What a Happy Family

by Saumya Dave

  Suhani’s hands shake as Roshan’s words ring in her ears. “I know how irrational this is going to sound, but I was able to pretend that all that behavior came from another person altogether, the wounded Roshan, not really the guy I was dating.”

  “It’s not irrational at all. You compartmentalized,” Zack says. “You put those feelings and that part of him away.”

  The tension in Suhani’s chest starts to unravel as she soaks in her husband’s words. She didn’t realize how badly she needed to hear that: the way she felt was valid.

  “Did it stay that way?” Zack’s voice is soft. “Normal, then explosive, then normal again?”

  That’s the exact language Zack once used when he told Suhani how his dad was: normal, then explosive. He, Barbara, and his sisters walked on eggshells whenever his dad came home from work, not knowing which version of him they’d get. One Dr. Kaplan took them out for ice cream, made corny jokes, and was devoted to his patients. The other Dr. Kaplan threw glasses that shattered on the tiled kitchen floor, screamed until his face was beet red, and left the house for hours, reeking of vodka when he returned.

  Suhani sees now that things are a lot clearer when someone only offers you their worst parts. When things are clearly terrible, you leave. When things are great, you stay. When your relationship becomes a pendulum between terrible and great, you sway with it, infused with enough hope to see which way it’ll go.

  “It stayed that way for a little while.” Suhani takes a sip of her Cabernet. “But then it eventually got to a point where it was explosive more often than it wasn’t. So many things could set Roshan off: if I missed his calls, wore a skirt he thought was too short, or was hugging a guy friend too much. Sometimes he’d admit to being paranoid or jealous and then say it was because his mom left his dad. When he tied it to his childhood trauma, that made me feel awful. I told myself that I could love him out of it, fix that pain for him. I thought I was in so deep already and that we had already made it through so much, so I could continue to tough it out for the both of us. A twisted part of me took it as some sort of badge of honor.”

  “Were you ever able to call him out about the way he was behaving?” Zack asks.

  “Multiple times.” Suhani’s mind jumps back to the times she confronted Roshan in his dark, cramped apartment. “He’d tell me that no relationship was perfect, that we had so much between us that was worth fighting for, and then he’d always turn it back around to how I never wanted a relationship like my parents’ where one person had to give up their career, so this is a part of what comes with a more ‘equal’ one.”

  “He used your parents’ marriage to justify what he did?” Zack’s face is full of disbelief. “That is so manipulative. What an asshole.”

  “I know,” Suhani agrees. “And I believed him. His reasoning worked on me.”

  “I bet it did. He sounds like he was really smart and knew exactly how to get to you.”

  “He did,” Suhani agrees. “I fell for his explanations and promises to be better every single time. I somehow convinced myself that this was a challenge we had to make it through. Isn’t that so fucked up?”

  That was the most pathetic part to her: she continued to love him. She treated his behavior as though it was some type of illness that just needed the right treatment. On the outside, she wore the mask of a strong, confident woman, the kind who was in a loving relationship and on the way to rising in her career.

  “I didn’t realize until our family therapy session how big a role timing played in everything. Roshan and I met right when I started feeling a little jaded with medicine, with the power structure and discrimination. I was always so scared that I didn’t belong in that world. And then he came in the picture. Suddenly, people at UCLA revered us,” Suhani says. “When the aunties back home heard, I knew that this was the type of guy I was supposed to end up with.”

  “And you didn’t tell your family the truth.” Zack refills her wine, which makes a hissing sound in her bulbous glass.

  “No. I was embarrassed. Can you believe that? I was embarrassed about him behaving that way.” Suhani stares at the mint- green place mat. “During residency, I read about how some people try to make their partners feel as low as possible so they aren’t abandoned by them.”

  “He wanted to bring you down so you’d stay,” Zack says.

  “Subconsciously, yes,” Suhani says. A weight collects on her sternum. This is it. This is the last piece of her history she’s tried to forget for years. “I found out I was pregnant several weeks before he and I planned to go away for a short vacation. On the last night of our trip, when I was going to tell him the news, we got into yet another fight because he thought our waiter at dinner was hitting on me. It seemed like one of our usual arguments at first. But things escalated and before I knew it, his hands were around my neck. I suddenly realized I was struggling to breathe, that there was this pain and pressure. It felt like I was watching it from outside myself. He even seemed shocked after he loosened his grip. He kept saying he was sorry but I didn’t listen. I just got in the car and sped back to my apartment. That week, I went to Planned Parenthood and then my dean’s office to take an official leave of absence. I left my work, my patients, a group project I was leading, and curled up in bed for what felt like weeks. I blocked Roshan’s number and ignored all his e-mails. Even after I recovered physically, I knew I’d never be the same. I wasn’t who I thought I was. I wasn’t the perfect example for Natasha or Anuj or the one who would make my parents’ sacrifices worth it.”

  Suhani was always a split self. There’s the Suhani everyone sees—accomplished, put together—and there’s the Suhani brewing under the surface: broken, racked with doubt.

  “Oh, honey.” Zack gets out of his chair and pulls Suhani out of hers. In a series of fluid movements, he pulls her onto the floor with him. They stay that way for a few seconds, cheek to cheek, limbs intertwined.

  Suhani thinks back to a quote by Michelle Obama: “I understand now that even a happy marriage can be a vexation, that it’s a contract best renewed and renewed again, even quietly and privately—even alone.” She wonders if Michelle ever kept any secrets from Barack and how they’d navigate a situation like this. She wonders when they discovered that it’s possible to peel back the layers of a marriage and find new parts of someone to love.

  “I’m so sorry,” Zack says as he pushes strands of hair out of Suhani’s face.

  Suhani tucks her head under his chin. The collar of his navy-blue button-down brushes against her cheek. “No, I’m sorry. I should have told you what happened a long time ago and I definitely should have when Roshan showed up. I was so scared after he threatened to tell people at the hospital how I left med school without any warning. I thought he’d ruin me. So I just kept burying myself in work and avoided facing it. And then I got so overwhelmed with it all, wanting to be the wife you deserved and knowing I was failing, wanting to be a perfect doctor.”

  As much as Suhani wants to blame everything that went wrong on Roshan, she knows that it’s all much bigger than that. At the core, she never accepted herself. She tried to cure her nagging sense of inadequacy with perfectionism and work and accomplishments. But what she’s needed to do this entire time is embrace herself, believe in her inherent self-worth. She needs to show Zack all of who she is. And doing that takes reflection and work, the type of reflection and work she’s been avoiding until now.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Her words diffuse into the air and become one with her surroundings. She doesn’t cry or even move, but something inside her stirs. It’s as though the pain she’s been storing in her body is slowly seeping out.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” Zack says. “It’s okay.”

  “I love you,” Suhani says. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you so much, too,” Zack whispers. “Do you remember when I first told you about my dad and you sai
d that if something happens to me, it also happens to you?”

  She does remember that. Why did she lose sight of that foundational part of them?

  “It goes both ways.” Zack strokes her hair. “If something happens to you, it also happens to me.”

  Suhani nods, once again wishing she had let herself be vulnerable with the person she trusts more than anyone. Sometimes, she has to go against her instinct to handle everything herself. One of the most difficult discoveries she’s made is that she needs her independence as much as she needs to be taken care of.

  Their potential future unspools in front of her. She and Zack coming home to each other every night, drinking wine, and discussing their days. Zack, stretched out on a lounge chair in Santorini, the sparkling blue water reflecting in his sunglasses. Suhani, giving him NyQuil and ginger tea when he’s sick. Zack, surprising her by speaking in Gujarati to the aunties. Suhani, learning how to make perfect matzoh balls. A blur of meals and massages, colors and smells.

  She still doesn’t know if that future includes a child. But for the first time in years, she feels the freedom to figure it out based on what she wants for their future, not because of something holding her back in her past.

  “Being with you is the first decision I ever made because it felt right, not because it looked good or because I thought it was what I was supposed to do. You’re my first risk,” Suhani says.

  “I know. It was pretty obvious when I first met your parents that they thought you’d be with an Indian doctor, like you did.” Zack smiles. “I may not be able to save lives, but I can put things into a pretty good-looking Excel spreadsheet, okay?”

  “Oooh, organization. You know how much I love that.”

  “I do.” Zack’s lips twist into a smile. “Organization and psychiatry terms are my go-tos to put you in a good mood.”

  “Is that so?” Suhani asks.

  “Yep. Let’s see.” Zack holds up his hand as though he’s counting on his fingers. “Self-sabotage, DSM, cognitive behavioral therapy . . . is any of this working?”

  “Ha. You’re ridiculous.” Suhani laughs as she sinks into her husband.

  She traces the curve of his jaw and neck. Zack pulls her closer, tasting like red wine when he presses his lips against hers. Their kisses are tender at first, and then a hunger overcomes them both. There’s no space for words anymore. There’s only her tongue moving against his.

  Suhani inhales his natural citrusy scent as she reaches forward and grips his hair. Zack’s strong, gentle hands tug at her silk blouse and pull it over her head. Suhani fumbles with the buttons on his shirt and stays wrapped around him as he carries her to their bed. Zack moans when she nibbles his earlobe.

  On their cool duvet cover, she’s both anchored and free, passive and powerful. Zack explores her body as if they’re naked together for the first time. Suhani pushes him closer to her, struck with the awareness that it’s possible to feel protected and exposed at the same time.

  He grips her ankles and then pushes her legs back as he lowers himself into her.

  “I love you so much,” Suhani says as her nails dig into his back. She needs his weight on her, the thump of his heart on her chest.

  “I love you, too.” Zack’s breath is warm on her ear. He moves inside her and she’s never felt safer in her life.

  Thirty-One

  Bina

  Samachar in America

  September 2019 Issue

  Community-Voiced Op-Ed

  Bina Joshi

  I’m sure plenty of people reading this have already heard of me or, rather, heard of some version of me. I’m going to clear all that up with the only thing that makes sense—the truth.

  For the past two months, I’ve been conducting group meetings with women every week to discuss a variety of topics. Our name: Chats Over Chai. The group started as a fun social idea and slowly became a need. My dear friend Devi reminded me of kitty parties, routine get-togethers women had in Bombay. I envisioned doing something similar, where a group of my friends and I would meet at one of our homes, bring food, and just talk.

  But I soon realized it was easy for us to discuss our children, the next recipe we were going to try, expectations from our in-laws, problems we may be having with our husbands, things like that. And while I am so grateful for those conversations, I also worried that we were losing a potential opportunity to explore issues in a way that was more honest and impactful.

  Both my husband and eldest daughter are psychiatrists. For years, I’ve been hearing them talk about the power of people coming together in groups to share their stories. They both gave me textbooks on group therapy and a list of online classes where I learned about the value of being a facilitator. I applied some of these concepts to the Chats Over Chai meetings and was surprised to see that the structure allowed us to focus, learn, and connect.

  There are so many things—big, difficult things—that members of our community are going through and not sharing. Whether it’s mental illness, burnout, or shame, there is a lot we have been keeping to ourselves. There’s a danger to that over time, putting on a perfect appearance and not really owning the challenges we all experience.

  It’s hard to sit there in front of others and just open up. Nobody has ever asked us before to do that, put ourselves out there, ask us how we are feeling about things. So many of us have felt as though our job as women is to serve others, not really think about ourselves. But after that initial discomfort, the conversations took off. Now we always run out of time. Our wait list and sign-up process are to ensure that groups stay limited to fifteen participants.

  I’ve been asked several times about what the group has covered. We’ve discussed invisible labor, toxic masculinity, what happens to marriages after retirement, depression, abuse, the list goes on and on.

  Anyone can suggest topics. We prefer to talk about things that might be coming up in the general media and also have relevance to our lives. Our hope is to continue adding more structure to the group with time.

  We were an all–South Asian group at first, but recently we have opened it up to everyone. We really aren’t all as different as we like to think we are. Sometimes we put up barriers in the form of labels and language. But whether we are immigrants or not, whether English is our first language or not, there are so many things we all share. Part of the beauty of this country is how it can bring people together.

  I’ll be honest. When I first heard about the criticisms against me, they hurt. But I welcome them now. Because anyone trying to do something different will get criticized. People will talk anyway, so I might as well do what I think is right.

  For every single person who has felt that what I’m doing is “unnatural,” I’d like to share a reminder with you: women have been creating their own support systems since the beginning of time.

  And men could also benefit from their own forms of emotional support. I’m so proud to share here that my husband, Deepak Joshi, will be starting a Chats Over Chai group for men in Atlanta. He says I inspired him but really, he also helped me build this from the beginning.

  I don’t know what the future holds. All I know is that I want to focus on making the most of Chats Over Chai. We have ongoing discussions on our Instagram page and are proud that our following grows daily. One thing I’ve learned for sure is to never doubt a group of women who know how to use social media. We can do anything!

  “Wow, Bina. Just wow,” Mira says after they’ve all reread Bina’s op-ed. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Really?” Bina smiles. “Because you’ve said a lot.”

  Murmurs of agreement come from the other ten women at today’s meeting. They decided to take advantage of the crisp September weather and meet at Piedmont Park. Mira and Mona each brought a friend who was interested in the group, while the other participants reached out to Bina on the new Chats
Over Chai Instagram page. An assortment of woven picnic baskets, wine, sparkling-water cans, cheese, crackers, and sliced watermelon is in front of them.

  “That’s because the second I finished reading this, I really wanted to whistle. And not some dinky, useless whistle like that Nilay Bhai always does as he looks all proud of himself. I want to teach that man a whistle lesson sometime so he can learn our wedding whistle,” Mira says, referring to the shrill, high-pitched sound she and Bina make during toasts and dance performances at weddings. They always elicit a series of stares, followed by a flurry of cheers. And Bina has definitely seen Nilay Bhai look startled by them.

  “By all means, let’s not hold back here!” Bina puts her index finger and thumb in a circle, sticks them in her mouth, and blows. The sound startles some of the women, while others join.

  “Can you teach me how to do that?” Namita, who showed up for the first time today, asks Mira. Bina didn’t even know Namita talked, let alone was the type of person who wanted to learn how to whistle. Namita has that quiet smile-and-nod thing that Bina usually associates with people who do a lot of meditation.

  “Sure!” Mira says, and points to Bina. “Gloria Steinem over here and I will gladly teach you our ways.”

  “Gloria Steinem! I’ll take it!” Bina declares.

  Ironically, Gloria Steinem was a frequent source of arguments between Bina and Ma. Ma’s views on Gloria Steinem seemed to shift depending on who was in the room. When it was just her and Bina, she’d laud Gloria’s protests. When it was her with friends, she’d lament that Gloria was breaking traditions they’d all worked so hard to uphold.

  Bina thinks back to how Dr. Eze said family wounds can be passed down through generations, taking on different forms. Maybe Ma was also confused about where she stood, about what the line was between who she was and who she wanted to be.