Well-Behaved Indian Women

by Saumya Dave

  My grandmother, Simran says. A teacher.

  Getting her first job while her mother quit everything she worked for.

  “You know you can’t stay in India,” Nani says as she breaks off a large piece of Dairy Milk.

  “Yes, I ca—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! You have too much going on in New York right now.”

  “But I want to help you get started. If we create a strong foundation for the girls with your knowledge and insight now, then we can make it sustainable. Whoever comes after us will be able to implement your ideas and make sure the girls are always getting the education they need.”

  Nani squints as she thinks through the process. “So, while I’m teaching this to the girls now, we need to find other people to learn the curriculum, so they can teach it after. . . .”

  “After we both leave,” Simran says. She won’t say after Nani’s gone. She just can’t. “Through my research, I’ve realized there are people all around India who would love to join something like this. There are even teachers in this community who feel jaded by the current education plans. Let me reach out and see if we can find people to come and work with us.”

  “If that works, then I won’t be abandoning the girls.”

  “Yes. And I’m going to write about all of it, in the way I’ve always wanted to,” Simran says, realizing the truth of her words as they evaporate in the heat. “It’s the first time a decision’s felt right, which is strange, because I didn’t plan any of this out.”

  “But what about everything else back home?”

  Simran picks up their drained bottles and puts them at the end of the table. “I’ll go back once you’re established here, after this is all figured out.”

  “So then does that mean you’ve decided what you’re going to do?”

  Simran nods. “I was scared at first about going back. But I guess when you’ve messed up enough, you can handle anything that comes along.”

  Before she came to India, everything made her cry, to the point where she began giving herself pep talks in the mirror. But she’s ready, or really, as ready as anyone can be who is unemployed, has few friends, and is a laughingstock of the South Asian community.

  “Being here with you has been better than I even thought it would be,” Simran says, reaching across the table to clutch her hand. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

  Nani’s eyes become moist.

  Simran changes the subject. “And I know Mom. She won’t do what she wants with her life if she thinks mine is still a mess. She’s been through enough in her life. I can’t let her sacrifice any more or allow Dad’s practice to suffer just because I don’t have my shit together.”

  Nani wipes her hands with a napkin. “And so, what about Kunal?”

  “I need to talk to him,” Simran says. “See where we can go from here.”

  She stares at the wooden table, wondering how long it’ll take for her to forget Neil. Forget how he showed her how safe she’d been with her life choices. Forget their kiss.

  “Simran, you’re not the reason your mom is going through all of this,” Nani says.

  “Of course I am. And you know what the crazy part is? For my entire life, I always got so frustrated whenever she seemed impossible to please. But now I see that she just didn’t want me to suffer the way she did.”

  A teenage boy wipes the neighboring tables with a faded white rag. The shop owner waves goodbye as Nani and Simran approach the row of rickshaws parked against the curb. Simran scans the sidewalk for their driver.

  Nani notices him across the street. “Cigarette piyech.”

  They settle into the hot, squeaky rickshaw seat. Simran begins to tell the driver Nani’s address, but Nani cuts her off. “I need to make a quick stop before we go home.”

  “Where?”

  “A place you should see while you’re here.”

  She spouts off directions in curt Gujarati to the driver. Left here. Down this road. That neighborhood on the end.

  Twenty minutes later, the rickshaw turns onto a dusty side street. There are no cows, cars, or people anywhere.

  “You can stop now,” Nani tells the driver as they approach a beige, one-story house.

  Simran soaks in the sterile concrete, the closed windows. “Who lives here?”

  “Your mother did.”

  “What? When?”

  She’s unable to picture a younger version of her mother opening the faded burgundy front door or climbing out of a window.

  “During her first marriage. Her husband—her ex-husband’s family lived here. Can you imagine? Twelve people in this tiny space, and she did all the housework. This is what she would have had to deal with if she didn’t run away.”

  Simran’s face becomes warm.

  Nani turns back to her. “What she has with you, your dad, Ronak . . . that’s the life she fought for. You are her blessing. You could never be the one to ruin her life.”

  Nani tells Simran about the first time she saw this house, the way Mom was going to live. She went home and cried all night after Nana went to sleep.

  “I guess I didn’t even realize how lucky I am to have Kunal,” Simran says.

  Nani gives her a look that says, What do you mean?

  “He’s smart, supportive . . . would never put me through anything near this hell that Mom dealt with. Maybe that’s why Mom’s pushed me to make it work, because a life with him would be good. Loving.”

  She wishes she could call Kunal and tell him this.

  I was wrong, she’d say. I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did, or doubted us.

  One minute later, they’re interrupted by a thump of knuckles against the windshield. “Mimi Ben? Is that you?”

  A woman cranes her neck into the rickshaw. She’s around Nani’s age, but everything about her seems stiffer, as though she could unravel at any moment. Even her sari folds are starched and tightly pleated.

  Nani’s fist clenches around Simran’s. “Pushpa Ben. Kem cho? Boj varas taigya!” How are you? It has been so many years!

  The woman’s eyes are scrunched as though she’s licked a lemon. Her lips are turned downward. “Majama. Tha me?” Fine. You?

  Simran leans back into the seat as Nani says, “Good. This is Simran.”

  The woman takes a deep breath and puts her hand on her chest. “Is this . . . your . . . hers? Are bapre, she looks exactly like her.”

  Nani clears her throat. “Yes, this is Nandini’s daughter.”

  “Ha. Must be nice.”

  “It is,” Nani says.

  Pushpa Ben scoffs. “Your daughter did what she did, and she still got to have everything.”

  Nani taps the rickshaw driver’s shoulder and asks him to turn off the engine. She turns back to Pushpa Ben. “Everything? Everything? My daughter went through hell here. And last I heard, your son was more than fine in America.”

  Mom’s ex-husband lives in America? For some reason, Simran pictured him as a lonely, old, miserable oaf in Baroda. Has he seen her since then? Seen them?

  The driver steps out of the rickshaw and paces down the dusty street under the guise of needing another cigarette break. Poor guy couldn’t have seen this coming.

  “Yes, he is fine. Now. No thanks to you or Nandini.”

  “Enough.” Nani grinds her teeth. “We’ll be leaving now.”

  She cups her hands around her mouth and yells for the rickshaw driver, who scurries back toward them like a frightened puppy.

  Nani grunts. “That woman has some nerve.”

  The tires screech as they putter away from the house. Nani grabs Simran’s hand, and Simran misses her mother so much that it’s hard to speak.

  Nandini

  “It’s only a matter of time now,” Greg says. “I know you know that.”

  Nandini squeezes his stif
f, dry hand that once used to throw a football and suture people’s limbs. She can’t speak. If she lets any sounds escape from her mouth, she’ll break down. Greg doesn’t need that.

  “The doctor becomes the patient in the exact hospital he trained and taught at,” he says with a soft laugh. “What a cliché I’ve become! But really, no wonder patients complain all the time. Being a patient is the worst.”

  “I’m sure it is,” she says, and he looks relieved that she’s finally spoken.

  “How are your first days here? Do you like being back in Baltimore?”

  “I do.” She leans back in the stiff armchair reserved for family members visiting patients. “So much is coming back to me from when I was here before. The intern and resident Nandini is still in here somewhere. But I’ve had lifetimes since then. I feel like everything’s changed, and yet there are parts from my past that seem to keep coming back in one way or another.”

  She stops herself from saying more. He doesn’t need to know about India. Nobody else does.

  “Well, you are the hardest working resident I ever had, so if that old Nandini is in there, I don’t know that that’s a bad thing. How’s the staff treating you? And the residents?”

  “Everyone’s been very nice, for the most part.”

  “But?” he asks.

  “It’s just been interesting to see how women are treated in medicine. Of course, I understand it’s hard for your colleagues to go from you to me, but even some of the patients would rather have a male intern tell them what’s going on over me. I used to think it was something that only happened when I was training or at the practice in Livingston. But no, it’s everywhere. Women have it rough. Did you know there was a study that came out about how in some households, women are the primary breadwinners but still handle most of the housework and parenting? I mean, what is that?”

  “I hope you never change.” Greg gives her a look that’s a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “So, minus the sexism—that I know needs to change and is unacceptable—how is it?”

  “Other than that, it’s been amazing. Beyond what I could have even hoped. It’s harder work than I thought. I have to read on the cases every night to make sure I’m up-to-date on the latest research. And it’s energizing to teach every morning, then see patients at your clinic after. I get to do everything I wanted. And enjoy it.”

  “Good. Everything will work out, then. I’m sure of it,” he says, and they both know he’s referring to her family and not the new job.

  “I really hope so.” She tries to ignore the knotted panic that has built a home in her stomach. “I don’t know if everything with my family can be fixed . . . or if I ruined them all.”

  Greg’s voice thins to a whisper. “I know that you know that isn’t possible.”

  She can’t face Simran yet. Ronak is the only one who calls. Ranjit refuses to speak with her. She can only imagine what Charu has been telling him.

  Greg gives her a tired smile and reclines back in the bed. He’s lost weight over the summer, so now the skin of his face has started to hang off his high cheekbones. Dark circles encompass his still-vibrant blue eyes. He gets tired from just one long conversation now. Sometimes he doesn’t have the strength to drink water.

  As much as Greg seemed strict and intimidating when she was in training, she saw the gentleness underneath the facade, like Ranjit, like her father.

  Her father. If only he could see how she’s doing now. She pictures him with his swollen ankles and nagging cough. He was exhausted when he showed her the picture of Ranjit. Exhausted and hopeful.

  A part of her wants to tell Greg that this has to be temporary. He has to get better. He can’t just be in this bulky bed with buttons on the side, wearing a flimsy gown that’s open in the back, and waiting for a tray of food that includes fruit suffocating in plastic wrap.

  She remembers the first time she was in a patient room with him, one that’s just down the hall from them now. She stood around the patient’s bed with the other residents. In front of everyone, Greg asked her to name the causes of anion gap metabolic acidosis. Pimping. That was the ridiculous word used to describe attendings asking residents to recall information on the spot.

  She went blank. Oh no, I forgot. Everyone’s going to think I’m stupid. I know even less than the medical student. I shouldn’t be here, and now everyone else is going to figure that out, too. Her thoughts continued to spiral downward. The stares of her co-residents and the patient bore into her chest. Her heart started racing.

  “Nandini, just take one second to think about it,” Greg said as he buttoned his white coat. “The answer will still be there if you give yourself time.”

  She took the deep breaths her therapist taught her, and within one minute, the words came back to her. She listed every cause and even threw in a couple of points from a recent journal article she had read the week before.

  This has been a constant in her life, she realizes now: moments of chaos that seem impossible to navigate at first but then somehow lead her to a place of confidence. And faith.

  “You’ve done more for me than you’ll ever realize,” she says now.

  She monitors the tone of her voice. She doesn’t want to seem too emotional. Even after their relationship crossed the border from colleagues to friends, she never stopped wanting to seem put together in front of him.

  “Now, now, don’t act like I’m going just yet,” Greg says.

  “I’m not.” Nandini stares out the window at the dark parking lot. She turns back toward Greg as he’s reclining the bed.

  Greg closes his eyes. “I’m going to get some rest.”

  “Okay.” Nandini reaches for the JAMA journal she brought to keep her company.

  “No,” Greg says, his voice thin but firm. “Go home.”

  “I’m fine here,” Nandini says without looking up from the journal.

  “No, I’m fine. And you are, too. You just need to understand that.”

  She leans toward him for a quick hug. He smells like aftershave and the strawberry popsicles he keeps sweet-talking the nurses into bringing him. She basks in all of it. The sterile, gray walls. An old Law & Order episode droning on the television. The surreal realization that someone other than her thought she could be greater than herself.

  Thirteen

  Simran

  I’m home, Nani,” Simran says one month later.

  “Good, Simi.” Nani’s voice comes through the phone. “Now go make some things happen.”

  “Nobody’s here. It’s so weird and quiet.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”

  Simran arranges a pile of wedding invitations on the counter. “I feel bad for leaving you.”

  “But I’m fine.” Nani’s voice becomes softer. “You helped me set everything up for the girls. Because of you, we’ve made a splash with the right people. . . . Okay, and some of the wrong ones as well, but who cares about them? There are organizations now donating menstrual pads and notebooks for the girls so they can stay in school. And we have four teachers ready to continue this next year and the year after. It doesn’t even sound real. I’m not alone in this!”

  “You’re not alone. And neither are the girls. They finally have the support they need to pursue their educations. I still can’t believe it,” Simran says as she thinks back to the nonprofits that contacted them after news of Nani teaching spread through Baroda. One of them even did a write-up about her in their newsletter. Another linked her with teachers who have always wanted to provide girls with what they called “an empowered education.”

  “You should believe it,” Nani says. “You’ve researched it. You’ve written about it. And soon, you’re going to bring their issues to the limelight.”

  “That’s the dream. They’re all rough drafts right now, but hopefully they’ll find a home,” Simran says, referring to the collec
tion of articles she’s since written about girls’ education, menstrual hygiene, economic empowerment, and the dangers of early marriage. It’s been a raw process of learning as she goes along, a combination of fear and faith that’s nothing like the protocols of psychology.

  “Yes, they will. I know they will, Simi. And now it’s all good,” Nani says. “I’m good. Great. Really.”

  Simran thinks back to the discussion she and Nani had with the girls’ parents. Pallavi’s family is now putting off on getting her married. She’s still the top student in their class.

  “I’m proud of us. Of you,” Simran says.

  “I am, too, Simi.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.”

  “Really? Fine?”

  Nani doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds. “I’ve struggled with my energy a little. But it’s nothing for you to worry about. Really. I feel like a different person because of everything you set up for me here.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who did it.”

  “No, I couldn’t have without you. I didn’t.”

  “I knew you always could. I really did,” Simran says.

  Simran hangs up and wheels her India bags into the living room, puts on a pair of rubber gloves, and sprays the countertops with Lysol. Then she washes the dishes with her mother’s lemon dishwashing soap and yellow sponge.

  The garage door opens as she’s tying up a trash bag.

  “It’s me!” Simran yells before anyone has the chance to be startled.

  “Simran,” Dad says, stepping into the kitchen. “I didn’t know you were back.”

  “Just got here an hour ago,” Simran says, not knowing how to tell him that it was strange to text only Ronak, and not her parents, when she boarded the plane or landed or got into an Uber.

  “Oh, I see,” he says.

  When Simran was younger, she often came home from school to him napping on the couch, only waking up to the sound of his pager with a Pavlovian dog–type jolt, murmuring some medication or wound care order into the phone, and drifting back to sleep.