She excuses herself to start cleaning up. In the quiet, large kitchen, she starts rinsing the dishes. The remnants of Gujarati food—serrated cilantro leaves, the greenish brown sauce of curry, and thick, yellow trails of daal—swirl down each plate and coalesce before disappearing into the drain.
Our food was designed for women to be bound to the kitchen, Mami often said. There was the binding of the dough, the cutting of the vegetables, the spicing, the cleaning, the arranging . . . Nandini was exhausted just thinking about it.
Charu approaches the sink. “Let me help you.”
“I’m fine, really.” Nandini wants some more time alone. She hasn’t even had a chance to process her dinner with Greg.
“It’ll go faster this way. You rinse. I’ll load.” Charu opens the dishwasher and holds out her hand.
Nandini gives in, too tired to put up a fight. She passes Charu the rinsed dishes until all the plates and bowls are finished. Nandini gets the larger pots from the stovetop. She turns on the overhead fan to air out the lingering smell of cumin and turmeric.
“You know,” Charu says, “everyone is so excited for the engagement party and, of course, the wedding. I can’t believe the entire extended family is coming. Even the ones who’ve never been to America! So things really are going well?”
“Like I said before, yes.” Nandini forces her voice to keep a light, pleasant tone. “Things are fine.”
She glances at Charu and notes the difference between her and the other women here. Sonali and Preeti are quiet and simple, which makes them ideal company for social events but also guarantee she’ll never be very close to them. Payal may be superficial, but even still, she’s sincere. Charu has a subtle, dangerous manipulation about her. Nandini finds this interesting considering that Ranjit doesn’t have this trait at all. Then again, his relationship with his sister works because they keep their interactions light and pleasant, never going below the surface.
“Good. Both your kids are getting married within a year. That’s a big deal,” Charu says.
Nandini nods. Yes, a wedding is the last large occasion she will throw for her children, but it is more than that. It is the culmination of what they all built in America, the struggles they overcame.
Charu leans against the dishwasher door and tosses the light pink dupatta of her salwar kameez over her shoulder. “Ranjit told me Simran has been asking you a lot of questions?”
“Such as?” Nandini pretends to focus on soaking pots in the sink.
“She’s curious about your marriage. Naturally, right?”
Her words make the evening take a sharp turn.
“Simran’s fine.” Nandini’s voice lowers into a murmur. “And we know how to deal with things as they come up.”
Scrub, scrub, scrub. Squirt soap onto a sponge.
“You know,” Charu says, no longer loading any dishes, “it’s important that certain incidents are kept in the past. We wouldn’t want anything to ruin her engagement. She still has one entire year before she’s married.”
“Why would anything ruin my daughter’s engagement?”
Nandini can already hear Ranjit’s voice: She’s just trying to help. He is perpetually blind to his sister’s intentions, the same way he never notices his brothers nudging the check in his direction when they go to restaurants. Charu sponsored Ranjit and Nandini to America, and ever since she’s cashed in one favor for a lifetime of obligation.
And she could never talk to Ranjit about it, at least, not to the extent that she would have preferred. That was one of the many things nobody ever told her about an arranged marriage. There was no expectation to communicate, to expose one’s emotional exoskeleton for the sake of connection.
And why were people constantly telling her what to do? Whether it was Meghna or Charu, she was always answering to others.
She forces herself to think of her future. There’s a chance she could have something greater than this. Something of her own. Something she’s hoped for for so many years.
“You of all people know how a boy’s parents can get,” Charu says, interrupting Nandini’s thoughts. “If they think a girl comes from an improper family, they can cut things off. All my brother wants is for his children to be happy. Settled.”
“That’s all I want, too.”
“And it’s important to me that he’s content. That you aren’t planning to do or say anything that will jeopardize plans. What happened in India should be kept in India. If the wrong things get out, everything can be broken. Obviously, you already know that.” She says this as if she’s a strict schoolteacher and Nandini is an eager first-grade student.
Charu can remind her of the scandal as much as she wants. She doesn’t know what really changed Nandini from the inside.
“And anyway,” Charu continues, “I know Simran is very attached to her cousins. It would be a shame if they all drifted apart because of things they’re better off not knowing.”
Years ago, hearing something like this would’ve terrified Nandini. But now, she places her hands on her hips and leans closer to Charu. “Nobody would dare take things out on Simran that aren’t her fault. I’ll make sure of that. And she will, too. My daughter won’t be pushed around by anyone. And I won’t let you threaten her future with my past.”
Nandini wants to scream at Charu, Get that stick out of your ass! She has imaginary arguments with Charu in the shower, where she pelts her with a slew of curse words she’s learned from American shows.
Charu gazes at Nandini, as if trying to study her face. “You must be relieved. After everything you’ve all been through, Simran has grown into such a kind young woman. I know she had her ups and dow—”
“Like I said, she’s fine,” Nandini says, remembering that Simran still hasn’t called her back today.
She soaks a yellow-and-green sponge in the sink. “I’m going to finish cleaning up. Please, go sit and enjoy your tea.”
Charu doesn’t move.
Nandini faces her. “I’m not kidding. You should leave. Now.”
Five
Simran
Thank God you’re here,” Vishal says as Simran walks into Wicked Willy’s, their go-to grungy bar on Bleecker and Sullivan. “I’ve been such an awkward third wheel with Sheila and Alex. Trying not to fall asleep.”
“Nobody can tell. You need to go into politics,” Simran says. “Or rather, anything that requires constantly masking boredom and fatigue.”
“You mean like my current, soul-sucking job?” he asks, referring to his position as a financial analyst at Goldman Sachs. “Ah, that’s the privilege of our generation, right? To be entitled and bitch about our jobs and flirt with the idea of doing something else, something grander, only to jump back on the goddamned hamster wheel the next morning.”