Well-Behaved Indian Women

by Saumya Dave

  “Do you want anything else?”

  Simran shakes her head. She’s sitting in one of her favorite restaurants, alone, and leaving for India in three days. She shouldn’t want anything else.

  Simran scrolls through her text messages. She and Kunal haven’t spoken in two weeks, since he showed up at her apartment in the middle of the night. She tried to push him away after they started kissing, but they hooked up.

  Simran forced him to leave right after.

  When she told him not to contact her again, she sounded self-assured and stern, but really, since then, her sleep has been interrupted with dreams about him.

  She’s managed to delete his number and unfriend him on Facebook. With just one click, someone went from being the biggest part of her life to being a virtual stranger.

  Sometimes, Simran misses the worn-out feel and citrus whiff of Kunal’s freshly laundered cotton T-shirts. It doesn’t help that she sees signs of Kunal everywhere: in one guy with bushy eyebrows on the subway, another hailing a cab in teal scrubs, and more in copies of the Atul Gawande books he always read.

  But now, his texts make her more angry than relieved. She hates him for making her break up with him, and she hates him even more for not fighting when it mattered. She hates him for having all her high school and college years, for her history to be woven and stored with him. Eventually, she accepts that maybe a lot of her, even most of her, can hate him, but there are certain pieces that never will.

  She tries to focus on her cappuccino and the buzz of people eating and conversing around her. When that doesn’t work, she flips through the tabloid and tries not to hate herself for picking it up in the first place.

  There’s a picture of Jennifer Lopez and Alex Rodriguez drinking at the Soho House, another of John Legend and Chrissy Teigen walking down Fifth Avenue. There was a recent event at the Whitney Museum and a Dalí-themed cocktail night at the MoMA. A list of “50 Things You Must Do in NYC” is after the featured events. Simran should probably try to do something from there before she goes to India.

  At the back of the magazine, there’s a gossip column about noteworthy New Yorkers.

  And that’s when she sees Neil’s face.

  A thumbnail of his head shot is in the lower left corner, under a section titled “The 5 Most Eligible Bachelors in New York. Turn the page for more!”

  She listens to the magazine and turns the page.

  Neil’s wearing his thick black glasses, a navy blue shirt, and a gray blazer. His face is twisted into a smirk, which deepens the wrinkles around his eyes.

  Bachelor # 1

  Name: Neil Desai

  Job title: New York Times op-ed columnist

  How do you respond to rumors stating you are already in a relationship?

  I am dating at the moment. Nothing serious, though.

  What are you looking for in a significant other?

  Sense of adventure, creativity, someone willing to go against convention.

  What is hardest part about dating in NYC?

  People don’t present their true selves until date ten (if even then). That and the exhausting dating apps.

  What is your biggest turn-on and turn-off?

  Turn-on: someone who is kind to people who can do nothing for her, i.e., Uber drivers, homeless musicians, etc. Turn-off: inability to commit.

  What was your biggest heartbreak?

  It’s hard to choose. I was engaged, but we both realized we wanted different things. And then I met someone who was already engaged, so we obviously wanted different things.

  What is the best part about living in NYC?

  All of the restaurants, of course!

  Any fun upcoming plans?

  I’m actually moving to China at the end of this month. I’ve been there on and off throughout the past year but just accepted a full-time offer in the Times office there. I’m looking forward to what’s ahead.

  Simran grips the edges of the page.

  I was engaged, but we both realized we wanted different things. And then I met someone who was already engaged, so we obviously wanted different things.

  Her heart rate increases as she opens a document she had started on her phone. It’s a letter to Neil, about everything that had happened between them. She tells him she’d never met anyone like him in her entire life and never would again. She tells him he made her realize everything she needed to change in her life. She tells him she’s sorry about the way things unfolded, that she needs some time to herself right now, but maybe, after she’s back from India next year, they can reconnect, see where things go.

  She reads the bottom of the article:

  Editor’s note: Until recently, Desai was working out of Hong Kong. He returned to New York City to host a series of panels on the changing face of journalism at NYU’s Skirball Center for the Arts. Meet him this week!

  Below, there are dates and times for the panels. All of them are preceded by a cocktail reception that anyone can attend for a “bargain deal” of one hundred dollars.

  She fishes out her credit card (this is her last month funded by her parents). She opens Safari on her iPhone to the NYU Skirball Center’s website and purchases a ticket for tomorrow night.

  * * *

  — —

  By the next evening, she’s already rehearsed everything she wants to tell Neil. She takes an extra-long shower, blow-dries and straightens her hair, and slips into the one-shoulder red dress that always makes her feel confident.

  Simran takes one last glance in her bathroom mirror. An internal tug tries to hold her back and urges her to keep life simple. But a larger part of her knows that this conversation was always going to happen.

  On the subway ride to the West Village, all she can think is Neil will be there, Neil will be there, Neil will be there. Her heels are starting to blister by the time she makes it to the auditorium. She reaches inside her purse, where she packed her compact, eyeliner, and lipstick for a quick touch-up before anything begins.

  Neil is already standing at the entrance. Simran used to worry her feelings for him came from the fact that she always viewed him in comparison to Kunal. But now, seeing him standing next to a side table, scrolling through something on his phone, she knows that they were a force of their own.

  Simran tilts her head down. Neil sees her before she’s even opened the glass door.

  “Oh, Simran,” he says. “Hey.”

  Her limbs are heavy and numb. “Hey.”

  “Nice dress.”

  “Thanks,” Simran says, thinking that he would notice a nice dress on a woman. “I like your outfit, too.”

  He’s wearing a gray linen suit, but his clean-shaven face and tousled hair make him seem young and vulnerable. Simran wishes they had known each other as kids.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” Simran says with a laugh, even though there’s nothing funny. She’s suddenly conscious of how sweaty she must look.

  People start to file into the lobby. Some of them make eye contact with Neil. Others rush for the hors d’oeuvres. Soft jazz music blasts through the speakers.

  Neil gives her a look that says, What are you doing here?, which makes her realize how out of place she must seem.

  She steadies her feet. “I, um, wanted to talk to you.”

  “To me?” he asks, pointing to himself. “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiles. “You came all the way here to talk? Why didn’t you just text or call?”

  Simran chuckles. Why didn’t she just text or call? “I don’t know. I thought I should try to see you in person.”

  “What’s this about?”

  Simran looks around them. “Do you think we could talk alone? Just for a little bit?”

  Neil looks as though he’s going to say no but then says, “Uh, sure.”r />
  He motions to a hallway on the other side of the floor. Simran takes deep breaths as they walk together. She has the same contradictory sense of anticipation and relief that she had when they met at Milk Bar.

  “So, what’s up?” he asks once they’re standing in an empty corner.

  They smile at a couple who walks off the elevator. A group of journalism students passes them and yells a hi to Neil. She can’t give him her entire rehearsed speech. He’s too in demand here.

  “So, I’m going back to India in a few days, but I couldn’t leave without te—”

  “Whoa, wait. You’re going back to India?”

  Simran nods. “I’ll explain that later. But first, I just had to talk to you about everything that happened between us. I’m sorry about the way I handled all of it. I really am so sorry. You caught me off guard in a way nobody ever has, and I didn’t know what to do, with Kunal, with my whole life, really.”

  Simran felt more when she first met Neil than she had after years of being with Kunal. Maybe genuine commitment involves always knowing that what you have with that person, in any moment, is better than any potential you could have with someone else.

  Simran is interrupted by someone yelling Neil’s name.

  Laura Martinez.

  “Why are you hiding back here?” Laura slips her arms around Neil’s waist.

  “I’ll be back there in a sec,” Neil says.

  Laura faces Simran. “You look familiar.”

  Simran manages to squeak, “We briefly met at your signing. I’m Simran.”

  “Right! Nice to see you again,” she says, giving Simran a genuine smile.

  “You too,” Simran says. “I should let you two get back to the event.”

  “No, don’t let me interrupt,” Laura says, and then faces Neil. “I just wanted you to know that all of the bedroom things are packed.”

  As Laura walks away, her nude Louboutin heels click against the floor.

  “You’re moving?” Simran asks. “New apartment?”

  Neil shuffles closer to her. “I’m starting a full-time position in China.”

  Simran’s pulse diminishes. “That’s great.”

  “And Laura’s coming with me.”

  Simran tries to speak, but nothing comes out. After what feels like a full minute, she stammers, “Oh, I didn’t realize, you were in a, that you and her, or you and anyone . . .”

  “We’ve been trying to keep it a secret. Her agent doesn’t want her to move. Thinks it’ll kill her career.”

  Simran clutches the sides of her torso. “That’s . . . great. I’m glad everything’s working out so well.”

  She catches a glimpse of who Neil was when they met, who Neil has always been. Guys like him give perfect girls their perfect endings.

  “Look, I’m happy for you. For both of us.” He leans in to give her an acquaintance-worthy half hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Yes . . . I am, too. And I owe you a lot, Neil. I really do.”

  Neil shakes his head. “You’ve done everything on your own. Keep me posted on how things pan out with your writing, okay? And best wishes with your engagement.”

  He offers his words in a way that’s both smooth and insincere. The same tone he probably uses at book signings or with people he secretly hates.

  But Simran nods anyway. “Of course. Thank you. It was good to see you.”

  Before Neil can say anything, Simran hurries down the hallway, never looking back. Once she’s at the subway, she whisks past the giant map with New York’s veinlike routes and takes an empty seat.

  She glances at her phone. It’s getting late. Neil’s probably on the panel by now. Maybe he and Laura will leave early and have sex in his now-empty apartment.

  It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. The train starts to chug and lights flash by, making Simran feel as though she’s in a giant disco ball. She takes three deep breaths and places her hands on her knees. For the first time in a long time, she feels it: an absence of pressure on her chest.

  Maybe this whole time, Simran was trying to establish a self to be proud of when, really, she is many different women at once. In one of her psychology classes, she learned about how people repress parts of themselves that get the least validation, but those parts still exist, waiting to reemerge. Now she can picture all of her selves having a glass of wine at a dimly lit bar.

  Simran arrives at her stop twenty minutes later but stays in her seat. The doors close, and she leans back. For the first time in a long time, she can’t wait to be home.

  Nandini

  “Dr. Mehta, does this look right?”

  Nandini turns around to face three internal medicine interns. The one who asked the question, Julia, is holding up an iPad screen that has a patient’s thyroid labs.

  Nandini scans the labs and then shifts her focus back to Julia. “Looks great. Which medication should we treat the patient with?”

  Julia’s eyes dart to her other co-residents. She runs her fingers over the bell of her stethoscope as she thinks about the right answer. A bead of sweat collects at the top of her forehead. For a second, Nandini regrets putting Julia on the spot. When she was being quizzed by attendings during her own residency, the public part of it was the worst. The fear that she’d humiliate herself in front of her colleagues. The worry that she didn’t study enough and everyone would realize she didn’t deserve to be there. Her mind often went blank, and sometimes she’d close her eyes, as if the answer would come to her out of nowhere. Thanks to Greg, over the years, she learned how to take a deep breath and trust herself.

  “It’s okay,” Nandini says now. “Take your time. We’re not in a rush.”

  Julia gives her a nervous smile. A few seconds later, she names the correct thyroid medication and starting dose.

  “Very good,” Nandini says.

  The residents follow her down the gray hallways, which are stained with fluorescent lighting. The linoleum floors are shiny. Various smells of sickness and healing permeate the air: vomit, metallic blood, rubbing alcohol, bandages. The hospital has become another home for her now, a place she navigates with ease.

  The rest of the morning is taken up with rounds, teaching residents at patients’ bedsides, and boring meetings about new hospital procedures. Despite the hectic pace, she’s learned to cherish her rituals, even her new morning ones. Spraying lavender oil onto her wrists and neck. Slipping into her low black heels. Taking out her crisp white coat from the crinkled dry-cleaning bag. Applying one coat of dark red lipstick, a gift from Yuwa. Scanning into the front entrance of the hospital with her ID badge. The contours of her new life have become familiar to her now.

  She is even getting used to coming home to an empty apartment, to not having to cook or visit people or return phone calls. All throughout her medical career, she would work and then come home to someone asking her what was for dinner or if she could go to the grocery store for peanut butter or when she would have a chance to examine someone’s headache. It kept her grounded in a way. Despite her gratitude, she still feels guilty now about being able to use her time solely for herself. Guilt is like that, though. It leaves a residue.

  “It really is over,” Nandini says to Mami on the phone later that night. “Simran isn’t getting married.”

  “You know it’s for the best,” Mami says. “You of all people should understand the danger of staying with somebody who is wrong for you.”

  “This is different,” Nandini says. “She dated him.”

  She listens to Mami lecture her about how it isn’t as different as it may seem, and even so, the times have changed.

  “Can you believe that the last time I spoke to Simran, she told me she’s proud of me? That she understands me more?”

  “I do believe that,” Mami says. “And you should, too.”

  “I don’t even know if s
he knows what she’s saying anymore. There’s just so much that has changed. With my daughter. My own family. My whole life,” Nandini says.

  She doesn’t tell Mami about the crying fits she’s had multiple times a week. Often, there is a trigger, like remembering something Greg had told her years ago or picturing his frail, limp body during his final days. It isn’t fair that he can’t be here. The hospital halls seem more subdued without him. And sometimes, she cries even when she isn’t thinking about him. It’s as though she is filled to the brim with an expansive, painful emptiness.

  “I think that despite all our worrying, things have turned out okay,” Mami says.

  “I hope so,” Nandini says, not believing her own words.

  She will always worry, no matter what. Anxiety, she’s realized, lives in the future. It’s about the what-ifs. She’s always struggled with this, but for the first time, she feels a sense of freedom and acceptance in this. It won’t ruin me.

  She lets Mami talk about everything else that’s on her mind: the latest gossip about Priyanka Chopra, her neighbor’s affair, and the accomplishments of the girls at school. She and her mother are closer now through long-distance phone calls than they were in all the years they spent together in India. Maybe in their family, the women come together only when they separated.

  She sits on the futon in her cold, sparsely decorated living room, feeling a sense of peace from the darkness and her mother’s voice.

  Twenty-One

  Simran

  Is this seat taken?” Sheila points to the chair next to Simran.

  Simran shakes her head. “Go ahead.”

  “I’m glad I got here early. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

  Simran holds out her palms. They’ve already had a few conversations about Sheila’s fresh engagement, and though they were supposed to be fun and exciting and everything else Simran would have imagined, there was still an underlying turbulence they both refused to acknowledge.