As Kismet Would Have It

by Sandhya Menon

  Rishi

  “I can’t believe it’s already winter break,” Dimple said.

  She navigated them to the Macy’s jewelry department. Every inch of the department store was crawling with frantic-eyed people, all trying to please husbands and wives and children and siblings with their offerings. Rishi had never understood that about the holidays. If someone didn’t like what you got them, they obviously didn’t deserve your time or attention. But now that he had Dimple, he realized he’d do anything to get her whatever she wanted, however demanding or obscure. He smiled at her as she browsed the jewelry cases, her eyebrows knitted together. Always so focused. His hands itched for his sketchbook, but he’d left it at his parents’ house, where he was staying for winter break.

  Dimple and Rishi browsed the bracelets for a while, and while Dimple picked out something affordable for her hero and icon, Jenny Lindt, Rishi wandered off. Somehow he found himself in the ring section. More specifically, the engagement ring section. He should get out of here. Anytime the m-word came up, even tangentially, Dimple was liable to go off on a rant about how marriage was a construct of “hegemonic masculinity” and how the government shouldn’t be able to regulate people’s love for each other anyway.

  Rishi would let the government regulate his love for Dimple in a heartbeat. Anywhere, anytime. He was fully prepared to wait until she was fifty or sixty, though. However long she needed. But what if she never wanted to get married? He thought about it as he looked at a princess-cut, two-carat ring. He’d be okay with that too, he decided. As long as he got to love Dimple and share his life with her, as long as she was as head over heels for him as he was for her, he’d be okay with anything.

  Dimple found him before he was able to tell his feet to leave the section.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked, and then stopped short as she took in the tray of sparkling rings, all ensconced in soft, plush white fabric. “Rishi . . .”

  “Just looking!” he said, noting the slight defensiveness in his tone. He turned a sheepish smile on her, scanning her hands for an iced beverage she might be liable to throw at any moment. “They’re pretty, though, right?”

  She shook her head and smiled, shifting the bag containing the bracelet from one hand to the other. “Yes, they’re pretty. Can we go now?”

  She turned to leave, but Rishi grasped her fingers with his. When she spun around to look at him, he gazed deep into her eyes, like the deepest, darkest velvet. “Dimple Shah, one day you’ll see we’re meant to be together forever. I’m not going anywhere. As long as you love me, I’ll be the steady riverbed to your rushing river.”

  She stilled and then slowly put her hand on his chest, over his heart. The swarm of people around them slowed down and got quieter. His world was consumed by her. “Rishi Patel, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Wait, what?” His heart thumped under her palm; his head spun so hard he got whiplash. “So . . . so now you’re on board for a long-term commitment? What about the—the domineering hegemony?”

  Dimple smiled slyly. “To be continued.” Before he could say anything else, she turned and walked away, her curly black hair bouncing.

  Rishi stood looking at her retreating form for a long moment. Then, grinning, he bounded after her.

  SIX MONTHS LATER . . .

  Dimple

  Dimple studied herself in the floor-length mirror in the giant bridal suite at the Ritz-Carlton, Los Angeles. She wore a beaded blue lehenga, which was basically a blouse with a long skirt, and an intricately decorated, long gold scarf called a dupatta. Mamma had pressured her to wear a lot of jewelry for “such a special occasion,” so Dimple was essentially weighed down by a dozen gold necklaces, bangles, rings, and heavy, hanging jhumki earrings that were already irritating her sensitive earlobes. She’d even allowed the bridal makeup artist to do a smoky eye and sweep highlighter on her cheeks, which now glowed with the force of a thousand suns. At least she’d won the fight to wear her glasses instead of stabbing herself in the eyes to get contacts in. Her hair had been straightened and hung in a black waterfall well past her shoulders.

  “Dimple, you ready?” one of the wedding guests, a sixteen-year-old high school student Dimple thought was called Chanda, said.

  She turned and nodded. “Yep. Coming.”

  Dimple clip-clopped to the door in her modest two-inch heels, turning a lingering glance back toward the room one last time before stepping over the threshold. So much opulence. Everywhere she looked, Dimple saw dollar signs—in the thick, fluffy embroidered comforter on the bed; in the several gilt-framed mirrors; in the marble-topped, mirrored dresser; in the sunken living room off to her right that was bigger than her parents’ living room at home. What was it about weddings that made people lose their minds? Shaking her head, she closed the door behind her and made her way to the stairs.

  Rishi waited for her in the reception area by one of the many gigantic stone pillars, dashing as usual in a caramel-colored silk kurta pajama set. His hair had been neatly combed and gelled, and he looked at her with so much love shining in those honey-colored eyes that Dimple staggered briefly on the slick marble floors. How embarrassing. She glared around murderously, daring anyone to laugh at her, but no one met her eyes.

  “Hi,” Rishi said, taking her cold, henna-bedecked hands in his warm ones. His smile was mesmerizing. “You look . . . Wow.”

  Dimple shook her head and pushed her glasses up on her already slightly sweaty nose. “What am I doing here, Rishi? I don’t know any of these people.”

  He turned and looked around at the crowd, buzzing with conversation and laughter, sparkling in jeweled finery. “You know,” he said, tossing her a conspiratorial smile, “I don’t either.”

  Dimple laughed and pushed him lightly on the chest. “They’re your family!” She paused. “And it was really . . . nice of them to suggest that I use the makeup artist they’d hired.” It was a suggestion that had the very distinct flavor of a command. Couldn’t have curmudgeonly Dimple Shah sullying the wedding photographs, now, could they?

  “Of course,” Rishi said, putting an arm around her shoulders and squeezing. “You’re practically part of the family now.”

  “Rishi beta!” a middle-aged Indian woman wearing very dark purple eye shadow that matched her sari exactly said, bustling up to them. She was holding a silver Gucci clutch. “How is SFSU? Are you back for the summer?”

  “I am, auntie,” Rishi said, smiling. “Looking forward to just chilling for the rest of summer break. Have you met Dimple Shah? Dimple, this is Sushmita auntie, one of my parents’ friends.”

  Dimple pressed her palms together. “Namaste, auntie,” she said.

  “Oho!” Sushmita auntie’s face twisted in a sly smile. “So this is Dimple!”

  Rishi chuckled, and Dimple adjusted her dupatta because she didn’t know what else to do. What did she mean, this was Dimple? Why that particular inflection? Dimple didn’t like that inflection, not one bit.

  “Yes, auntie,” Rishi said, beaming proudly at Dimple as if angels and unicorns had handcrafted her. “She’s on summer break from Stanford.”

  “Stanford,” Sushmita auntie said, that weird inflection back in her voice. She batted her eyes at Dimple, her mascaraed lashes like spiders’ legs against her cheek. “You know,” she said, leaning in to them, “soon we’ll all be attending a wedding like this for both of you!”

  Rishi chuckled again, but Dimple jumped as if she’d been stung. “What?” she said aggressively. She knew she was being aggressive because (a) Mamma had told her she tended to be aggressive when she said the words “What?” or “Why?” and (b) Sushmita auntie leaped back at least three inches. “We’re only nineteen!”

&nb
sp; “Haan,” Sushmita auntie said, her eyes roving between Dimple and Rishi, “I just meant . . . after college, maybe . . .” She stopped talking when she saw Dimple’s face. “Oh, I should go find Rajender,” she said finally, fluttering a hand at them. “He’s hopeless at these events, you know, with the . . .” She was already backing away before she was done.

  As Sushmita auntie was swallowed up by the crowd, Rishi turned to Dimple, a small furrow between his brows. “You didn’t have to jump on her like that.”

  “I didn’t jump on her!” Dimple said. When Rishi gave her his skeptical eyebrow, she amended, “Well, I wasn’t trying to jump on her. I just thought she was being ridiculous.”

  Something passed over Rishi’s face. “You think it’s ridiculous that she thought we might get married someday?”

  “At nineteen or twenty-two or whenever she meant, yeah, I think that’s pretty ridiculous! Besides, look around, Rishi.” Dimple gestured around them at the waiters and waitresses circulating with canapés, the giant champagne fountain that was rivaled only by the fruit punch fountain at the other end (for the kids), the marble floors that had been polished to such a high gloss, Dimple could see two of everyone here. “Don’t you think this level of opulence is a little wasteful?”

  Rishi cocked his head a little as he studied her. “If the bride’s and groom’s parents want to pamper their kids this way on their wedding day, who am I to judge? Besides, I don’t think it’s ridiculous to get married at nineteen or at twenty-two. Not if you love each other. Not if it feels like the most natural thing in the world.”

  Although his voice was calm, Rishi’s eyes flashed in their intensity. Clearly, this was something he felt strongly about. To Rishi, love was all that mattered. Age, ambitions, expected marital roles—those were secondary.

  But then it was easy for him, wasn’t it? He was a dude, and marriage didn’t really affect him from a sociocultural standpoint as it did women. Dimple felt an uncomfortable squirming in her stomach. She was the Titanic, and there was an entire iceberg’s worth of discussions under the surface of this conversation that she didn’t want to touch.

  Ever since that day six months ago when they’d kind of looked at engagement rings, Rishi kept hinting at . . . things. Dimple wasn’t sure she wanted to revisit the subject so soon. Or at all. If she had one fervent wish, it was that she could control time, so she could rewind it and go back to the engagement ring situation and just drag Rishi away without saying anything at all.

  “Rishi . . .” She looked around. “I really don’t want to have this conversation here. Okay?”

  He studied her for another moment and then nodded. “Okay.” Slipping his hand through hers, he added, “Let’s go find my parents. They wanted to introduce us to the groom’s parents.”

  “Great,” Dimple said, squeezing his fingers, a placatory gesture to say, Hey, we’re okay, right? He didn’t squeeze back.

  Rishi

  Rishi sat on the porch swing (Ma had had it installed a few years ago; she was a huge fan of Southern-style homes, big white porch swings included), looking out over his parents’ property. The tennis and basketball courts, the manicured gardens in the distance, the giant stone fountain soaking up the sun, the palm trees lining the drive with the big iron gates at the end—all of these were relics from his childhood. Rishi had grown up here; he’d seen a picture of him standing at those very gates with his grandfather, waiting for his little brother, Ashish, to be brought home from the hospital. When Rishi was home, he felt in control, sure of his life, certain about the path he was on. When he was home, he knew exactly who he was.

  Except . . . not today. Not at this moment. Right now he felt more unsettled than anything, more rattled than secure. He pushed with his sneakered feet and rocked gently in the swing, inhaling the aroma of the eucalyptus trees in the warm breeze. Maybe it was the wedding they’d gone to Saturday night. It was Monday morning now, and Rishi still couldn’t stop thinking about the brief conversation he and Dimple had had.

  He picked up the bent and slightly battered sketchbook that lay beside him, ever present. He’d sketched the scene of him talking to her about getting married as he’d seen it in his mind’s eye. In his sketch, his eyes were clouded with confusion and a touch of hurt, while Dimple’s were clear and full of her trademark stubbornness. Her arms were crossed, and she was leaning slightly away from him.

  Rishi didn’t know if that’s how it had really gone down—he certainly wasn’t an objective party—but he couldn’t shake the bad feeling from that night. He couldn’t stop obsessing about everything she’d said and all the many things that she hadn’t wanted to say, that her face had said anyway. Why was Dimple so intractable about getting married when so recently, in that jewelry department, she hadn’t been? Was she changing her mind, now that she’d thought about it some more? Rishi couldn’t stop torturing himself with the thought that maybe it wasn’t about her at all. Maybe her retraction had something to do with him.

  “Hey, bhaiyya,” Ashish said, walking out onto the porch in bare feet, sipping on a white blended drink of some kind. Their housekeeper, Myrna, had probably made it for him. Everyone spoiled Ashish. He wore ripped skinny jeans and a salmon-colored T-shirt that was half tucked into his jeans and half hanging over the waistband. Rishi pulled at the hem of his own blue-and-white-striped polo shirt, but Ashish didn’t take the hint. Instead he plopped down on the swing next to Rishi and rocked them. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” Rishi said, closing his sketchbook. He sniffed. “What is that you’re drinking? Some kind of coconut thing?”

  “It’s a toasted white-chocolate-coconut blended coffee,” Ashish said. “Myrna’s kind of a genius when it comes to making drinks. Do you know she can make every single thing on the Starbucks and Peet’s menus using just the stuff in our kitchen?”

  “Mm,” Rishi said, trying to sound enthusiastic, but failing miserably. “Cool.”

  Ashish studied him while he slurped. “You okay?”

  Rishi considered lying, but the truth was, he’d appreciate a little assist. Especially now. Recently Ashish had become pretty fun to talk to, even about relationship stuff. It was like his demeanor had gotten . . . sweeter . . . over the past few months. “Yeah, man. It’s just that Dimple and I kind of had a . . .” He made a swirling gesture with his hand.

  “A fight?”

  “No, it was, like, an intense conversation.”

  Ashish raised an eyebrow. “An intense . . . conversation?”

  Rishi nodded. “And some potentially strained body language.”

  Ashish’s face contorted, his lips twitching like he was trying desperately to hold in a laugh. “Potentially . . . strained . . . body . . . language.”

  “What?” Rishi asked, frowning.

  Ashish snorted and continued to rock them on the swing. “Nothing. You guys are so sweet together, it kind of makes me sick. I’m sure whatever transpired to make the ‘strained body language’ happen, you can just talk to her about it.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve tried to talk to her about this topic before, and it always turns kind of awkward. I don’t want to feel like I’m continually just pushing her.” He turned to Ashish. “Ash . . . I want to marry this girl someday. But I don’t know if she’ll ever feel the same way about me.”

  Ashish blew out a thoughtful breath. “Marriage is a pretty big-ticket item. It’s one of those things they say you can’t really change each other’s minds about, right? You just have to be on the same page or . . .”

  He trailed off, but Rishi got what he was saying. “Or it’s not worth either partner’s time to be in the relationship at all. Yeah. I feel really strongly about this, and I think she does too.” Rishi swallowed. Suddenly his throat felt really tight. “Ash . . . what if she never wants to get married? I always figured we had time, that she’d change her mind—and recently she seemed to be moving in that direction. But . . . what if it’s me she can’t stand the thought of marrying?”
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  Ashish looked him right in the eye. “I highly doubt that’s the case, bhaiyya,” he said firmly. “But it sounds like it’s eating away at you, so you should probably talk to the one person who can set your mind at ease.”

  “You’re right,” Rishi said, standing. “You’re right. I have to talk to Dimple. Right now.”

  “Here,” Ashish said, handing him the coconut drink. “You need the caffeine more than I do.”

  “Thanks.” Rishi grabbed his sketchbook and ran down the stairs toward the six-car garage in the distance.

  Dimple

  Dimple sat on a bench by the white three-tier fountain in Holbrook-Palmer Park, tapping her sandal-clad feet nervously. She wasn’t sure why Rishi wanted to meet her here, but his text had sounded strangely urgent. Dimple tried to reassure herself that this had nothing to do with that mini-conversation they’d had at the wedding, but she wasn’t completely sure. They’d talked a little over FaceTime yesterday, and Rishi hadn’t brought it up then. Then again, Dimple had been busy with some visiting relatives. They hadn’t really had the time to delve into anything super serious.

  She was beginning to sweat under the summer sun, so she pulled the collar of her peasant blouse out a little. God, she wished she would’ve stopped at Starbucks and gotten an iced coffee. She needed caffeine for something like this. Seriously, people shouldn’t be allowed to just text you, Can we talk? Meet me at Holbrook-Palmer Park at 1? and then not respond when you texted back, Sure. But why? It should be illegal. She checked her phone again: no texts. Her lock screen picture—her and Rishi grinning wildly and joyously at Bernal Heights—stared back at her, taunting.

  She’d never imagined being this happy with anyone. All her life, Mamma had tried to condition Dimple to want love and marriage and kids, but it had had the opposite effect on her: She’d conditioned herself to want solitude and higher education and a great career. Dimple had never asked for this thing with Rishi; it had been handed to her anyway. But did that mean she had to mold her wishes to match his? Couldn’t she have her own opinion on things, even if they were wildly divergent from his?