by Jade Kerrion
She gave him a regal nod. “Of course.”
“I didn’t realize you still paid attention to those kinds of things.”
“Of course we do.”
“But it’s the twenty-first century.”
“What has time to do with the core underpinnings of a well-run society?”
“A society that differentiates people based on who they were born to?” Outrage burst into his voice, silencing the medical conversation on the other side of the table.
Anjali looked alarmed, her eyes wide and vulnerable.
“This is ridiculous.” Jon slammed his fork down on the table with more force than he had intended. “Bharat is from the same caste as Anjali, so that automatically makes him better than anyone else who might come along, without any consideration for who that other person might be?”
“It’s not just the caste,” Anjali’s mother said. “We are not so shallow. It’s his education. His job. His prospects. His parents. His upbringing. Even his age.”
“His age?”
“He is older than Anjali. More mature. He will make a good provider for her.”
“What about how they feel for each other?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Feelings are nice, but they do not increase lifelong compatibility. Far better to have a couple committed to each other and to making the marriage work.”
“People who love each other will be committed to making the marriage work.”
“It would be unwise to overlook the other incompatibilities. They never disappear, lingering like cracks in the foundation. Different races—”
“I have to go.” Jon stood. “Thank you for dinner.” He strode to the door, leaving behind a stiff silence.
Anjali’s footsteps raced after him, but he turned to face her only after he stepped out into the corridor. “I’m sorry I snapped like that. It’s just that it hits a raw spot when people think they’re somehow naturally superior to others. That kind of shit got us the holocaust.”
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting, comparing the holocaust to the caste system?”
“Don’t you think you’re taking it too lightly? Just because you’ve lived with it all your life, or just because you’re sitting pretty at the top of the pyramid doesn’t make it right.”
“That’s not what I was saying—”
“Your mother’s comment about different races. She objects to me because I’m Jewish.”
Anjali bit down on her lower lip. “No, it’s because you’re not Indian.”
“What?”
She shook her head. “It matters to her.”
“So race matters, as does caste, as does the MD, and the career as a cardiac surgeon. Oh, and age.” Jon stared at Anjali. Despair clogged his throat. “I can’t control any of these. I can’t fix these.”
“I’m not asking you to fix them.”
“But apparently I’m not going to be good enough for you unless I do.”
“Do you care what my mother thinks?”
“Yes, when you do.”
“I don’t.”
“You dance Indian classical dance. You love the spices, the curries.”
“So what?” Her voice bristled.
“Just like I see a part of you that Bharat doesn’t, there’s a huge part of you I didn’t know either because you didn’t let me into that part of your life. That’s the part that Bharat knows and understands.”
“What are you saying?”
“That all this time, I thought I had an edge Bharat didn’t. Now I realize that like him, I only had access to a facet of you, not all of you. Why didn’t you tell me about your Indian dance?”
She shrugged, but she looked uncomfortable. “It’s just something I do; not a big deal.”
“You tell me about the jokes you exchanged with the kid who bags your groceries at the supermarket, but you don’t tell me about something you do often and well? Did you leave me out deliberately?”
“No, I just…I just didn’t think it was important, and then eventually, I forgot it mattered at all. Dancing. Eating. It didn’t seem like a big deal. If I had known you were interested—”
“It’s about you. I’m always interested. Heck, I’m invested, but it turns out you’ve been keeping me at arm’s length as much as you have Bharat.”
“No, that’s not true!”
“You know it is. And I don’t even think you know why.”
“I…” She looked away.
“Who are you, Ange, and what do you want?” he asked, his voice a stricken whisper.
She stared at him, and when she did not reply, she broke his heart.
Chapter 7
Graduation day dawned, cool and windy. The sun that had blazed down on Baltimore for several days had concealed itself behind gray clouds. His mood as bleak as the weather, Jon scowled at his reflection in the mirror as he tugged his tie straight.
How had the weekend gone so horribly wrong?
He had originally been scheduled to leave the next morning after breakfast. Marisa would have been happy to cover for him for longer, but who knew if he even needed that extra time? He had thought that he had been staying to fight for something.
The prior night had disabused him of that notion.
His claim was no stronger than Bharat’s. He was, like Bharat, only privy to a part of Anjali’s life.
So what now?
Stay and fight for her, or stay and support her as she made the right decision?
But what if the right decision isn’t me?
Until last night, he had not contemplated the possibility that he might not be the right decision for her.
She fitted in with her family, beyond the color of her skin and the charming lilt of her upper-crust British accent. They loved the same foods, had the same way of talking at the same time and interrupting each other without giving offense. With so many doctors in the family, they practically had their own language. And she danced like a temple virgin, each precise movement so graceful, that she must surely have been touched by a goddess.
On the other hand, she loved breakfast at midnight at Blue Moon Café, the wild abandon of salsa dancing, and lazy Saturday mornings cuddling on the couch with him.
Who are you, really, Ange?
The thought nagged at him as he made his way into the auditorium at the Johns Hopkins Medical School. The large room was rapidly filling with family and friends of the graduates, and the murmur of conversation buzzed through the room. Jon would have been quite happy to sit on his own, but Bharat’s parents, Esha and Dev, saw him and waved him over to join the gathering.
Jon found himself seated with Bharat on one side and Anjali’s mother on the other—quite possibly the last place he would have selected for himself, given a choice. Fortunately, the ceremony and the seemingly endless stream of graduates across the stage precluded the need for conversation.
Anjali’s name was called, and warmth swelled his chest. The rush of love, of pride and joy, caught him by surprise, considering the emotional turmoil and uncertainty she had put him through the past few days, but in that moment, it was enough to enjoy Anjali’s triumph. It was made sweeter when she was recognized and applauded for her academic distinction in a class full of anxious overachievers.
Jon relaxed into a smile. All those late nights listening her to complain and vent about her coursework over Skype, those weekend evenings spent massaging the knots out of her back and neck, those early morning calls, when panicked by the sudden conviction that no hospital would take her for a residency, she had called just to listen to him breathing over the phone. She claimed it calmed her; he was willing to put up with it if it meant helping her somehow.
Whatever it took.
“She’s amazing,” Bharat said. His voice, pitched low, brimmed with admiration.
“Yes, she is,” Jon agreed.
Anjali’s mother spoke. “She is finally done with her studies. No reason to delay on marriage now.” Her lips pursed into a frown. “She�
��s already twenty-six years old. If she wastes any more time—”
Bharat chuckled. “A medical degree is not a waste of time.”
“She’s just going to have children and take care of the house.”
“Is she?” Bharat asked. “That’s not the impression I got from her.”
“Why would she want anything else?”
Jon cut in, his tone exasperated from having Bharat and Anjali’s mother talk across him. “Because she can. Because she’s one of the brightest, most capable people walking over that stage today.”
“If she’s too clever, men will be afraid,” she said.
Bharat shook his head. “I’m not afraid of smart women. Jon?”
“Love ‘em.”
“You see, there are at least two men who think Anjali is fine the way she is.”
Jon shot Bharat an astonished look. Had Bharat just set them both on the same side, against Anjali’s mother, no less?
Anjali’s mother ignored Bharat’s attempt to include Jon in the conversation. “You will talk to her soon, won’t you?”
“When we’re both ready.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the delay?”
“An appropriate level of privacy, for starters.”
Bharat’s flat statement had the surprising benefit of silencing Anjali’s mother for the rest of the ceremony. At the end of the event, Jon pushed to his feet and went to look for Anjali. His familiarity with the layout of the warren of rooms at the medical school allowed him to locate her as she stepped out of one of the designated changing rooms. Her graduation robe was draped over an arm, and she looked fresh-faced and lovely in a white blouse and a pair of dark gray slacks. Her face lit with a smile as she flung her arms around his neck. “We did it!”
They kissed and nuzzled noses before he pulled back slightly. “You did it.”
“Not without you. All those long days and late nights…” She shuddered.
He chuckled. “You’re barely through medical school. Your residency’s still ahead of you.”
“Don’t I know it.” She rolled her eyes and laughed, but suddenly stiffened as her gaze fell on something behind Jon’s back.
He turned to see Bharat, Bharat’s parents, and Anjali’s parents. They surrounded her, all talking at once. Their smiles were brilliant, their voices warm, and their words congratulatory. Anjali seemed to relax but tensed again when Bharat spoke into the inevitable, eventual silence. “May I take you out to dinner tonight?”
Jon inhaled sharply.
Anjali’s gaze flicked over to him, before returning to Bharat. She bit her lower lip and nodded, the motion stiff.
Jon turned away, and inhaled through the coldness in his chest. Dread was stronger than hope, and it raked at him. Perhaps in another situation, with another woman, with another family he could have scored points for “standing up for her and fighting for her.”
Not this time. It would only reinforce everything her parents believed about him—that he was an outsider who did not understand or acknowledge their ways, however peculiar they seemed to him. It would embarrass Anjali, not just in front of her parents, but her friends as well.
The fight, as incomprehensible as it sounded, was not his to fight, neither was it his to win.
“Jon,” Esha, Bharat’s mother, placed her hand gently on his arm. “May Dev and I get a ride to our hotel, please?”
“Yeah, of course. Whenever you’re ready to leave.”
Esha and Dev exchanged a glance. “We’re ready now.”
Jon led the way through the maze of the Johns Hopkins medical institution buildings to the covered parking where he had left his car. The light murmur of Esha’s voice followed him, but he paid little attention to her conversation with her husband. The topics skittered from the graduation ceremony to the spotty urban charm of Baltimore.
Jon braked at a red light and glanced out at the street, his chest weighed down by depression.
Esha’s voice spoke in clear tones. “Anjali is such a lovely girl, isn’t she, Dev?”
Her husband grunted.
“We knew her as a little girl, and she’s grown up beautifully. Although, sometimes she seems like she’s two different people.”
Jon’s heart beat faster. Esha’s overly casual tone insinuated that the conversation, although apparently directed at her husband, was intended for him. He gritted his teeth. Why can’t these people just talk normally? Why is everything important conveyed in such roundabout ways?
“She is so sweet, and I hope Bharat does the right thing, but I’m worried that they haven’t actually spent time together.”
“They haven’t,” Dev said, his voice gruff in contrast to his wife’s crystal clear tones. “Not for years.”
“They’ve grown apart.”
Dev snorted. “I don’t think they were ever together. They were almost friends as children. Bharat looked out for her like an older brother, but even then, they moved in different circles.”
Jon’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. What were Esha and Dev really trying to say?
Esha sighed softly. “I want Bharat to be happy. I want him to marry someone who loves him, someone whom he loves, not just the girl with the right credentials. He deserves it, Dev.”
“Yes, but Anjali’s parents will be offended if he does not ask her to marry him.”
“Just because their own marriage is unhappy—”
“They’re unhappy and at least one, if not both of them, blame it on having married outside their caste. They will not want Anjali to make that same mistake.”
Jon’s eyes narrowed. Had Anjali’s parents married outside of their caste for love? It explained a fair bit but left even more inexplicable. How screwed up did their marriage have to be for them to adamantly oppose Anjali’s search for happiness and love in her relationships and her own marriage?
Chapter 8
Anjali had enjoyed fine dining at the Charleston Restaurant once before. She and Jon had made a special occasion of it two years ago when he had graduated from Johns Hopkins. When she entered the restaurant, with Bharat’s hand resting gently at the small of her back, she glanced automatically at the seat that she and Jon had occupied the last time.
It was taken by another couple, their heads turned toward each other. If they sat any closer together, she would be in his lap.
If Anjali recalled correctly, she and Jon had been in much the same positions then.
“Our table’s over here.” Bharat turned her in the opposite direction.
Their table, nestled in a cozy nook, was lit with candles. For the next fifteen minutes, Anjali managed to keep the conversation focused on the menu and the wine list, but once the orders were placed, there was nowhere else to look but at Bharat.
The conversation began innocuously enough but within moments turned to the inevitable.
“I noticed you and Jon are quite close,” Bharat said.
Anjali suppressed a wince. Apparently, Bharat was no better at direct conversation than she was. She swallowed hard. “We’ve been…together for a while.” Wow. That was the closest she had come to acknowledging to her family or to Bharat that she was in a relationship with Jon.
Small victories. A step at a time.
Bharat nodded. He reached for his glass of water, moistened his lips, and asked, “Why?”
Why? Oh, damn. That was a hard question. Her shoulders fell as she exhaled. “I needed him.”
Bharat’s eyes brows shot up. “You needed him?”
“Yes. To be a friend. To listen. To care. To—”
“A mere friend can do all that for you, but he’s more than that.”
“In time, he became more than that, but he started out as a friend. The first time I realized he was more than that was when he came across me, slumped at the foot of a pillar at Mudd Hall, staring blankly at my note cards. We had been nothing but occasional dance partners until then, but he stopped to ask how I was doing.” She smiled faintly at the memory. “Not well, I
told him. I was preparing for an exam, and my brain was tangled in organic chemistry formulas—a wretched, horrid mess of carbon and nitrogen—and the worst part was, no one could tell me why on Earth I needed to know any of this.” Anjali laughed. “To be honest, six years later, MD in hand, I still don’t fully understand why I had to go through the horror of organic chemistry. He looked like he had somewhere to go, but he sat next to me, open a packet of trail mix to share, and we went through my note cards together.”
“He taught you?”
“No, but he studied with me. He has a way of making the biggest problem seem utterly manageable; I don’t know how he does it. My panic subsided, my head cleared, and I could learn again.” Anjali’s fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the table. “I aced my exam the next day. The next time the panic crept up on me again, I called him. He came over to my apartment, brought pizza, and we studied cell biology together. He’s smart—although it’s not what most people notice about him immediately. It’s his easy confidence; it’s infectious. It’s addictive. It’s as if he sees the world through rose-colored glasses, and he makes you want to see it through his eyes. So, one night, after one of his dance classes, I invited him out to the Blue Moon Café for a late snack. That was our first date.”
Bharat nodded slowly. “Did you ever tell him about…what our parents wanted for us?”
Anjali pressed her lips together. “I did. Briefly. He took it as a joke; I mean, who gets promised in marriage at birth these days? I never mentioned it again.”
“Why?”
“I told you. I needed him.”
“Do you love him?”
Yes. Anjali’s lips trembled. Inexplicably, the word stuck in her throat. The word “love” was not simply tossed around. How could she speak of loving another man to the man she was supposed to marry? She fumbled for a different angle. “I know what our parents want for us.”
“Do you?” Bharat demanded, his voice sharp. “Then why did you take up with Jon?”
Anjali’s eyes widened. Did Bharat really expect her to believe that he had waited for her all this time, all thirty-five years? Of course he couldn’t possibly have, so why did he expect her to wait? Anger over the injustice pushed up from within her, but her throat closed around the words. Her upbringing—the training to be quiet and respectful around her elders—wrapped around her like a shroud. The conflicting forces collided, sending tension rippling through her neck, shoulders, and upper back. She looked away and tried again. “My parents love you like a son.”
