What a Happy Family

by Saumya Dave

  Maybe Anita struggled with the same. Anita would have been perfect for Ma in many ways. Bina wonders if that’s what drew her to Anita in the first place, a compelling cocktail of familiarity and history. The main reason their breakup was so difficult was because of its shock value. A friend isn’t supposed to leave.

  She turns to the text message that came to her phone last night.

  ANITA: Can we meet sometime?

  Bina responded right away. Of course.

  She’s not sure what to expect when they’re face-to-face. Things between them may not be the same ever again. But for now, all she can do is take it one day at a time.

  “Well, Gloria Steinem is a fitting nickname for you, seeing as you will be making a public speech soon.”

  Bina got the e-mail two weeks ago from TEDx asking her to speak about the power of women’s support groups.

  “I still can’t believe that’s happening,” Bina says. She’ll be on a stage. A real stage. It won’t be in the way she always envisioned, but that doesn’t make it any less satisfying. She spent so many years tied to one picture of fulfillment that until now, she didn’t allow it to take any other shapes.

  And Natasha’s helping her with her speech. Who would have thought that Bina’s middle child would be guiding her on how to captivate an audience? Then again, Natasha’s taught their whole family how to be more vulnerable. And maybe that’s the only way to truly get a sense of belonging with yourself and others.

  “Believe it! After all that crap, this is what you’re doing,” Mona yells. “Screw Bipin!”

  “Yes! Screw him!” Nita, Mona’s neighbor who recently joined the group, echoes Mona and adds a fist punch into the air.

  “Screw Bipin? Really?” a soft voice behind Bina asks.

  Bina turns around and is looking directly into her friend’s round eyes. “Kavita. Oh my God! What are you doing here? We’ve been so worried about you.”

  “We have!” Mira exclaims.

  “I got an apartment down the street.” Kavita’s manicured hand motions toward Peachtree Street.

  “You’re living alone in Midtown?” Bina asks. “Really?”

  “Really!” Kavita nods. “See? Your Devi isn’t the only one.”

  “Oh, she’d love to know that,” Bina says.

  “She already does. I’ve been talking to her over the past couple of weeks to figure this out,” Kavita says.

  “How did this work out for you? Are you okay?” Bina hugs her. Kavita’s smiling when she pulls away. Her eyes have a brightness to them, as if she just woke up from a good nap. “You look okay. No, more than okay. You look amazing! Let me see you!”

  “Let us all see you!” Mira exclaims as she and all the other women cluster around Kavita.

  Kavita does a slow, sheepish twirl as they all take note of her look. Emerald-green dress with a flared skirt. Sleek bob cut. Gold studs in her ears.

  Bina and Mira exchange a glance that means This calls for another whistle. They blow a series of whistles for the next several seconds.

  “Don’t hold back on us,” Mona commands. “How did you do it? What did Bipin Bhai say?”

  “I just told him the truth, the way I should have years ago.” Kavita taps her brown heels into the grass. “Sonam helped me a lot. I kept telling myself I was staying because of the children. But my children were aware of everything. And they were miserable because of it! My own daughter doesn’t want to get married because of what she’s seen between Bipin and me. I woke up one day and asked, ‘What are you still doing here, Kavita?’ I thought Bipin would put up more of a fight, but in some way, I don’t even know if he was that surprised. We had been sleeping in separate beds for so long, living separate lives, really.

  “But I’d be lying if I said it’s all been easy. I forgot how many things I’d become dependent on, whether it’s how he pays the bills or even just the security of knowing he was in the house. Now I notice every little creak; I get bored; I get scared.”

  “I’m sure it is hard, very hard, in so many different ways,” Bina says. “It was very brave of you to do that. It would have been easy—and understandable—if you stayed.”

  “I know. I felt so guilty about leaving. I was worried about what everyone would think. I know that’s why it took me so long. I thought I’d let everyone down, including me. And when Sonam told me she’s proud of me . . .” Kavita’s voice breaks. “I never thought I’d hear her say that. I almost let guilt stop me from doing what I needed to do for her.”

  “The guilt. It’s always the guilt.” Bina blinks back tears, in awe of her friend’s honesty, of all women, who hold so much inside for the sake of others. Women change their shapes physically to give life and then change their shapes emotionally every day to sustain it.

  “It really is,” Mona says in Gujarati. “And even when we try to let it go, it’s still there.”

  Guilt is sturdy in that way, always leaving a residue, even if you manage to sweep it away.

  “Actually, what if instead of discussing menopause, we made guilt today’s topic?” Bina asks.

  “I think that would be great,” Kavita says. “Can I start?”

  “Of course!” Bina says.

  They all assemble back into their circle and stay there for the rest of the afternoon.

  Thirty-Two

  Natasha

  Next at the Laughing Skull Lounge open mic, we’re going to hear from Natasha Joshi!”

  Natasha gives her curls one last fluff. Just seeing the dimly lit stage from the side curtains makes her insides squirm as though she ate something undercooked.

  A thought from her last therapy session with Dr. Chan materializes: This feeling will often be there. Natasha’s mind jumps back to the notes she wrote down after the session:

  This mixture of nerves and novelty means she’s about to do something she cares about.

  It’s not about the presence of the feeling; it’s about how she reacts to it.

  She can let it pass through her, not paralyze her.

  She wipes her sweaty palms on her ripped jeans and fiddles with the large gold button on her black blazer. Earlier, Suhani suggested she throw a blazer over her white T-shirt to look a little more polished. Suhani was right. The addition of the jacket does help Natasha feel put together, like someone who has important things to say.

  Her Keds are soft against the wooden floor as she goes to the microphone. The buzz of conversation and clink of glasses become softer. Thank God for the two-drink minimum and her extra-strength deodorant.

  The thick red curtains are parted to leave room for a microphone under a spotlight. A giant skull with red eyes hangs as a backdrop. Natasha walks toward the microphone. Shit, there are a lot of people here. A lot of quiet people. The smell of beer and burgers makes her stomach grumble.

  “I wish we didn’t come for the open mic night. The real comedian nights here are so much better,” Natasha hears someone say. Another person agrees.

  Ignore them, she tells herself. She tries to ignore the trembling in her hands, the beads of sweat collecting across her forehead.

  But then another thought comes to mind. Maybe instead of ignoring the comments, she can use them.

  “Hi.” She smiles. “So, I know some of you are disappointed that this isn’t one of those ‘Best of Atlanta’ nights . . . but you can get the fuck over it, okay?”

  A ripple of laughter. Yes!

  “I mean, do you people know how hard it is to be up here when you hate yourself?” Her grip is white-knuckled on the microphone. “And for anyone in here who has never hated themselves . . . first of all, you’re lying, and second, if you want to know what it feels like, you should try going to therapy with your family.”

  “Woot! Woot!” Ifeoma and Payal cheer in the back corner.

  They showed up, she thinks as r
elief settles over her. My girls always show up.

  Their voices and outlines—Ifeoma’s curly hair and Payal’s pulled back in a tight bun—make Natasha’s breathing slow down. When they told Natasha they’d never miss one of her performances and asked why she hadn’t invited them before, she didn’t know what to say. That was one of the tricky parts of depression. It made her isolate when she needed the most support.

  “Yep, those are my friends,” Natasha says. “Where the fuck would we be without those who take us for who we are, am I right?”

  Some people clap, but otherwise, silence lingers over the crowd.

  But she can’t let it scare her. She won’t.

  “So, I’ve been struggling lately.” Natasha breathes into the microphone. “Like, really struggling. As in, I hit rock bottom and needed some serious professional help. And because I’m brown, I didn’t just get diagnosed with run-of-the-mill anxiety, okay? I wasn’t going to be an underachieving psychiatric case, thank you very much. I had some performance anxiety—when I’m here talking to you people—and major depressive disorder and intrusive negative thoughts and a little too much drinking. . . .”

  Natasha can laugh because the diagnoses gave her something she didn’t expect: freedom. The freedom to know herself. The freedom to accept herself.

  Someone yells, “You get me!”

  Another voice emerges from the back corner: “Yes!”

  Natasha points to the crowd and says, “I’m so glad I’m not alone.”

  And then, from a place that feels like it’s outside herself, she says, “Who else understands what I’m saying?”

  There’s a loud Wooo sound that Natasha usually associates with scenes in sitcoms where two people kiss. A woman says, “I feel you, girl!”

  Cheers of agreement fill the room. Natasha grips the microphone, feeling connected to something greater. She focuses on the woman for a second who is nodding as if to say, Keep talking. She wonders how many people walk around every day carrying pain that nobody else can see.

  “Shout-out to everyone out there holding a lot on the inside,” Natasha says, taking an unplanned departure from her routine as she thinks of something she wrote in her Moleskine notebook yesterday: Wounds don’t heal in hiding.

  “Thank you!” someone says, then another “Yes!” and then a round of soft applause.

  Because of the adrenaline, it takes her a second to process what just happened. She really said something that made another person feel understood? She took her pain—her fragile, fresh pain—and created something out of it? The realization fills her with a spark. There is no better rush than this. Feeling terrified and raw when she’s doing her comedy is a sign that she’s doing it right.

  “You know what?” Natasha taps her sneakers on the microphone stand. “Surprisingly, some really good stuff came from my experience. I learned how to be more honest with myself and with other people. The other day, I was walking down Spring Street, and a random man told me to smile. Yup, a random older man just came up to me and told me what to do with my face. I bet the women here tonight know what I’m talking about.”

  There’s a flurry of “YESes” and claps.

  “Ah, y’all get it!” Natasha says. “So before, when I used to get unsolicited advice, I’d snap back. But when this man spoke to me, I stopped and said, ‘So funny you would say that, because my psychiatrist and I are still trying to figure out the best Prozac dose to make me want to smile all day.’ The guy was so taken aback. I’m telling you, just pure shock on his face. So then I said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Is that too personal and intrusive for you? I thought you gave a shit since you came up to me out of nowhere.’”

  Yes! People are laughing!

  “So, look, I am still trying to figure out the best Prozac dose, but I got an old white man to shut the fuck up. Win, right?” Natasha asks.

  She hears a “Total win!” and a “Screw that guy!” Someone whistles. Wait, that high-pitched loud sound can only come from . . .

  Mom! Mom is whistling!

  “Oh, my mom. My sweet, sweet mom,” Natasha says. “She raised me to be politer than this. To be fair, my sister is this polite. She’s the dream for every Indian auntie . . . except, well, she didn’t marry an Indian guy. Then again, she married a Jewish one, which is a total win for desi parents. I mean, my brother-in-law is susceptible to guilt trips, a mama’s boy, and can sit through really long religious ceremonies, and aren’t those all an Indian family’s dream?”

  Someone says, “HIND-JEW,” which compels Zack to stand up, cup his mouth with his large hands, and yell, “HIND-JEW IN THE HOUSE!”

  “Look, everyone has their place.” Natasha walks up and down the stage. “My sister and brother-in-law are the successful and beautiful ones. My brother is the chill and peace-loving one. And I’m the one aunties come up to and ask, ‘You’re still not married yet?’ or even better, I get a cheek pinch and a comforting, ‘Don’t worry—someday your life will have meaning, too.’ I think the aunties and my therapist might agree on some things. In some ways, an auntie is like a therapist, telling you unflattering stuff about yourself. It’s just that I pay my therapist while an auntie gives her opinions unsolicited.”

  Natasha smirks as she remembers Mira Auntie telling her not to worry because “even Pooja has a job that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “My family really keeps me in check, you know?” Natasha follows up her question with a few impressions of Mom and Dad getting mad at her for her bad grades. “I’d get in even more trouble when I’d ask my parents why they moved to America if they weren’t going to hold me to white-parent standards.”

  She continues her routine, shaky in some places, stronger in others. She still has a lot of work to do in figuring out her voice. But she’s okay with that.

  When she’s done, she gives a gracious smile reminiscent of an actress humbly accepting a Golden Globe Award. “I’d like to thank Prozac for bringing me here tonight.” Natasha places a palm over her heart in an exaggerated show of gratitude. “And of course, my family, who has put up with way too much of my shit.”

  Her family and friends rush to the stage the second she puts the microphone back.

  Vanessa, Suhani’s friend from work, is extending a glass of Prosecco toward Natasha. Suhani always said Vanessa and Natasha reminded her of each other, with their unapologetic defiance of authority.

  “Cheers to you, you star!” Vanessa says. She mouths something to a hot Fabio-looking dude in the audience. “My date’s getting a little needy, sorry.”

  “Cheers!” Suhani yells, seeming about a thousand times more chill right now than she’s been in the past year.

  “You were amazing!” Anuj says.

  “Really?” Natasha feels much more self-conscious than she even did onstage.

  Anuj smiles. “Really!”

  Dad hands her a bouquet of dahlias. “Come, let’s take a family picture. You get in the middle.”

  “Dad, this isn’t my high school graduation,” Natasha says as she takes the flowers.

  All the other comedians (okay, all the other people in the room) give her a confused look, apparently wondering why this is happening. But Natasha relishes every second of it.

  “We are proud of you, beta.” Natasha smells sandalwood when Mom hugs her.

  “You are?” Natasha’s in a bit of disbelief at hearing her family express this to her.

  She used to worry about sharing her most unfiltered self with her family. She didn’t expect that doing so would help them be more honest with themselves, too.

  “Yes.” Mom nods. “You know, some of it was a little inapp—”

  “You can just stop at being proud!” Natasha says. “Thank you!”

  They all laugh at Mom not even being able to help herself.

  “So you’ll be doing more of this in California?” Dad asks as he looks at a man
next to them with head-to-toe tattoos and a stud pierced through his nose.

  “Yep, this is what I’m going to do after my internship is done every day,” Natasha says as she studies the subtle confusion on Dad’s face.

  It’s okay if nobody fully understands or approves of what she’s doing. What matters is that they care enough to try. Plus, not being figured out gives her a bit of an edge, one that satisfies her eternal rebellious urge.

  “Hmm.” Dad nods as if he’s listening to some complicated psychiatric patient case. “That sounds like quite an adventure, beta. But we know you’ll do well. You’ve always been able to handle anything that came your way.”

  Ever since Dad started his own Chats Over Chai group with the uncles, he’s become much more communicative. He recently told Natasha that men were often encouraged to keep their emotions to themselves and that led to so many different types of problems. He then mentioned that Bipin Uncle was likely never taught how to express himself in different ways. Natasha makes a mental note to discuss this with her siblings later.

  “You are a badass,” Suhani says. “I know that’s also the title of your favorite self-help book, but it’s true.”

  A few minutes ago, Suhani posted a picture of Natasha on her Instagram page with the caption, My sister is so brave. She inspires through her art and makes all of us around her feel a little braver, too.

  “Oh, being here with everyone is just so . . . It’s too . . .” Natasha’s voice cracks. “Nice.”

  Tears start to collect in the corners of her eyes. She’s not sure if it’s the residual high from her performance or the awareness that she’s leaving Atlanta soon, but she’s been on the verge of tears all day. Not just sad tears, but also tears of release and restoration. When she was working on tonight’s routine, she sifted through her family therapy notes. There, on Suhani and Zack’s wooden living room floor, she cried for the woman her mother couldn’t become and the woman her sister felt pressure to become. She cried for the dreams her father deferred and the words her brother doesn’t say.