Chapter One
Kareena
5:45 a.m.
Kareena: You are the reigning queen of rice! “Make your own biryani” bar? I mean it’s genius. As your lawyer, I’m telling you that you have to trust me on this. You’ll get the loan.
Nina: Are you sure? I’m so nervous!
Kareena: I’m sure. I’ll meet you at the bank later today.
Nina: I’m so glad I hired you and Women Who Work! You’re really going to make my restaurant expansion dream a reality.
Nina: Sorry the bank had to schedule this on your thirtieth birthday, though. I can’t believe you’re general counsel of an incredible company at such a young age!
Nina: I mean, I was married, had my firstborn and my restaurant by thirty, but that’s different. I WANTED a husband and family.
Kareena: See you in a couple hours, Nina.
Kareena tore the eye mask off her forehead and straightened her Taylor Swift concert sleep shirt. She had secured her dream job at a company that developed women-owned businesses in the tristate area before her thirtieth birthday. But of course, one text from a client and her boss energy dissipated like mist. She tossed her phone on the rumpled bedspread and rubbed her hands over her face.
She was thirty and single.
No, no, thirty and successful.
Thirty and financially independent.
Thirty and . . . still lived with her dad and grandmother.
And single. Very, very single.
Without even a maintenance man to grease the plumbing.
If she had a time machine, she would’ve gone back to her last relationship in law school and said: Sweetie, giving up dating until you achieve your career goals may not be the best idea. Especially if you’re searching for a happily ever after with a man. It becomes way too easy to be alone.
Kareena felt like her family, her aunties—hell, the entire New Jersey South Asian population—had been preparing her for being thirty and single, but did she listen? Nope. More importantly, did she really have to be reminded first thing in the morning?
Like T-Swizz said. Damn. It was only seven a.m.
“I should’ve taken today off,” she mumbled as she crawled out of bed and walked toward the adjoining bathroom.
Even as she showered and mentally reviewed her schedule for the day, the misogynist adages she’d heard whispered at cultural gatherings echoed through her head.
If you’re single at thirty, you have to lower your standards. If you’re single at thirty, your prospects for a happily ever after are diminished. If you’re single at thirty, you are perceived as difficult, and no one will want to marry you.
Her father had never made her feel that way growing up since he had a love marriage versus arranged marriage himself. But now that her younger sister was engaged, it was like ghosts of ancestors past had taken over his body, and he had suddenly become a traditionalist.
“Beta, the oldest daughter should be at least engaged before the youngest gets married. You should date more. Or we can find you matches. Rishtas. Maybe someone will want to marry a woman so independent at your age.”
His arguments, which were normally tepid, were becoming more and more frequent. It didn’t help that her grandmother, Dadi, who Kareena also had a tendency to fight with on a regular basis, sided with Dad.
Dadi’s arguments, however, were now paired with subtle passive-aggressive acts like cutting out a picture of Kareena’s head and pasting it on the body of a bride that she tore from Indian Matrimony Vogue Magazine, which was then left tucked in a holy book in the temple room.
Kareena stood in front of her bathroom mirror, cringing at the memory.
Well, she was finally going to make everyone happy.
She was going to start dating again. She was ready. The list of qualities she wanted in her perfect man was ready to go. It had been waiting neglected in her notes app for far too long.
After she finished her makeup, she put on a white button-down collared shirt and a cobalt-blue sweater vest. She dropped a cute pair of floral heels in her tote bag that she’d wear when she finally got to the office.
Exactly forty-five minutes after she texted her client back, Kareena scanned her bedroom to make sure she didn’t forget anything. It was the bedroom she had returned to after college. The same one her mother designed for her when her parents built the house. She had the same standing mirror, open closet, and desk shoved in one corner, with meticulously arranged framed photos with Bobbi and Veera and her law school Bluebook. The only major upgrade was the TV and stereo.
“Hopefully my morning will improve with food,” she mumbled as she picked up her bag. It was time for birthday paranthas. The stuffed spicy flatbread was exactly what she needed to course-correct her day.
She opened her door, and instead of hearing the sizzling sounds of ghee in a hot pan, there was only silence. The delicious aroma of spices was missing. Usually, the smell of birthday paranthas permeated the house. Maybe Dadi was waiting for her?
Kareena paused in front of the framed photo of her mother that took up most of the freshly painted hallway wall. The large portrait had a string of fake marigolds tucked into the top corners, so it draped like a necklace over Neelam Mann. Her eyes were full of love, and she looked so happy.
“Miss you every day, Mom,” Kareena whispered. She pressed her fingertips to her lips and to the base of the picture. “I feel you every time I take care of our house and work on your car. My car now.”
After saying a quick thank-you prayer in the temple room next door, Kareena lugged her tote bag downstairs, and through the narrow hallway to the kitchen in the back of the house.
“Hello, I’m here— Oh. Um, what’s going on?”
Instead of seeing Dadi in the kitchen hovering near the stove, Kareena’s grandmother and father were sitting at the dining table with bowls of cereal. Over a dozen glittery gold letter boxes sat between them. Dadi was on her large tablet, while her father was reading something on his cell phone. Neither of them spared her a glance.
“You guys are having cereal?” Kareena asked.
Dadi sat back in her velour maroon tracksuit. Her freshly dyed black hair was wet from her shower and combed back in a short severe style accentuating the happy lines around her mouth and eyes. “If you want something, you can make it yourself. I taught you how.”
“Okay, but . . . well, aren’t we celebrating?” Kareena responded in the same mix of Hindi, English, and Punjabi her grandmother used.
Dadi’s eyebrows furrowed. Then with a look of surprise, she motioned to the gold boxes with her chai cup. “Oh this? Your sister wants us to look at invitations. She plans on personally delivering these gold boxes with scrolls in them to all her guests. You may have to help her. Her wedding is less than a year away, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Kareena said. She’d known since the day her sister announced her engagement. It was right after Kareena had shared the news that she accepted a position at Women Who Work as their general counsel, which wasn’t received with nearly as much excitement.
“Why are you standing like that over there?” her father asked. He sounded irritated, which was no different than how he normally sounded to her lately.
Kareena dropped her tote bag and pressed a hand to the ache in her chest. “This is a joke, right? You two couldn’t have . . . I mean, I know I’ve been working late, and I haven’t seen you for the last few days, but there is no way that you don’t remember. It happens every year.”