Ranjit glances at the grandfather clock in their living room. “You ready to make the phone call?”
“Hm,” she says, nodding. “It’s a good time in India now.”
She takes the black phone off its charger and dials their calling card number, followed by the astrologer’s phone number. She realizes they are being old-fashioned by depending on an astrologer to confirm that Simran’s wedding date is auspicious, the way her mother did for her, and her mother before that. It was thought that by studying the patterns of the stars and planets, an astrologer could determine which date would ensure that a marriage was destined for success. Blessed.
The operators’ accents switch from American to Indian. Static fills the line.
Beep, beep. Beep, beep. Beep, beep.
“Not there. We’ll try later.” She puts the phone back.
Ranjit follows her to the kitchen. There are onions and carrots that can be put into a soup. It’s all she has energy for. Ranjit won’t complain about her lack of cooking. She’s one of the lucky ones, she knows, now having to spend days in the kitchen only when his family stops by.
But soon that amicability will be over. Years ago, Ranjit showed he could handle the worst of her. She couldn’t expect him to do it again. She still hasn’t figured out how to tell Ranjit about the phone call she received two months ago. She still hasn’t decided when she’s going to break her news to him.
“Has Simran called you today?” Ranjit asks, his lean shape becoming clearer in her periphery.
Nandini shakes her head. “Not yet. She must be busy with school. She usually calls by now.”
There was always one child who loved from a distance and one who cared a little more. Ronak sent an occasional text every few days, but it was Simran who made sure to get cards for Mother’s and Father’s Day, who checked on Nandini when guests were coming over.
“I wish the astrologer picked up,” Nandini says as she takes a chef’s knife and slices an onion down the middle. “Meghna Ben has already asked me if she can order a mangal sutra. After what just happened with Simran, I don’t want anything ruining or delaying plans.”
Nandini reaches beneath her shirt collar to touch her own black-and-gold mangal sutra, the necklace indicating a woman is married. Although Indians didn’t traditionally have engagement rings, many American customs became commonplace in Indian weddings over the years: proposals, bridesmaids and groomsmen, first dances, cake cutting. Some Indian girls even wore white wedding gowns after seeing them in movies and television shows throughout their childhoods. Simran had yet to ask Nandini about lenghas or tikas or mandap colors.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into Simran lately,” Nandini says.
Ranjit plucks a flaccid grape from a ceramic bowl on the counter. “She’s always been this way.”
“Yes, but something’s different. In some ways, she’s surprisingly ambivalent, and in others, she’s curious. She keeps asking questions,” Nandini says. “About our engagement.”
He walks toward her and places his hands on the counter. “What if we just told her everything?”
“Everything? Your side or mine?”
He shrugs. “Both.”
When she doesn’t respond, he adds, “I think she can handle it. She’s almost someone’s wife. An adult. Isn’t it okay to treat her like one?”
Simran’s wedding is coming too quickly and not quickly enough. Nandini remembers what Mami told her years ago: a daughter is yours for so many years, and then suddenly, she’s gone, belonging to another family, and there’s nothing that ever seems right about it.
Mami noted this while teaching Nandini how to make rotlis in preparation for the move to her in-laws’ home. The impending separation made their exchanges tender that final month. She can still see it: the way she had to roll the dough into a tiny ball, douse it with flour, and then press it flat. Soon, she would have to show Simran how to do the same. Soon, it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to call her daughter every night and tell her the latest story about Ranjit’s family or her patients.
It seems that just yesterday Simran was five years old, visiting India for the first time, giving the beggars in the Bombay airport her bags of Tootsie Rolls, unaware of why that would only cause more problems. And now, she’ll be in a red-and-white sari, pretending to be docile as the maharaja chants hymns.
“What’s wrong?” Ranjit asks, squinting at her face in the way he would at one of his patients.
“It’s just the onions.”
He nods and turns around before putting his teacup in the sink. “Danesh Bhai called to ask about her wedding. He wanted to congratulate us.”
“That’s great,” Nandini says, now used to people calling and mentioning her children’s weddings. “We’ll stop by their house when the invitations are done.”
“Of course,” Ranjit says.
In India, a bride’s parents hand-delivered wedding invitations to community members who were older. Ranjit and Nandini somehow managed this for Ronak’s wedding. Maybe they should have held back from upholding that exhausting tradition in New Jersey in the first place. But now, there was no way they could act differently for Simran’s. People would already be expecting it.
Despite all the changes that occurred from living in America, some traditions of the arranged marriage process remained. Elders had to be respected. Community had to be impressed. The bride’s family was responsible for maintaining relationships and reputations.
You care so much about what people think, Simran would say, shaking her head. But was it so terrible to want the well wishes of others? It was easy for Simran to complain when she had no idea how rejection felt, when she had no idea how so many things felt.
Nandini and Ranjit settle at the dining table. There’s only the sound of their spoons hitting the bowls and Ranjit’s hand reaching into a giant paper box for saltine crackers. He takes his bowl to the stove and gets seconds.
She watches his hands grip the ladle with precision, as though he’s in one of his surgeries. Ranjit handles everything in a manner that is both delicate and firm. They don’t disappear for weekend getaways or exchange a kiss before work, but there is something palpable between them, as though their duty has smuggled pockets of respect with it. She has a newfound appreciation for it lately, when they reminisce about the kids’ childhoods or gossip about close friends on car rides back from dinner parties.
When they’re finished, she stacks one bowl inside the other, takes them to the sink, and washes them and his teacup with lemon Palmolive soap. She plays a Dev Anand album on the iPod and wipes the stovetop with a sponge. Ranjit heads back toward the living room.