Well-Behaved Indian Women

by Saumya Dave

  Everything around her becomes blurry. Kunal starts talking about how they should go on their honeymoon before he starts rotations.

  “Oh my god,” Simran says.

  “What?” Kunal asks.

  Simran doesn’t process him. She only hears syllables in slow motion.

  Kunal looks at Simran, then follows her gaze toward Neil. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Is that him?”

  “I didn’t know he’d be here,” Simran says. “I thought he was in China.”

  But Neil Desai, the Neil Desai, is standing here, in New York City, as if everything is, well, normal. Simran forgot about the way he always stood with his thumbs slung into his pants pockets. Casual. Confident. She forgot about the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiles.

  She holds her breath. Neil looks like he’s about to face them.

  No, no, no. We can’t just talk.

  But then, he turns the other way and starts speaking to the man in all black, who Simran has now figured out is Laura’s agent. Hearing Neil’s voice reminds her of the night they first met. The way her eyes hung on him before she knew who he was.

  A tremor starts to develop in both of her hands. She has a window to get them out. She prepares to pull Kunal’s arm. Make them dash to the exit.

  But then Laura Martinez yells, “Next!”

  Kunal and Simran approach Laura’s desk. Simran focuses on the wood’s swirling patterns. She will not look in Neil’s direction.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Laura says as she glances at the Post-it on Simran’s book. “I appreciate your patience, er, Samuel.”

  Samuel?

  “Simran,” Simran says. “It’s Simran.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry about that,” Laura says.

  Simran’s cheeks are warm. She hands Laura her book. Laura opens the front cover. Asks if they are having fun. Kunal mumbles something. Simran says of course they are. Laura lingers over her signature. Simran’s left foot starts to shake. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Simran grabs the book from Laura’s hands the second she’s done signing, before she’s even had a chance to cap her purple Sharpie.

  “Thank you,” Simran says before she turns to Kunal. “Let’s go.”

  Kunal is already facing the exit. Simran lets herself take one last glance at Neil.

  He’s already looking at her.

  The synapses between her brain and lips freeze. She had pictured this moment for so long. Mentally played out how they would be. That she’d wear the perfect outfit. Have all the right things to say.

  “Hi there,” Neil says.

  “Hey, how are you?” Simran asks the question as though she’s run into an old friend from NYU.

  “Fine, and you?” Neil’s voice is playful and cheery.

  “Great.” Kunal’s fingers dig into Simran’s back. “I, we, were just leaving.”

  “I see that,” Neil says as he runs his hands through his wavy black hair.

  They stare at each other in silence. Simran waits for something to break their interaction. Another friend of his coming to speak with him. Laura asking him a question. A phone call.

  But nothing happens.

  Neil offers a tight, polite smile, and something inside of Simran crumples.

  She motions toward Kunal. “This is Kunal.”

  “Of course,” Neil says, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, man.”

  “You too,” Kunal says, his tone akin to hospital bed corners: rigid, crisp.

  Neil lowers his head and takes a sip of his champagne, aware that Kunal thinks it’s not nice to meet him at all.

  This can’t really be happening. Simran takes yoga-class-worthy breaths. Now would be a great time to leave.

  “So, you’re in med school, right?” Neil asks.

  “That’s right,” Kunal says.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  They stand side by side, avoiding eye contact, Kunal, in a faded polo and khaki shorts, and Neil, in a light blue button-down and navy blue blazer. They would never be friends: one man who goes to bars where people wear jeans and hoodies, another who attends galas in a perfectly tailored tuxedo.

  There’s more silence, except for a grunt from Kunal. Unlike Neil, he doesn’t have a baseline level of panache with people, whether he likes them or not (which is also why he cowers away from most social interactions unless, of course, they’re related to medicine). Simran used to admire that he marched to the beat of his own drum, didn’t feel the need to put on a show for anyone, but sometimes she wishes he’d just be a little friendlier.

  Neil takes a subtle peek at Simran’s left ring finger and then looks at both of them. “Congratulations.”

  Kunal slings his arm across Simran’s shoulder, a gesture that’s a mixture of sweet and territorial.

  “Thanks.” Simran puts her hands behind her back, her heart still pounding. “Wedding planning has been busy.”

  Do not talk about wedding planning with Neil Desai, you idiot.

  The line dwindles as everyone gets their books signed and pictures taken. A couple of twenty-something girls wearing crop tops and pencil skirts are watching them. They’re probably wondering how someone like Simran knows someone like Neil.

  Simran wants to say, It was good to see you. We should get going now.

  But she hears herself offering something else. “I didn’t know you’d be here. Did you come back from China early?”

  “I did,” Neil says. “I’m going to be back and forth between China and Manhattan for at least the next year. But I’m glad I made it for this. Laura’s been a good friend for a long time. Remember? I told you that when we were at Milk Bar.”

  He looks at Simran in a way that’s wistful. Wistful and sad. A look she’ll have to analyze in her diary later.

  “That’s right. You did,” Simran says, remembering when they discussed all their favorite writers, how Neil was friends with several of them. “And I forgot that you’re the one who told me about this book. I read the preview on Amazon weeks ago and couldn’t wait for it to come out. And then she goes ahead and does an event at my favorite bookstore! I used to come here almost every weekend in college.”

  Her heart rate slows down. What should she ask about next? Every word matters. Everything about him matters.

  “Yes, your love of bookstores is endearing, Samuel.”

  “Shut up! I can’t believe you heard her call me that.”

  “I think a lot of people did.” He gives Simran a knowing smile. It makes her want to tell him about everything. India. Nani. Her mother still being in Baltimore. That she’s gotten a better idea about what she wants to do with her life.

  For a split second, she wonders what it would be like to be engaged to Neil. Would they be one of those annoying couples who posts too much on Facebook? Would she discuss his proposal with anyone who would listen? Would they always be giddy, counting down to their wedding?

  She snaps back to reality and grabs Kunal’s hand.

  Neil looks at Simran and laughs. “And by the way, I told you about this event, too.”

  “Did you?” Kunal asks, offering his contribution for the night.

  “Oh yeah. I forgot about that,” Simran says to both of them.

  Kunal peers at her. “Really? You forgot he told you?”

  “Yes, I really did,” Simran says, before turning back to Neil. “We should go.”

  Only a dozen or so people are left in the room. Laura is now mingling, a glass of champagne in her delicate hand, her smile fixed and ready for photographs. Simran watches her eyes meet them. She walks over. Neil introduces her to Kunal and Simran. Simran freezes in the way she always does when she’s up close to someone fabulous and successful.

  “We’re going to that spot I love on Irving,” Laura says t
o Neil. “You’re coming, right?”

  Neil shrugs. “I hadn’t decided yet.”

  “You have to!” Laura slings her arms around Neil’s waist, grazes his shoulder with her freshly blown-out hair. “And you know it’s close to my apartment.”

  Neil turns red, as though he doesn’t receive this type of attention from women all the time.

  Then Laura links her fingers through his and gives his hand a tight squeeze.

  Of course they’re together. Of course he’d be enamored of a woman like her. She’s still vivacious and alluring even when she can’t finish her sentences. Simran pictures their matching Warby Parker glasses on his nightstand, and her stomach twists into a knot.

  She waves a quick goodbye to Laura and Neil. Kunal has already turned around.

  Kunal and Simran don’t talk on the elevator ride to the ground floor. Once they’re outside, they walk to the corner of Thirteenth and Broadway to hail a cab. If this was any other night, she would have suggested they get dessert from Max Brenner’s or take a walk around Union Square.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that would happen.”

  “Whatever,” he mutters.

  “You know that, right? I didn’t know and I am sorry. Please let’s not let this ruin our night. We’ve come so far with therapy, even you said that, and I don’t want to go backward.”

  “This isn’t about going backward. It was right in front of us. I saw the way you looked at him, talked to him. Fucking ridiculous.”

  Simran shakes her head and whispers no, but she is unable to elaborate any further, because he’s right. Being around Neil puts her in a state of awe and ease at the same time.

  “Everything was fine, more than fine, before he stepped into the picture,” Kunal says. “We were on our way to planning our wedding, our lives, and then he comes and shits all over it.”

  Simran looks up at him. “I thought that, too, but there were a lot of things we needed to work on. And now we are.”

  She can’t deny that in one way or another, Neil made her question everything in her life, that everything that seemed secure started to feel out of place, that a new restlessness took shape.

  A group of tourists pass them and snap photos on large Canon cameras of the Empire State Building in the distance. Some of them start to sift through the books in the three-dollar bin.

  “You can’t talk to him again,” Kunal says. “Ever.”

  “I don’t need you to set rules with me, Kunal. I wasn’t planning to talk to him. We haven’t communicated since before I went to India.”

  “So then we’re clear, right? You’re not going to talk to him again.”

  “I’m not going to talk to him again.”

  Saying it out loud makes her limbs heavy. She will never talk to Neil Desai again. She can’t.

  “Fine.” Kunal shoves his large hands into his shorts pockets. “I was actually going to bring that up in therapy next week.”

  “You were going to discuss Neil during therapy?”

  “Well, yeah, him and just the general question of how we want to handle people who may be a threat to our relationship.”

  “Who are these so-called people besides him?” Simran scans every other guy in her life and can’t figure out who he’s referring to.

  A cab slows down for them and they both shake their heads. It joins the swelling traffic.

  Kunal stares at a cigarette butt on the sidewalk. “In Costa Rica, Rekha told me she had feelings for me.”

  Simran’s head jerks up. “What? Rekha told you what?”

  “That she’s liked me for a while.”

  “When during your trip was this?”

  He keeps staring at the cigarette butt. “On the last day.”

  “You’re kidding,” Simran says.

  Kunal shakes his head. “I was so thrown off guard. I mean, she just blurted it out, and I told her she was confused because of everything I’ve helped her out with. And she said sorry. She knew you and I were having problems and she felt bad about trying to take advantage of the situation. I told her it was fine an—”

  “You told her it was fine? Fine that she told you she’s been in love with you this entire time?”

  He holds up a palm. “No, it was fine that she mistook our friendship for something more. It happens. And she said I was right. That she was sorry. And”—he faces her and takes a deep breath—“she kissed me.”

  “She what?!”

  “After she told me. In Costa Rica. I pushed her away.”

  “And you’re telling me this now?” Simran wraps her arms across her belly. Sweat starts to form on her palms, under her arms. Simran pictures the selfie of them at the restaurant in Costa Rica, the hopeful look in Rekha’s eyes. She tries to imagine the moment between her fiancé and Rekha. She wants to know everything about their kiss. She wants to know nothing about their kiss.

  “I told her she can’t do or say anything like that with me ever again. She was really drunk, so I wasn’t even sure if it registered. And then, after we came back to New York, she called me and said the same things again.”

  “Is that why she called you multiple times that night I was over there? When you got back?”

  “She kept trying to reach me to talk.” Kunal nods. “I listened to her voicemails the next day and told her we can’t be friends anymore.”

  “I don’t even know what to say. . . .” Simran says as she wonders why she didn’t bring the missed calls up until now. Maybe a part of her knew and didn’t want to acknowledge the truth.

  He grabs Simran’s arm. “I really did push her away. I promise.”

  “I believe you.” Simran waits for pangs of jealousy or anger to arrive. But she feels nothing. She can’t even cry. Instead, she finds herself feeling sorry for Rekha. Simran knows what it’s like to be intrigued and comforted by Kunal, his self-assured way of always having a plan and solution for everything.

  She waits for herself to yell, but it doesn’t happen.

  Instead, her voice is steady as she says, “Well, thanks for telling me.”

  “I wanted to and just didn’t know the right time.” He steps closer to her for a hug. “Let me grab a cab for us.”

  She puts out her hand. “I need to be by myself tonight.”

  “Seriously?” Kunal asks. “You’re not going to come back with me? You’re going to be like that?”

  A few months ago, that type of questioning would have made Simran retract her statement. No, she’d have said. I’ll get over my emotions and do what you ask.

  But now, she holds her ground. “I have a lot on my mind right now. I just need some space.”

  “What’s on your mind? Are you upset because of what I just told you?”

  “No, not just that. There are other things.”

  “You’re different, Simran. You know that? You’ve changed,” he says.

  Simran takes a few seconds to repeat his words in her head. “You’re right. I am. And I’m fine right now. Really. I just need some space.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Kunal takes that as enough reassurance to not probe any further, which only confirms that Simran made the right decision. It doesn’t matter how much therapy they get. He still doesn’t know when she needs him to try.

  Simran tells Kunal goodbye as she steps into a cab. She asks the driver to stop only three blocks later. She needs to walk the twenty blocks to her apartment, bleed into the city. She gazes down Park Avenue, where everything is visible for miles, as if someone unrolled Manhattan like a giant carpet.

  As she walks uptown, she thinks about the shifts in her life. Six months ago, everything was set. Stable. Nani was healthy. She and Kunal were excited to plan their wedding. She was ready to become a therapist. Her parents were thrilled that their kids were
finally going to be settled in their own lives. Her mother seemed okay, or rather, the same as always. But at least she was home. Simran had good friends, a good fiancé, a good future job, a good life.

  So, why has everything unraveled? All that time, trying to measure up to who she thought she was supposed to be. If she was a better granddaughter, maybe she could have helped Nani, encouraged her to get treatment when there was still time. She should have taken the initiative to help her get established as a teacher years ago. She knew that Nani was living alone and didn’t know how to ask for help, but she chose not to get involved.

  And her relationship with Kunal already felt like it was calming down. They fought, yes, but it was the type of harmless banter she thought accompanied all couples who were in long-term relationships. Would they be in the same place if she hadn’t met Neil? Neil, the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about, who is now dating one of the most talented writers she knows. What was the point of everything they went through?

  And what about grad school? Dad was right. She was on the home stretch when she quit. She could have pushed through for a few more months. It wouldn’t have been the worst thing to have a job she liked enough.

  Then there’s her mother. Simran thought Mom knew she could always rely on her. But maybe Mom was hoping for this departure long before Dr. Dalton got in touch with her and Kunal proposed. Maybe she knew, after her first marriage, that tradition wasn’t for her, but she didn’t have another choice, until now. But still, how could she just leave? Was everything Simran did enough to push her over the edge?

  Simran so wants to be that type of carefree woman who takes things as they come without overthinking. But she still can’t figure out if everything happened because she was too immature to appreciate what she had or because it was all wrong for her. What she does know is that there’s a gradual gnawing occurring inside her, a sense that there’s more to this than she understands.

  It starts to rain once she’s on Twenty-Ninth Street. The streetlights blur and change sizes under the water, turning her surroundings into a giant kaleidoscope. The subway is a thunderstorm under the sidewalk. Wind tunnels through the street, like a harsh truth, and she’s hit with nostalgia, not for a particular place or time but for the woman she no longer is.