by Saumya Dave
“I still can’t believe you’ve been in a place like this and I had no idea,” Natasha says. “I don’t think it’s really going to sink in and feel real. I just can’t picture any of it when I try.”
“Don’t try,” Bina says. “What’s important is that we focus on you.”
“So, are you going to tell Suhani and Anuj?” Natasha’s voice is crisp.
Bina nods.
“I don’t even know how to process this about you.” Natasha gazes into the distance, in the direction of the single large-screen television that all the patients have to share.
Bina sees the layers of questions behind Natasha’s words. She had the same ones when she made the shift from Ma being her mother to Ma being a human being, capable of having flaws and making mistakes like anyone else.
“I know, beta. It’s a lot to take in, especially out of the blue.” Bina sits back. There’s a chance that Natasha will tell Suhani and Anuj about this the second Bina leaves. Or maybe she won’t. Maybe she’ll keep this between them.
But for now, Bina won’t focus on that. Her daughter wants her to sit here and be supportive. Such a simple wish. And she can ignore her own desires to share her doubts and fears about Natasha’s health. She can sit here, in this crowded dining hall, the sound of people in heated conversations around them.
“I’m so sorry, Mom.” Natasha’s voice wavers. She takes an empty foam cup and starts ripping it into tiny pieces. “I always gave you so much crap. And I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair.”
“No, no, beta.” Bina clutches Natasha’s small, dry hands in hers. “You didn’t know. And it’s your job to be a child. My child.”
She moves over to Natasha’s side of the table and pulls her daughter close to her, never wanting to let go.
Twenty-Eight
Deepak
Deepak slips under the comforter and lies on his side. The gold glow from Bina’s bedside light splashes onto his pillow.
He reaches across the bed and touches her long red nightgown. “You did the right thing.”
“What are you talking about?” She removes her black-framed reading glasses.
“Telling Natasha. We should have told all the kids years ago.”
“You’ve always said that,” Bina says, “but I just never saw the point. And, yes, I am glad I told her today, but now what? Now we are all supposed to go to this family therapy”—she does a back-and-forth waving motion with her hand—“and share our most personal things with a stranger? Have we really done so poorly as parents that we have to put ourselves through that?”
Deepak tucks his hand under his head and stares at the spinning ceiling fan. “I don’t understand how you see therapy the way you do when your husband and daughter do it for a living.”
But that’s not entirely true. In some ways, he does understand. Whether or not she wants to accept it, Bina is still her mother’s daughter. Being anything less than perfect to a stranger—even needing a stranger in the first place—just isn’t what she was raised to do.
“It’s not that I’m against it. Natasha should talk to someone if that would help her.” Bina puts her book facedown on her wooden bedside table, next to a sandalwood candle, notebook, and a new issue of Vogue India. “I don’t understand why we need to be a part of it, that’s all. I mean, sharing things with this person that I wouldn’t even share with Devi or Anita, it’s just humiliating. It sounds like the type of thing that only white people do.”
Years ago, Deepak’s parents warned him that a woman like Bina was “too bold” and “too complicated,” terms he’d later learn were used for women who refused to cave to certain expectations. She’s not from the same world as you, his mother said the night before he and Bina eloped. Later, after Bina was admitted to the psychiatric hospital, his mother took that as her grand I-told-you-so moment. When Deepak told her not to call him until she was ready to accept his wife, his mother uttered, You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.
In a way, she was right. Nobody knows who the person they marry will become. Nobody knows how both of you will be shaped by the things that happen to you. All you have is the faith that this is the person you want to navigate that uncertainty with.
“What’s really scaring you?” Deepak squints and waits for Bina to tell him she’s not answering that. She hates it when he asks these types of questions right before bed. Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your patients, she says, half-amused, half-annoyed. But the truth is, he hasn’t asked enough questions like this recently. Somewhere along the way, he started taking her for granted. He stopped trying the way he used to.
Bina sinks into her pillow. “I’m scared I’ve done something to cause Natasha to be this way.”
“Of course you haven’t. You’ve been such a caring and loving mother.” Deepak scoots over to her and studies her face. The lines of concern on her forehead. Her skin, still as smooth as the day they met, thanks to a combination of genetics and routine turmeric face masks she started during her acting days.
“Then why doesn’t it feel that way? Why does it instead seem that I did everything I possibly could, sacrificed as much as I could, and this is still how things ended up for her?”
“Because it’s complicated. And it’s normal to want an explanation for all of it, but that doesn’t mean you have to blame yourself.” Deepak refrains from adding that these are perfect points to cover during family therapy. Instead, he pulls Bina closer to his chest. “It’s okay.” He says it over and over again. “It’s going to be okay.”
Bina’s voice cracks. “You’ve always been able to get through to her better than I could.”
“That’s not true. We just have a different relationship,” Deepak says.
And even with their bond and his job, he still didn’t realize how much she was struggling. He pictures Natasha, then Suhani and Anuj. Whenever he thinks of the kids, he sees them as all their ages at the same time. They’re babies with determined fists. They’re in middle school clutching brown paper bags. They’re signing checks and scrolling through their phones.
“It is true. I used to get so frustrated when she and I would argue all day. Then you’d come home after being gone for twelve hours and she’d run into your arms. I would think, ‘Wow, in some ways, the parent who isn’t here gets to be the favorite! Isn’t that nice?’” Bina sits up, her cheeks flushed. “I was so jealous.”
“Jealous? Of me?” Deepak asks.
“Oh yeah! Did you know I realized during one of the Chats Over Chai meetings that I’ve been jealous of you a lot? You’ve always been able to do these exciting and meaningful things for people every day. You could be unavailable and uninterrupted. Even when we went to your doctor parties, people would tell me how all the patients and staff love you. I was so proud and wanted our kids to have the same—big lives with big impact for other people. I just didn’t realize that it would take a toll on me at some point. But at some point, I started asking myself, ‘What’s so wrong with you that you couldn’t manage to do anything?’ and that voice wouldn’t stop.”
“Nothing’s ever been wrong with you,” Deepak says. “And all of us—the kids and I—are who we are because of what you’ve done for us. And now, with your group, you’re doing something bigger than us.”
“I don’t know.” Bina hugs her knees and rocks back and forth. Deepak pictures her in this exact type of pose as a little girl, curled up in bed with a novel. “For so long, I had to try to add things to my life so it felt like I had something that was my own. Do you remember that one time, when I lost it after you asked me to take an acting class when the kids were at school? You were trying to be helpful but it made me even more angry that I always had to be the one to squeeze my passions into small bursts of time, while you had long stretches to think and help and expand. I never had the luxury to just take hours for myself because I had to cut sandwiches or pour detergent i
nto the laundry machine or wrap birthday gifts or hold someone’s hand at the pediatrician’s office.”
Deepak soaks in her words. Once, when the kids were little, she told him she couldn’t even use the bathroom alone. Every second, someone needed something from her.
“I never saw it that way,” Deepak says. “I’m sorry.”
People sometimes assume men don’t have strong emotions, but that’s not true. Deepak has plenty of them. He has plenty of regrets, too. He saw his wife every single day and still didn’t know what she was carrying inside. He didn’t say the things he should have said to her. He forgot that appreciation is a vaccine for resentment. Now, as he digs under the layers of Bina’s emotional debris, under her irritation and sadness and anger, he uncovers her fear that she as an individual no longer matters.
But he can fix this. He can be there for her in the ways she needs him to be. And he has to find a way to make sure things are better for others, too.
“It’s fine,” Bina says. “Actually, Chats Over Chai has helped me move past some of this.”
An idea materializes in his mind as he processes her words. He lingers on it for a few seconds and makes a quick note in his phone before he forgets.
“I know it has. And it has helped so many others.” Deepak puts his phone away and faces Bina. “You really have built something so powerful.”
“Eh, I don’t know about that,” she says.
“I do,” Deepak says.
She doesn’t go on her drives anymore. Instead, their evenings are spent together. Sometimes they sit side by side as she watches something on Netflix and he reads on his iPad. Other times, they lose themselves in the latest Bollywood film.
“Yes, well, at least if Samachar in America shuts us down, I learned some things from it,” Bina says.
“We’re not going to let that happen.” Deepak wraps his arms around her as if to seal the promise.
Twenty-Nine
Natasha
Families take on personalities of their own. And here our goal is to look at your family as a system, where each member is shaped by the others.” Dr. Eze keeps her tone firm and clinical as she continues to give an explanation of family therapy and what they should all expect from their first session.
Sweat pools under Natasha’s arms. Even though everything Dr. Eze says is clear, she still can’t believe she’s sitting here. It takes all her self-control to not bite her nails or, better yet, run out the door.
They’re all sitting in a circle. Mom, Dad, and Natasha are on one side of Dr. Eze; Suhani, Anuj, and Zack are on the other. Mom is judging the room’s appearance, which, to be fair, is hard not to judge. The wall décor hasn’t been changed in at least two decades, from the threatening don’t do drugs poster to the picture of a man at the top of a mountain that reads persistence pays off. A faded rug with pink and purple flowers covers most of the dusty floor.
Dr. Eze passes around copies of the genogram they helped fill out during the intake appointment. Natasha stares at the pictorial representation of their family’s lineage, made up of circles and squares, starting with her grandparents and ending at everyone in the room. She used to see similar-looking charts in high school biology class when they learned about dominant and recessive traits.
“Where do we start?” Natasha asks after Dr. Eze is finished.
“How about with you?” Dr. Eze crosses her legs. She’s wearing a leopard-print blouse with a bow, red pencil skirt, and black high-heeled, pointy-toed boots that remind Natasha of Catwoman.
“Well, obviously I’ve had quite the past few weeks.” Natasha flashes a shaky smile that disappears once she makes eye contact with Mom, Dad, Anuj, Suhani, and Zack. They all seem to be in a bit of a daze. Or maybe she’s the one who’s dazed. Is this really a good idea? What if they all just end up arguing or, worse, being awkward and not saying anything? Natasha wants to tell Dr. Eze that her family never sits around and talks like this. They prefer to communicate the normal way, by bottling up their true feelings until one of them explodes.
“Of course,” Dr. Eze says. “How do you feel now that it’s been several days since you were discharged from the hospital?”
Natasha shrugs. “Better, I guess. It’s still really weird to know I got to a point so low. But I had a lot of time there to think and learn about myself.”
Dr. Eze nods and jots something down in a sky-blue notebook. “Is there anything from your experience that you would be open to sharing with us?”
Natasha mentally scans the blur of things that happened during her week on the unit: the conversations with Alexis, medication, group therapy, the visit from her friends, and, of course, everything Mom told her. She hasn’t even been able to fully process all of it. Sometimes, when she pictures the stiff bed or the nurse handing her Prozac in a tiny plastic cup or Mom waiting at the wooden lunch table, it still feels like a dream.
“I guess.” Natasha draws an imaginary circle on the rug with her foot. “I realized that for most of my life, I never felt like I fit in with my family. Sure, I was popular in school and always had friends, but there was always this part of me that felt like an outcast. One of the reasons I love writing comedy is because it lets me make something out of that feeling, something meaningful. But over the past months, when everything fell apart, I was reminded of how different I am from my family. Certain things seem to affect me more than they do my brother and sister. And I don’t want the stuff a girl my age, from my type of family, is supposed to want. I’ve felt like they’d just be better off without me because all I do is cause problems.”
“Has anyone said something along those lines?” Dr. Eze asks.
Mom starts to speak but Dr. Eze gently says, “Let’s hear Natasha out.”
Dad puts his hand on Mom’s arm and whispers, “Remember we talked about this.”
Even though Mom nods, Natasha can tell she’s practically about to burst from having to keep so many things to herself.
“No, none of them has ever said they’d be better off without me,” Natasha says. “It’s just the way I’ve always felt. On the psych unit, I realized I’ve been living a double life, in a way. Pretending to be fine on the outside—especially to them—but hating myself on the inside. I guess I got used to it. I even pretended to be premed my first two years of college! It got everyone off my back for a little while, reassured them that I was doing what they thought was acceptable.”
“So you lied to make things easier?” Dr. Eze doesn’t ask the question with judgment but more with curiosity.
“Yeah, I mean, I’ve gotten used to lying, in a way. I know that sounds bad but it’s become default for me to keep parts of myself in hiding. I assumed I’d always lie to my family . . . forever. Because if I didn’t, I’d be out.”
“It’s understandable to feel hurt if you think that the people you love don’t appreciate you for who you are. And holding on to all that and lying had to be really tiring,” Dr. Eze says.
“It was. It is. So exhausting,” Natasha says.
“Anyone have thoughts on what Natasha’s shared?” Dr. Eze asks.
“I’m so sorry you’ve felt not good enough and accepted. That’s not fair and you shouldn’t have had to go through that,” Suhani says. “And I know this might not be what you expect, but we get it. We really do. Anuj and I have felt that way at times, too.”
“I don’t think you can compare the way I’ve been judged to the way you guys have,” Natasha says to her sister. “You had people who believed in you, revered you. All the aunties, teachers, and relatives told me how pretty and perfect you were and then how sweet and sensitive Anuj was. I knew what they were thinking underneath all that: Natasha’s the misfit.”
“I don’t think anybody thought that,” Anuj says.
“Oh, please. Some people straight up told me. You think desi adults keep their opinions to themselves?” Natasha chall
enges. Her brother can be so naïve. “Y’all just don’t understand. You guys get the compliments. I get the criticism.”
“Now, Natasha,” Dr. Eze holds up her hands. “Going off how you just said they don’t understand, I’m wondering if anyone in your family feels similarly, that maybe you don’t always understand them. Would anyone like to add to that?”
“I would,” Suhani offers. “Natasha, it’s hard to hear you say that you’re the only one who’s misunderstood. I’ve always felt like nobody else here gets what it’s like to have this constant pressure to set a perfect example, be everything all the time. It’s exhausting. So exhausting.”
At first, Suhani’s face softens. But then she straightens her shoulders and smooths out the folds in her emerald-green dress. It’s as if a neuron in her brain fired off and commanded her to go back to being poised Suhani. “My point is, we’re all dealing with something. And you’ve inspired me to be more open and honest. Bold.”
“Bold? I’ve inspired you to be bold?” Natasha asks, thinking back to what her friends said.
“Of course you have,” Suhani says. “Every time I’ve been worried about something at work or doubted myself, I’ve asked myself, ‘What would Natasha do?’”
“I didn’t know that,” Natasha whispers.
Even though she’s always wondered how many hours Suhani has spent studying and planning and caring, she never thought she played a part in any of it. During Suhani’s intern year, she once called Dad and said she couldn’t stop worrying about her patients even on her days off. Dad seemed surprised, but Natasha wasn’t at all. Her sister was always fueled by an endless supply of self-doubt, never convinced anything she did was enough.
“And I’m sorry you’ve always dealt with so much pressure,” Natasha adds. “You’re right. I don’t know what that’s like.”
“I never even get a chance to speak up with you two always talking,” Anuj says. “I have no choice but to be the quiet one because you both always have so much going on!”
