The Shaadi Set-Up

by Lillie Vale

  Which also means it’s the number one pain in my ass every time I go home, which, according to Aji, isn’t even close to often enough since they’re only an hour away.

  “Shit.” On reflex, Neil swipes his unused mug, brings it to his lips like he’s going to gulp it down, then laughs, embarrassed, when he remembers it’s empty. “I’m so late.”

  I can guess what’s coming next. It’s like clockwork.

  Neil has the habit of pushing a conversation to the half step right before it turns into a fight, then turning tail before it gets serious enough for me to yell at him. He gets to go to work and do whatever data engineers at tech firms do, turning off his home brain and sinking into work-brain seamlessly.

  Neil will get over this the second he’s out the door. Me? I can’t do that. I’ll be on a low simmer all day.

  I try to never work when I’m angry or upset, not when power tools are involved. That was the first rule of carpentry my dad taught me. So there goes the plan to go to my parents’ place to use Dad’s band saw. A recent end table I’d thrifted from Lucky Dog Luke’s antique mall needed new curved legs I’d hoped to start work on today, but with Neil on my mind—and not in a good way—it looks like the day’s agenda has gone up in smoke.

  I hate it when that happens; a sense of wrongness is going to follow me all day. No matter what I accomplish today, it’s never going to be how it was supposed to.

  He comes toward me with an apologetic let’s-make-up smile. Another corner-of-the-eye kiss, a shivery “Promise me you’ll think about it?” in my ear, and then he’s gone.

  I scrunch my nose. I wish I’d told him that he applies his aftershave like an overzealous middle schooler.

  But most of all, I really wish I’d missed his phone call with his mother.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, I head for my parents’ house, leaving Freddie in charge. I don’t think of it as going home, though, not when they only bought it while I was in college.

  Their house is one of those sprawling, turreted stone châteaux that wouldn’t be out of place in the French countryside but sticks out like a ritzy thumb in the small North Carolina college town of Chapel Hill.

  My unwashed, seen-better-days pickup truck doesn’t fit with the stretch of manicured lawns, long driveways, and canopies of tall, proud oak trees on either side of me. Usually it all blends into the background as I make the familiar hour-and-a-half trip from Goldsboro, but not today.

  Because today is the day there’s a gigantic FOR SALE sign staked just outside my window at the four-way stop sign.

  It’s not the first one I’ve seen on Franklin Street; because of the volume of the UNC Chapel Hill sororities and frat houses down the way, family homes can have quick turnover. Noise doesn’t bother my parents, not after growing up in Bandra, one of Mumbai’s busiest suburbs, where the braying street traffic of rickshaws and pedestrians starts at dawn.

  But because I’m third in line, the radio is playing a song I hate, and I can’t look at the NRA bumper sticker of the asshole stopped in front of me for another second, I glance at the sign.

  Mistake.

  My shoulders tighten, heart squeezing before free falling into my stomach.

  I’m arrested by the glossy real estate agent photo of a cute guy with light golden skin and thick brown hair artfully tossed in an Ivy League crew cut. The straight, perfect nose and the thin lips curved into a one-sided, dimpled I-have-a-secret smile. A small cleft in his chin, like a Desi Henry Cavill. Sienna eyes, bright and mischievous like a copper penny.

  Milan Rao. Real estate agent for High Castle Realty.

  My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. This isn’t just any handsome face.

  It’s my ex-boyfriend’s heartbreaking, promise-breaking face.

  In my mind, he’s always twenty. We both are. And somehow, being twenty again—and nineteen and eighteen and seventeen and sixteen and fifteen, all the ages that I loved him—feels more real to me than the present. Inch by inch, I sink into the arms of the memory. The deep throatiness of his voice, the way he tips his head back when he laughs, the feel of my name whispered against my heart in the darkness of his bedroom. The tickle of his hair against my chin as he kissed across my collarbone, down my breasts, then back up to my ear.

  I used up all my firsts on him. My first kiss. My first boyfriend. The first person to steal my breath and the first to give it back.

  The memory isn’t so soft anymore, not when revisiting it reminds me that maybe it only feels so real because it was the life I was supposed to have.

  The car behind me honks.

  I’m yanked out of my reverie so fast my vision blurs away the sharp cut of Milan’s jaw, the dark straight-across eyebrows, the fringe of kohl-black lashes lining his eyes. All I see now are the lips I’d known so well mouthing a Sorry he never actually said.

  Another honk, followed by an impatient blaring succession of noise from the line of cars behind me. “Move it, lady!” someone shouts.

  The other drivers at the intersection shoot inquisitive looks my way before deciding to skip my turn. I hold my hand up to the rearview mirror as acknowledgment before taking my foot off the brake. Even though I’m halfway across, a yellow sports car doesn’t want to wait and takes a turn too fast, tires squealing as they beat me, forcing me to brake hard in the middle of the intersection.

  My heart rattles and doesn’t stop until I’m in my parents’ driveway.

  Once, my heart sped up for him. Now it races for a different reason.

  Running from the memory of a boy that I used to run to.

  I close my eyes as I settle against the seat, switching off the ignition.

  Milan and I had been together since we were fifteen. Our parents hadn’t been thrilled about it, maybe his more than mine, but with stiff unhappiness, they were determined to be just American enough not to be Indian about their teenagers dating.

  But then, after finishing our sophomore year of college, he broke up with me.

  I told people it was mutual, because he was the kind of boy who didn’t need to win, like some of my friends’ exes. And my parents believed me when I said it’s okay, we saw this coming, a long-distance relationship was too hard to maintain, a clean break is better for us, yadda yadda.

  More lies, like there weren’t already enough holding us all together.

  Every reassurance meant to solidify that we were both the ones doing the leaving.

  What’s worse, I even started to believe me.

  Thinking about Milan Rao makes me feel like a teenager again.

  Young-and-dumb fifteen, too-in-love fifteen.

  The kind of fifteen I’ve never been again.

  And honestly? I don’t think I want to be.

  “Arey, Rita!”

  I startle, dropping the truck keys from my limp grip.

  My grandmother vigorously waves at me from the front door. Something silver glints in her hand. She’s dressed in a mustard-yellow nightie that hits at the ankles. When she first came to live with us, Mom told her to stop going out in her nightgown, but with her usual dismissal, Aji pads out to the driveway, leather chappals slapping against the stone path.

  She stops at one of the terra-cotta planters by the side of the garage door.

  “You’re staying for lunch?” she asks as I get out of the truck.

  “Good morning to you, too, Aji.”

  She snorts, then turns her attention to the bright orange and yellow marigolds. “Do you come to visit us or to use Ruthvik’s equipment?” With four precise snips, she beheads the pom-pom flowers with a small pair of scissors with pretty floral detailing that went missing from Mom’s sewing box three years ago.

  With her back to me, she mercifully doesn’t catch my smile drop.

  We go inside together and the AC blasts me like I’ve just walked into a deep
-freeze fridge. Sparing no expense on the year-round temperature of your home is an immigrant sign of having “made it,” even if it means we’re too cold in summer and too hot in winter.

  The TV is on, thrumming with a duet. I slip off my black high-tops and leave them by the door next to Dad’s loafers, Aji’s chappals, and Mom’s Gucci Double G white espadrilles.

  Aji disappears into her bedroom with her flowers. “You’re staying!” she calls over her shoulder. A second later, her door closes and pooja music begins, loud enough to drown out the Bollywood. She keeps a temple in her room for her daily prayer and aarti.

  I find my mom in the kitchen chopping cilantro on the island. The room is fragrant with garlic, onion, herbs, and spices. She doesn’t look up when I enter, but she does smile. “Dad’s out back in the workshop,” she says, sliding the confetti of green onto the side of the knife. She nods to the large steel pot on the closest burner. “Lift the lid for me?”

  I oblige, inhaling deeply. Fragrant steam rises from the simmering pot of golden daal tadka. There’s something unmistakably welcoming about Indian home cooking—the warmth of red chilies and cloves, the woodiness of spices sautéed in hot oil. This is my favorite lentil preparation, the savory swirl of ghee tempered with fried garlic and cumin seeds.

  Mom sprinkles the cilantro in a delicate garnish before pulling the pot off the stove. “Thanks, sweetheart.” She looks at me now, giving a quick once-over. “You look a little flushed. Do you want to run upstairs and freshen up? Change into something else? You’ve been wearing that old shirt since . . .” She pauses, stretching her mind back, then shakes her head. “Well, for years. Don’t you think it’s time to retire it? You have some nice dresses upstairs.”

  It’s usually Aji badgering me to wear a dress. I glance down; I’m wearing my favorite old knotted black tee and shorts, unwashed from yesterday, but jeez, it’s not like Mom can tell.

  When Mom and Dad upgraded to this house, they insisted I get my own room, decorated to my taste. To pacify them, I’d even brought over a dresser with a drawer filled with clothes. Not the clothes I actually wore, just the things I was too sentimental to give away. Something to take up space, like the glossy walnut headboard and desk that bookended the room.

  Rajvee thinks it’s nice my parents went to all the effort to make sure I’d always have a room even though I’d been living on my own for years. And maybe it would have been nice, if I didn’t know the real reason.

  This was the backup plan. Just in case I had to come back home one day. They wanted me to know I always had a place with them, wherever they were.

  I appreciated it and resented it at the same time.

  “No, I’m good as I am,” I say, hoping I wasn’t going to hurt her feelings. Make her think there’s something wrong with the room or that I don’t want to be home. “I was really just coming over to borrow Dad’s band saw. I have work to get back to. I’ll get hot and sweaty anyway.”

  Once, Mom would have made a crack about my definition of work, but now she just nods. Disappointed. “Maybe you could eat here first? I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I say automatically.

  Her eyes light up.

  My stomach twists. It really does take so little to make her happy.

  “Why don’t you stay for lunch anyway?” Mom lifts the lid of another pot. “I made rice.”

  That’s surprising. I’m the only one in the family who prefers rice to roti, even though I know that under the tortilla warmer will be a stack of fresh chapati.

  “I worry all you eat is ramen,” she says.

  “Don’t forget pizza and takeout,” I quip.

  She gives a short, unhappy laugh. “How are you doing for money?”

  My cheeks burns. “I’m . . . fine.” I shove my thumbs into my front pockets, balling my fists tight. It’s not so easy to squeeze and crumple in on myself, disappearing like my self-worth.

  “Do you need anything? We could write you another check.”

  “No! I’m fine. I promise I’m fine. I sold a piece this morning, see?” I pull my iPhone from my woven circle purse. I tap the Instagram icon, then Dharma Design’s most recent post to show her proof. Something she’ll claim she doesn’t need, but I know it’ll make her feel better.

  Mom leans in.

  The caption under the Queen Anne dresser has already been edited to say SOLD, but she still looks unconvinced. “Rita, you know Dad and I don’t mind—”

  She means well. God, I know this. I squash the embarrassment.

  “Mom, I know.” I gentle my voice. “But I’m twenty-six. I love you guys for wanting to, but you don’t have to bail me out every time things get a little tight.”

  “We worked this hard so it wouldn’t be hard for you,” she says. It’s not the first time we’ve had this conversation. “If you had someone to take care of you, we wouldn’t worry as much.”

  “Someone does take care of me. I take care of me.”

  She sighs. “Oh, Rita.”

  That isn’t what I mean her eyes convey. She stares again at my black tee, a little too long, like she wishes I’d change it. Like it would be that easy to change me.

  I bite my lip and look away. My money will run out before my pride will.

  “I know dating has been hard since Mi—” She fumbles. “Since then. That maybe there isn’t someone else you see yourself with in the long term. Someone to settle down with.”

  Where is she going with this?

  “Mom, not MyShaadi again, please,” I say with a groan. “I get enough of that from Aji. Chemistry is way more important to me than astrology or algorithms.”

  “I wasn’t going to suggest a marriage website.” Mom draws herself up, a little offended. “You know Dad and I have never pressured you into anything, and I’ve always squashed all the aunties’ notions about setting you up with their sons and nephews, haven’t I?”

  It’s true. Even though she worries that I live alone and haven’t seriously dated in years, neither of my parents have ever hounded me the way other Desi kids’ parents do. They let me date who I wanted, pursue my passion, and live on my own terms.

  “I just think,” Mom says, “you could be a little more open-minded to falling in love again. All I want is happiness for you, sweetheart. Whomever you find it with.”

  Now would be the perfect time to bring up Neil—well, not the perfect time, but at least it’s an opening, and when am I going to get another one that’s even half as good? Better to do this now, fast, while Dad’s out back and Aji’s music is still playing.

  Twenty-eight years ago, before my parents met, Mom thought she was going to marry Amar Dewan, her schoolmate and her brother’s best friend. Their parents got along, her brother was their biggest fan, and the astrologers concurred their birth charts were incredibly auspicious.

  In those days, you didn’t step out with a boy unless he was going to put a ring on it. But before Amar could, his parents quietly broke it off. They’d received a proposal from an American Desi family, and Amar’s mother saw this as a chance to fast-track his citizenship.

  And then Mom married my dad, Ruthvik Chitniss.

  When Neil’s older brother was ready to get married, an auntie had innocently asked if my parents had started to look for a bridegroom for me. I wasn’t even twenty-one and my parents were apoplectic. Dad because I was his only daughter and he wanted me to marry for love, Mom because there was no way I was ever going to marry into the family that thought she wasn’t good enough for their precious son.

  I still remember Dad’s resigned face as Mom’s finger jabbed the air, pronouncing “No daughter of mine will ever be a Dewan. Let them ask for Rita, she’s too good for them. This family is too good for those people.”

  Little did she know that five years later her daughter would be jumping into bed with the Dewans’ youngest son.
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br />   My heart crushes and drops into my stomach. Who am I kidding?

  There’s never going to be a good time to tell her about Neil.

  Even if he’s practically vibrating for me to tell her.

  “I’m not going to marry someone just for financial security,” I say finally. “And, honestly, it would be nice if I didn’t have to go through this every time I come over just because Aji and all the aunties think twenty-six is such a terrible age to be.”

  Mom widens her eyes in warning, but it’s too late.

  “Not as bad as twenty-seven,” Aji pipes up. “But definitely worse than twenty-five.”

  She strolls into the kitchen like she owns it. She’s changed out of her nightie and into a pale peach salwar kameez that makes the small black beads of her mangalsutra pop around her neck in contrast, phone in one hand, imported Times of India in the other.

  I’m too weary to point out the ageism. I’ve had—and lost—this fight too many times before, and Mom is making big eyes at me, trying to head me off before Aji can double down.

  My grandmother’s WhatsApp goes off in a flurry of notifications, but Aji continues like she doesn’t hear it. “When I was twenty-seven I had three brilliant sons and my husband, your aba, was general manager at Bank of India. Your father is a top orthopedic surgeon who can afford this beautiful house.”

  She fixes me with a stern what-have-you-accomplished stare while fingering her necklace. “I have a beautiful mangalsutra my mother gave me that I can pass down to you.” Aji slants her eyes at Mom. “Maybe someone in this family will want to wear it.”

  Mom makes a soft noise in the back of her throat that could be loosely interpreted as annoyance, but Aji ignores it, lifting the lid of the tortilla warmer to inspect the chapatis instead.

  Perfectly soft and round, liberally slathered with ghee, and dotted with golden brown scorch marks from the frying pan.

  “Little burned, Esha,” says Aji.

  “The high heat gives the crispy texture and flavor.” Mom plucks the lid out of her hand.