When Dimple Met Rishi

by Sandhya Menon

  “I did,” Dimple replied. “I just wanted to get out of there. Couldn’t stand the baby talk anymore.”

  Mamma chuckled. “Haan. They’re very excited. First child and grandchild, na?”

  “Did they leave?”

  Mamma nodded. After a pause, she said, “Sab theekh hai?”

  Dimple looked at her, feeling a lump in her throat rise. “No, everything’s not all right, Mamma.”

  Mamma frowned, confused. God, the woman was clueless. “Kyon? Rishi—”

  “It’s not Rishi,” Dimple snapped. Then, more calmly, she said, “It’s not just Rishi. It’s you, too.” She took a shaky breath. “Your . . . your disappointment is like a cold, heavy blanket around my shoulders, Mamma. You can’t even look at me without showing it.”

  “Dis . . . disappointment?” Mamma said, leaning forward in her chair. “Hai Ram, Dimple, I am not disappointed in you.”

  Dimple felt a tear drip down her cheek and wiped it away roughly. “Yeah, right. You wish I were more like Seema didi. Quietly get married to someone you choose, quietly have a baby, accept my path without a fight. Right? You’d love that.”

  “I would love that no more than I love this.” Mamma took a deep breath and adjusted her peacock blue sari. “Dimple, you are my beti. The only thing I want is your happiness. Bas. Aur kuch nahin.”

  The tears were falling more quickly now. “But you sent me to Insomnia Con to fall in love with Rishi Patel. You want me to get married young and have kids, and I’m giving you none of that. Instead, you have this headstrong child who’s determined to be alone. . . .” Dimple began to cry, her breath hitching, her nose plugged.

  “Oof oh, Dimple . . .” Mamma came and sat next to her on the bed, putting her arm around her. “I am not so old. I understand; aaj kal eighteen is very young for shaadi, for marriage. I want you to have a happy home one day.” She squeezed Dimple. “But only when you are ready. Beti, I am not disappointed. I am sad for what I see in your eyes, in your silence. Very deep sorrow. Tum usse pyaar karti ho, na?”

  You love him, don’t you?

  Those words were the key to the floodgates Dimple had kept tightly shut for the past month. She turned, and burying her face in Mamma’s neck like she hadn’t since she was in elementary school, Dimple wept.

  She wept for the moments that she and Rishi would never have. She wept for the love that had just blossomed and would never ripen. She wept for how mean she’d been, the names she’d called him. She wept for her hardheadedness, and for a world that couldn’t just let her be both, a woman in love and a woman with a career, without flares of guilt and self-doubt seeping in and wreaking havoc. No one she knew had balanced both. There was either work or love. Wanting both felt like a huge ask; it felt like wishing for hot ice cream or a bitter sugar cube. And so she’d pushed Rishi away. She’d broken his heart and decimated her own.

  “I do love him, Mamma,” Dimple said when she was able to catch her breath. She sat up straighter and wiped her eyes with Mamma’s pallu—the loose end of her sari. “But there’s no way to make it work without one of us sacrificing something big. And you know how it is. It’s usually the woman who ends up sacrificing. And I can’t do that. I won’t.”

  Mamma sighed and rubbed her back. “You’re right, Dimple. Usually it’s the woman who sacrifices. But, beti, looking at your unhappiness. . . . I wonder, aren’t you sacrificing now? Either Rishi or career, this is the way you see it. But to me it seems cutting off either is like cutting off a part of yourself. Hmm?” Mamma kissed the side of her head. “Whatever you do, Dimple, I am your mother. I will always support you. I am always proud of you. Okay?” She handed the haldi doodh over.

  Dimple looked at Mamma through watery eyes, and saw nothing but love and patience in her smile. Something hard and painful in her chest loosened. Taking the milk, she whispered, “Okay.”

  Rishi stood in the driveway with his parents and Ashish. He had only a small duffel bag with him; the rest he’d worry about later. He couldn’t help but draw a parallel to the day he’d left for Insomnia Con. The thought pulled forth unbidden memories of Dimple—her sparkling, watchful eyes, her frown with the crease between her brows, her curly, wild hair. He struggled to push them away.

  He smiled at Pappa, and Pappa smiled back. There was no hint of tension. They’d worked it out. Somehow, two divergent points of view hadn’t resulted in yelling and screaming and hurt feelings. Somehow, they’d been able to sit and talk about it.

  And Rishi had come to understand Pappa’s point of view. He hadn’t asked Rishi to give up comics from a sense of arrogance or pride or feeling ashamed of his oldest son’s artistic proclivities. Pappa was just a deeply practical man, which Rishi could appreciate.

  Pappa had taken a while to convince, but once he got it, he got it. He realized asking Rishi to commit to an engineering program was like asking him to live in a nicely decorated cage for the rest of his life. And when Rishi had sent in his late application to the art program and withdrawn from MIT’s engineering track, Pappa had actually clapped him on the shoulder, smiled, and said, “I used to paint when I was your age. Sometimes I dream in watercolor. You’re brave in a way I could never be, Rishi.”

  • • •

  In the driveway, Ma had already performed the puja with the silver tray, just as she’d done before his trip to Insomnia Con. Now she grabbed his arm and looked up at him, tears sparkling in her eyes. “Call us soon, beta.”

  “I will, Ma.” He hugged her tightly, feeling a heaviness in his throat. This was really it. He would see them only rarely for the next four years. This wasn’t his primary residence anymore. He reached down and touched her feet, and then Pappa’s, asking for their blessings.

  As soon as he was done, Ashish grabbed him in a bear hug and clapped him on the back. The phone in his back pocket jangled. Rishi pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “Celia?”

  Ashish nodded, blushing a healthy pink. He and Celia had gotten more serious over the past month. Ashish had made several trips up to San Francisco to spend time with her. Pappa and Ma were letting it slide for now, but he’d heard them discuss having Celia over for dinner one day soon.

  “Bhaiyya,” Ashish began, itching his jaw. “Are you sure?”

  They’d touched on this conversation so many times over the past month, and every time, Rishi had put a stop to it. Rishi sighed. “Yeah, I’m sure.” He looked at Pappa and Ma, too, although they were pretending they had nothing to do with this conversation. “Dimple made it clear she wanted nothing more to do with me. She said I was too afraid to live life, to take risks.”

  “Lekin, beta . . . ,” Ma started.

  Rishi held up a hand. “We’ve talked about this. Did she have some good points? Maybe.” He shrugged. “Did she always encourage me to be my true self? Sure. But ultimately, she called me a coward.” He looked around at them. “A coward.”

  Pappa and Ma sighed, but Ashish grabbed the back of his own neck and huffed. “Look, I think that’s totally idiotic.” He glanced at their parents. “I’m sorry, Pappa, Ma. I know you guys don’t want me butting in and upsetting him.” He turned back to Rishi. “But Dimple wanted you to be your true self, Rishi. She saw who you really were and she pushed you to be that person. I saw how she looked at you. She loves you. She may have had a temporary freak-out, but she loves you.

  “I told you what Celia said—Dimple hasn’t seemed the same for the last month. Like she’s in this depression or shock or something. And we all know”—he gestured at Pappa and Ma—“that you’ve been the same way. You’ve only been half here. You’re like a freaking ghost, barely eating, barely sleeping. You guys both love each other. You need to stop being so freaking stubborn and go tell her how you feel.”

  Rishi silently stared at his little brother and then at his parents. Something in his chest hitched, a seedling of doubt that was rapidly beginning to grow into a proper tree. “Ma, Pappa? Do you think this too?”

  Ma looked uncomfortable, and Pappa
shrugged. “Rishi, it is your decision. But . . .”

  “But you seem so unhappy, beta,” Ma finished softly. “So unhappy.”

  Rishi thought he’d been making the healthy choice, not pining after her. Well, not visibly pining. Trying to move forward. Get past all the heartbreak. But they’d still noticed. They’d seen how miserable he was. How truly miserable. It was a battle he’d raged internally every single day, trying to forget the woman who so obviously had forgotten him. When Ashish told him what Celia said, he hadn’t paid attention. They were obviously just trying to make him feel better.

  But what if it was actually true? What if Dimple really did still love him? What if maybe she’d only said those things in anger and regretted them? Maybe she’d seen to the core of his soul and truly liked what she’d seen.

  Looking at the faces of his family, Rishi knew one thing: He had to find out. Now. Oh my gods, he’d been so stupid. So very stupid.

  He straightened up and threw his duffel bag in the backseat of his convertible. “I’m going,” he said, jumping into the driver’s seat.

  “Where?” Ashish asked, his face both hopeful and wary.

  “To try and win your bhabhi back,” Rishi said, grinning.

  He raced down the tree-lined driveway, the sound of his family’s whoops and laughter cheering him on.

  Dimple was nearly to the Stanford campus when her phone buzzed. She reached into the console, only to realize she’d stuck it in her purse at her last rest stop. Reaching into her purse, she riffled around until she felt the hard edge of her phone underneath a pile of papers. She dumped her purse out on the seat next to her, looked down to see Mamma’s face flashing on the screen.

  Dimple laughed; Mamma had called her three times already, just to make sure she was awake. She didn’t get the concept that driving while talking on the phone was almost just as dangerous as falling asleep behind the wheel. She pressed the reject button to send it to voice mail when her eyes caught on a piece of paper that had fallen from her purse.

  Glancing back up at the road to make sure she wasn’t going to drive off, Dimple smoothed out the piece of paper. It was the twenty-five expressions exercise Rishi had done on the night of their non-date-turned-date, at the top of Bernal Heights Hill. Dimple’s breath hitched as she caught sight of the fluid lines, when she remembered how perfectly honestly he’d captured her, how she’d been sure he’d been watching her, studying her.

  And then their summer together began to come back to her in blinks and flashes—the way Rishi stood up to the Aberzombies for her; the way he’d worked tirelessly to help her make her prototype the best it could be, even though he didn’t really care about web development himself; how he’d been willing to make a fool of himself dancing so she could win the talent show; how he’d set up the meeting with Jenny Lindt because he knew how important it was to her. And, in a wave, it came to her: the realization that Rishi Patel loved her so deeply, so truly, that she’d never find that again, no matter how long or hard she looked. For the rest of her life, she’d be comparing men to him. He’d be the yardstick of the perfect relationship, the truest love.

  Dimple found herself bypassing the exit that would take her to Stanford University. Instead, she kept her eye out for the SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT sign. If she hurried, she could get to him before he boarded his flight to MIT.

  • • •

  Rishi had told Dimple during their time at SFSU that he was going to MIT on the twenty-seventh of August. She’d remembered because it was the day she’d planned on leaving for Stanford too. There could be only so many flights from San Francisco to Logan Airport, right? And it was still early in the day. He probably hadn’t left yet.

  She pulled into the airport parking and rushed inside, scanning the monitors for the next departing flight to Logan. There was one leaving in forty minutes, at Terminal 2. Perfect. Dimple ran to the terminal, hoping he’d be there. Her heart was in her throat, pounding a frantic rhythm. She should’ve texted him first. Or, or e-mailed him. Something. What would she say if he looked at her blankly? Or what if he looked horrified? Maybe she should’ve thought this through a little more.

  But Rishi wasn’t in Terminal 2. Dimple scanned the crowd twice, three times, but he definitely wasn’t there. She walked up to one of the waiting passengers, a young woman reading, and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hi,” she said. “Is this the terminal for people going to Boston?”

  The woman nodded briefly before going back to her book. Dimple looked around, her heart sinking. She was turning around, wondering what to do, when the woman said, over her shoulder, “There’s another flight to Boston in ninety minutes. Terminal 1.”

  • • •

  Dimple waited just outside Terminal 1, but he never came. She was sure he’d said his flight left before lunchtime, which meant this was the only other possible flight. Maybe he’d changed his ticket for another, earlier day. He definitely wouldn’t leave later—classes started soon, and he’d want to be ready. So he’d gone across the country without even trying to reach out. And Dimple was an idiot.

  She walked back out to her car and got in, steeling herself against the pain of a twice-broken heart.

  Rishi found himself on the Stanford campus at the biggest freshman residence hall, where Dimple had told him she was going to be staying. He’d waited in the lobby for thirty minutes, trying to see past the streaming lines of freshmen and their parents, looking for her wild hair, her petite body.

  But she wasn’t here. She’d said she was coming on the morning of the twenty-seventh, he was sure of it. He’d made a reminder in his phone when they were at SFSU, because he’d wanted to send her a bouquet of flowers for her first day.

  Forty minutes.

  Fifty.

  He’d texted her about ten minutes into his wait (I’m in the lobby. I’m sorry.) and she hadn’t responded.

  Sixty minutes.

  She wasn’t going to respond. Dimple wasn’t feeling any confusion, clearly. She’d made her decision and stuck to it.

  And Rishi was an idiot.

  He got up and walked out to his car, his steps plodding, weighed down with misery.

  Dimple walked toward the Starbucks on the SFSU campus. Maybe she should’ve just gone straight to Stanford, but she couldn’t leave without saying a formal good-bye to this place. Maybe seeing it, touching that fountain, would help her put it—put him—behind her, once and for all. The sun was a bright ball of glittering fire; there was no fog in the air today. Even Karl was keeping his distance.

  Oh, what was he doing here? Was he really that much of a sentimental fool? Why hadn’t he just gone where he was supposed to go?

  But as if his brain were completely disconnected from his legs, Rishi found himself being transported to the Starbucks on the SFSU campus. As if he was dumb enough to hope she’d be there, perched on that fountain like last time, an iced coffee in her hands. . . .

  He blinked.

  And blinked again.

  “Dimple?”

  Her eyes flew open at the voice, her heart constricting painfully, her brain telling her it was stupid to hope, so very stupid. But—

  It was him. Rishi Patel, staring at her with his mouth hanging open.

  Dimple stood on shaky legs, her breath ragged, disbelief and hope mixing, swirling, bursting in her chest. Her hands were shaking so hard, the coffee threatened to fall to the ground. “Rishi?”

  He stood there, staring at her. One word echoed in his brain, over and over, like a songbird’s call: “Kismet.” He was sure he looked deranged, the way his heart was hammering in his head and his chest and his throat all at once, the way his mouth felt dry, his entire body stiff and cold with shock. He reached out to her and then dropped his hand midway. “I texted—”

  “I went to—”

  They’d both spoken at the same time, and Rishi stopped and made an after you gesture with his hand. “Go ahead.”

  Dimple bit her lip. Gods, she was beautiful. So, so pe
rfect. His chest felt warm and way too tight. There was intense yearning inside him; he needed to tuck her head under his chin and smell her shampoo. That was the only thing he wanted right now, the only thing. But he kept himself rigid, held himself at an angle so as to not get too close.

  “I, um . . .” She tucked a curl behind her ear, and he saw her hand shake a bit. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes searched his, trying to find answers.

  Rishi tucked his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach out and stroke her cheek. “I, ah, I go here.”

  Her eyes widened almost comically. Gods, she was cute. “You’re an SFSU student now? What about MIT?”

  Rishi shook his head and smiled. “I had a long talk with Pappa about how I’m an artist at heart.”

  He caught a glimpse of Dimple’s full throttle smile, just for a second, before she put it away. “And he was okay with that?”

  Rishi shrugged. “Eventually. He’s still getting used to the idea, but I think he wants me to be happy more than anything.”

  Dimple nodded, like she got that. “But weren’t you too late to apply for admission?”

  He rubbed a hand through his hair and forced himself to hold her gaze. “Leo Tilden spoke to them. They’re big fans of his, so . . .”

  “So he e-mailed you?” That big grin was back, but then she tamped down on it again, cheeks flushing a deep burgundy, and looked away. “That’s great.”

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  Dimple looked at Rishi. “For what?”

  He was still looking at her in that unfathomable way. His honey eyes were speaking volumes, but she was too afraid to guess what they were saying. “For sending him my pictures. He e-mailed me a couple of weeks ago. He was actually the one who helped me show Pappa how important this is to me. And he helped bolster my courage so I could take this leap. That was an incredible thing you did for me. And I’m sorry I didn’t see it before. I didn’t see a lot of things.”