“But that’s the thing. You can’t just half-ass any of it,” she says. “Like, for Ronak’s wedding, my parents couldn’t leave anyone off their guest list. People get so offended. And then, when they say they’re coming, you have to take care of them. We had two guests call and say they couldn’t drink tea-bag chai. It had to be fresh. And the world apparently stops if Indians don’t have their chai three times a day, so my mom had to teach the chef at the Plaza how to make proper Indian chai. Can you believe that?”
“Sadly, I can,” Vishal says, and we both chuckle. “Our parents get so caught up in what other people think, how we’ll look. If we looked past all of that, we’d see a lot of fear.”
“I agree. In that way, wedding planning has just been an exaggerated version of my typical life plus Excel spreadsheets. And of course some unavoidable family drama,” she says, chugging her vodka cranberry.
“Jesus, the family drama.”
“I guess it’s inevitable. You don’t really have a chance to learn all the shit about someone’s family, or your own, until it’s time to plan a wedding. I didn’t know Kunal’s mother cared so much about what dishes should be served at the wedding lunch or where we would do the mehndi, because we need enough space for the henna tattoo artists to set up stations. And then the bride and groom have to be the messengers of their parents and balance everyone’s needs. It’s so awkward.”
“Have your parents and his been fighting?”
“They’re definitely on the verge. I know my parents can be crazy, but they’re mine, so it still makes me defensive if Kunal points out anything.” She laughs. “But I think we may need to stage an intervention with our moms. They’re disagreeing about everything. I can talk to my mom openly and tell her to calm down. But it’s a lot harder for Kunal. He’s not used to talking back to his parents. But we’ve promised each other again and again that we’ll be a team with our parents. We’re thinking of planning a meeting with them, because no matter what happens, they cannot meet by themselves.
“You know, it’s weird,” Simran says. “Everything seems to be back to normal. School, Kunal, my family. So I don’t know why it feels like things could just fall apart any second . . . or get worse if I make one wrong move. Maybe I’m just being one of those annoying Millennials who can’t deal with adulthood.”
“Maybe it’s fear?” Vishal suggests. “Or adjustment? There are a lot of things going on at once. I mean, you’re about to finish your master’s program, you’re planning your wedding, and your brother just got married, so of course your entire family is on edge.”
She considers his point. With so much going on, maybe some anxiety and uncertainty are inevitable.
Before Simran can answer, they’re interrupted by Kunal’s arrival. For a few minutes, everyone asks him about Africa, medical school, his family, and wedding planning, all out of pure politeness since they’ve already heard about all of these from Simran. He discusses his life with expansive hand gestures, the knowledge that the world is his to take.
Kunal kisses her when they’re alone. “Are you having fun?”
“Of course I am.” She gazes around the room. “I can’t believe we’re actually planning our wedding.”
Kunal wraps both of his arms around her and places his head on top of hers. It’s one of those easy, intimate gestures that can only happen with someone who’s familiar with your body. She sinks into him and relishes his firm grip.
“I can’t believe it, either,” he says, shifting his gaze toward the ground. “I haven’t thanked you for calling my mom and checking in with her about wedding stuff. It means a lot to me that you’re doing that.”
She takes a sip of her vodka cranberry. “Sure. It’s no problem. And you can call my parents sometime, too. I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”
He nods. “You’re right. I’ll do that.”
She forces herself not to ask him why this never occurred to him before, when it was so clear to him that she should be calling his mother. Then she reminds herself that this isn’t even all his fault. Their parents and even a lot of their friends still abide by the idea that a daughter-in-law should be putting in more effort toward her in-laws than a son-in-law.
Always trust that the other person is doing the best they can.
Kunal ruffles her hair. “I think my mom finally feels like she has something to look forward to that doesn’t depend on my dad’s approval. Not that he’s been able to focus on anything, anyway, with his job hunt and all.”
Pratik Uncle has mastered the art of having his kids crave his affection because of how much he withholds it. Since high school, Simran’s seen Kunal caught between resenting his dad while still needing his approval.
“How is that going, by the way?”
Kunal shakes his head. “No luck yet.”
“It’ll work out, sweetie. An opportunity will come,” she says.
“I want to believe that,” he says. “But it’s hard seeing all of the stress it’s causing for him . . . and my mom.”
“I know,” she says. “But you’ll keep being strong for them. I know you will.”
“I hope so.” He kisses her forehead and gives her a we’re-in-this-together type of look.
She leans against his chest and recaptures the feeling she’s always had with him, the one that makes her excited for the future, for a time when they can be a real team.
From the beginning of their relationship, there was a connection that allowed both of them to confide more in each other than they ever could to anyone else. It’s a freedom Simran’s parents are missing. Even though they routinely discuss the intricate details of their work—frustrating patients, insurance issues, the other hospital staff members—there has always been a strict, almost professional, level of distance with their disclosures.
She tucks her head under Kunal’s chin and relaxes, feeling like a chubby, satisfied cat. Things can start going back to the way they were supposed to be.
Kunal nods and motions to the door. “Jigar and Rekha just got here. Let’s say hi quickly and head out. I’m ready to get to bed.”
Kunal always jokes that he needs Simran to socialize, even with his two closest med school friends. You’re better at talking to people than I am. She often reminds him that there’s nothing wrong with taking a few minutes to ask someone how they’re doing. At his med school winter formal, she ended up in a twenty-minute discussion with the dean and his wife, which then led to them going to their Upper East Side apartment for dinner.
Simran turns around to see Jigar and Rekha handing their IDs to the apathetic, tattooed bouncer.