“So, how is everything?” Simran asks the question as though she’s talking to an acquaintance, not the woman who gave birth to her.
“Everything’s going well,” Mom says. “There are still so many last-minute things to do for the engagement party. It never ends. We still have to get snacks for the welcome bags, go through the final timeline for each event, iron the gift saris, make sure our outfits and jewelry are labeled, and go—”
“Mom, don’t worry. I’ve got it. What was it that you wanted us to talk about?” Simran’s stomach churns as they pull into the driveway.
Mom turns off the ignition and gazes at the steering wheel. “There’s something I’ve always wanted to do. At one point, I thought it could wait until you and Ronak were settled. But then, as the years passed, I gave up on it ever working out. And then a few months ago, things changed and, well, I knew it was important to tell all of you as soon as possible.”
“Is everything okay?”
She moves her stethoscope from the dashboard to the console. “Yes, for the first time in a long time, things are better than okay. Let’s go inside. I’m sure Dad is waiting for us.”
Beneath the perpetual stress and need for everything to be in order, Simran catches a glimpse of something lighter inside her mother. For a second, Simran thinks, I can actually tell her everything and it’ll be okay. We understand each other.
They pull into the garage. The newspapers, which are usually stacked by the side door, are gone. So are Ronak’s old baseball bats and the piles of everyone’s shoes and the broken lawnmower. Their lives tucked away. Set to impress.
Dad’s jade green BMW is next to them, with the same expired Christmas tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. He installed one of those devices from India that plays “Jingle Bells” when he puts the car in reverse. Ronak and Simran begged him to remove it after they got dirty looks in the mall parking lot.
Simran takes a deep breath and opens the car door. The garage doesn’t have its usual scent of gasoline.
She has three options:
Tell them about her idea to put the engagement on hold.
Tell them about school.
Tell them about both.
The first choice is the most logical. They can all start damage control, make the necessary phone calls. The second can wait until later, say, after she’s had time to run away and establish a new identity.
Simran walks toward the door. All she wants to do is run upstairs and reread Their Eyes Were Watching God. She loves the way Janie searches for her identity and becomes independent after years of being afraid and unsure.
There’s a rumble of laughter on the other side of the garage door.
“Is Dad watching a movie?”
Mom shrugs. “I haven’t seen him today. He left early this morning to meet with a potential new office manager.”
Simran removes her cream Tory Burch flats and steps into the house. The television is turned off. Two pairs of unfamiliar brown men’s loafers are side by side in the kitchen.
She pokes her head back into the garage, where Mom is still standing by the car, dazed. “Who came over?”
“I didn’t even realize someone was here,” Mom says.
“Someone’s always here,” Simran says, and they scoff. Since she was little, they’ve joked about how Mom’s a constant hostess, whether she wants to be or not.
“You’re telling me,” Mom says. “Oh, well. They’ll leave—eventually—and then we can all talk.”
Typically, when an uninvited guest comes over, Mom rushes to the kitchen to boil a fresh pot of chai and arrange snacks in tiny glass bowls. Today, she slips off her faded black flats and slings her arm through Simran’s.
“Come. Let’s go say hi.”
A knot of dread tightens in Simran’s stomach. The same type of dread she used to have in PE class when they’d have to climb the rope in front of everyone. She’d feel her loose, unstylish shorts clinging to her sweaty legs and pray for the entire thing to end.
She steps into their house. Before she can call her dad, she hears it: the deep bass, the quick sentences.
Simran paces toward the living room.
“Kunal?”
He stands up. “Simran. Hey.”
He’s sitting on the beige sofa, their beige sofa, next to his dad, Pratik Uncle. Simran’s dad is across from them on an armchair.
“What’s going on?” Simran asks, standing still, taking note of the Parle-G biscuits on the coffee table. She and Mom have joked about how after so many years, Dad still can’t host properly.
“Yes, what brings you here?” Mom stands behind Simran. And then, as if noticing her own raised eyebrows, she adds, “What a pleasant surprise.”
Dad and Pratik Uncle motion for them to join the conversation.
Simran and Mom avoid eye contact and sit on the love seat.
“Nandini Ben, please know that Meghna and I want this time to be as pleasant as possible.” Pratik Uncle leans forward and clasps his hands together. He’s wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt, starched no doubt by Meghna Auntie. It’s the kind Simran’s dad has on in sepia-toned pictures, the ones her mom lost or threw out in a fit of Diwali cleaning.
Mom nods and offers a smile that’s more a stretch of her lips than anything else. “That’s what we always hoped for.”
“Then let me say that we should not have any more misunderstandings during this process,” he says.
Kunal and Simran exchange a questioning glance. Did their moms talk without them?
“Since it’s clear we are all on the same page, I thought it would be good for us to show our commitment. To becoming one family,” Dad says.
Simran grips her knees. “What does that mean?”
“That means that Pratik Bhai has agreed to be my new office manager.”
Mom doesn’t bother keeping her voice soft. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier,” Dad says. “Isn’t it a great idea, Nandini? And you can even help him learn about the practice.”
“We can’t thank you enough,” Pratik Uncle says. “Ranjit and I were also discussing something else. Since your family is coming into town soon, how do you feel about making an official announcement to everyone about this at the engagement party?”
Arranged marriages were traditionally run in one manner: the parents met, introduced the children to each other, and made plans. Somehow, Kunal and Simran have gone in the opposite direction. She wonders if things would have been the same if they had met through Shaadi.com, the Indian online matchmaking site that Ronak used, where parents often write profiles for their daughters that say, “Fair-skinned, docile girl seeks nice man,” regardless of whether that’s true. She pictures Kunal reading her honest profile: “Stubborn, confused bookworm seeks intelligent, patient man who wants to live in a big city.”