by Saumya Dave
“Why not?” Zack asks.
“There were a lot of things that weren’t compatible. That never were,” she says. “But I was younger, more naïve and willing to put up with bullshit.”
Zack digs into his cilantro corn pancakes. He’s in his go-to weekend outfit of navy-blue T-shirt, gray pants, and charcoal Toms shoes. Being around him always makes her feel relaxed and rooted.
Maybe she should tell him what really happened with Roshan. He would understand.
Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d never look at her the same way again.
Ever since they got together, there were so many times the words lingered on the tip of her tongue and then she held back, convinced it was the wrong moment. But then the days passed, then the years, until it felt too late to tell him at all.
Zack frowns. “Yeah, I get that. I guess I could’ve sworn Natasha said some serious shit went down between you guys.”
“Well, yeah, that’s true. It was a tough relationship in a lot of ways. Too much drama,” Suhani says as she remembers the times she clutched the phone in tears. Roshan made her one of those girls who had to overanalyze every single thing with her friends.
“I bet your parents were happy when they thought you’d end up with a doctor. A Brown doctor.” Zack laughs.
“Trust me, it never would have worked for a lot of reasons,” Suhani says as she remembers the dread that overcame her when she realized Roshan planned to propose. She’d found the round sapphire ring behind one of his anatomy textbooks.
Meg covertly slides the check onto their table and with a polite smile tells them it’s “no rush.”
“Let’s go home and get back in bed,” Suhani suggests.
They grab some pastries from the front of the restaurant for home, get into their silver Lexus, and drive the ten minutes back to their high-rise apartment in Midtown. Atlanta is still ninety degrees even though summer is almost over. Zack cracks the windows until the air-conditioning kicks in. Suhani puts a playlist on Spotify and pictures the rest of the relaxing afternoon unfolding in front of her.
When they’re stopped at the intersection of Tenth Street and Northside Drive, she removes her phone from her black cross-body bag and scrolls to the text. The words are to the point, like the person who sent them.
I need to talk to you.
“Everything okay?” Zack glances at her as they stop at a red light.
“Yeah. Just work,” Suhani blurts.
She feels a twinge of guilt as she processes that she just lied to her husband. And because of Roshan. What does he need to talk to her about, anyway? She made sure to cover her tracks. There’s no way he could have found out about anything. She doesn’t need to be scared anymore.
“Tell them you’re busy spending the day with your needy husband and can’t take care of anyone at the hospital.” Zack smiles and then makes the music louder.
Just tell him, a voice in her head says. He’ll understand.
You should be ashamed of yourself, another voice says, the one that’s lingered in her head since she and Roshan broke up.
Zack parks the car and hums to the tune of a Lizzo song. Something about the relaxed smile stretched across his face and the whooshing of the car tires against the highway solidifies it for her. She’ll tell him. Once they’re inside their apartment, she’ll let it all out.
They step into their building’s lobby. The floor-to-ceiling windows fill the space with the buttery afternoon sun. Abstract art pieces line the hallways. Carlos, their doorman, waves at them as he gives a woman her Amazon packages. With a full mustache, rotund stomach, and large, happy eyes, he always reminds Suhani of a grown-up version of Mario or Luigi.
“Hel-lo to my favorite couple,” he says with a tip of his black hat. “Looks like you’ve got a visitor.”
He motions to the suede couch near the elevators. Suhani immediately recognizes the back of one of her floral-printed Rebecca Taylor dresses.
“Natasha?”
“Hey.” Natasha turns around. A frayed yellow duffel bag is at her feet, which are in Rainbow sandals. Her toenails have chipped black polish. A smattering of acne is across her cheeks, which look rounder than usual.
“Nice dress. I’ve been looking for that one for weeks.” Suhani ignores the urge to tell Natasha to wear some mascara or, better yet, toss those shoes into the nearby trash chute. “What are you doing here?”
“I, uh, need to crash with you guys for a little while.” Natasha gives Suhani a guilty smile, the same one that’s always helped her get away with things.
“What’s going on?” Zack leans forward to give Natasha a hug.
“I just can’t stay at home with Mom. She’s always pissed at me or judging me or both. I can’t work in that place.”
“And?” Suhani taps her foot. Her jade-green heel makes a clack, clack, clack sound against the marble floor. What else is new? Mom and Natasha are constantly getting into fights. Dad and Anuj can listen to them and try to calm them down, but Suhani always finds herself getting riled up. It only occurs to her now that maybe this is why she’s always friends with passionate women.
“It’s worse than usual,” Natasha says. “Like, way worse. She’s really upset about the whole Karan thing and my job situation. She told me I’m wasting my life away.”
“What did you think would happen when you moved back home and quit your job and had a breakup with her best friend’s son?” Suhani checks her phone and is surprised to see that there aren’t any missed calls or texts from Mom.
Zack gives Suhani a look that says, Calm down.
“I don’t know. I thought they’d see that I’m trying to do something that really matters to me. Alexis Diaz lives at home with her parents.”
“Does Alexis Diaz have a mother like ours? One who turns up the drama to full force if she thinks one of her kids has embarrassed her?” Suhani raises an eyebrow. “But I do see your point. It has to feel shitty to know Mom is judging you every second.”
“Just stay with us,” Zack says at the same time Suhani blurts, “You should talk to her.”
“I can’t talk to Mom! You know that.” Natasha throws her hands into the air.
“Have you even tried? To calmly explain where you’re coming from?” Suhani asks with an emphasis on the word “calmly.”
“There’s no point! She just wants to be dramatic all day,” Natasha says.
“Then you’ll feel much better at our place,” Zack says as he puts his hand on her shoulder.
Suhani ignores the brief panic that overcomes her. Preparing for a Natasha visit is a process, and now she doesn’t have time to hide the clothes that her sister will definitely “borrow” or put away the expensive wine that she’ll “sample.”
But then she sees the slump in her sister’s back. Suhani feels a rush of protectiveness, the kind she used to have when Natasha would ask her questions like if it was scary to wear a tampon or how to kiss a boy. Questions Suhani had to learn the answers to alone, since Mom always told her that all that mattered was how she did in school.
The three of them step into the elevator.
Natasha rubs her eyes, which are red and splotchy. “I really needed this.”
“And we’re here for you.” Suhani pulls her sister into a hug and doesn’t say another word.
Eight
Bina
Everyone should be here any minute. Bina fluffs up the throw pillows in the formal living room, then double-checks the food: mini chutney-and-cucumber sandwiches, cashews spiced with chili powder and chaat masala, and spicy carrot chips. Next to the food, there’s a turquoise teapot full of chai, a stack of gilded teacups, and bushels of mint leaves.
It feels like the first day of school, with that same blend of anticipation and excitement. She will soon be with her friends. Bina’s always loved being around groups of women. During her hi
ghest and lowest points in life, they gave her comfort and a sense of belonging.
She glances at her reflection. Her outfit is chic but hopefully not trying too hard: a burnt-orange calf-length dress, thin gold bangles, and gold studs Ma gave her on her last trip to India. Per Suhani’s recommendation, Bina filled in her eyebrows with one of those roll-up pencils and dusted blush on the apples of her cheeks. The makeup and outfit bring out the resemblance between her and her oldest child, something she often forgets about until people mention it.
She sends a text to Kavita and Mira—See you soon!—then scrolls through Facebook to pass the last few minutes. Mira’s daughter, Pooja, posted a series of stylish summer outfits. Bina knows that despite everything Mira says, deep down, she’s proud of everything Pooja has built.
It’s only after she’s scrolled through Pooja’s entire year of posts that she realizes how much time has passed. Maybe Deepak was right when he said her autopilot social media scrolling is taking up a lot of her time. (She responded to him by locking herself in their room and watching two dozen Instagram stories.)
Where are they? Bina wonders as she makes her way back to the formal living room.
Her phone buzzes with a text.
KAVITA: I’m so sorry. I won’t be able to make it.
MIRA: Same. Can we do the meeting another time?
Something in Bina’s chest drops. She starts to type. Did something happen? Are you both okay?
But she deletes it, then types: No problem. See you another time.
She stretches across the couch as dread washes over her. Something must have happened. It isn’t like Kavita or Mira to cancel at the last minute. She had texted Anita about the meeting earlier in the week and never got a response. But a part of her held out hope that she would show up anyway, surprise her.
She scrolls to Devi’s name in her phone.
“Hi!” Devi exclaims. On her end, Bina hears a man yelling, “Peaches! Blueberries!”
“Are you at the farmers’ market? How LA!” Bina laughs.
“Ha! I’m in Napa, on a set that’s supposed to be a farmers’ market,” Devi whispers. “Hold on, let me just step away.”
Devi’s work often takes her on exciting last-minute trips to a variety of places. The trips tend to end with big group dinners full of fine wine and even finer conversation. Bina always relishes her friend’s freedom, the type that is only possible when you don’t have anyone to answer to. She takes in her own surroundings: her big, empty house, the untouched food she spent the morning preparing, the earthy scent of the sandalwood candle lingering in the room. For a fleeting moment, she wishes she could also be untethered.
“So, what’s going on?” Devi asks.
Bina gives Devi a quick run-through of the morning, starting with the food prep and ending with the texts.
“It’s like I’m back in school,” she says. “No, wait, this is actually worse than that.”
“Because you were the queen bee back then?” Bina can hear Devi smiling.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Bina says.
“You don’t have to. You’re the only one who stood up to mean teachers. And everyone copied your style. Even when we were going for auditions, you had no problems telling certain problematic directors to watch their hands and not talk to you like a servant. So, yes, you were queen bee,” Devi confirms. “And you still are, Bina. This is a new thing you’re doing. There will be hiccups.”
“Hiccups, sure. But the only two people flaking? That sounds like a dud.” Bina stuffs a mini chutney-cucumber sandwich into her mouth.
“Did you hear back from Anita?” Devi asks, referring to Bina’s text about the meeting earlier in the week.
“She never responded,” Bina says. “I guess I was hoping she’d show up and surprise me.”
“Two thoughts before I have to go,” Devi says, putting her efficient professor hat on. Bina’s always in awe of how Devi’s brain is constantly so on. She’s one of those people who makes Bina feel more inspired, more capable, after just one conversation.
“First thought. Why don’t you expand Chats Over Chai to beyond your immediate circle? They’re all nice, but at the end of the day, they’re dai chokri.”
“They are good girls,” Bina agrees. “But they seemed interested when I told them more about it. I just don’t know what happened. And Anita was so excited about this.”
“That brings me to my second thought,” Devi says. “Just figure this stuff out with her. It’s obviously bothering you and needs to be faced and then put away.”
“I agree.” Bina pours herself a cup of chai. “But she doesn’t even want to talk.”
“Don’t give her a choice!” Devi says. “And I’m adding a third thought. You have the house to yourself, right?”
“I do. Deepak’s playing golf and Anuj is out with friends.”
And Natasha moved out.
“Then enjoy it. I know you love hosting, but I also know you sometimes . . . well, don’t,” Devi says. “It causes all this stress and pressure and there’s barely any space for enjoyment.”
It’s one of those direct statements that can only be made by a friend who isn’t afraid to tell you the truth. Your truth. Bina tells herself she cherishes having people over, but, often, the second the guests leave, she’s surprised to find herself both drained and relieved. Sometimes, she doesn’t even know if she really loves things or if she’s convinced herself to love them.
After she and Devi hang up, Bina removes onions and garlic from the fridge to get a head start on dinner. She chops the vegetables with a freshly sharpened knife, then RSVPs to three weddings they’ve been invited to, texts Deepak’s aunt in a group thread to wish her happy birthday, calls Barbara to say hi, then makes a grocery list.
I never feel like I can just sit, she thinks as she focuses on all the things she should be doing, all the minutiae she does that ensure their lives run smoothly.
As she’s scanning the pantry for things she needs to stock up on, Devi’s advice to enjoy this free time crystallizes in her mind. She didn’t know how to tell Devi that it’s not as though Deepak or the kids even tell her to do all these things. It’s all self-imposed. Somewhere along the way, she internalized the idea that if she wasn’t struggling or tired or, better yet, struggling and tired, she wasn’t doing her part.
But Devi had a point. Why doesn’t Bina just take advantage of the unexpected free afternoon? Why does she rarely give herself the luxury to not be doing something for others?
Maybe because, outside of Devi, she doesn’t see any woman give herself that. The world upholds selfless mothers, even if they’re angry and exhausted. Bina still thinks of Ma drinking chai and eating Parle-G biscuits and saying, This is just how it is. You’ll get used to it.
She pauses at a collage of family photos that she put together years ago, after she learned through Natasha’s classmate’s mom that this is the type of thing American mothers do. She found it sweet, especially since she could never imagine Ma sitting at a table, going through pictures, and cutting them into the exact sizes to fit. Bina went to Michaels and bought the biggest frame she could find. The project was done by the end of the week. They couldn’t afford a nice camera back then, so all their frozen moments look slightly jaundiced. Bina studies the mosaic of birthday parties at skating rinks, Diwali celebrations, and graduations. Anita’s in so many of them. Her hair is fluffier and there’s an eagerness in her eyes that’s dimmed over the years.
Devi was right, as always. She and Anita have to put an end to all this already. Anita is her family, her constant.
Ten minutes later, Bina is in her gray Audi. It’s only when she pulls out of their driveway that she remembers she hasn’t heard from the girls in days. She dials Suhani’s number.
“Hey, Mom.” Suhani’s voice fills the car.
“Hi, beta. What are you up to today
?”
“Not much. Just, you know, hanging out. Typical Sunday.” Suhani’s voice has a forced nonchalance.
“Natasha’s sitting next to you, isn’t she?” Bina asks.
“No! What makes you think that?”
“I can tell when you’re trying to cover something up.” Bina turns out of the neighborhood. She puts her hand on the Tupperware container of chutney sandwiches she packed for Anita.
“You can tell over the phone?” Suhani asks. “How?”
“Please.” Bina scoffs. “You think I don’t know when my daughters are lying to me? And covering for each other on top of that? How do you think I was able to figure out all those times you both were running off with those troublesome boys when you told me you were going to the movies?”
Bina is taken back to the slew of infuriating moments when she discovered Natasha and Suhani were dating behind her back. Despite how obedient Suhani was, the one way she continuously defied Bina was by having secret boyfriends. But the worst was when she and Natasha would lie for each other. Bina didn’t realize how scared she’d be until both her daughters got their driver’s licenses.
“That’s all old news,” Suhani says. “What are you up to? Wait, how was your meeting? That was today, right?”
Bina gives her a summary of the afternoon, a briefer and more filtered version of the one she gave Devi. “So, now I’m going to see if Anita Auntie wants to talk to me.”
Bina turns into the neighborhood. Laurel Lakes. Such a placid name for the placid woman whose blue-shuttered house is on the last cul-de-sac. Bina passes the swimming pool and tennis courts. Hydrangea bushes line manicured front yards. A couple is walking with their golden retriever and baby. Ahead of them, there’s a woman wearing sunglasses and shimmery sweatpants Bina knows are from Lululemon because Suhani has a similar pair.
The woman slows down and peers at her. “Bina?”
“Mona!” Bina rolls down the window and tells Suhani to hold on. “How are you?”
