She had no idea what to say or expect (in television shows, a loud “wooooo” usually erupted from the audience after a romantic adolescent moment). She knew she would rush home and try to preserve the moment in her diary. And even though her writing would never do it justice, she also knew that those seconds would always remain with her, glued in her mental scrapbook, safely protected behind laminated pages with the perfect accessory stickers.
Instead of slicing the silence, Kunal wrapped his large hand over hers, without interlacing their fingers. Even his hand clasping was assertive.
It was crazy, but Simran could already see their future unrolling before them. She thought of how they would be the perfect husband and wife; a power team. She saw him speaking at his medical school graduation—they’d probably be married by then—and saying, “Lastly, I’d like to thank the woman who made it all possible,” and with his large hands motioning to her, in her Jackie O–inspired dress. They would probably live in a charmingly tiny apartment for a few years before settling in a Westchester mansion.
She saw all of this, but what she didn’t see were the moments in between. She didn’t see them meeting around their suburb after school, just for a chance to cuddle in his beaten-up back seat. She didn’t see them holding on when the other couples around them chose to let go. She didn’t see them sneaking in phone calls when everyone in their houses was asleep. She didn’t see them sharing a dance as prom king and queen and later, their nakedness. And she definitely didn’t see them returning to that same spot in the park, year after year, takeout and wine in hand, just to remind themselves of where they began.
Nandini
Nandini jams her keys into the door. Another twelve-hour day at the office and still more paperwork to finish at home: prescriptions, lab orders, phone notes. She now spends more time in front of the computer than with patients.
There was a time when all she wanted was to be a physician. In India, there was no undergraduate education before medical school. There was just one test with one chance to take it. Her best friend failed it and committed suicide three days later. Everyone blamed his parents.
“Don’t be like me,” her mother said on a weekly basis. “Have a job so you never have to be reliant on anyone.” Nandini would hear her ask Papa before doing anything. Inviting her sister over. Giving the bhaji walla five extra rupees when he delivered fresh okra, peppers, and onion every morning. Making poori instead of rotli for dinner.
Her mother was right. Nandini’s career drew a thick line that Ranjit’s family never crossed—but of course, the respect didn’t excuse her from other duties.
Duties.
Years ago, Nandini tried to explain this concept to Terri, one of her nurses at work.
“How do arranged marriages even work?” Terri had asked.
Older family members suggested a match based on everything from horoscopes to family backgrounds to socioeconomics. The families met at the girl’s house. Sometimes, the girl was asked to perform something. A song or poem. Nandini had asked Mami if she could talk about a patient. Of course Mami said no. So Nandini recited a story, the same one Mami told during her own arrangement, of a woman who travels to find God and save her husband. It was a tale of wifely sacrifice and persistence, virtues that both Nandini and Mami didn’t really believe but had to embrace, like a starched, stuffy sari.
Then, over chai, both sets of parents would discuss everything from family lineages to traditions, expectations about grandchildren, and potential wedding plans. With so many factors aligned, the idea was that the couple would be compatible.
Duties.
Responsibilities.
Family.
These were a marriage’s foundation. Love would come later.
Terri’s jaw dropped. No dates? No romance? No ability to choose? Wasn’t that a huge risk?
If she had been young, Nandini would have laughed. Arranged marriages were the common way. She grew up knowing she would have one, just like all the other women she knew. And any marriage was a risk, arranged or not. Without the expectation of romance or chemistry, there was supposed to be less of a chance of disappointment or growing apart or, as Terri once said when discussing her ex-husband, “losing the spark.”
Nandini runs through this conversation now, wondering if she would still say the same things. She walks through the dark house, toward the kitchen. The brass pots and pans hanging above the stove give off a faint glow. All she can see is the blue halo from Ranjit’s Mac in the living room. He’s floating in his usual post-work routine: sitting in front of his laptop, scanning through God-knows-what with CNN on in the background.
That was the way things had become over the years, both of them retreating to separate corners, similar to the plastic figures she placed in her dollhouse as a little girl. Division within unity. With Ronak and Simran gone, it may have made sense to downsize to another house, but there were too many people coming through, making their home a lazy Susan for every Indian in New Jersey. The nieces who spent summers with Nandini so she could discipline them. Ranjit’s entire family, who stopped by unannounced for extended periods of time. Friends of friends of friends who needed a bed to sleep in. She always knew Indians didn’t believe in boundaries when it came to relationships, but being married to the most successful son in a family means that they can never move.
“Hi.” She approaches Ranjit behind the brown leather recliner and touches his shoulder in a manner that’s both clinical and comforting. His browser is on LinkedIn. He recently found out his officer manager had been stealing money from the practice for the past nine months and told Nandini he’d planned to find a replacement by the end of the week.
He lowers the screen and faces Nandini. “How was your day?”
“Same as always. Any luck with the manager position?”
“None yet.” He’s wearing navy blue scrubs and brown house slippers.
Ranjit started his own surgical clinic years ago. It took him only three months to realize that he hated the administrative tasks. Nandini helped him find his first office manager, who moved to California two years ago for a job at Google. Since then, they’ve struggled to find someone stable. Nandini doesn’t let herself think about how even her husband’s struggle is a privilege. He gets to make the decisions on who works in his place. He’s the boss.
A cup of chai, the watery kind from a tea bag, is on the side table.
Nandini puts a coaster underneath it. “Can I help?”
“Not with anything right now, but I’ll need you over the next couple weeks. We both know you’re better at interviewing someone for a job,” he says, referring to the string of jobs she herself interviewed for at the beginning of their marriage: Walmart cashier, bank teller, and nanny. The money from those jobs allowed Ranjit to complete his residency training and their family to live in a friend’s unheated, moldy basement. Nandini drove a used Camry with one duct-taped window. That car somehow lasted until her own residency.