Well-Behaved Indian Women

by Saumya Dave

  Ranjit steps into the room, and they gaze at each other, a heavy silence falling over them.

  “So, how are you?” she asks as she removes her reading glasses.

  “Just fine,” he scoffs, and closes the door. “You haven’t asked me that since you came home.”

  “You haven’t, either,” she says.

  “I’m not the one who left.” Although his voice has its same characteristic low volume, there’s an edge to his tone. He’s always been able to keep a straight face while saying charged words. She’s seen him give bad news to patients and their families in the same manner.

  The computer screen is dark. She wiggles the mouse. “You’re right. You’re not the one who left. Is that why you came in here? To talk about that?”

  “I don’t know. Are you back for good? Or is this just a nice pit stop?”

  “Are you going to keep making sarcastic comments like that, Ranjit? If you are, it’s better that we talk later.”

  Ranjit crosses his arms and doesn’t say anything. His way of conveying he’ll do his best not to be sarcastic anymore.

  “And, yes.” Nandini leans back in the leather chair. “I’m back . . . for good . . . and we should talk about things.”

  “Please.” He extends his arms like a gracious host. “Be my guest.”

  She mentally runs through the discussion she and Simran had on the car ride back from the city. “I shouldn’t have left without telling you.”

  “Okay. . . .” He sits in the big blue armchair and puts the envelope on the windowsill.

  “I’m sorry for that. I am. I was frustrated about a lot of things, at work and here, and instead of just running away, I should have at least tried to talk to you.”

  Ranjit raises his eyebrows. He knows how proud his wife is, how proud they both are, how difficult it is to say things like this. They’ve never discussed their emotions in this manner.

  “There’s a lot . . . a lot . . . that went on before Baltimore, not to mention in Baltimore. It’s been hard. Harder than I anticipated.”

  “Well, trust me, it hasn’t been easy around here, either,” he says.

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? Do you really realize that?”

  “Yes,” she says, but he doesn’t seem to hear her, or care, because he turns away from her and says, “Our children and I had no idea what was going on, you quit your job, you think you’re too good to let anybody know any details. Really, what kind of a grown woman behaves that way? And thinks it’s okay?”

  “I didn’t think it was okay,” she says.

  “Sure you did. You thought it was okay enough to do it.”

  “Did you ever stop to think what point I had to be at to do what I did? It’s not like I’m the kind of woman who does this all the time.”

  He gives her a knowing look, and she gives him one back that says, Do not go there. Do not talk about my ex-husband, because you know this is different.

  “Are you going to keep being like this?” She peers at him.

  “Like what?”

  “You know what. It’s not helping anything.”

  “Oh, so you get to walk out without saying a damn word, but God forbid I have a reaction.”

  Nandini clenches her fist under the desk. “Of course you’re allowed to have a reaction,” she tells him.

  What she doesn’t say is that his reaction is surprisingly refreshing. For the past few years, she thought they had both become victims of apathy. But if that was ever true, wouldn’t she be at fault? She sees now that she should have put her husband first when they were married, instead of prioritizing their families and everyone’s expectations. Yes, it was the arranged-marriage mentality—when you marry the person, you marry the family—but by putting everyone else’s needs first, she neglected him. Them.

  She stares at her husband now. He stands and looks out the library window, at the road he took when he left Simran and Kunal’s engagement party. She later found out he parked outside of the 7-Eleven for several hours.

  They don’t talk for another few minutes.

  Ranjit sits back down on the armchair. “Nandini, Simran told me about Greg. That’s awful.”

  She nods and stares at the silver keyboard. Greg was gone, and in the worst way. The one person who believed she could be somebody, maybe even somebody great.

  “Yes, well, I’m sure he’s in a better place,” she says, not believing her own words as they emerge.

  “Still, I know that had to be extremely hard for you.”

  “Simran told you about that, too?” she asks.

  Ranjit smiles for the first time since they’ve been speaking. It’s clear Simran told him everything.

  Ranjit snickers. “Do you think she’ll stay this involved after she’s married?”

  “Who knows? Remember when we were unsure whether her wedding was going to happen?”

  “I know!” Ranjit says. “I was worried there for a while, but I guess they worked everything out. No, I don’t guess, I know. I mean, clearly they must have, if they’ve already booked the caterer, photographer, and videographer. But who knows how these kids operate, right?”

  “Simran did all of those things herself? She didn’t mention that to me.”

  “She started while she was in India and then finalized everything this past month, since she’s been back.” He nods. “She researched all the options by herself and negotiated with the vendors. She even got a couple of better bargains than we did with Ronak! I just signed the checks. We made sure to discuss things with Pratik Bhai and Meghna Ben, because you know how they are. I know she wished you were a part of all that, though.”

  “I do, too,” she says as she rubs her forehead. “I’m just surprised she moved so . . . quickly. I wonder why she’d do that.”

  Months ago, this information would have excited her. Now, she refrains from saying that she doesn’t know whether to be proud or confused or worried. It doesn’t add up. Her daughter coordinated the most important details of her wedding in a rush? While Nandini wasn’t there? And after months of not planning anything?

  “So, you’re telling me that her wedding is still happening in nine months?”

  “Yes, and well, it’s always easier being the groom’s side. Look at how Ronak just showed up while Namita worked through everything. We didn’t realize how great we had it,” Ranjit says.

  “In a lot of ways,” he adds.

  They sidetrack into a discussion about Ronak and Namita’s lives, their jobs, their tiny apartment in Boston. It’s the easiest thing for them, to have their children as a default conversation topic. She used to mind it when they were younger, wished they could discuss other things, but now she finds it endearing. She now sees that over time, this is what a marriage becomes: a mixture of pride and gnawing resentment and comfort.

  “What is Simran going to do with her life?” Ranjit asks after they’ve covered everything about Ronak and Namita. “She still hasn’t found a stable job. She’s occasionally tutoring college kids for the GRE, so it’s something, but that’s not a real job. I told her we can’t keep helping her with her apartment rent. She’s going to have to figure out how to pay for that . . . and everything.”

  “What has she told you she wants to do?”

  Ranjit sighs. “Whenever I ask her, she says she’s still figuring it out, but I haven’t heard any indication that she’s actually trying. Do you think you should ask her?”

  “Why? Do you really think that’s going to help?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m concerned. What was she even doing for that entire time she was in India? And why isn’t she doing anything with her life now? She’s planning this wedding, but what comes after that?”

  Nandini listens to Ranjit’s concerns about Simran’s career. She hears her mother’s voice: men want one thing for their wives and
another for their daughters. Ranjit wants Nandini to have set hours, confined ambition, while Simran still has to be as professionally accomplished as possible.

  “I’ve wondered the same things,” Nandini says as she glances at the baby pictures of Simran and Ronak along the mantel. Her favorite one is of Ronak pinching a five-year-old Simran’s chubby cheeks. They’re both wearing Mickey Mouse hats. Splash Mountain is in the background. Nobody would guess from that picture that one child’s life would be a straight shot to traditional success while the other would stumble.

  Ranjit follows her gaze. “Do you think you’re setting the right example for her, by not forcing her to face reality?”

  Here we go again, she thinks. Just as I thought things could turn around.

  She stands up. “Am I setting the right example for her? Don’t you dare imply that I’ve done anything except set the best example for her. I’ve pushed her, encouraged her, been there for her. You know that.”

  She walks toward Ranjit and stands in front of him. “And I’ve done the best I can for myself. Maybe it hasn’t always worked out the way I wanted to . . . but I’ve tried.”

  She feels the pressure building behind her sternum. It was too much. Cramming all that information into her head for exams. Her ex-in-laws not allowing her to work when she was young and energetic and excited. Doing residency later, with years of living like a zombie because of the sleep deprivation and patient care and research in the name of being the best resident. All of that just to be burnt out at a family practice clinic, where she had to meet quotas and rush through patient visits and count down until her day was done. What was the point?

  Ranjit seems to read her mind as he says, “So, what now?”

  “What do you mean? With work?”

  He shrugs. “Sure . . . with work.”

  She throws her hands in the air. “I don’t know. Now that Greg’s . . . gone, I’m not sure if the department chair will try to push me out. I’ve been trying to establish myself, but maybe I need to make another plan.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  She shakes her head. “No, but I have to be realistic.”

  He walks to the windowsill and hands her the brown envelope he was carrying before.

  “What is this?” she asks.

  “Open it.”

  She extracts a thick wad of paper. She reads the top sheet.

  Nandini Mehta Lease Agreement

  She gives him a questioning glance.

  “Just read it,” he says, motioning to the paper.

  She grabs her reading glasses from the desk and sifts through the pages one at a time. When she’s finished, she keeps the envelope open. Ranjit is gazing at her, his face drawn into a question.

  She walks toward him. “You got me an apartment in Baltimore? Why?”

  He takes a deep breath. “Because you should have a decent place to go after you’re done with work. Not that tiny studio apartment that’s so far that you’ve been leasing. Simran said it’s a forty-minute drive from the hospital.”

  “And you . . . you’re okay with me having a permanent place there?”

  “I don’t know if I am now, but let’s see. I can come visit you, or you can come here, on the weekends.”

  “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I’ve had time to think. And because our daughter is way too involved in our business, yes, but she had a long talk with me.”

  They smile at each other. Sometimes she’d remember the American television shows she watched growing up, where husbands gave their wives roses and planned candlelit dinners and held hands. That’d be nice, she thought. But then the sentiment would pass, like a breeze, and she’d be fine.

  “What about your family?” she asks.

  “I told them this was my idea. And you know what? My brothers told Charu you’ve done a lot for all of them. You took care of our parents for all those years. And you still watch over everyone else, whether it was at your clinic here or during your free time.”

  She glances outside the window. “Well, that’s at least nice to hear.”

  “It’d be nice if you gave me the benefit of the doubt every once in a while.” Ranjt faces her, his brows furrowed. “You’re always so quick to criticize. You have this fixed idea in your head that I’m blind to my family’s faults, but that’s not true. I know, more than anyone else, that they can be a lot for you.”

  Nandini considers this. Of course he would know the frustrations of his own family. But hearing him say it, for the first time since she’s met him, stirs something deep inside her. It is a force that can only come from discovering a new part of the man she’s known for years.

  “I felt so taken for granted,” she says. “As if all of this is expected from me. And it never mattered whether I was exhausted or fed up or wanted to do something for myself.”

  She continues to vent. He listens to her without saying anything. Simran had once told her she learned about a technique called motivational interviewing in one of her psychology classes. It was based on the idea that with the right circumstances, people could change, but it always had to come from within them. Marriages unravel and come back together for all types of reasons, but maybe this is just what she and Ranjit needed.

  The right circumstances.

  Seventeen

  Simran

  Penis lollipops. Perfect,” Sheila says, holding up a black plastic bag with lollipops in neon colors.

  “Ha, you’re ridiculous. I veto any more phallic-shaped purchases. The giant inflatable penis with a freaking grin on its tip—head—is going to be embarrassing enough.” Simran puts the lollipops back on the shelf, next to the other penis party favors: balloons, necklaces, cake toppers.

  Sheila and Simran continue to fill their baskets with an array of bachelorette party goodies. They buy ice-breaker cards that have sexual innuendos (what else?), streamers that spell out Simran’s name, and gift bags for everyone attending. They leave the mall and load their bags into the trunk of Mom’s Mercedes.

  Thirty minutes later, they are at Sujata’s Salon, early for Simran’s hair and makeup trial. Sujata tells Simran that she’s finishing up with a client and asks her to sit in a black swivel chair. She offers them coffee, tea, or champagne. They take the champagne.

  Sheila pulls up a seat next to Simran. “So, can you believe we’re at your wedding hair and makeup trial?”

  Simran shakes her head. “It hasn’t really hit me. Maybe it only will during the actual weekend.”

  “How is it all going? It’s only seven months away!”

  Simran nods. Seven months is nothing. June will be here before she knows it. “Great. All of the big things are done, so now it’s just the typical little stuff. You know, like family inviting themselves over two weeks before any of the events, my parents and I snapping at each other but then being okay. That’s just what happens when there are too many strong personalities involved.”

  “I bet.” Sheila nods and takes a generous sip of her champagne. “How’s Kunal?”

  “He’s busy with school—has his semester finals coming up before winter break—so he can’t really be that involved. Which is fine, because he doesn’t give a shit about whether we have orchids or hydrangeas or whether our programs are folded in half or are just a single page.”

  “What about Kunal’s mom? How’s she with all of this?”

  “She’s fine.” Simran sighs. “I make it a point to call her every week and check in. She gives her opinion on everything and has all of these things she wants. She’ll probably send me over the edge during the ceremony. Or before.”

  “Damn, you really call her every week just to check in?”

  “I do,” Simran says.

  “Well . . . good for you!” Something seems to shift in Sheila’s eyes, but right as Simran looks at her, Sheila raises her
glass as though she’s giving a toast.

  “Yeah, I mean I see now that everything she does comes from being lonely and scared,” Simran says. “It’s kind of simple when I look at it objectively. She loves her son. She’s scared of losing him.”

  “Well, I’m sure your parents appreciate you putting in that effort for your future in-laws.”

  “They do. And we’re ready for our India shopping trip next month, over Kunal’s winter break. His parents are joining us for a part of it.” Simran gives Sheila a look that says, God help me.

  “That’ll be . . . interesting.”

  “Yeah,” Simran says, her voice trailing off as she pictures the inevitable awkwardness of sitting in sari shops with Mom and Meghna Auntie, all of them sipping Thums Up as men unfold yards of fabric.

  Then Simran thinks of the fact that her mother didn’t have any such shopping trips. She was just asked whether she wanted a cotton or silk sari. Simran wonders if during her first or second marriage, Mom felt that things were about to change too quickly.

  “But,” Simran continues, “I do have to say that Kunal’s stepped up in terms of dealing with her and his dad. We made this agreement in therapy that we would be the ones to communicate with our own parents instead of having each other do it.”

  “Wow, that’s a big step. You’re so, I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’?”

  Sheila shrugs. “You’re so consumed with all of this. Way more than I thought you’d be.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just different from the way I thought you’d be. And at least you’re both over all the other crap from the past year,” she says.

  Simran had told Sheila about how they saw Neil at the Strand. What she didn’t tell Sheila is how, since then, his face has appeared during the most random moments. While she and her parents are making an Excel spreadsheet. During their reception food tasting. While she sits on the subway and sees an almost version of him in glasses and a checked button-down with a messenger bag.