
“Sure,” Simran says, hoping that the way she’s feeling is simply a matter of extra foundation and eye shadow. “I feel like I constantly go between being excited and then being, I don’t know, this.”
“Planning an Indian wedding will do that for you,” Sujata says. “They’re no easy feat. I’ve seen every mix of emotions in this salon. Trust me, if I ever find someone, you can guarantee that I’ll be eloping.”
“Sounds smart,” Simran says.
Sujata peers at her face. “Is there anything you want me to change? Redo?”
“No, I love it,” Simran says to Sujata, her insides twisting. “This is exactly how I thought I’d look on my wedding day.”
“You look perfect,” Sheila says.
“Thanks,” Simran says.
Sheila polishes off the remainder of her champagne. “Simran? What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure.” Simran grips the edge of the makeup table. “Is this really happening? Really?”
“Yes, it is happening,” Sheila says. “Simran, what is going on with you? You’re freaking out and, I don’t know, not acting the wa—”
“Not acting the way you thought I would?” Simran asks, cutting her off. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Sujata takes this as her cue to mention she should check on her new shipment of hair products.
“I don’t know,” Sheila says after Sujata walks away. “I just thought things would be different.”
“Different? Different how?”
Sheila shakes her head. “I feel like you’re morphing into the perfect Indian girl. I mean, you used to be outspoken, someone who stuck to what she wanted, like I di—”
“Like you did?”
Sheila nods. “Yes.”
“Well, trust me, I’m proud of you for breaking out of the mold and being strong enough to hold on to what you wanted. But not everyone is like you.”
“I agree.” Sheila raises her eyebrows. “But you’re not everyone. You’re my best friend for a reason. And I just think you can get more from life. Is this how you thought things would turn out?”
“Wow, you’re really asking me that,” Simran says. She tells herself to stop talking, but she can’t.
“I am. Because if I don’t, I’m not sure who will.”
“Do you really have to do this right now?”
“Do what?” Sheila asks.
“Any of this. Can’t you just support me?”
Sheila throws her hands up in the air. “I don’t even know what to support with you! You’re literally all over the place. God forbid I have an opinion.”
“Oh, please! You’ve been expressing your opinions about me nonstop. Trust me, I get it. You have opinions.”
Sheila turns away, and Simran notices her chin trembling. She’s trying to stop herself from crying.
The last time Simran saw her cry because of something related to them was in middle school, when she thought Simran had picked Nishi, their neighbor’s daughter, as her new best friend. Simran had asked Nishi to sleep over because Nishi was shy and had trouble making friends. It didn’t take long for her to start coming to their house on a daily basis. Nishi’s mom even bought them matching dresses. Sheila stopped Simran in school one day and asked if she was replaced. When Simran asked why Sheila thought that, Sheila started crying. It was the first time Simran caught a glimpse of the vulnerability beneath the brazen, tough image Sheila always projected.
The truth was, Simran liked Nishi, but she didn’t challenge Simran the way Sheila did. Nishi went along with everything Simran wanted to do. She agreed with all her thoughts on Disney movies and Nickelodeon shows. Despite the closeness between their families, there was a level Nishi and Simran could never go beyond.
Simran faces Sheila now. “We should go.”
Sheila and Simran walk to the car. And even though they may look fine to Sujata and other people in the salon, they don’t talk for the entire car ride.
Nandini
“I’ve finished looking at all of the scans and doctors’ notes,” Nandini says.
Mami sighs through the phone. “I’m glad.”
“Mami, how could you have kept this from me? You should have sent this to me ear—”
“Don’t you even go there,” Mami says, raising her voice. “You know exactly why I didn’t. You know exactly what I’ve never wanted. I had to spend years being the proper, polite Indian widow. Now, I’d like to live with dignity. On my own terms, for once.”
Whereas Papa and Greg felt their bodies betrayed them, Mami treated her illness like a long-lost friend finally coming to visit.
“You have to at least think about doing something else,” Nandini says. “Even for a minute!”
“I’ve thought about everything, and my decision is final,” Mami says firmly.
Nandini knows how impenetrable Mami’s stubbornness is because hers is the same way. She pictures this stubbornness gene tightly packed in their cells. It always had to be handled with caution. A stubborn Indian boy was a leader. A stubborn Indian girl was a nuisance.
“If I lived there, I could have done something,” Nandini says. “Stepped in earlier.”
Mami turns down the volume of the psychological thriller she’s been binge watching. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to stay here, and you know that. I would never, ever have forgiven myself if you stayed with those horrible people or revolved your life around Papa and me. You were always too smart for that. And I should have realized that sooner, before you went through that ordeal.”
“I know you wouldn’t have wanted that for me, but there’s so much distance between us. I hate that. I always have.”
“I know, beta. But this is the way it was supposed to be for you. For all of us. When you get to my age, you spend so much time thinking about all the things you’ve been through in your life. You think and remember and wonder and reflect. And I’ve realized that everything really did work out. Maybe it was only at the very last minute, but things finally came through.”
Nandini considers this, how she had to separate from her mother to understand her. Maybe her relationships with her mother and her daughter were hinged on letting go in order to become whole, a delicate dance between separating and joining, losing and finding.
“And now you get to work in the way you always wanted to,” Mami says. “We both do. For years, we assumed ambition was a curse for us. Men could always wear it like a cape, while women, women were forced to tuck and hold it inside themselves. But look at us. You see, we all had to become scandals before we became ourselves.”
“You are right about that.”
Mami always had a way of assembling words that were like the last piece of gulab jamun on the dessert platter. Words that coated the mouth with a lingering sweetness and certainty.
Mami lowers her voice to almost a whisper. “With time, I know you’ll stop going to that bad place.”
“I hope so,” Nandini says as she thinks of that dark, vast space both she and her mother are prone to slipping into.
But she knows she doesn’t need to hope because her mother’s always been right. Somehow, Mami’s life became like her womb: a place that made space, became greater than it even was.
“I mean it. Don’t worry about anything,” Mami says. “And yes, by that, I mean Simran.”
“Please don’t even start, Mami. You know she’s not doing well.”
“That’s not true at all. You’re always so hard on her, the way you were on yourself. Don’t you understand? Your daughter is now starting to make an impact on the world. She’s gotten organizations to donate so much for the girls here. Her articles are submitted for publication. And she taught herself all of that on her own. She’s living the way we should have years ago.”
Nandini lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “I’m glad you see it that way. But that doesn’t mean she’ll be happy or even secure. And what if, with time, she loses her connection to us?”
“What makes you even think that’s a possibility?” Mami scoffs. “Haven’t you ever noticed that Simran has become more intertwined with you while Ronak has built his own shape?”
“That’s definitely been true.”
“Okay, then, you understand.” She takes a long pause and then adds, “Nandini, you have to learn . . . when to let go.”
Nandini doesn’t know how to respond. Instead, an image comes to her mind. Nandini, as a little girl, sitting at the vanity table with the cracked mirror in her parents’ bedroom. Mami would slather coconut oil in Nandini’s hair and then weave it into thick, sturdy braids. She thinks of the earthy smell of the oil, the dark blue bottle it came out of, and the swishing sound her hair made as it was crisscrossed. She’d give anything to go back to that place, have her hair pulled and folded by her mother’s self-assured hands. She needs to feel Mami’s steady heartbeat through her cotton sari blouse.
Nandini cries softly so her mother won’t hear. As the hot tears trickle down her face, a new clarity comes to her. Sadness isn’t clear or linear or logical. Yes, there is a sadness that stands naked, on its own. And there is the type of sadness that holds anger under its wings. Then there is sadness that’s interlaced with pride. And in the midst of the turmoil, this is what her mother has given her.
