Well-Behaved Indian Women

by Saumya Dave

  Simran scans the crowded room and finds Sheila.

  “Are you okay?” Sheila asks.

  “Fine,” Simran says, guiding them toward the staircase. Her armpits are damp. “I just need to get out of this outfit. Can you help me with the safety pins?”

  Most Indian outfits require around three thousand safety pins, all of which disappear when you need them again.

  “Of course.” Sheila nods and pulls up the skirt of her tan salwaar kameez, the one she wears to every Indian function, regardless of how formal it is.

  “Incoming,” Simran says, pointing in the direction of Sheila’s mom, Anita Auntie, who is approaching them. She’s tugging the wrist of an olive-skinned, lanky guy who looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Simran recognizes him as Kunal’s distant cousin Karan.

  “Sheila, I’ve been looking for you! This is Karan Shah. I told him he had to meet you.”

  Sheila shoots her mom a look of death.

  Anita Auntie pretends not to notice.

  Behind them, a cluster of guests motions for Anita Auntie to join them at their table. She swats in their direction, like they’re mosquitos, and keeps her eyes on Karan. Her waist-length hair is swept into a loose braid, and unlike her daughter, she’s wearing blush and a teal eye shadow that matches her sari. The final remnants of her berry lipstick linger on the perimeter of her lips, which now resemble a shriveled prune.

  “He’s a lawyer. About to move to New York City. You can help him get adjusted, na?”

  Karan raises his eyebrows and focuses on the ground.

  Sheila grinds her teeth. Her voice says, “Sure,” while her eyes say, Fuck no. She adds in a low voice, “Nice to meet you. I’ll see you la—”

  “Sheila, don’t be rude!” Anita Auntie exclaims, maintaining her smile. “You should at least offer to show Karan a good restaurant or something. How about on Monday night?”

  “Mom, just don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” Anita Auntie is the queen of knowing when to play dumb.

  “Don’t arrange a date for us.”

  “Why not?” Anita Auntie laughs. “Clearly you’re unable to do so yourself.”

  “I can set up dates just fine, actually,” Sheila says. “Enough with all of this. You already made that profile for me on Shaadi .com behind my back.”

  Sheila showed Simran the list of people Anita Auntie found, all Indian guys who described themselves as “tall, handsome, fair skinned, and well educated” (what else?).

  “As if that wasn’t bad enough, you have the audacity to tell me there’s no pressure to find a guy. There’s always pressure with you!” Sheila says. “And how do you even know what’s best for me? We have different standards for marriage, because you and Dad never dated. Are your glorified arranged marriages even healthy?”

  “Bas,” Anita Auntie says, holding up her hand. “I told you before that this weekend was a chance for you to meet someone. Look at Simran! She’s got her life together. And you! I asked your father what crime I committed to deserve such a stubborn dikri who refuses to settle down.”

  Sheila and Simran have spent many afternoons analyzing Anita Auntie’s histrionic tendencies. Simran thinks she got them from loyally watching The Bold and the Beautiful and The Young and the Restless for the past two decades. Sheila thinks she does it for fun.

  “Bapre, if I left everything up to you, then you’d ne—”

  “I don’t want to meet ANYONE!” Sheila says. “I’m dating someone already!”

  Simran looks around the room. Luckily, the chatter has prevented anyone from hearing the exchange.

  “What did you just say?” Anita Auntie’s eyes widen, resembling a bull ready to go after a red waving flag. “You’re what? Who?!”

  Sheila rolls her eyes. “I was going to tell you later this weekend. Can we not make a scene here?”

  “Ha.” Anita Auntie grabs Sheila’s wrist and lets go of poor Karan, who runs away, likely heading for the nearest bar.

  “We’re going outside. Right. Now,” Anita Auntie says, looking for Sheila’s dad.

  Sheila and Simran make eye contact. Simran mouths a quick I’m so sorry. But it doesn’t matter. Sheila’s hands are shaking as she follows her parents outside.

  Simran looks around the kitchen at all their guests, people who know what they’re doing and where they’re heading in life. In the kitchen, the aunties are dividing the mundane tasks of wiping the countertops, packing food into empty yogurt containers, washing dishes, and running the Swiffer across the floor. Are they content with where their lives went? Or did they just do what was expected of them—or worse, what was safe?

  The house starts to close in. Simran takes deep breaths to stop herself from throwing up. The nearest exit is only a few steps away. She can be in her bedroom in twenty seconds if she runs.

  “Simran!”

  She turns around to see Mom in her gold sari, her hair in a chignon. “How do you feel?”

  Simran smiles. “Great.”

  Mom steps closer to her. “You know, I was just telling your brother that you might be the youngest in our house, but so many times, you are the strength. My Durga. Nani always told me that when a daughter grows up, she starts to truly become your friend. But when she is more like that, then it also means that it’s time for her to leave you.

  “Everything’s finally settled. Ronak’s wedding. Yours. I never thought this time would come.”

  The lines around her eyes soften. It’s strange to start seeing your parents as people.

  “But I wouldn’t take any of it back. Look at how you turned out. I know that if anything ever happened to me, I wouldn’t have to worry,” she continues. “You’d take care of everyone.”

  “I would,” Simran says.

  Mom glances at the guests in their living room. “Did you invite Dr. Bond for this?”

  “No, I mean, he wouldn’t be interested in attending something like this,” Simran says, the entire sentence coming out in one breath.

  “Even if that’s true, you should extend the courtesy. It shows initiative. Remember what I’ve always told you. You may have been born in Livingston, but to everyone else, you’re always Indian, an outsider, and because of that, you’ll always have to work harder than the American next to you to establish your career.”

  One of Mom’s favorite carpool stories was about how she would speak to patients’ family members during morning rounds. After night shifts, she wore scrubs and kept her hair in a ponytail. When she’d ask how they were doing, they’d sometimes say things like, “We’re happy now that the janitor is here to take out the trash!”

  They pace toward the kitchen, passing guests who smile and say congratulations as if she has so much to be happy about. Kunal is in a conversation with his mom and Charu Foi.

  There’s a gray-haired man standing by their refrigerator. He’s around six feet tall with broad shoulders, the kind of man who likely played football when he was younger. He’s gripping a plastic compartment plate with both hands. When he turns around, Simran notices his long face and sharp nose, which remind her of George Clooney.

  “Simran, this is Dr. Dalton,” Mom says. “My attending from residency.”

  “Oh wow . . . ,” she says. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Same here.”

  “I, uh, didn’t think you’d be . . . here.” She gives Mom a questioning glance.

  Mom ignores it.

  Mom always told Simran about her senior attending at Hopkins, who let her moonlight in the emergency room to make extra money, challenged her to lead grand rounds presentations, and insisted she apply to be chief resident.

  “Yes, well, I was in town, and once your mother told me about this, I knew I couldn’t miss it.” He gives Nandini a playful jab with his elbow, which she returns. Simran didn’t even know they were
still in touch.

  “Well, that’s sweet of you,” Simran says. “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person.”

  “Likewise,” he says, putting down his plate and extending his arm for an unsteady handshake. “Your mother was—is—something else. Of course, she always doubted herself, but I like to think that was part of the reason she succeeded.”

  “I’m sure. Do you ever practice in Jersey?”

  Mom turns toward a group of aunties who are asking if she needs any help bringing out dessert.

  Greg scoffs. “No, I’m still in Baltimore. Where your mom will be soon.”

  Simran chokes on her mango lassi. “What do you mean?”

  “For her new job.” He says this nonchalantly, as if it’s well-known information.

  “What new job?” Simran tugs on Mom’s sari. “What new job is he talking about?”

  The color drains from Mom’s face. She makes a face at Greg that says, Don’t say any more.

  Greg doesn’t notice. “Her dream job. The one in Baltimore to take over my practice and teach Hopkins residents at the hospital. Didn’t she tel—”

  “I haven’t had a chance to fill her in on anything yet,” Mom says, cutting Greg off, then turns to face him and whispers something, their heads curving inward. “You enjoy your food. Simran and I will get some extra dessert from the garage.”

  She guides them to the garage and closes the door behind them. There’s a rumble of chatter on the other side of the garage door.

  “What the heck was he talking about?” The floor is cool against Simran’s bare feet. She lifts up her chaniyo, which keeps getting caught in her anklets.

  Mom leans against her car. “Greg has an opportunity for me in Baltimore. At Hopkins. I was going to tell you about it last time you were home, but then Dad hired Pratik Bhai as his office manager, and I knew he’d need me here to make sure things went smoothly. And, well, I was going back and forth, but things became more time sensitive. Critical, really.”

  “Meaning?” Simran puts the ice cream back in the freezer. How long has her mom been thinking about this?

  “I’m taking the job,” she says, her eyes on the garage door, in case anyone walks in. She rubs off the remnants of the red kumkum powder and dried rice on her forehead.

  “What? Seriously? In Baltimore? What does Dad think of you doing that?”

  “He doesn’t know yet.” She keeps her shoulders straight, her voice clear. Simran sees, for the first time, how she’s become a little more outspoken, less afraid.

  “You haven’t told him?”

  “No, I was going to tell him after your engagement party. I’m not sure how he’ll react.”

  Simran raises her eyebrows.

  “Look, Simran . . . your dad and I have set up a dynamic that helps everyone except us. There’s a lot you don’t know about him, about what I’ve had to deal with. Don’t get me wrong: over the years, I’ve seen how he’s changed and accommodated, I really have. And there are so many times, especially since you and Ronak moved out, when we’ve established something that seems, well, nice. But how much do you keep giving and giving for the family? Am I supposed to just spend my life putting everyone else first?”

  “No, you’re not,” Simran says. “But Dad at least deserves to be kept in the loop about what’s going on.”

  How could you be married to someone for years but still be unable to say the simplest things to them? I’m unhappy. I want something else. I need more.

  Mom checks her hair, adjusts the gold-and-black mangal sutra on her neck, the necklace she got during her wedding ceremony. She looks fit to play the role of “dignified mother” in a Bollywood movie, the pristine lady who has to be the best hostess, the best everything. “I know that, Simran. But even if he doesn’t approve of this, I’m thinking of going. Without him.”

  “You’d leave Dad?” Simran asks.

  She glances at her daughter with the look of someone who has realized they’ve revealed too much. They hear a deep laugh, the kind that comes from the pit of the stomach. Dad. He’s on the other side of the door, oblivious.

  “I really can’t process this right now,” Simran says.

  She takes the tubs of kulfi back out from the freezer, scampers into the kitchen, dumps them on the granite counter, and runs to her room. The house is filled with people, but there’s nobody she can talk to. It’s like that cliché people use about living in New York City: loneliness among millions.

  How long has her mom plotted this part of her life? How many times was she looking for a way out from this, from them?

  She goes into her bathroom and splashes cold water on her face. Her eyeliner is smeared, and there are splotches of pink across her cheeks. So much for being the put-together bride.

  Her phone buzzes with a text from Kunal: Where are you? I miss you.

  She adjusts the folds of her sari, which still has the earthy, damp scent of India on it.

  Charu Foi approaches her as she comes down the stairs. “Simran, where have you been? Kunal’s looking for you. You know, he’s so smart and humble. And his parents seem to be the same.”

  She motions toward Kunal, who is handing his mom a glass of water. He introduces her to a family friend, and for the first time, Simran sees his attachment to his mother as a form of compassion. He’s mindful of her struggle making friends and building a life outside of their family, which are things only he can help her with.

  “And it’s so nice you’re marrying a doctor,” Charu Foi continues. “You’ll never need to worry about working.”

  That’s one of the most irritating phrases Simran has heard all day, second only to “you’re picking a good career for a woman.”

  Simran watches Charu Foi squint, as though she’s trying to stretch her insult so it can accommodate more than one person.

  Sure enough, she continues. “Look at how your mom runs around all day, every day. What’s the point of doing that just to prove something?”

  Simran keeps a steady gaze on Charu Foi and refuses to smile. “Well, I want to work, even though I’m marrying a doctor. And my mom’s the reason I understand the importance of having something that’s my own.”

  “Oh? So you have a good job lined up after graduation?” Charu Foi asks.

  “No,” she says, keeping her voice clear and calm. “Not yet. I’m still working on that.”

  “Hm,” Charu Foi says, looking at Kunal, who will surely cure cancer before he’s thirty. “Anyway, I can just tell you’re ready for marriage now.”

  “How’s that?” Simran asks, wishing she could leave this conversation. This house.

  “You’re different from when you were younger. You used to be spunky and outspoken, and now, you’re just so eager to please!”

  “That’s not true,” Simran says, resenting not just that she said that, but also that she might be right.

  She wishes she could think of something clever to respond to her with. That always happens to her during uncomfortable conversations: in the moment, she freezes and then sometime in the following decade, she thinks of something perfect she could have said.

  Mom steps in between them. “Charu, I need to speak with Simran. Now.”

  She pulls on Simran’s wrists and guides her into the home office, with its mahogany desk and stone fireplace. There’s a twenty-year-old picture of Ronak and Simran with Santa Claus on the mantel.

  Simran puts her hands on her hips. “Oh, so now you’re ready to tel—”

  “YOU DROPPED OUT OF YOUR PSYCHOLOGY PROGRAM?”

  Fuck.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Dr. Bond called the house. He was trying to reach you and was surprised I didn’t know what you did. But no, I’m a fool, thanks to my lying daughter. What have you been doing all this time? Obviously not studying.”

  Simran keeps her face st
raight. She will not cry. It doesn’t matter how much confidence she saves up—just a few words from her mother can whittle her down into someone else, into nobody. “I was going to tell you when I came back from India and had figured things out.”

  When Simran says nothing else, Mom asks, “WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING, THEN?!”

  “I’ve just been figuring some things out,” Simran says.

  It’s probably not the best time to tell her that over the past few weeks, in the midst of trying to write articles, Simran applied to a multitude of jobs, including a Starbucks barista, a hostess at Ilili, a candy woman at Dylan’s Candy Bar, and lastly, one of those human sandwiches for Subway. She almost laughs at the thought of her parents explaining the final one. Yes, our daughter went to Columbia and then became two pieces of bread. We couldn’t be more proud.

  “Like what?” Mom challenges. “How we sacrificed so much to provide everything for you? What a mistake on our part.”

  “I have never taken your sacrifices for granted,” Simran says. “You’re one to talk about secrets. You just dropped the bomb on me about leaving Dad!”

  “That is not relevant right now. And my situation is different.”

  “How?”

  “Because you chose this, Simran. You’ve chosen your career and the person you’re going to marry and, frankly, everything else. Nothing was forced on you, and you were fully aware of what you signed up for.”

  “So I’m not allowed to change my mind? Because I’m supposed to just swallow my misery like a real woman? Don’t you want me to do what I want?” Simran yells, not noticing the hush that’s washed over the house.

  “Please. You don’t know what you want. You’re a child. You have no idea what it means to build a life.”

  Mom turns around, faces the mantel, and avoids Simran’s childhood photos.