by Sonya Lalli
In a way, Nani and I grew up together. Discovered each other all over again as adults. I’d learned the way she watched the Ellen show, her toes wiggling in her pressure socks whenever Ellen DeGeneres and the audience danced. The way Nani showed she loved you through food—and then, through more food. The way she only called me beta when she was upset or irritated. How she pronounced “vegetable”—veg-ee-table—or invented idioms like to “take a sleep” or “open the light.” English was her fourth language, she liked to remind me, after Bengali, her mother tongue, Hindi, and Punjabi. English for her came last, not until 1969 when Nana moved his new bride across the world to Canada. To the land of opportunity.
To the land of, well, land.
I also learned that Nani could be vain, ignorant of what didn’t concern her or her own family. I’d switch on the news, or buy her a book I thought she should read, and she’d sigh like the idea of something new tired her right out. For a while, I’d tried to get her interested in politics, coming home on election night—provincial, federal, American—and she’d cluck her tongue and leave the room, annoyed that I’d disrupted her favorite Hindi soap. She thought the oil sands were polluted beaches and didn’t understand why Palestine and Afghanistan, and not India, was on the news so often.
Nani had never been like the other “aunties” in the community. She wore Western clothes most of the time—Sears pantsuits and polyester sweaters—and had refused to stay home and play house. She’d worked side by side at the restaurant with Nana and kept her chin high when her teenage daughter brought home a baby. She was modern, generations in front of so many of her friends—small-minded women who gossiped and pettily talked about one another’s children. But still, for Nani, getting married and having children was a woman’s one true path.
Her daughter had become a mother too young, and now she feared I’d become one too old or not at all. But couldn’t she try and understand how it worked now? Women didn’t have to get married and have children anymore—and even if they did, it didn’t always mean they were happy.
I was tired of arguing with her, but at the same time, maybe Nani and Shay were right: Work consumed my life, and I was lonely. So what reason did I have to resist?
I heard the back door open, and I leaped up. I beat Nani to the kitchen and had the tea poured into two china mugs by the time she sat down at the table. She sighed as she brought the cup to her lips, and I watched her face, the fine lines dancing and stretching as she blew on the tea.
“How was work?”
She smiled, and sank back in her chair. “I am very tired.”
“I can make dinner?”
“But you will eat with Sachin, nah?”
“Sure, but that’s hours from now.”
“Aacha. Make some rice, and we will heat up dal I have in freezer.” She took a sip of tea, and then shook her head. “But first we must discuss Sachin. I called his mother today.”
“You did what?”
“She is in my sewing group with temple, nah? I had to call anyway. And then I mentioned your dinner tonight, and she grew very happy.”
I groaned. “Nani, I asked you not to tell anyone.”
“Reetu is his mother. She has every right to know where her son is.”
“But Sachin and I said we wouldn’t involve the families yet, that it wasn’t any of their business until—”
“None of our business?” Nani snapped. She stared at me, and I shrunk back into my chair.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“None of my business.” Nani’s glare tore through me, and then landed on her hands. “Your mother used to say this to me.”
“I’m not like her, Nani,” I said, and for several long minutes, she didn’t answer.
* * *
I drove back downtown and found the door to my condo unlocked, and Shay going through my wardrobe. Nani had put me in a bad mood. Her trump card for any argument: comparing me to Mom. Telling me that I, too, wasn’t good enough.
I mindlessly changed in and out of outfits Shay selected for me. Leather pants I’d bought on a lark and never wore; skinny jeans from college that, when I sucked in, still sort of fit. Work blouses paired with too-short skirts I hadn’t worn since London; dresses Shay brought over, silky and static, tight or loose in all the wrong places.
“You look great,” Shay said as I stood in front of my mirror, only a wisp of pale peach chiffon differentiating me from a nudist. “I’m jelly of your legs.”
I whipped around. “My legs look like jelly?”
“No, it means jealous.” She bit into an apple, crunching loudly. “It’s what the kids in my ward say.”
I turned away slowly, pulling down the hem of the dress. The evening before, I’d waxed and filed and moisturized and polished. Groomed and straightened. Shay, lying sideways on my bed, still in hospital scrubs, nodded or shook her head vigorously at each outfit I tried on—but still, everything felt so wrong. My clothes felt like costumes, designed to impress the guy that may or may not become my husband. I just wanted to wear one of my work suits, what I felt most comfortable in and most like myself, but I had the feeling Shay wouldn’t agree.
Through the mirror, I saw Shay lean down from the bed and smirk as she felt my smooth leg.
“You’re going to sleep with him.”
“No, Shay.” I pulled at the hem of a skirt, forcing it down past my thighs. “I’m not going to sleep with him.”
“It’s an urban myth that men won’t call you after.”
“And they always called you?” I saw her stick out her tongue in the mirror, and I turned around. “Sorry. I meant . . . I meant I don’t even know if I like him.”
“Then why do you care so much?”
“Nani’s the one who cares,” I grumbled.
“You did this with Dev, too.” Shay got off the bed and started walking toward the bathroom. “You built everything up in your head before you even knew him.”
“If you came over just to lecture me, you didn’t need to bother.” I turned back to the mirror, and a moment later, I heard the bathroom door shut.
I sat down on my bed. I felt the skirt digging into my stomach and the sides of my thighs. I groaned, and rolled over and grabbed my BlackBerry from where it was charging on the nightstand. I had one new text message from Zoey wishing me luck on my date, and a handful of grumpy e-mails from Bill.
I could hear Shay still in the bathroom, and so I scrolled down to Dev’s last message. For more than a year after we broke up, we’d stayed in touch, e-mailing every few days or at least once a week from our work accounts. But then weeks turned into months, and that last message I’d sent him more than four months earlier had gone unanswered.
It was only a few sentences: I’d told him about Shay and Julien’s engagement, a new coworker in the New York office, and then asked after his family. It was small talk; really, it was nothing. Then why was I still unable to bring myself to delete it?
I heard the toilet flush, and I stuffed my phone into my bag. A moment later, Shay appeared in the doorway. The irritation had disappeared from her face, and now she just looked tired; the dopey blue of her hospital scrubs poking out from the top of her hoodie. I wasn’t sure if she’d come over straight from work, or was on her way to a night shift; I’d forgotten to ask.
“How’s work?”
She flopped onto the bed beside me, and put her arm around my neck. “Okay. It’s going by quickly.”
“When are you done with your residency again—less than a year, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “I’ll be done just a few weeks before the wedding. It’s perfect timing.”
Her arm felt heavy, and I shifted away from her on the bed.
“Raina, my ma set the date. It’s—”
“I know,” I said, holding a top against me in the mirror. “Nani already told me. Don’t
worry about it.”
Auntie Sarla had confirmed Shay’s wedding date. The day Shay got married to the love of her life and fulfilled her mother’s wishes would be the day I turned thirty.
Thirty.
I grabbed a cardigan from the closet, nearly tearing the sleeve as I ripped it from the hanger, and walked back to the mirror.
Perfect timing.
DATE #2
I arrived early and waited outside the entrance, and at exactly 9:30 P.M., I entered the restaurant. Sachin had suggested it. It was modern looking, all burgundy and glass, and as soon as I noticed the soft smell of roasting chicken, I realized how little I’d eaten that day. I walked up to the hostess, and right behind her, to my surprise, I saw that Sachin was already there. He was seated at the end of the bar, a scotch glass nestled between his palms, watching the news on a small flat screen on the wall.
I walked slowly toward him. His suit jacket was open, a lavender tie loosened around his neck, and when I was a few feet away, he looked over and smiled.
Before I could even say “Hi,” he loosely hooked his finger through my belt loop and tugged me in closer.
“Hi, beautiful.”
He pulled me in for a hug. He smelled good, like whiskey and paprika, and a part of me swooned. The other part of me kicked her.
“Hi, yourself.”
“What’s your poison?”
“Gin and tonic?”
“Josh? Double gin and tonic.” Sachin picked up his glass, drained it, and then set it back on the bar. “And another Dalmore while you’re at it.”
A muscular blond behind the bar threw a dishrag over his shoulder, and rolled up the sleeves of his black collared shirt. “Sure thing, Sach.”
“You have a preference?” Josh asked me.
“Hmm?”
He smirked. “Of gin.”
“Oh.” I blushed, forcing myself to look back at Sachin. “Barman’s choice.”
Sachin’s eyes were glossy, his smile a bit crooked, and I wondered how long he’d been sitting there; how many Dalmores he’d already drunk.
“You look amazing,” he said after a moment, as if he, too, had to think about what to say. His gaze flicked between my mouth and my eyes, and I tried to think of something to say in response. Thank you? You, too?
A heavy silence hung in the air, and when I looked up, Josh was making our drinks less than a foot away. He smiled at me—laughed, almost—like he could feel how awkward I suddenly felt.
“Don’t do that,” I heard Sachin say.
“Pardon?” I looked back at him. I was playing with my bracelets, winding them rapidly around my wrist with my fingers.
“Don’t be nervous.” Sachin steadied my hand with his, traced his pinky finger in a circle around my palm. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Why would you make me nervous?”
He grinned. “Then quit acting like it.”
“I’m not acting like anything.”
After a few minutes of stilted conversation, Josh led us to a table at the back of the restaurant, and as we walked, I tried to ignore the weight of Sachin’s hand on my lower back. It felt good, but heavy, and I wondered whether I wanted him to move it.
We were through the first bottle of wine by the time our entrées arrived. I could feel it pooling in my stomach, trickling down, and my body relaxed. The waiter brought another bottle, and as time slicked by, I tried to make a list of what I liked about Sachin; reasons that this date—that we—maybe could be something more.
Sachin was nothing like dull, distracted Vishal. Sachin was intelligent and liberal, his views extending well past the dimension of the operating room, which I hadn’t expected. We had mutual friends in banking, in medicine, had spent one of our rare vacations at the same Cancún resort; even our nanis had been born in the same village. And with each course, the list of similarities and commonalities between Sachin and me grew, and I found myself again warming to the idea of being with another Indian. He, too, had been raised with a mixed bag of expectations, straddling the cusp of Western culture and Eastern values. Like most people I knew, Sachin, too, never felt good enough; always being compared to others.
Didn’t I need an Indian man to understand that about me?
I looked down at my glass. It was full, but I didn’t remember Sachin pouring more. I reached for it, and a wave of nausea shot through me. A dessert was sitting between us, thick chocolate and cream, and as I watched Sachin bring a spoonful to his lips, Dev’s face flashed in front of me. And just as quickly, I made it disappear.
“I’m having a great time with you, Raina.”
I had to think about the words as they came out of my mouth, and I smiled. “You—too.”
“You asked me if I cleaned teeth. Funny stuff.” Sachin pinched at a piece of stray bread on the white tablecloth until it crumbled. He looked up at me—almost past me.
Was he going to reach for my hand? I pulled my hands down to my lap and, a moment later, made myself put them back on the table. I leaned into the table, thinking maybe he might kiss me. But we were talking again—about partition? His ex? I couldn’t tell. His mouth was a blur of words, and I couldn’t focus on what he was saying. Just his lips. His hands. He lifted his wineglass as if to toast me, and then set it down abruptly and reached into his pocket. “Sorry.” He glanced down at his phone and then set it on the table.
“You can answer it.”
Dev hated it when I asked him to keep his phone off during dinner.
Sachin waved me off. “No, it’s not important. Really.”
“Maybe it’s a patient? You should answer.”
His head swayed lazily. “Raina, it’s nothing.” And as he leaned in toward me, the phone buzzed again. I felt the vibrations pulsate across the table and through my hands, and I didn’t mean to look at the screen, but I did. Anika.
Sachin flipped over the phone.
“Who is that?” I whispered.
“Nobody.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
I’d once accused Dev of having another girlfriend.
Sachin reached for my hand. I pulled it away.
“Do you?”
He pressed his hands into his thighs, looking tense, suddenly alert. “I thought we talked about this—that we’re in the same boat?”
“What boat is that?”
“That we’re both at that age where our parents really want us to get married, and—”
“And?”
“And Anika and I have . . . gone on a few dates. You know I’m getting set up a lot, Raina. Just like you.” He shrugged. “What’s the big deal?”
But Dev had never cheated. He didn’t have the time. Work—always work—was his priority; above his own family; above starting his future with me.
“Do you realize Anika has probably picked out a wedding sari? And here you are playing the field?”
“Slow down—”
“A rich and handsome guy though, right, Sach? You can get away with it. You can get away with leading girls on—”
“Are you kidding me? This is our first date.”
Our first date. He was right. I didn’t know him. This—he and I—meant nothing. It would never mean anything. I could feel the tears brimming at the corners of my eyes and the sudden sensation that everything was caving in around me.
“I should have gone with my instinct on this one,” I heard Sachin say. “I knew you’d be like this.”
Vishal. Sachin. Arjun. Jayesh. They were names on a list. Names to appease Nani, to fill the page, to fill time, the gaping hole in my chest. They were nothing to me, and they would never be Dev.
I looked up, surprised suddenly to see Sachin sitting across from me. He was leaning away from me in his chair, his eyes fixated on the pepper shaker. I grabbed my purse, unsteady on my feet as I stood up. I turne
d around looking for the door, and flung myself forward until I felt the cool night air on my face.
Outside, Yonge Street was exactly as it was before; exactly as it was every night. Dark storefronts and eateries, dive bars giving off a sickening red glow. Clusters of kids on skateboards, bored stiff, slouching in their skinny jeans. I walked past them and took a deep breath, gulping for air.
Is this what Nani wanted?
For me to be the fool. To reduce myself to just another Indian girl desperate to get married.
I could hear myself panting, my legs like jelly as I turned onto College Street, and I waited until I was around the corner—away from the kids, their faultless youth—before I let myself cry.
Sachin—Reetu’s son in Scarborough, some kind of doctor—birthday lunch??
*Dinner 9:30 P.M., Tuesday @ Eldorado
What was I THINKING!!!!
MAY 20, 2014
Raina turns twenty-five at 5:52 P.M. local London time. Her coworkers toast her, pints of cider and lager clinking together above the wooden pub table, the stale chips no one has yet to touch. She finishes her drink in one long swig, slapping the empty glass down in celebration. Colin’s ginger hair brushes hers as he leans in and asks if she’d like another. She shakes her head and glances around the room. It’s unoriginal, dank, and cold. Dark wood paneling, a brick wall boasting an oil painting of the Queen. Raina reaches for her extra cardigan, and Colin laughs at her—with her. She is always cold, it seems, and being from Canada, he teases her about this endlessly.
She has been living in London for several months on a shared third-floor flat just off Upper Street. It has an unfocused smell of damp laundry, burned hair extensions, Heinz beans eaten cold from the can. Raina is rarely home, but when she is, they keep the flat lively with hip-hop, Sunday roasts, and girls-nights-in. Two of her flatmates are still students at uni—bottles and books perpetually in hand—and the third is a graphic designer with the face of a model, and “Chatterbox Pink” lips. They are British girls, lovely and loud, and with them, Raina feels safe.