by Neel Patel
Your parents were in Europe for the summer; your sister was saddled with kids. Because of this, it was you who came in their place. By then, the girls were in kindergarten and Jacob was golfing and no one was inspired enough to board a plane to Chicago, for the wedding of a person they barely knew. So I came without them. I did not expect to see you at all, but then I remembered that Nishali—my childhood friend—was your cousin; the groom, your classmate in med school. In many ways you had more of a reason to be there than I did.
It was the night before the wedding, two hours before the sangeet, and I had just flown in. Women and children lounged on sofas in the lobby. Husbands checked into the rooms. The windows were tall and streaky. The floors, speckled tiles that squeaked loudly underfoot, were polished bright. I had picked up my room key and was waiting for my mother to drop by with some jewelry when you walked through the doors. You wore a black blazer, distressed jeans. Your hair was slicked back. A piece of luggage trailed your feet. It looked expensive. Everything about you did.
A few uncles and aunties recognized you immediately and began commenting on your weight. It was then that I noticed it. Your face was angular, your arms and legs lean; the swell of your stomach, once prominent but firm, had deflated. You laughed it off and made a joke about the pressure of living in California, and the matter was resolved. Your voice carried across the lobby and landed sharply in my chest, awakening inside of me what I’d once thought was dead. Panicked, I escaped into the elevator and closed my eyes. I had not expected to feel this way at all.
* * *
Just as I was arranging my perfumes and lipsticks and jewelry on the bathroom counter, the phone rang, and, foolishly, I hoped it was you. Perhaps you had seen me, and had asked the hotel receptionist for my room number. I remembered all those evenings when you had called to apologize and I had never answered, not because I didn’t love you, but because it was obvious that you could never love me. I made my way to the telephone and glanced out the window, which overlooked the sun-drenched lobby, the tropical plants, wedding guests milling around a large fountain. I answered the phone, waiting to hear your voice again.
How stupid of me.
“Make it in okay?” Jacob said.
“Yes.”
“How is it so far?”
“It’s strange.” I flicked on the TV. A newscaster’s somber face appeared, reporting a shooting. “I don’t recognize anyone yet. I haven’t seen Nishali. I’m supposed to go by her room to pick up my bridesmaid outfit.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t come.”
“Don’t be. Now I can relax with a glass of wine.”
“Of course you can,” Jacob said, laughing. “This is a dream come true for you.”
“How are the girls?”
“Rumi wants you to bring her a present. Simran is watching Moana for the third time. All in all, we’re wonderful.”
“Great. I miss them—and you.”
“We miss you, too.”
I stared at the flashing alarm clock between two quilted beds, realizing it was time to get ready.
“I should go,” I said. “This outfit is complicated, and I can barely remember how to put it on.”
“Feel free to drunk-dial me.”
I smiled as I hung up the phone, suddenly craving a drink. It had been so long since I had been in a quiet room alone. I found a bottle of white wine in the minibar and poured myself a glass. The woman was still reporting about the shooting. The voices still rose from the lobby. My suitcase was unpacked and pink and orange fabrics spilled out from it like a dragon’s tongue. I closed my eyes and thought of you.
* * *
Downstairs, wedding guests sparkled in brilliant colors: crimson and lilac and silver and gold. You were nowhere to be found. I met up with a few girls from the bridal party and walked into the banquet hall. They sipped cocktails and talked about how drunk they’d been at the bachelorette party, which had taken place in Miami. I had not been there, and after a while, they grew tired of my silence, walking away from me. I ordered a drink at the bar. I stood around for a bit, smiling and waving to people from afar, when I noticed your face.
“Anything else?” the bartender asked, pouring me my wine.
You wore a white kurta with gold threading and pointed, elflike shoes. I had not expected you to wear such a thing. You, who poked fun at everything Indian, who refused to watch Bollywood films, who swore you would never have an Indian wedding because they were a waste of money and time. Your hair was gelled back. You had shaved. The effect was startling: the sudden sharpness of your jaw, the hollowness of your cheeks, the slim lines of your neck, more visible now. You looked boyishly handsome, but there was wisdom in your eyes, as if you had seen things I would never know about, things I longed to understand. I had heard that you were still single. The few times my mother mentioned your name were in reference to this fact, that your parents were worried: you were thirty-five and still a bachelor. I defended you, saying it was none of their business, that marriage wasn’t for everyone, that sometimes you think you know what you want and the universe has a way of telling you otherwise.
* * *
It would have been the perfect time to greet you, but my parents arrived, whisking me away toward their friends. My mother was clasping the hand of another woman, and her solicitude, the sparkle in her eyes when she introduced us, made me want to slap her.
“Anjali, look at you now,” the woman said. “So well settled.”
Well settled. The image that came to mind was that of a very fat bird, guarding its nest.
“And the girls,” she said. “Chal chal. Let us see. Where are the pictures?”
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the pictures, answering her questions about their favorite colors, their favorite foods. She looked at me sharply.
“Do they love their Indian? Or do they love their burger and fries?”
“Indian, of course,” my mother said. “Rumi adores my kichuri.”
“Kya baat!”
Had you been there, I would have rolled my eyes and told you how stupid this all was. The girls were half Indian: what did she expect? Just the other day, Rumi had declared kichuri inedible. But instead I smiled, reinforcing my mother’s lie. We stood at a table and ate puffed snacks with green chutney, fat cubes of paneer. People began to dance, and through the swish of flowing fabrics—gold, pink, yellow, blue—I saw your face.
Just as I approached you, you turned around. Your back was facing me, so close that I could feel the heat from your skin. White strands threaded your lush black hair. Had they always been there? I longed to touch them, but I was too slow, and soon you were swept up into the crowd, raising your arms. I had never seen you dance before. You were always so stoic during those parties at your parents’ house, as if you were waiting for all of us to leave, waiting to return to your room, waiting for the evening to be over so you could no longer pretend. Were you pretending that summer, when you told me you wished you had noticed me sooner, that you would do anything in your power to make up for lost time?
* * *
That night, I met Nishali and the other bridesmaids in the hotel lobby for drinks. She looked beautiful, with jewels crusting her wrists and her neck. We talked about dating and marriage and where we wanted to end up in ten years. Then she mentioned your name.
“He looks good—different, but good.”
“He’s lost weight.”
“That’s what it was. I couldn’t figure it out at first.” She smiled. “Do you still talk to him?”
“Does anyone?”
“I figured if anyone did it would be you.”
I told her the truth: that I hadn’t seen or heard from you in years, and that you were living in California. She nodded, as if she had expected this. After a while, Nishali ordered a round of shots for everyone and proposed a toast. “Photographs are at eight A.M.,” she said, before escaping to her room. I hung around for a bit, making small talk with the girls, showing them pictures of R
umi and Simran, answering their questions about marriage and sex, before I, too, retired to my room.
It was in the hallway of my floor, past the elevators and vending machines and a corridor stocked with an ice dispenser that hummed noisily into the night, that I saw you—talking to a girl. You had changed, into a black button-down shirt over jeans. The sleeves were rolled up and the hair on your arms was thick. The girl, in a lime-green sari, was touching her hair in a way that revealed her interest in you. I burned with envy. I was reminded of high school, when girls had looked at you from afar and the gleam in their eyes, sharp as kitchen blades, had cut through my skin. But you were bored. You nodded your head, and shifted your feet, and stared at the gold dial on your watch, and laughed at her jokes in a perfunctory way. And I was relieved. Me, a woman who was married with two girls, relieved that the man I hadn’t seen for years was uninterested in a girl I scarcely knew. And that’s when you saw me.
“Anjali?”
* * *
It was your suggestion that we go to my room. Your room was two floors above. The girl, a young woman your mother had wanted you to meet, was the daughter of family friends. You wished her good night in a way that let her know you were not interested in her. Then you stared at me.
“I haven’t seen you in ages. You look great.”
My hands shook as I slipped the key card into the door and kicked aside the towels and closed the curtains so that no one would see us, even though all you wanted to do was chat. Still, it felt illicit. You sat on one of the beds, bouncing lightly against the comforter, and I sat on the chair opposite, so there would be no confusion.
“Thanks,” I said. “I would say the same, except there’s less of you now.”
You laughed. “Everyone keeps telling me to eat. It’s called the L.A. diet: kale salads and weed.”
“You never needed a diet.”
“Everyone needs a diet.”
“God—you really are a Californian.”
Dimples formed in the hollows of your cheeks. You turned your head, feigning interest in the cardboard pyramid of TV channels on the nightstand. Your eyes flicked past the minibar, suggesting a drink.
“Help yourself.”
“Won’t you join me?”
“I have to be up in five hours,” I said, glancing at the alarm clock. But you poured me a drink anyway, and I accepted it, eager to let the warm buzz embrace me again. You started unbuttoning your shirt, and my heart raced, but then you stopped at the collarbone. I could see the dark hair on your chest.
* * *
For a while it was simple. We told each other everything we had wanted to know: my marriage, your fellowship, my move to Michigan, your practice in Orange County, my husband and children and career, your bachelorhood. We had one drink and then another. At some point I floated over to the bed opposite yours, and we sat facing each other, our eyes reflecting the square light of the lamp.
“So tell me—what was so wrong with that girl in the hallway?”
“She’s twenty-five.” You laughed. “I can’t date someone who’s never listened to Biggie Smalls.”
“And in California? No one?”
“No one special.”
Was I special? I wanted to know. But I would never ask. I could never bring myself to hear the answer.
Instead I asked you questions about your family—your father’s retirement, your sister’s three kids, the lavish party your parents had thrown for their fortieth wedding anniversary. We talked about the people from our hometown with whom both of us had lost touch. There were things you knew about me that my husband would never know, things I would never have to explain to you. It was easy in a way it hadn’t been with anyone else.
At one point, you got up to pour yourself a drink, and instead of returning to the bed opposite mine, you sat right next to me. I could smell the cologne on your shirt. You turned to look at me and your breath was warm against my face. You said something, I can’t even remember it now, but whatever it was loosened me. Did your lips purse to meet mine? Did you lean in for a kiss? I will never know. Just then, my phone rang, and it was Jacob. I had forgotten to check in.
“It might be the girls,” I said, at which you stood up and placed your hands around your neck.
“I should go.”
“Wait—stay.”
“It’s late.”
“This will only take a second.”
You smiled at me and shook your head, as if you knew that it wouldn’t. Then you walked out of the room. Part of me wanted to go with you, to convince you to stay, but by then I was already answering, wishing I hadn’t.
* * *
The next morning, I awoke in a daze. I showered and changed into the white sari Nishali had provided each of us the night before. At breakfast, I ate gathiya with pickled chilies. I searched the room for you, but you were not there. Probably you were still sleeping. My parents introduced me to more friends and relatives, and soon the baraat began, in which we danced outside the hotel lobby. Aunties and uncles circled a horse-drawn carriage. The groom, decked in a pink turban, began to dance, flanked by groomsmen. You were not one of them. I had assumed you and Mehul were close. Obviously you were not. The drums grew louder and louder, the groomsmen jumping up and down, scraping the sky with their fingers. Women linked hands and spun in circles, their mirrored saris reflecting sequins of light. It wasn’t until the procession had moved back into the lobby that I saw you, drinking a coffee in your suit.
* * *
“Save me a seat?”
I nodded, and the intimacy of your smile, the way no one seemed to notice, sent a chill down my spine. You arrived just in time, before the lights went dim and the double doors opened and the bride floated out to a gasping applause. Her chunari glittered like rubies. Her arms were shackled in gold. She looked like a bedazzled prisoner.
“Why is she walking like that?” you said, snickering. “Does she have to take a shit?”
I laughed so loud an entire row of aunties turned to shush me. You pinched me on my arm. I flicked you on your ear. In the entire banquet facility, we were the only two people touching.
Later, when the bride and groom were preparing to walk around a fire, garlands hanging from their necks, you turned your head and asked, “Was your wedding like this?”
I glanced at you.
“Oh, shit,” you said, realizing your mistake. “I forgot.”
“It’s okay. Jacob and I didn’t have a wedding. We had a court ceremony. And don’t even ask about the first one.”
We didn’t talk for a while, focusing on the ceremony. At one point, you left the room altogether and returned with a glass of water. You reached into your back pocket and took out a white pill.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A party favor.”
“You really have changed.”
You shrugged. “I have to entertain myself somehow.”
* * *
After the ceremony, we skipped lunch and went to a park. It felt daring, slipping away like that, just the two of us. The sun was high and the sky was the color of a peacock’s breast.
“I should go—Nishali will be pissed.”
“Do you even care?”
You reached for my hand and I let you hold it. I never knew a simple act could feel so tremendous, like we were moving a mountain together, striking a fire. I could tell you felt it, too. We were silent for a while, staring out at the pond and the rows of benches surrounding it and the small family of ducks with their iridescent feathers. It felt surreal being there with you, just like it had that summer.
I would have let you kiss me then, but within moments a family from the wedding came to join us.
“We’ve been spotted.”
“We could go to the room,” I said.
You shook your head. “I have to meet another girl. My parents set it up. She lives thirty minutes from here.”
My heart fell, and you must have sensed this because you said, “I guess I could canc
el.”
“No, don’t. We’ll meet at the reception.”
“Before. I’ll stop by your room.”
“Okay then.”
And for a moment I actually believed that you would.
* * *
By five thirty, you still hadn’t arrived, and I got ready in my room, pinning the pleats of a black sari to my blouse. One of the bridesmaids found me and invited me to have drinks with her at the bar, so I followed her with a glass of white wine. Sitar music strummed from the speakers. Ice sculptures melted over plates. A group of men were huddled in a corner, drinking whiskey and beer. I had assumed you would be with them. You were not. I stared at my phone, sending a text message to Jacob, telling him I missed him, missing you instead. Did you still have my phone number? I hadn’t asked. Before long the cocktail hour ended and guests filtered into the next room, which sparkled like a crushed gem.
“Anjali,” one of the bridesmaids said, “you’re sitting with us.”
I slipped into a rattan chair and stared at the backlit walls, which glowed purple and pink. The tables were covered in black lace. The glasses were fluted and crystal. My wedding was nothing like this. My wedding had only eight guests: Jacob’s family and mine. I had seen the way my mother eyed Nishali at the ceremony. I had felt her hunger in the pit of my own gut.
After the speeches and dances and dinner, the reception was over. I had spent the majority of my time at the table, nursing my wine. My parents went to sleep early. The bridesmaids were drunk. According to one of them, there was an after-party in a suite stocked with pizza and booze. I declined her invitation, and she didn’t push me to reconsider. You were nowhere to be found. Not among the clusters of men drinking Johnnie Walker. Not by the dessert table with its chocolate fondue. Not on the dance floor full of teenagers doing the Nae Nae. Not even outside, by the park we had visited, getting a breath of fresh air. You had not given me your room number, and so, at one thirty, after most of the guests had cleared, only a few lingering on sofas and chairs, I approached the front desk and asked if they might have it.