Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  That’s what I always said, which was only partly the truth. Really, I couldn’t imagine leaving behind Mom and Natasha.

  After we were clear of downtown, I worked up the courage to broach the subject.

  “How is she?”

  Mark grabbed his sunglasses from the top of the dashboard, keeping his eyes fixated on the road. “Good. Morning sickness comes and goes.”

  “And how are you?”

  “Oh, fine. Busy with work.” He leaned over. “You get it.”

  That was about the extent of our conversation, and we ended up turning on a podcast on rent control. Mark and I never seemed to have a lot to talk about when Natasha wasn’t around, but I liked him, and I knew he liked me. We were very similar, in a way, a practical balance to Natasha’s whimsies.

  As we merged onto the highway, I zoned out, thinking about work and then about Ainsley. That Saturday morning we spent together at the farmers market felt like eons ago, but it had only been a few weeks.

  It was nice having someone at work to talk to, really talk to, because after I’d overheard Ginger’s comments about me in the bathroom, I’d stopped making an effort to be friendly with her altogether. (She wanted a cold, civil work relationship with her boss? That’s what she was getting back.) The day before, I’d even eaten my lunch with Ainsley in the break room, instead of at my desk, and had really enjoyed myself. She was fun. She was funny. And I could really be myself around her. Yet, at the end of the day, she was a “work friend.” Someone to make what could be long, occasionally cruel days a little bit lighter.

  I’d been close with my old work friends, but after turning down my invite to go see that Tiffany Haddish movie, none of them had reached out to make other plans, and I wasn’t going to do it only to get shut down again. So, two months after switching jobs, it was like that friendship circle had never existed.

  I glanced sideways at Mark as he drove. His eyes were pointed steadfastly ahead, but nonetheless, I angled my phone away from him as I opened the “Social” folder on my home screen. On Ainsley’s recommendation, I’d deleted Facebook, as I didn’t trust myself to avoid Jesse’s profile. But I had downloaded Bumble.

  Becket knew, of course. I was only using the app for the “BFF” setting, the first step in remarkably transforming me into an engaging social butterfly. (Ha.) A bright red notification popped up, alerting me to a new message. My heart surged. I hadn’t worked up the courage yet to contact any of the women I’d matched with, and I quickly clicked through.

  Hi, Serena! How are you!? I see you also work in advertising. We should totally meet up for coffee!???—Aisha

  I smiled, reading over the message. Aisha. I knew a lot of people in the industry, and I couldn’t place her. I tried to zoom in on the picture, but it was a bit out of focus. I squinted. She looked like she might have been younger than me. Maybe that’s why I didn’t know her. Regardless, I replied.

  Hi Aisha—Great to meet you. What agency are you with? I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before. Coffee sounds great.

  Finally, Mark and I arrived. My family had lived in the same three-bedroom bungalow in a very South Asian suburb in Fairfax County since my first year of high school. After years of driving a taxi and moving us from one apartment to another, incredibly, Dad had landed a job as an operations manager at Dulles Airport and a high enough credit score to secure the longest mortgage banks had to offer. Mom had always stayed home to take care of us, but to help keep the fridge stocked and bills paid, she’d cleaned neighbors’ houses while we were at school. I knew my parents had struggled, that they still struggled, but we never discussed it.

  We never discussed anything.

  We left our shoes in the front hall and followed Natasha’s laughter, which was floating in from the sitting room. I held my breath. She was sitting on the couch next to Dad, showing him something on her phone. He stood up when he saw us, pressing his hands together in front of his chest in greeting to me and then Mark.

  “Sat Sri Akaal,” Dad said, quietly.

  “Sat Sri Akaal, Uncle,” Mark replied, as I mumbled my hello to him, then quickly turned to Natasha.

  “Hey, Tash . . .” I wondered if she’d stand up to hug me. “How’ve you been?”

  “Good.” She beamed. “You?”

  “Good.” I nodded, trying to think of a way to signal that there was much more I wanted to say to her. Things we wouldn’t talk about in front of Dad.

  “Do—”

  “Hey. Come see what cake Dad likes.” She tapped the cushion next to her, and even though it wasn’t clear which one of us she was speaking to, Mark sat down. The knot in my stomach tightened.

  Was that it? After this much time apart, was that all she had to say to me?

  “I like it,” Mark said, looking at the phone. “Great choice, Uncle.”

  “Really? Even that ugly chocolate frosting?” Natasha laughed, punching them both on the arms. “Both the men in my life have terrible taste, huh?”

  I watched all three of them laughing, their shoulders bumping against one another. Dad caught me staring, and as soon as our eyes met, he looked away.

  “What’s the cake for?” I asked.

  “The gender reveal,” she answered. I could hear her voice shake ever so slightly. Was she nervous, too?

  Without looking up, she asked, “Want to see?”

  “Sure,” I said, swallowing hard. “Just let me get Mom.”

  I turned the corner into the galley kitchen, the worn-out carpet giving way to a harsh yellow linoleum that looked unclean no matter how many times Mom scrubbed it. The room was small. If I stood at its very center, I could nearly touch the walls on either side, the refrigerator door, the window overlooking our neighbor’s den. Still, this is where Mom seemed to spend most of her time, where—without fail—she’d be whenever I came home.

  She had her back to me, facing the stove. Lately, she had started wearing more western clothes outside the house—slacks and loose blouses Natasha and I helped pick out for her at Target or JC Penney—but at home she was always in a traditional salwar kameez. Today, she was wearing a cotton pale paisley top. The billowing pant bottoms were a soft cream, and so was the dupatta, which was draped elegantly around her head and shoulders. There were turmeric stains all over it.

  I wished she’d understand that I’d spend more time with her if she deigned to come into the city. It’s not that I didn’t want to see her; I just hated going home. I hated seeing her stuck in this kitchen.

  Growing up, she always ate last, making sure everyone else had hot roti throughout their meal, hovering over us, insisting we eat more while I begged her to come sit down at the table. Finally, when the rest of us were nearly done, she’d shovel down her cold food before bolting off to start on the dishes, the laundry, some endless task or another. And when she wasn’t at home, she was at gurdwara cooking for worshippers in the community kitchen, taking the occasional break to attend one of their friend’s dinner parties or functions. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I often found myself comparing her to women like Deborah or Ainsley. Back when we were still together, even Jesse’s mother.

  Gently, I set my hands on Mom’s shoulders as she hovered over the stove, so as not to startle her. She leaned back into me, and I caught a whiff of the tarka she was frying, the rich smells mixed with her honey-sweet scent.

  “Have you offered Mark a drink?” she asked me.

  We didn’t keep alcohol in the house, except for one or two bottles of beer they kept at the back of the fridge for their son-in-law, which he never drank.

  “Yes,” I lied. “Why don’t you go sit down? I can fin—”

  “It’s not finished, beti.”

  I watched her pick up the saucepan and expertly sweep all of the tarka into the lentils simmering on the back burner. She mixed it together and then turned off the heat.


  “Now are you done?”

  “I still need to make rice.”

  “Let me.”

  “Nah, you will burn.”

  “Mom.” I turned her around forcibly. “Please? I promise not to burn it. Natasha is talking about having a gender reveal. You told me you wanted to host the baby shower, didn’t you? A gender reveal is kind of the same thing, so now would be a good time to ask her.”

  “What is Junn-dar reveal?”

  I rolled my eyes, reaching for the rice jar above the fridge. “Ask Natasha.”

  Finally, Mom went into the other room, and as I rinsed the rice, I listened to Natasha attempt to explain the logic behind a gender reveal party. I tried not to cringe, focusing on the task at hand.

  “It sounds fun, beti,” I heard Mom say later. She spoke in English whenever Mark was around. “Where will be the location?”

  “Our place,” Natasha said.

  There was a long pause as I set the pot of rice onto the stove, turned the heat to low.

  “Your place?” Mom asked. I could hear the hesitation in her voice even from the other room, and I willed her to continue. For once, to say what she actually thought. I walked over to the doorway, and Mom looked up. I caught her eye and nodded for her to continue.

  “I would like to host the party,” Mom said, looking at the ground. “I would like to have the party for my baby girl.”

  “Are you kidding? Here?”

  I balked. “Natasha!”

  “What, Serena?”

  She glared at me, and I didn’t drop her gaze.

  “Babe,” Mark said, “let’s consider our options—”

  “What’s to even consider? This place wouldn’t fit half my friends, let alone Mom’s friends, your mom’s friends. And besides . . .”

  She trailed off, and I thanked god she didn’t finish her sentence. Why did she have to act embarrassed about where we came from, and in front of our parents, no less?

  “It smells great in there, Auntie,” Mark said, breaking the silence. “Is there anything I can help with?”

  “Thank you for offering, beta. Everything is complete. Serena is just making rice, and then we can eat.”

  “There’s no roti?” interjected Natasha.

  “I thought tonight we’d have rice for a change . . .”

  “Oh.” Natasha pouted, and for the first time, I didn’t think it was cute. I wanted to slap her.

  Natasha the princess. Natasha the baby of the family. Natasha, our little golden girl.

  I rubbed my eyes as it dawned on me. Natasha was selfish. Plain and simple, she was a spoiled brat.

  Maybe she always had been. And I was done making excuses for her.

  “Sit down,” I told Mom when, predictably, she stood up to go make her daughter fresh roti. “Rice is fine.”

  “Beti, your sister wa—”

  “It won’t kill anyone to have rice tonight.” I fixated my gaze on Natasha. “Will it?”

  “Why are you being like that?” Natasha whined.

  “Like what?” I spat.

  A considerate daughter? Appreciative of the fact that Mom had spent her whole day—no, her whole life—slaving away in that goddamn kitchen?

  “Honestly, Natasha,” I started, ready to confront her. “You’re being—”

  “Serena,” Mom barked, as she disappeared into kitchen. “Bus.”

  Which meant enough.

  But it was never enough. A woman’s work or worth—it would never be enough.

  The tension in the room sizzled, and I titled my head so I could see Dad in my peripheral vision. He was on the far end of the couch, tapping his knees, a habit of his for as long as I could remember. He hadn’t said a word since I got home, or during Natasha’s tantrum, and I wondered if it had ever occurred to him that another kind of husband would have spoken up for his wife. A different kind of man would have defended her time and her heart.

  Did those men exist? I wanted to believe it was possible, and there were moments when I came close. But then I’d come home. And I’d remember why I didn’t.

  11

  SANDEEP

  See how fast I am?” Sandeep asked, rolling out the atta. “The roti will only take five minutes.”

  “That’s not the point,” Serena answered dryly.

  Sandeep knew that wasn’t the point, and she knew very well that she’d spoiled her younger daughter, but right now she needed to keep the peace. Serena’s tone—judgmental, angry—was typically reserved for Sandeep. Today was the first time she’d seen it wielded against Natasha.

  Were her two girls fighting? Sandeep had a feeling that their tiff had nothing to do with roti. Sandeep wanted to ask about their troubles, but anytime she’d pried in the past, no matter the subject, Serena shut down. Sandeep would never make that mistake again.

  “Natasha is pregnant, beti. And she wants roti,” Sandeep said instead. “Be thoughtful.”

  Serena didn’t respond, and Sandeep bit her tongue. That had come out wrong. Of the two daughters, Serena was the most thoughtful. Without a doubt, if Serena had decided to have children, she would have allowed—no, requested—that her own mother host her baby shower. It was the thoughtful thing to do.

  If anything, Serena was too kind. She let the world rest its weight on her shoulders for her to carry around. A husband would help with the load, the burden of it all, but Serena would hear nothing of it, so Sandeep had stopped trying. Serena wanted her mother in her life, but not her opinions. She didn’t trust her mother to have the right opinions.

  And Sandeep couldn’t really blame her.

  “Can I help?” Serena asked, and Sandeep snuck a glance. Her eyes were red, and she’d flipped her phone over and slid it to the other side of the counter.

  Sandeep slapped the roti onto the tawa and then reached out her palm and rested it on Serena’s cheek. The pain in her heart was on her face, too. “Nah. You rest. You work so hard.”

  “How long do you leave it on each side?” Serena asked.

  “Until it’s done. You check it like this.” With quick movements, Sandeep slid the roti edge off the cast-iron pan. It was heating through, so she flipped it over on the other side. “See?”

  Serena nodded, leaning her weight into the kitchen counter. Sandeep saw her reach for her phone and then, without warning, pull her hand away. Serena was forever glued to that phone, and not because there was a man demanding her attention.

  Deborah Kim. Was that her name?

  Sandeep had looked up the name of Serena’s new boss before she arrived, just to be sure she wouldn’t get it wrong if she came up in conversation. From what Veer found out on the Internet, she was an important woman, which meant Serena was an important woman. Sandeep flipped over the roti one more time and then, pinching the corner, moved it to the gas burner.

  “This is the final stage,” Sandeep said, glancing at her daughter. “It puffs up on the open fire.”

  Serena nodded. Surely, she knew this already; she’d watched Sandeep cook hundreds of times. But Sandeep was scared to ask her daughter about this Deborah Kim, about her high-powered career, so she returned to a familiar subject.

  Because, what if Sandeep were to ask the wrong question?

  What if the question made Sandeep sound . . . stupid?

  It was easy to feel inferior around two bright girls fully versed in American, in the way of life this country demanded. Her daughters were constantly correcting Sandeep, pointing out when she made missteps or missed social cues, like when she tried to bargain with the saleswoman at Target.

  The cardigan was on the clearance rack without a price tag. How was Sandeep to know the price was still fixed?

  Sandeep knew her daughters meant well, but it didn’t make their criticisms any easier to handle. Often, she felt like she was in the backseat on a long, winding car
journey entirely unclear of the destination. Veer steering. The two girls in the passenger seat. Serena, sullen and staring out the window, while Natasha laughed in her singsong way and gave directions.

  With the first roti complete, she buttered it, folded it twice across, and then handed it to Serena.

  “Sure?”

  “You must be so hungry.” Sandeep smiled. “And I’m making more. Jao.”

  Immediately, Serena tore the roti into chunks, eating quickly as she dunked each morsel in the saag simmering on the back burner. “Mom. It’s so good.” She paused, chewing. “I miss your cooking.”

  And I miss you, Serena.

  “Do you think . . . you could teach me how to make roti?”

  Again, Sandeep wondered if this question had anything to do with roti. But what else could it be about? Was Serena simply asking so they could have something to talk about, common ground to share?

  “Roti?” Sandeep shook her head, returning to the task at hand. “It takes a very long time to learn, and the ones they sell at the supermarket are nearly just as good. Do you know, Serena, that even the white grocery stores have roti now?”

  Serena laughed. “In the city, too.”

  “Saag, on the other hand . . .” Sandeep glanced at the pot full of spinach, cauliflower, broccoli, onion, garlic, and spices worked and blended just the right way. She had made Serena laugh, and now she was feeling confident. “Saag I could teach you.”

  “Yeah?” Serena leaned over, smelling it. “I don’t have a pressure cooker.”

  “No bother. There’s another way.”

  “What about daal? Chicken curry, even?”

  “Even chicken curry.”

  They returned to the roti. Sandeep made space at the counter, handed Serena a rolling pin, and tried not to laugh too hard when her daughter’s “round” roti came out with two ears and a chin.

  This was her happy place. With her family. In this cozy galley kitchen that reminded her of her buaji’s flat back in Ludhiana. When she closed her eyes, Sandeep could almost smell the sweet orange tree, its branches knocking against the window. The pungent tang of dhai curdling beneath a cheesecloth.