by Saumya Dave
Mira and Anita nod in agreement with Kavita’s disapproval of the post.
“So many of us have taken pride in just doing what’s expected of us and not complaining. These young women are now finally speaking up! Isn’t that good?” Bina asks.
“Good?” Kavita peers at Bina as though her eyes are adjusting to the light. “No wonder Sanjay hasn’t proposed to her! I’d been giving him so much trouble for not asking, but now I realize why. The poor boy is scared.”
Kavita hasn’t been quiet about the fact that she’s been waiting for Sonam’s longtime boyfriend, Sanjay, to pop the question. She even bought herself designer saris and new diamond jewelry during her last trip to India. I’ll probably need all of it soon, she’d said, beaming.
“I’m sure Sanjay already knows how she thinks,” Bina says. “They’ve been together for a long time.”
“These girls.” Kavita shakes her head. “They think they can just mouth off and say whatever they want, do whatever they want. I thought it was an American thing and told Bipin that maybe we should have stayed in India. But apparently, the girls in the big cities there are just as outspoken.”
“I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” Bina says. They’ve all practiced so many types of parenting—attachment, tiger, helicopter—but none of them have helped them understand their kids more. Bina mentally records this as another thing they can discuss in their group.
“Ha, you wouldn’t!” Kavita scoffs. “But even your Natasha knows when to stay quiet.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Bina says.
Mira turns toward her. “What do you mean?”
Anita widens her eyes and shoots Bina a look that says, Don’t say any more. Bina can feel her friend’s fear in a way that’s only possible when you’ve been on the same wavelength with someone for years.
But despite that, Bina suddenly knows she can’t stay quiet. Since when has that helped anything? Maybe if she had spoken up years ago, she would be living a completely different life.
She ignores the pressure of the words building inside her. “Karan proposed and Natasha said no.”
“What?” Kavita asks, as though she didn’t hear Bina.
Mira, for once, is speechless. They all turn to face Anita. The color has drained from her face. She gazes at Bina with a mixture of irritation and shock. “Y-yes. Karan asked.”
“When?” Kavita asks.
“Two weeks ago,” Bina says. “At our house.”
“And Natasha said no?” Kavita asks. “Why?”
“Who knows?” Bina makes sure to sound blasé, like the type of evolved woman who can deliver shocking news without flinching. “But these kids—all our kids—have to decide what they want to do with their lives.”
“But . . . but I was sure they’d be getting married next year.” Mira frowns and is surely picturing the saris and intricate pearl jewelry sets she’d already planned to wear for Natasha and Karan’s events. Before Suhani’s wedding, Mira sent Bina dozens of pictures of her proposed outfits. It was as though her own daughter was the one getting married.
Anita stares at the concrete floor as if there’s an answer there. Bina waits for her to chime in. When she doesn’t, Bina adds, “Well, they’re not. And that’s that.”
Finally, it’s out. She feels lighter. Like a weight’s been lifted, she thinks, understanding the phrase she’s heard a million times.
This is what she had to do. She and Anita can move on now. And all of them can figure out a date for the first Chats Over Chai meeting.
She’s about to say just that, but Anita starts walking away. “I have to get going.”
“Wait,” Bina urges at the same time Mira and Kavita murmur something along the same lines.
“No, no, no, I really should get going,” Anita stammers.
And without another word, Bina watches her best friend run into the parking lot, get into her black Lexus, and drive away.
Four
Deepak
Anita and Bina will figure this out between themselves,” Jiten says in the hospital cafeteria two days after the health fair. Jiten made statements like this often with a wave of his hand, statements that gave away that Anita handled all social ties for their family.
“They always do,” Chand agrees. His tray has a bowl of black bean soup and foil-wrapped rotlis. “Mira worries so much about offending people. I always remind her we’re all friends, right? We can all let these things go, not allow them to get in the way.”
“Oh, I tell Kavita not to even get me involved in any of the ladies’ drama.” Bipin laughs.
Jiten and Chand nod in agreement. Deepak stays silent. He and Bina tell each other everything. They always have.
Or at least they did before the proposal. In the two weeks since Natasha rejected Karan, Bina spends her mornings locked in their bathroom and her nights on drives alone. Deepak tries to imagine where she goes but never asks. He learned years ago not to talk to her when she’s in this state.
Bina hasn’t taken drives like this since the kids were little. Every time he hears the slam of the door leading to the garage, the whoosh of her car’s tires on their U-shaped driveway, he’s taken back to those evenings when she’d shout, I didn’t sign up for this kind of life, and then leave. He knew she didn’t want him to come after her. He knew she always came back.
Throughout his thirty-five years practicing psychiatry, Deepak’s seen that people will do a lot to avoid feeling discomfort: drinking, eating, drugs, burying memories, wrapping their identity around an entirely different life. But the discomfort always comes back unless it’s processed.
And Bina never really processed what happened in Bombay. She hasn’t accepted that in many ways, the life she didn’t live has shaped their family as much as the one she has.
“Orthopedic surgery.” Jiten snaps his fingers, making Deepak realize he missed a part of their conversation. “That’s the field I would have gone into if I had the choice.”
“Pediatric surgery,” Chand says. “I could see myself bringing the kids candy and balloons. You know, being like Patch Adams.”
Deepak laughs. He can see that, too. Both Chand and Mira are natural performers.
“Plastics for me,” Bipin chimes in. “Although I do like GI more than I thought I would.”
“I wouldn’t change anything,” Deepak says.
“You’d choose to work with the gandos? Why?” Bipin asks, echoing a sentiment Deepak heard again and again in India. Nobody’s supposed to want to work with the “crazy” people. People often assume Deepak went into psychiatry because it wasn’t as competitive as the other fields, which meant it was attainable for a foreign medical school graduate. But Deepak would have picked it even if he went to Harvard and graduated at the top of his class.
“Since I’ve stepped back and gotten closer to retiring, I’ve been missing work even more than I thought I would. This is the best field. And the one everyone needs exposure to,” Deepak says. Even though his words are sincere, none of them knows the reason he picked psychiatry in the first place.
“Well, Anita always said you’re the most pensive man she knows,” Jiten says. “It makes sense that you enjoy thinking about people all day.”
Deepak laughs. Bina and the kids always tell him he’s lost in his own thoughts, unaware of what’s going on in the world. But he notices a lot. He sees Suhani falling asleep while Zack tries to talk to her. He sees Natasha running to her room when she hears him and Bina downstairs. He sees Anuj keeping everything inside, for the sake of peace.
He wants to tell them it will all be okay eventually. They’ve been through much worse than this. But he knows they aren’t ready to listen. Families break when everyone argues to win, not understand. So that’s what he’ll do.
He’ll help them understand.
Five
Natasha
>
Ican’t believe you’ve been working on this for months behind all our backs,” Anuj says. He stretches and leans back in Natasha’s black leather chair until his toes rest on her desk. He used to sit in her room like this all the time, alternating between doing calculus problems and talking to Natasha while she was busy thinking of more ways to procrastinate on her homework. Unlike Suhani, who always nagged Natasha—“if you’d try even a little, you could get better grades”—Anuj left her alone.
“I’ve had to,” Natasha says. “And I can’t believe it’s actually happening in a few hours. I have to kick ass.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” Anuj gives the same lackadaisical smile he’s had since he was a toddler. He never seems to have a worry in the world. Must be nice. “And, hey, if you change your mind about telling anyone, you can always send them to your YouTube channel!”
“Do not send that to anyone!” Natasha commands. Anuj is going to record her tonight so she finally has something to put on her still-nonexistent YouTube comedy channel. But nobody can see it.
“It’s weird enough that I have to talk in public about how I lost my job. The last thing I need is for Mom or Dad or Suhani to be reminded of that,” she says. “And anyway, if I make it to the next round, I have a chance to get a secure spot to perform every month at the comedy club. And maybe after that, maybe, we can tell them. I mean, a routine spot and Alexis’s class should put me in a pretty good place.”
Alexis Diaz, an Atlanta-based comedian, teaches an improv class multiple times a year. Natasha registered seconds after the link was active. She doesn’t like improv (okay, it actually terrifies her) but she kept reading that learning how to think spontaneously helped a lot of comedians with their stand-up. Plus, Alexis Diaz is her idol. Natasha’s been following her career for two years and waiting for the chance to meet her. The class sign-up was first come, first serve, and when Natasha got the confirmation e-mail, she took it as a sign that things were finally clicking into place. She was on the right path now. In months, she’ll be performing and proving everyone wrong. Mom will be in the front row whistling and tapping the person next to her in excitement. That’s my daughter!
Natasha’s phone buzzes three times in a row. She’s missed the first part of a conversation on an Instagram group thread with her two closest friends from college: Payal and Ifeoma. They met in the dorms after first-year orientation and instantly connected over a craving for Taco Bell. Payal, the only one with a car, drove them to the nearest one an hour later.
The plan was to pick up food and then get some sleep before the first day of classes. But Natasha convinced them to open the giant bottle of Prosecco she had taken from Suhani’s apartment. The three of them sat on Natasha’s hard, cold dorm floor, drank from red Solo cups, and drizzled hot sauce on a pile of bean burritos and chalupas. They made it halfway through the bottle when Ifeoma told them her mother was leaving her father and moving back to Nigeria.
Natasha wasn’t sure if it was the jarring sense of freedom from no longer being under Mom and Dad’s roof or the pangs of missing her siblings, but she found herself opening up to the girls about her family in a way she hadn’t known was possible.
They kept talking in that hushed, free way that’s only possible during conversations that happen in the middle of the night. When Payal noticed it was six a.m., they walked to the shared bathroom and stood at adjacent sinks as they washed their faces with Clean & Clear.
They lived together for the rest of their time at Georgia State. Every other month, Ifeoma and Payal went home with Natasha and spent the entire weekend in their pajamas, eating Cape Cod chips and watching Sex and the City.
The last message in the thread is from Payal, who sent a post from her favorite account, betches: One cannot drink cheap wine.
NATASHA: Since when do you drink cheap wine? Or cheap anything?
PAYAL: Good point. And there you are! We haven’t heard from you in days.
NATASHA: Yea, sorry, been MIA because of working on stuff.
PAYAL: How are you? Did your mom come around?
NATASHA: No way. She’s still freaking out and taking it personally like she always does.
Payal and her mom have one of those mother-daughter relationships Natasha thought was only part of fables. They share everything with each other, rarely argue, and even go on trips together. Natasha’s always been intrigued and jealous of their Rory and Lorelai Gilmore vibes.
IFEOMA: Any word from Karan?
NATASHA: Nah. Don’t expect to hear from him, either. And my parents are still so pissed.
PAYAL: I bet. My mom told me to line up some dates after she heard about it. It’s like she thinks what happened to you is contagious and we’re all going to end up alone.
NATASHA: My mom is convinced I am. I’m sure she still has hope for the rest of you. At least you’re on the apps and Ifeoma is already part of a power couple.
Ifeoma met her boyfriend, Jordan, during her first year of law school at Emory. They live together in Decatur.
IFEOMA: You knew it wasn’t right for you. It’s like when Carrie knew she couldn’t end up with Aidan, so she wore his ring on her necklace and got all awkward and stuff.
NATASHA: True. Btw, do you realize how many shows work because none of the characters are children of immigrants? Carrie didn’t have her mom calling her every five minutes asking her when the wedding planning could start and if she could invite all ten thousand of her actor friends from Bombay.
PAYAL: LOL, true! What does Suhani think of all this?
Payal always wants to know what Suhani thinks. She’s a younger version of Suhani, pretty and premed.
NATASHA: She’s keeping her opinions to herself for now. I’m sure she’ll lecture me soon. Can’t even blame her. I thought I was going to have babies with that guy, y’all. Like literally, a little version of him.
PAYAL: I get it. You have to distract yourself so you stop thinking about him. What are you doing today?
NATASHA: Not much . . . you?
She could tell them. She should. But something holds her back. Maybe it’s a shift in perspective, a newfound awareness of how her life is in comparison to theirs. During her four years at Georgia State, Natasha couldn’t wait to be a real adult. She pictured her future as a bright and shiny thing, full of possibility. That kind of blind optimism might have been sweet and even a bit badass in college. Now it just seems pathetic.
IFEOMA: You should practice some self-care. And do not look at Karan’s Instagram. He hasn’t updated it anyway, but it’ll just make you feel shitty to see old pics.
NATASHA: I’ll stay away. Promise.
“You’re going to be great. You’ve always been the funniest person in the room,” Anuj says as Natasha puts her phone facedown. Anuj has been wearing the same outfit since he got into Cornell’s architecture program: a red Cornell sweatshirt and basketball shorts.
The knot of stress behind Natasha’s sternum starts to loosen. Anuj always believes in her, and now, more than ever, she needs that: someone who sees her better than how she sees herself.
“Why not at least tell Suhani and Zack?” Anuj says.
Natasha frowns. “Why do you keep pushing me?”
“Because it might be nice?” Anuj fiddles with a stack of old CDs: TLC, Spice Girls, Backstreet Boys. When they were younger and had graduated from building forts out of blankets and pillows, she and Anuj would make teetering, Jenga-like towers out of Suhani’s CDs.
“Nice? Nice?! You’ve got to be kidding me. It would suck. This is hard enough without any of them knowing about it. You know they’d find a way to make me feel even shittier about myself, especially after everything that happened with Karan. They think I’m the worst.”
And sometimes I believe them, she thinks. She hates the way her self-esteem seems to shift every day, sometimes every hour. On some days she’s ready to ta
ke on her new life, and on others she wakes up drenched in sweat, convinced she’s fucked up yet another thing.
“Jeez, fine, I get it.” Anuj shakes his head. He’s grown his hair out past his ears so it’s curling at the ends.
Natasha sighs. Why did she have to snap and go on a rant like that? Anuj was only asking.
She needs to get a grip. But without her job, she no longer has insurance. Her last therapy appointment was two weeks ago. The serotonin is probably bouncing around in her brain like Pop Rocks candy.
“What if I made a mistake? With the whole Karan situation?” Natasha asks.
Anuj puts the CDs down. “Is that what you really think?”
“I don’t know. It’s just so weird not even talking to him.” Natasha sometimes feels as though she’s lost a limb. And it isn’t just the Karan of today she’s had to let go of. It’s the two-year-old Karan, who shared his sliced grapes with her, and then twenty-year-old Karan, who spooned with her on a twin bed in her dorm. Breaking up with someone means leaving all of their selves.
“I can’t tell if walking away from something like that means I’m really brave or just really dumb. It’s so weird how in a matter of days, my life looks totally different than what I thought it would. And obviously our parents also wanted it to work out.”
“And since when do you let our parents tell you what to do? Or anyone?” Anuj smiles at her in that same knowing way he has since they were toddlers. In general, Anuj was a total do-gooder, but Natasha could always convince him to live a little.
“You’re right,” Natasha admits. “But sometimes I do wonder, even though people have told me it’s good I speak my mind and do what I want, is that really what they want? Or deep down, does everyone hope that I just accommodate to fit some traditional mold?”
Natasha once saw a documentary about how girls and boys are encouraged to “dream big” when they’re young but only girls are later judged if their ambitions get in the way of their becoming mothers and wives.
