by Saumya Dave
No, it’s fine to be open and real, she tells herself.
Every time she’s vulnerable at work, something in her mind tells her to dial it back, make sure that she’s not doing anything that could risk her being taken seriously.
“I’m sure your family has been doing a lot,” Konny says. “Really. My parents won’t even tell people I’m a psychiatrist because they’re so embarrassed. Some of my aunts still beg me to consider becoming a ‘real’ doctor.”
“Ugh, I’ve heard that before,” Suhani says. “I know my dad did all the time in India and here.”
“Gotta love that immigrant mentality, right?” Konny laughs. On her end, Suhani hears residents typing and talking. “We still have so much work to do as a community when it comes to openly discussing these types of things.”
“We really do,” Suhani says. “I think there’s so much of this idea that having to see a mental health professional means parents have failed in some way. And that really isn’t the case.”
Suhani thanks Konny for everything. After they hang up, she checks her text messages, then her e-mail.
Still no response from Zack.
A few hours later, in between her therapy cases, she goes to visit Natasha. Even as she’s using her key to get into the ward, a part of her still can’t process that her own sister is in one of these rooms, rooms that she’s been in dozens of times.
Natasha’s room is at the end of the hallway.
It’s going to be strange seeing Natasha in the gray scrubs and nonslip socks Suhani’s seen on patients for years. She braces herself for all of it and commands herself to stay calm.
But when she peeks inside Natasha’s room, the first thing she sees is her sister asleep under the thin covers, her chest rising and falling.
My Nani. Suhani clenches her fists and presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth, her go-to moves to ensure she doesn’t cry. The truth fills her like water in her lungs. Despite everything she and Natasha have been through, Suhani wasn’t able to stop her from getting to a place this low.
That can’t really be her sister right here, in the psych ward where she works. No, it has to be someone else who happens to have the same unruly hair and chipped nails. Her sister belongs in her apartment. Suhani would give anything to find Natasha on her couch, wearing her clothes, drinking her wine. It’s funny how when things fall apart, all you want back are the parts of someone that used to annoy you.
As Suhani leaves the ward, Shelly calls out to her from the nursing station. “Dr. Joshi! You doin’ okay?”
Suhani shrugs. “Taking it one day at a time. I’m so grateful Natasha has you as her nurse.”
“Oh, she’s just wonderful!” Shelly smiles. “And popular! She’s already had people drop in to visit. Your parents, brother, her friends called and asked when they can come and oh! That new neurologist, the Indian one, I forget his name . . . he stopped by to see her, too.”
Suhani freezes. There must be some mistake. But then she knows there’s not. This is exactly the type of thing Roshan would do.
“Dr. Shah?” She asks, thankful Shelly is oblivious to her reaction. “He saw Natasha here?”
“Ah, yes!” Shelly nods. “Dr. Shah. He had a consult here and said he wanted to check on her.”
Before Shelly can say anything else, Suhani says she has to go. She takes quick steps out of the ward and lingers in the quiet hallway. She presses her palms against the wall as a knot of panic forms behind her sternum. Her hands start to shake. Deep breaths. She has to take deep breaths. There’s an ice machine at the end of the hallway and she’s reminded of a grounding exercise she’s suggested to patients but never tried before. She presses the green button on the machine. Once the frozen pebbles fall into her hands, she closes her eyes and focuses on the cold feeling taking over her. The temperature and tactility of the act pull her back to the present.
Before she can talk herself out of it, she types the text to Roshan that she should have years ago.
I know we went through a lot. But none of that matters anymore. I’ve moved on and you need to do the same. That means staying away from me and anyone I care about. I wish you all the best.
When she sends the message, she’s surprised that instead of anger, she feels a surge of stillness. She always thought avoidance would eventually give her a sense of closure. But all along, she needed to face what they went through and give herself the space to heal.
Her pager emits the loud beep, beep, beep of an urgent message.
Doctor, Natasha is awake and asking for you. Shelly
Suhani goes back to the ward, ready to see her sister.
Twenty-Four
Bina
Ishould have canceled the meeting today.”
“No way!” Devi yells through the phone. “Everyone’s there. And you can’t let all of the work Deepak, Suhani, and Anuj did go to waste!”
“They did do a lot of work,” Bina agrees as she opens the Chats Over Chai Instagram page Anuj set up. She already has more than one thousand followers. Over the past weeks, Deepak and Suhani have been teaching her about group therapy and helped her make an agenda for the meetings so they’re more structured.
“Exactly,” Devi says. “Plus, you can’t visit Natasha for another few hours, anyway.”
Bina breathes a sigh of relief at hearing Devi’s voice. She had offered to take the next flight from Los Angeles when she heard Natasha was admitted to the psych ward. But Bina insisted there was no need. When she told Devi about today’s Chats Over Chai meeting, Devi said she’d be there on FaceTime.
“She must be so scared, all alone in that place.” Bina shakes her head. “I hate that they only allow visitors once a day there. Even Deepak and Suhani told me that was better for her but it doesn’t feel right.”
“I know it’s hard not to worry. But she’ll be okay. The girl is tough, like her mother,” Devi says with a wink. Devi can get away with things like winks and curse words in ways other people can’t. She looks the same as always in a bright-yellow dress and black biker jacket with gold trim. Her hair has streaks of dark red from her routine henna-dying treatments.
“Well, according to this, her mother is leading a cult.” Bina picks up this morning’s edition of Samachar in America. “Bipin strikes again! How am I even supposed to face these women after this?”
Ma was right all along when she said a reputation is like glass, transparent and easily shattered. Maybe Bina never should have done this.
She waits for Devi to tell her that she understands how humiliating this must be and not to worry, everyone will get over it and move on.
But Devi crosses her arms and stares at Bina like a disappointed teacher. Two frown lines are between her eyebrows. “Bina, you’re kidding me, right?”
She doesn’t have a trace of the Indian accent that coated her monologues when she and Bina used to perform together.
“Excuse me?” Bina asks.
“Excuse you, is right,” Devi says as she adjusts the gold pendant on her necklace. “You’re still so scared about what people will think.”
“No, I’m not!”
Devi tilts her head and gives Bina a look that says, Don’t bullshit me. “The Bina I knew was obsessed with her husband and didn’t give a rat’s ass about what anybody would say when she decided to run away with him and ruin her relationship with her parents.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Bina interjects. “I did care.”
“Of course you cared about your parents’ feelings. But you still did what you had to do. And you were unapologetic about it. Now you’re getting upset over some patriarchal bullshit and worried what a group of women in your living room are going to think about it. A group of women who are here because they value you and what you have to say!”
“It just feels wrong to be doing something like this”—Bina motions to t
he living room, where everyone has been waiting to start the meeting—“when my child is suffering. It feels as though I’ve done so much wrong for things to end up this way.”
“We’ve all made mistakes as parents. Sure, Natasha has struggled. But let me tell you something about her.” Devi’s voice is gentle but firm. “She’s a fighter. Why do you think she wants to figure things out in her own way? Does that remind you of anyone? Someone who, I don’t know, told several rich, arrogant guys to screw themselves because she was going to marry this sensitive sweetheart?”
Bina nods, but inside, she looks back at her younger self and wonders, Did I really do that? Was I really that bold and full of hope?
“Your kids are loving, empathetic, strong kids,” Devi says. “And there’s a reason you’re going to go in there and get this done. You needed fulfillment from someplace other than your family. You always did. And as much as you tried to ignore it or convince yourself that you’d find enough by being everything to everyone at home, it wasn’t enough for you. And that’s okay.”
Bina’s stomach seesaws. “Then why doesn’t it feel okay?”
“The guilt,” Devi says. “You’ve been carrying around so much guilt ever since you had to let go of acting. It’s as though you think you have to suffer in some way. But you don’t, Bina. You really don’t.”
Devi’s words hang in the air. She stares at Bina with an intense focus. Bina can’t help but compare the chemistry she has with Devi, one that almost seems rooted in magic, to what she has with Anita, something that’s made more of circumstance and convenience. Both are valid in their own right. And both bring out different things in her. She wonders what would happen if Anita were to ever move away. Would they be able to pick up right where they left off on yearly visits and weekly phone calls, or would they get absorbed into their new lives?
“I’m telling you this because I love you,” Devi says. “And I don’t want you to do the same thing your mom did to you. I don’t want you to pass down bitterness and guilt and some fixation on how you’re ‘supposed’ to be.”
Bina feels the sting of sadness. Devi is totally right. She has internalized her own mother’s disapproval and unforgiving standards. And she’s given them to her kids in different ways.
“This group you’re hosting is about being honest and vulnerable, right?” Devi asks. “What about putting that into practice with Natasha? Telling her about what happened in India?”
“What? I can’t do that! It’s not relevant to my, our, life at all anymore. . . .” Bina’s voice becomes soft. “And I don’t even know how she’d handle it.”
Bina drifts back to when she emptied the bottle of pills into the toilet. She cried with relief as the tornado of water swirled and swallowed them all. She was going to be okay. She could put this part of her life behind her and never deal with it again.
“At least think about it. And in the meantime, maybe you can take up my offer to send her here. She’ll love it.” Devi points her phone toward the beach. Waves tumble onto the shoreline. A group of teenagers are playing volleyball.
“Maybe I need to send myself there.” Bina laughs.
“Come with her. But I’m telling you, this internship is a real opportunity,” Devi says, referring to a position that opened up on one of the late-night shows.
“But it barely pays!”
Devi scoffs. “It’s not about the money at first in these industries, Bina. This is a chance for Natasha to learn and really get to know people in her field. At least tell her when you go see her.”
Bina nods, even though she’s unsure how she feels about letting Natasha move across the country to pursue a career that’s so risky, so full of rejection.
“I guess we should start this meeting.” Bina picks up her phone. “I’m sure everyone’s already had a chance to get their food and mingle a little.”
“Yes! Take me in there with you and let me be a part of the type of meeting only you, Bina Joshi, can lead.”
Bina pours chai into her favorite teacup, bone china adorned with a giant pink rose and a gilded rim. Queen Elizabeth’s face is on the inside. The tea set is the only thing Bina took from Ma’s house after she passed away.
“I just heard about the Samachar in America piece! We have to put a stop to this. Bipin Bhai is out of control!” Mira comes marching into the kitchen as though she’s preparing to go to war. “Who does he think he is?”
“He’s a very respected person in our community. And on the board of the biggest newspaper for South Asians in America,” Bina says. “Remember all that?”
“He still needs to be put in his place.” Mira raises a clenched fist in the air. Her giant emerald ring catches a glint of light.
“I agree with you,” Bina says. “But let’s have our meeting first and then we can figure out Bipin’s takedown.”
“Okay, fine.” Mira nods as if Bina suggested Mira grab some more crackers, not plot a friend’s demise. Mira shoves her hands into the pockets of her cashmere leopard-print cardigan, something she definitely bought after it was featured on Pooja’s Instagram page. She can complain all she wants about Pooja’s posts, but it’s obvious to everyone that she’s obsessed with everything Pooja puts out there.
They go back into the living room. Thirty women are sitting on the couches and floor. Thirty! Maybe Bipin inadvertently helped her spread the word about this. Oh, the irony! Even though Bina had told Mira and Mona it was fine to bring anyone interested in attending the meeting, she didn’t realize there would be this many women here today. She barely made enough food and makes a mental note to stick to her rule about only serving chai. A woman Bina doesn’t even recognize has two plates stacked with spicy paneer tacos and pesto, mozzarella, and artichoke naan pizzas.
The naan pizzas make Bina ache for the kids. Whenever Deepak had weekend calls, Bina made those for dinner. It was the only meal she allowed them to eat while watching a movie. Natasha usually got upset that she didn’t pick the movie, Anuj sulked with his pizza, and Suhani told them both to get over it. Bina would scarf down her own pizza and then mediate the kids’ fights for a solid hour. She used to fantasize about the moment she’d finally have weekends to herself, but now she’d give anything for one of those rambunctious nights.
What should she have done differently back then? Could one conversation or compassionate statement have made the difference? If Bina was more patient, happier with the life she got, and not constantly wondering about the one she could have had, would Natasha not be on a psychiatric ward right now? Would Suhani be more at peace? And would she know Anuj better?
“Sheesh.” Mona shakes her head as she picks up the latest issue of Samachar in America. “You’re certainly making waves in Atlanta, aren’t you, Bina?”
The rest of the women laugh, some with nervousness, others with amusement. It only now occurs to Bina that that may be why some of them are here: to see the scandalous woman with their own eyes.
“She did always want to make an impact on a big scale,” Devi says. “Remember our Bina here walked away from a career in Bollywood.”
Mira stares at Devi on the screen as if she’s some exotic installation at the High Museum. Bina almost wants to shake her and say, Yes, she’s divorced AND teaches screenwriting AND goes on dates with men she sometimes invites back home! Would you like to interview her about any of those things?
“Cultlike!” Mona shakes her head in disbelief as she reads the article on her phone. “I still can’t believe this is how they’re describing you!”
The word echoes in Bina’s mind. Cult. Cult. Cult.
But as she watches the women read the story, she knows they’re right to be upset. Is this what she gets for trying to organize something that makes a small difference? Is this how she’s going to get treated after years—years!—of putting on community events, bringing people together, finding ways to give back?
&nbs
p; Bina received a slew of Facebook messages after the first Samachar in America piece.
They fell into one of two categories:
Those who agreed with Bipin and thought Bina was a culture killer and a danger to South Asian women everywhere
Those who thought Bina was doing exactly what she needed to “teach these chauvinistic jerks a lesson” or “show the men who’s boss” or, her personal favorite, “tell them to stick it where the sun don’t shine”
(Who even thought of that phrase? It’s quite clever. At first, with the sun reference and all, it seems innocent, but then when you put it together it actually—)
“Bina!” Mona’s voice snaps her back to reality. “You were saying that we need to focus on why we are meeting here today.”
“Right. Our topics for today are invisible labor and boundaries,” Bina says. “And as a reminder, we are here to have meaningful group discussions about things that interest us and may usually be hard to talk about. As much as I’d love to discuss the article, we are not going to use our precious time together to start some riot against Bipin Bhai or anyone else who doesn’t support what we’re doing here.”
Bina watches women put their phones facedown in front of them or tuck them into their purses. Within a few minutes, everyone is quiet and facing her.
She’s ready to start.
Twenty-Five
Natasha
Group therapy is sort of cheesy but, overall, not that bad. Natasha has been going every day for the past week. Today there are eight patients, including Natasha, sitting around a wooden table. Dr. Chan and another psychiatry resident, Dr. Murphy, moderate the group.
“Just reminding everyone that anything we share in here is confidential,” Dr. Chan says.
Brooke, a blond girl whose spunk and petite build remind Natasha of Kristen Bell, raises her hand. She has a habit of ending all her sentences with a high pitch, so they sound like questions. “Does anyone else think it’s hard to see your family when you’re in this place? It’s like, I get bored and lonely and stuff, but then it’s weird to be with my mom and get reminded of how she doesn’t get it.”