Simran was there the first time Sheila tried to bring up the topic to her dad; not Alex specifically, but the idea of interracial marriage. She was received with the disheartening “after all the sacrifices we made in coming to this country, the only thing we ask for is you don’t disappoint us” speech.
Simran listens to her but keeps her commentary brief. Sheila often just needs to vent and rarely takes any advice given to her. They both pretend not to notice.
Just as Simran is about to tell her that they should get back to their desks, Sheila asks, “So you’re still in touch with Neil, huh?” The skin around her mouth tightens. Her eyes dart to the side.
“You’re doing your judgmental face,” Simran says.
“No, I’m not!” Sheila says.
“You are. Just say what you’re really thinking.”
Sheila faces her. “I don’t know how to really say it.”
Simran gives her a look that says, Since when do you struggle with what to say?
“I guess I’m torn,” Sheila says.
“About what?”
“That night at your party, you just looked so in awe. And you get this weird smile when you mention him. I get that he’s exciting and inspiring and happens to be hot in a bookish way. And I wouldn’t want you to miss out on that type of connection. There’s already enough drama when it comes to planning an Indian wedding, and I’d hate this to be a part of it for you and Kunal. I just want you to be careful.”
“I am careful,” Simran says.
And I love my fiancé, she says to herself, as she pictures Kunal’s curly hair and rough hands. She wishes he was back home already, that their lives could be normal again.
“If you say so.” Sheila’s look conveys the sense of understanding that’s always been the foundation of their friendship: I don’t totally get what you’re doing, but I respect you figuring it out.
Sheila squeezes her curly hair into a no-nonsense bun. She has the type of beauty that’s debatable, with tiny eyes, full lips, and a five-six build that borders on what Indian aunties would call “healthy.” Not tender, girl-next-door pretty, but astute, I’m-your-boss attractive, the ideal kind for an aspiring judge and women’s rights advocate.
Simran tells Sheila she’ll call her tomorrow. She needs to get back to work, and they could stay outside for the entire day if given the chance. They pulled an all-nighter the first time Simran stayed at Sheila’s house, when they were eight years old. That was the same night Simran learned that Sheila rarely cried, not even while they watched The Lion King, which made Simran a sloppy mess. Sheila also hated Lisa Frank stationery, while Simran begged her parents for it. In fact, they’re still so different that most people are surprised that they’re friends, let alone best friends, as though friendship is something that can be plugged into an algebraic formula. What everyone doesn’t see is that in addition to the potent power of history, they also have some of the same contradictions: a love for trashy reality television and classic literature, a need to be career- and family-oriented, and a tendency to take on too many side projects.
Simran’s steps back to lab are swift, ready to prove Dr. Bond wrong. Columbia’s campus makes her wish she was a photographer. They pass the empowered statue of Athena sitting on her throne with a leafed crown. Her arms are raised, and her palms face the sky, as if to say, Welcome to my place.
Simran’s phone buzzes with a text message.
Kunal: Got a little Internet access! See you in one week.
Simran: Can’t wait for you to be back.
Kunal: I know. I miss you.
Simran: I miss you, too.
Kunal: I miss your body. Need to grab your butt right when I see you.
Simran: LOL, you’re ridiculous . . . but I miss your butt too.
She inserts a heart emoji into her last text. If she could call Kunal, he’d know what to say, how to comfort her. She reads her texts again. He’ll be back in seven days. Her life will make sense again.
Outside the lab window, there’s only New York and the unimposing, soft pink of spring. A group of fit, chic twenty-something girls, all in Alo workout clothes, probably walking from their SoulCycle class to Sweetgreen. The day hangs on to her shoulders the way all heavy things do.
If Simran’s parents heard her conversation with Dr. Bond, she doesn’t know if they’d yell or sit back in shock, wondering what they had done wrong. Kunal would start coming up with an action plan. It would probably be a distilled version of the one he made for himself in high school to ensure the highest GPA in their school’s history. Meet with teachers outside of class. Ask about extra credit. Double up on courses to add more A’s to your transcript.
She sits in front of the computer and reviews the list she made earlier. She clicks on the tab for the Internet and prepares to send out a slew of e-mails. She types and revises and types and revises, unaware that slowly, things will fall apart.
Nandini
“Remind me to pray that in my next life, I come back as a white man,” Nandini says as she scans the long wine list.
Greg, her former attending from residency, tilts his head back and laughs, the same low-pitched chuckle that he had in residency. “It’s not all that it’s cracked up to be.”
“Please.” Nandini rolls her eyes. “When I walked in here, the hostess took one look at me and I knew she was thinking that I was in the wrong place.”
Greg raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure that wasn’t just in your head?”
“No! Even when we’ve been meeting vendors for Simran’s wedding, I can tell that they’re judging us, maybe comparing us to some Indian family that was terrible to work with, since, you know, we’re all the same. The discrimination never ends.”
She turns back to the wine list. When she and Ranjit moved to America, they and so many of their friends were doubted because of their accents. After 9/11, the racism took on a new texture, one that became laced with fear. Not to mention that being a woman meant even more judgment and questioning from peers and patients than Ranjit ever had. The sheer audacity of people, to think they kne—
“Nandini,” Greg says, interrupting her thoughts. “Your mind is racing. I can see it on your face.”
“You’re right. I need to take a breath,” she says. “I read this quote that said, ‘If you want to imagine what a woman’s brain is like, imagine a browser with three thousand tabs open.’ Couldn’t be more accurate.”
She didn’t expect Greg to understand. He had been raised in Westchester by parents who were on the board of every big museum in Manhattan. His family portraits, all pressed shirts and light and bright colors, reminded her of Polo Ralph Lauren ads. Before he had gone to medical school and later become her attending in residency, he had been a professional football player.