Well-Behaved Indian Women

by Saumya Dave

  Unfortunately, her meeting ran late and she got to the park just as the game was ending. The place smelled like a mixture of sweat and freshly cut grass. After the clusters of parents and players cleared the field, she jumped off the squeaky bleachers to congratulate Kunal. Instead of running to the bench, she dawdled at the base of the first bleacher, determined to wait until he was alone. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him remove his helmet and shake his curly hair in a way that reminded her of a Gatorade commercial.

  She approached him and blurted that she thought he played well.

  “Thanks,” he said, his dark eyes almost appearing lighter with the residual adrenaline rush.

  As he removed his gloves, he exchanged a quick “good game” with two of the other players. The rest of the team usually went out for pizza or ice cream after each game, but Kunal headed straight home to study.

  Before she could think of anything else to say, his best friend, Edward, approached them. Edward had a massive overbite and hunched shoulders, thanks to a perpetually overstuffed L.L.Bean book bag. He and Kunal often bored the rest of the group with their geeky science-is-the-reason-life-exists conversations. They compared—and often competed with—report cards, SAT scores, and, later, college applications. But unlike Kunal, Edward never cared for sports and spent most of his after-school time with the debate team.

  They all usually hung out in a large group on weekends, playing board games in someone’s basement or wolfing down French fries at Chili’s. But that day, Edward was acting more awkward than usual and immediately mumbled something about needing to get home once he noticed that Kunal and Simran were talking.

  “What’s up with him?” she asked Kunal.

  Kunal tucked his lacrosse stick under his arm and looked down at her. “I think he felt weird.”

  “Weird? About what?”

  He shifted his eyes, uncomfortable with the question. “He thinks we flirt a lot.”

  Really?!

  This wasn’t the first time someone had shared this sentiment, but it was the first time she heard it from Kunal.

  “That is weird,” she said, trying to be nonchalant by avoiding his gaze.

  “I don’t think it is.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No,” he affirmed. “Because it’s true.”

  There they were—clear, simple, to the point; three words she had been fantasizing about for over sixty days. Her legs vibrated, and she was pretty sure that the people in the parking lot could hear her heartbeat.

  It’s true? It’s true that we flirt?

  How long has that been happening?

  OH! MY! GOD!

  Then, before she could bombard herself with more questions, he leaned down and kissed her. She debated with herself on what to do, how to stand, where to look, but by the time she settled on a coy smile that would make Jane Austen proud, he grabbed her chin and planted another kiss on the tip of her nose. This time, she felt his salty sweat as everything around them faded.

  She had no idea what to say or expect (in television shows, a loud “wooooo” usually erupted from the audience after a romantic adolescent moment). She knew she would rush home and try to preserve the moment in her diary. And even though her writing would never do it justice, she also knew that those seconds would always remain with her, glued in her mental scrapbook, safely protected behind laminated pages with the perfect accessory stickers.

  Instead of slicing the silence, Kunal wrapped his large hand over hers, without interlacing their fingers. Even his hand clasping was assertive.

  It was crazy, but Simran could already see their future unrolling before them. She thought of how they would be the perfect husband and wife; a power team. She saw him speaking at his medical school graduation—they’d probably be married by then—and saying, “Lastly, I’d like to thank the woman who made it all possible,” and with his large hands motioning to her, in her Jackie O–inspired dress. They would probably live in a charmingly tiny apartment for a few years before settling in a Westchester mansion.

  She saw all of this, but what she didn’t see were the moments in between. She didn’t see them meeting around their suburb after school, just for a chance to cuddle in his beaten-up back seat. She didn’t see them holding on when the other couples around them chose to let go. She didn’t see them sneaking in phone calls when everyone in their houses was asleep. She didn’t see them sharing a dance as prom king and queen and later, their nakedness. And she definitely didn’t see them returning to that same spot in the park, year after year, takeout and wine in hand, just to remind themselves of where they began.

  Nandini

  Nandini jams her keys into the door. Another twelve-hour day at the office and still more paperwork to finish at home: prescriptions, lab orders, phone notes. She now spends more time in front of the computer than with patients.

  There was a time when all she wanted was to be a physician. In India, there was no undergraduate education before medical school. There was just one test with one chance to take it. Her best friend failed it and committed suicide three days later. Everyone blamed his parents.

  “Don’t be like me,” her mother said on a weekly basis. “Have a job so you never have to be reliant on anyone.” Nandini would hear her ask Papa before doing anything. Inviting her sister over. Giving the bhaji walla five extra rupees when he delivered fresh okra, peppers, and onion every morning. Making poori instead of rotli for dinner.

  Her mother was right. Nandini’s career drew a thick line that Ranjit’s family never crossed—but of course, the respect didn’t excuse her from other duties.

  Duties.

  Years ago, Nandini tried to explain this concept to Terri, one of her nurses at work.

  “How do arranged marriages even work?” Terri had asked.

  Older family members suggested a match based on everything from horoscopes to family backgrounds to socioeconomics. The families met at the girl’s house. Sometimes, the girl was asked to perform something. A song or poem. Nandini had asked Mami if she could talk about a patient. Of course Mami said no. So Nandini recited a story, the same one Mami told during her own arrangement, of a woman who travels to find God and save her husband. It was a tale of wifely sacrifice and persistence, virtues that both Nandini and Mami didn’t really believe but had to embrace, like a starched, stuffy sari.

  Then, over chai, both sets of parents would discuss everything from family lineages to traditions, expectations about grandchildren, and potential wedding plans. With so many factors aligned, the idea was that the couple would be compatible.

  Duties.

  Responsibilities.

  Family.

  These were a marriage’s foundation. Love would come later.

  Terri’s jaw dropped. No dates? No romance? No ability to choose? Wasn’t that a huge risk?

  If she had been young, Nandini would have laughed. Arranged marriages were the common way. She grew up knowing she would have one, just like all the other women she knew. And any marriage was a risk, arranged or not. Without the expectation of romance or chemistry, there was supposed to be less of a chance of disappointment or growing apart or, as Terri once said when discussing her ex-husband, “losing the spark.”

  Nandini runs through this conversation now, wondering if she would still say the same things. She walks through the dark house, toward the kitchen. The brass pots and pans hanging above the stove give off a faint glow. All she can see is the blue halo from Ranjit’s Mac in the living room. He’s floating in his usual post-work routine: sitting in front of his laptop, scanning through God-knows-what with CNN on in the background.

  That was the way things had become over the years, both of them retreating to separate corners, similar to the plastic figures she placed in her dollhouse as a little girl. Division within unity. With Ronak and Simran gone, it may have made sense to downsize to a
nother house, but there were too many people coming through, making their home a lazy Susan for every Indian in New Jersey. The nieces who spent summers with Nandini so she could discipline them. Ranjit’s entire family, who stopped by unannounced for extended periods of time. Friends of friends of friends who needed a bed to sleep in. She always knew Indians didn’t believe in boundaries when it came to relationships, but being married to the most successful son in a family means that they can never move.

  “Hi.” She approaches Ranjit behind the brown leather recliner and touches his shoulder in a manner that’s both clinical and comforting. His browser is on LinkedIn. He recently found out his officer manager had been stealing money from the practice for the past nine months and told Nandini he’d planned to find a replacement by the end of the week.

  He lowers the screen and faces Nandini. “How was your day?”

  “Same as always. Any luck with the manager position?”

  “None yet.” He’s wearing navy blue scrubs and brown house slippers.

  Ranjit started his own surgical clinic years ago. It took him only three months to realize that he hated the administrative tasks. Nandini helped him find his first office manager, who moved to California two years ago for a job at Google. Since then, they’ve struggled to find someone stable. Nandini doesn’t let herself think about how even her husband’s struggle is a privilege. He gets to make the decisions on who works in his place. He’s the boss.

  A cup of chai, the watery kind from a tea bag, is on the side table.

  Nandini puts a coaster underneath it. “Can I help?”

  “Not with anything right now, but I’ll need you over the next couple weeks. We both know you’re better at interviewing someone for a job,” he says, referring to the string of jobs she herself interviewed for at the beginning of their marriage: Walmart cashier, bank teller, and nanny. The money from those jobs allowed Ranjit to complete his residency training and their family to live in a friend’s unheated, moldy basement. Nandini drove a used Camry with one duct-taped window. That car somehow lasted until her own residency.

  Ranjit glances at the grandfather clock in their living room. “You ready to make the phone call?”

  “Hm,” she says, nodding. “It’s a good time in India now.”

  She takes the black phone off its charger and dials their calling card number, followed by the astrologer’s phone number. She realizes they are being old-fashioned by depending on an astrologer to confirm that Simran’s wedding date is auspicious, the way her mother did for her, and her mother before that. It was thought that by studying the patterns of the stars and planets, an astrologer could determine which date would ensure that a marriage was destined for success. Blessed.

  The operators’ accents switch from American to Indian. Static fills the line.

  Beep, beep. Beep, beep. Beep, beep.

  “Not there. We’ll try later.” She puts the phone back.

  Ranjit follows her to the kitchen. There are onions and carrots that can be put into a soup. It’s all she has energy for. Ranjit won’t complain about her lack of cooking. She’s one of the lucky ones, she knows, now having to spend days in the kitchen only when his family stops by.

  But soon that amicability will be over. Years ago, Ranjit showed he could handle the worst of her. She couldn’t expect him to do it again. She still hasn’t figured out how to tell Ranjit about the phone call she received two months ago. She still hasn’t decided when she’s going to break her news to him.

  “Has Simran called you today?” Ranjit asks, his lean shape becoming clearer in her periphery.

  Nandini shakes her head. “Not yet. She must be busy with school. She usually calls by now.”

  There was always one child who loved from a distance and one who cared a little more. Ronak sent an occasional text every few days, but it was Simran who made sure to get cards for Mother’s and Father’s Day, who checked on Nandini when guests were coming over.

  “I wish the astrologer picked up,” Nandini says as she takes a chef’s knife and slices an onion down the middle. “Meghna Ben has already asked me if she can order a mangal sutra. After what just happened with Simran, I don’t want anything ruining or delaying plans.”

  Nandini reaches beneath her shirt collar to touch her own black-and-gold mangal sutra, the necklace indicating a woman is married. Although Indians didn’t traditionally have engagement rings, many American customs became commonplace in Indian weddings over the years: proposals, bridesmaids and groomsmen, first dances, cake cutting. Some Indian girls even wore white wedding gowns after seeing them in movies and television shows throughout their childhoods. Simran had yet to ask Nandini about lenghas or tikas or mandap colors.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into Simran lately,” Nandini says.

  Ranjit plucks a flaccid grape from a ceramic bowl on the counter. “She’s always been this way.”

  “Yes, but something’s different. In some ways, she’s surprisingly ambivalent, and in others, she’s curious. She keeps asking questions,” Nandini says. “About our engagement.”

  He walks toward her and places his hands on the counter. “What if we just told her everything?”

  “Everything? Your side or mine?”

  He shrugs. “Both.”

  When she doesn’t respond, he adds, “I think she can handle it. She’s almost someone’s wife. An adult. Isn’t it okay to treat her like one?”

  Simran’s wedding is coming too quickly and not quickly enough. Nandini remembers what Mami told her years ago: a daughter is yours for so many years, and then suddenly, she’s gone, belonging to another family, and there’s nothing that ever seems right about it.

  Mami noted this while teaching Nandini how to make rotlis in preparation for the move to her in-laws’ home. The impending separation made their exchanges tender that final month. She can still see it: the way she had to roll the dough into a tiny ball, douse it with flour, and then press it flat. Soon, she would have to show Simran how to do the same. Soon, it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to call her daughter every night and tell her the latest story about Ranjit’s family or her patients.

  It seems that just yesterday Simran was five years old, visiting India for the first time, giving the beggars in the Bombay airport her bags of Tootsie Rolls, unaware of why that would only cause more problems. And now, she’ll be in a red-and-white sari, pretending to be docile as the maharaja chants hymns.

  “What’s wrong?” Ranjit asks, squinting at her face in the way he would at one of his patients.

  “It’s just the onions.”

  He nods and turns around before putting his teacup in the sink. “Danesh Bhai called to ask about her wedding. He wanted to congratulate us.”

  “That’s great,” Nandini says, now used to people calling and mentioning her children’s weddings. “We’ll stop by their house when the invitations are done.”

  “Of course,” Ranjit says.

  In India, a bride’s parents hand-delivered wedding invitations to community members who were older. Ranjit and Nandini somehow managed this for Ronak’s wedding. Maybe they should have held back from upholding that exhausting tradition in New Jersey in the first place. But now, there was no way they could act differently for Simran’s. People would already be expecting it.

  Despite all the changes that occurred from living in America, some traditions of the arranged marriage process remained. Elders had to be respected. Community had to be impressed. The bride’s family was responsible for maintaining relationships and reputations.

  You care so much about what people think, Simran would say, shaking her head. But was it so terrible to want the well wishes of others? It was easy for Simran to complain when she had no idea how rejection felt, when she had no idea how so many things felt.

  Nandini and Ranjit settle at the dining table. There’s only the sound of their spoon
s hitting the bowls and Ranjit’s hand reaching into a giant paper box for saltine crackers. He takes his bowl to the stove and gets seconds.

  She watches his hands grip the ladle with precision, as though he’s in one of his surgeries. Ranjit handles everything in a manner that is both delicate and firm. They don’t disappear for weekend getaways or exchange a kiss before work, but there is something palpable between them, as though their duty has smuggled pockets of respect with it. She has a newfound appreciation for it lately, when they reminisce about the kids’ childhoods or gossip about close friends on car rides back from dinner parties.

  When they’re finished, she stacks one bowl inside the other, takes them to the sink, and washes them and his teacup with lemon Palmolive soap. She plays a Dev Anand album on the iPod and wipes the stovetop with a sponge. Ranjit heads back toward the living room.

  Nandini dries her hands on a maroon dish towel and darkens the iPod screen.

  She turns off the light and walks toward the curved dual staircase that overlooks their high-ceilinged foyer. Simran insisted they put a table with a giant vase there.

  Nandini’s steps make the wooden floors groan. She reaches the second floor, passes the three guest bedrooms, and does a quick check of Ronak’s and Simran’s rooms out of habit. When Simran left for college, Nandini sat on her canopy bed every evening, and hugged her daughter’s large stuffed animals.

  Now, she continues to the master bedroom. Once she shuts the door, she tiptoes to the closet and removes a shoe box that’s buried under a pile of clothes.

  The official papers came from him last week. Nandini flips through them, frantically and then one at a time. Maybe if she stares at the pages long enough, she’ll know what to do, what the right answer is. She scans the Times New Roman font again and again. Two hours pass this way until she surrenders to fatigue. She washes her face, puts on the same Oil of Olay moisturizer she’s used for three decades, and brushes her teeth. Her eyes close as she whispers a prayer to Ganesha for the things she will soon reveal.