The girl’s smile was much less awkward in person than it had been in the photo. In real life the sides of her mouth rose naturally and her face relaxed. Shilpa had seen the picture a month before Sunil said he was bringing home a girlfriend. She hadn’t meant to snoop, but social media was the only way to know what was going on in her son’s life these days. The couple had posed at what looked like an outdoor theater, and Shilpa was surprised that the girl was Indian—and then was surprised at her surprise. She hadn’t actively imagined a particular future for either of her children, but she couldn’t imagine what Sunil and this Anjali had in common.
The mid-summer heat hung dense in the air, a hotter month than they’d seen in years. Shilpa watched them walk up the narrow pathway to the house. Weeds grew between the hostas that came up every year. She should have cleaned them up before Sunil arrived.
“You have a beautiful house, Aunty,” Anjali said. The girl was pretty in a plain sort of way: straight black hair evenly cut to a few inches below her shoulders, a simple t-shirt and jeans that were neither loose nor tight. She held a bag tight against her shoulder and slid off her sandals.
Shilpa noted the girl’s American accent. “You can call me Shilpa.”
Anjali apologized and glanced sheepishly at Sunil. Shilpa motioned upstairs and said she’d set up Sunil’s old bedroom for them. Her son took the bags, Anjali shuffling closely behind.
“The same room?” Shilpa heard Anjali say.
Was Anjali too pious to sleep together or was she surprised they’d allow it? Shilpa herself didn’t like the idea but her husband had convinced her that they clearly slept in the same room all the time. She was tired of being the traditional one so she relented.
Shilpa poured herself a glass of white wine in the kitchen and turned the box fan to face the kitchen island. The kids were supposed to arrive hours before. Sunil had always been punctual, an anxious kid from early on; Anjali must have delayed him. She was plain but women like her did so much to maintain their appearance—waxing, shaving, plucking, dyeing.
Her husband arranged a plate with hummus and crackers. Paul enjoyed experimenting with new recipes and ingredients, claiming it relaxed him. Shilpa was glad she didn’t have to bother; cooking was the last thing she wanted to do after a long day at the clinic. For Sunil’s visit though she’d made his favorite shrimp curry, the one dish she felt confident about. She was usually a last minute cook, throwing things together and hoping for the best, but today she’d made the curry beforehand. She didn’t want another thing to worry about.
Sunil and Anjali chattered as they creaked down the stairs. Shilpa felt a warmth of having more people in the house with them. She liked the bustle and feeling like there was always someone to talk to. It made the house feel alive, like it did when the boys were small.
“Still no central air?” Sunil poured two glasses of water from the tap and gave one to Anjali.
“Waste of money,” Paul said. He offered them the appetizer plate.
“Thank you, Uncle,” Anjali said, dipping a cracker into the hummus.
“No aunties and uncles around here,” Paul said. “You’re part of the family.”
Shilpa shot Paul a look but he didn’t seem to notice. Anjali was not part of the family. They barely knew her. Anjali apologized again.
“It’s okay.” Sunil rubbed her shoulder. Turning to his parents, he said, “Anjali is very polite.”
“Someone has to be.” Paul chuckled.
“Did you make this?” Sunil asked as he shoveled a cracker covered in hummus into his mouth.
“Paprika and garlic,” Paul said. “The consistency is the hardest part but I’m getting the hang of it.”
Shilpa removed the pot’s lid. “We also have shrimp curry.”
“Mom, I told you,” Sunil hesitated. “We’re vegetarian.”
“Since when?”
“For the last six months. For Anjali’s whole life.”
Shilpa clanged the lid back down. She had a vague memory of Sunil mentioning something about giving up meat in passing a few months earlier, but she assumed it was just a phase. Why would anyone choose not to eat meat? When she was growing up, meat was a luxury they couldn’t always afford; why wouldn’t they enjoy it now, when they could?
“I’m sorry, Aunty,” Anjali said. “I should have asked Sunil to make sure you knew. Maybe he’ll still eat.”
Sunil shook his head. “I don’t eat meat anymore.”
Shilpa looked back and forth between the two—waiting for polite Anjali to give in and say she didn’t mind trying it, but this time her politeness didn’t take over.
“It’s shrimp,” Shilpa said. “It’s not meat.”
“I was vegetarian for a while in my twenties,” Paul said. “Before I met your mother. It’s the right thing to do of course, what with the environment and everything, but I couldn’t keep it up.”
“That’s what people say,” Sunil said, “but it’s not hard.”
Paul excitedly talked about a new vegetarian cookbook he saw online; each vegetable treated like a main dish. “Maybe this is my excuse to buy it.”
Since when had cooking become an art form or hobby? When Shilpa was a child, it was a chore that didn’t allow women to live their own lives. Shilpa had actively rebelled against it after coming to the U.S. She’d been glad Paul didn’t expect it from her. Now it seemed like a shortcoming.
“I was going to grill corn and red peppers,” Paul said. He opened the fridge and rustled through the vegetable drawer. “Let’s see what else there is.”
“I can make baingan.” Anjali gestured to the eggplant he held.
“You don’t have to do that,” Shilpa said. “Paul can add it to the grill.” Shilpa couldn’t allow this girl to make food on her first night there. It might have been different if she were American, but with Indians it was a politeness competition—who could be the best host or the best guest or the best wife.
“We can save the shrimp for another time,” Paul said. “Can you make rice, Shilpa?”
Shilpa put the curry into the fridge, pot and all. She told herself that she should be nice to the girl, that it was never easy for anyone to be in an unfamiliar environment. Besides, Shilpa barely spoke to her older son, Rohan, anymore, couldn’t remember the last time he’d called. She needed to have a relationship with at least one of them.
“I can help,” Anjali said. She picked up the knife and cutting board.
“You okay here?” Sunil asked Anjali quietly. She nodded. Sunil opened a beer and followed his father outside to help with the grilling.
Anjali carefully cut the eggplant and soaked it in salted water. The onions fell into crescent moons under her knife. She seemed comfortable with the small spoon of Shilpa’s spice box, knowing by the shade of brown the difference between cumin, coriander, and garam masala, what needed a half-spoon and what needed a full one. There was a precision with which Anjali did things. Shilpa hated to measure but was rarely able to intuit how much she needed of anything. As a result, her food often ended up overly spicy or bland.
“Where did you grow up?” Shilpa measured the rice and fried it with oil in the pot.
Anjali talked about her childhood in New Mexico. “It’s taken me some time to get used to Cleveland. I’m always freezing. I guess that must have been how it was in Chicago too, when you first got here. From Bombay?”
As the water started to boil, Shilpa adjusted the heat and covered the pot. “Where’s your family from?”
“We’re Punjabi,” Anjali said. The mustard seeds popped in the hot oil. “I grew up here but we visit my grandparents every few years. Sunil and I are talking about him coming along in October.”
Shilpa busied herself by moving spices around the counter and silverware into the sink. The last time they all went to India together was the winter of Sunil’s twelfth grade year, right before Rohan dropped out of college. She wanted both children to have a connection with where she came from, but those visits were fraught with fights between her sons or complaints from Paul. Now Sunil would build a different kind of experience with this girl and leave the D’Silva one behind. Would they even go to Bombay to see his aunt Meera? Ever since Shilpa left, she felt like you could only hold onto one piece of India at a time. When you weren’t there, it began to feel one dimensional, especially to Americans. And weren’t they Americans by now? Certainly her children were.
The family gathered at the kitchen table an hour later. Heat from the stove lingered in the air and Shilpa turned the fan on high. Anjali’s baingan bhartha was tangy and delicious. The grilled vegetables had the bite Paul always achieved. Shilpa’s rice was slightly overcooked, the grains sticking together.
Paul and Anjali chattered about their respective jobs, Sunil eagerly chiming in to add something Anjali was too modest to include. She was finishing her psychiatry coursework. Shilpa knew from social media that Anjali was in med school, but didn’t know it was to be a psychiatrist. What had Sunil told her about Meera? Shilpa knew her sister needed psychiatric help, medication was the only way for her to live a manageable life, but she didn’t trust doctors. As a nurse, Shilpa was the one who actually cared for patients. She was there by their bedside when they needed her. Psychiatrists quickly diagnosed problems to make money or move things along. They had cycled through so many doctors over the years for Meera, each one barely listening or getting frustrated.
“Now you start your residency?” Paul spooned more eggplant onto his plate. He turned to Shilpa. “Thank god you didn’t have to do that right sweetheart?”
“I never wanted to be a doctor,” Shilpa said.
As they finished eating, Sunil said they were meeting friends for a drink. He wanted to show Anjali the town where he’d grown up.
“Help with the dishes first,” Paul said.
“No, no,” Shilpa said. Anjali helping with the dishes suggested, again, that she was part of the family; it was too early for any such notion. Besides, how could Shilpa let a guest help? There were rules with Indians. Why she was trying to impress this girl she didn’t know, but something unfamiliar had come over her. A desire to participate in the niceties she had been so relieved to escape when she left India.
Shilpa heard them drive off as she began to wash the dishes in the sink, preferring to cover her hands with soap and warm water than load the dishwasher. She’d told herself that she wouldn’t become the kind of woman whose life was built around her children. She had done everything she could to not sink into the normal patterns of motherhood, but it seemed impossible not to fall short. There was a world in which her sons’ wives would have lived with her, a tradition she was glad to not participate in, as either wife or mother-in-law. What a terrible connotation that word had! Mother-in-laws were destined to be villains.
She thought of her grandmother, who let herself live beyond her family life. Sometimes Shilpa wondered if she were capable of having a long affair if the opportunity presented itself. She wanted to say no, but she thought of Raghav and what it would be like to see him again. She had met him in nursing school. He was in his residency and the love they quickly fell into held all of her. He was born in Madras and came to the States as a child. He lived with his parents in the western suburbs though she never met them. Once she found her own small apartment—with a roommate who woke up at dawn and went out for days at a time—they would spend afternoons there, dreaming about a future together and making love. She had never had a boyfriend before and the loneliness she felt dissipated. How happy her parents would be that she found an Indian man, that she could build a life that incorporated all the corners of herself.
A snowstorm hit the day he told her his parents had found a Hindu girl for him to marry. She was light-skinned and came from a good family. He thought Shilpa knew it would have to end eventually. In retrospect she should have. A handsome Indian doctor. They may have been in America, but some things don’t change. She walked down the blocks around her building after he left, the snow falling into the top of her coat, tingling her scarf-less neck. They continued to see each other until the wedding. They hadn’t spoken since, though for two years after that, she drove by his flat until one day a different man walked out.
She met Paul through a friend the following year. He was loving and kind and she realized it was easier to share a life with someone you weren’t supposed to have everything in common with. Someone with whom she was Indian enough, even if she weren’t Hindu or traditional or whatever else they needed her to be. Their children who were half Indian could move in and out of American spaces because they didn’t need anything different. She couldn’t let Sunil go through what she had.
Upstairs, Shilpa put fresh towels onto the bed of her son’s room. A brown suitcase lay slightly open on the carpet—the same one, she realized, she’d used thirty years before when she came to the U.S. She pulled back the cover and flipped through the folded clothes. Everything was neat—toiletries in a bag, medicines in a ziplock, shoes tucked on the sides. In between a few dresses, she found a pair of lacy black panties, flattened like a squished bug. She picked them up and examined them, running her fingers over the soft lace. What was Anjali expecting to happen during this trip? The girl had acted shocked that they were staying in the same room, but she’d obviously come prepared. In Shilpa’s own suitcase no less.
Shilpa tucked the underwear back into the suitcase, between the cotton dresses like she found them. Emboldened, she opened the backpack next to it and sifted through a few books and chargers. What was she doing? If anyone saw her, they’d think she was crazy. Tucking the books back in, her hand stumbled on a red embroidered pouch, too small to hold much of anything. Inside, she found a ring—a single circular diamond bookended by two smaller stones on a silver band. She felt her body warm. It wasn’t particularly big, not as big as those of some of her suburban patients, but it was clearly an engagement ring. She pulled off her simple wedding band and forced the ring onto her finger. It caught below her knuckle, her skin bunching up around it like dough. She stretched out her arm and watched the ring glisten in the overhead light.
She imagined Sunil going to the jewelry store to look at rings by himself or with a friend. She knew it was unrealistic to expect him to consult her when making a decision like this, but he could have at least talked to them first. He barely knew the woman. Shilpa certainly didn’t.
She wanted everything to pause. Everyone around her kept moving and spinning and she wanted a moment to catch her breath. Why did they need to get married so soon? Sunil was only twenty-eight. The photo she’d seen online had been taken that winter; they couldn’t have been dating for more than a year. Anjali’s parents must have been pressuring her; to them she was probably overdue to be married. Shilpa had tried to create a space for her children to be themselves and not feel the traditional pressure many Indian kids feel, and now her son was walking right into it.
She forced the ring off her finger and put it with the pouch into the pocket of her pants. It was small enough that the small bulge was barely noticeable. In their bedroom, Paul was reading under the covers. She hung up her jeans and slid in next to him, feeling the bed sink beneath her.
“Sunil seems happy,” Paul said as he put his book and glasses on the side table and turned to her.
She liked how he looked without glasses at the end of the day, never sure how much he could see her. She could feel the warmth of his feet next to hers. “She certainly does.”
“You don’t like her?”
“She’s,” Shilpa paused. How could she say that Anjali was too Indian? He wouldn’t understand. “She’s not right for him.”
“I’m not sure we can make that call,” Paul said. “No one could have kept us apart when we first met.” He pulled her towards him and rubbed her arm with his fingertips. He kissed her, his breath minty on her face. “They won’t be home for a while.”
She felt a current run through her as Paul grazed her neck with his fingers. They kissed and her body arched to meet his. As she could feel his penis harden against her, she tried to push away the thoughts of the evening. She pulled up her nightdress and Paul climbed on top of her. She pressed her blunt nails against his back, imagining the diamond ring was still on her finger. She wanted him to move with more force, but he had always been gentle. He liked to look down at her, even though she was likely a blur without his glasses. At one time they would have talked about how they enjoyed each other’s bodies, words she hadn’t used in years. She closed her eyes and an image of Raghav flashed in her mind. He was the only other person she’d slept with and he’d never been gentle. He moved her around like she could take it. Now she imagined it was Raghav with her, his hands pressing hers down. Where was he now? Their time together had just been the two of them. Their relationship was in no one else’s mind.
Afterward, Paul rolled off her and onto his back. Her body suddenly felt empty without the pressure of his weight. She fluttered open her eyes and tried to swallow the lump in her throat.
In the morning, Shilpa sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through the news on her laptop. Sunil came down, wearing a wrinkled shirt and gym shorts that were too big. A few gray strands had begun to sprout between his messy dark hair, and he looked older than Shilpa remembered. He joined her at the table, his hot coffee fogging up his glasses. Finally they were alone.
“What time did you come home?” Shilpa asked.
“Not late,” Sunil said. He scratched his nails against the mug. “You don’t have a membership to the Art Institute, do you?”
“When are you going?” Shilpa was surprised. He had never been interested in art before.
“When Anjali is ready.” He thumbed through something on his phone, barely looking up.
“I thought we’d spend the day together,” Shilpa said. She’d made a plan; they’d go on a walk by the lake, go out for lunch. “Hasn’t she been before?”
“We’ll be back for dinner,” Sunil said. He didn’t sound like himself. He was distant, not the warm, sensitive kid she’d raised.
“What do you think of Anjali?” Sunil asked. He finally put his phone back into his pocket and looked at her expectantly.
“She’s nice,” Shilpa said. “For now.” She ate the rest of her toast and sipped her lukewarm tea. “It’s good to keep your options open though. You’re young.”
Sunil put down his mug. The boyish excitement on his face fell. “You don’t like her?”
“Don’t get upset,” Shilpa said. “I just think you should be careful. Her family might not like you, not like us.”
“What are you talking about?” he said. “I’ve met her family. They’re great.”
“Sometimes with Indians,” she said, “you don’t know, but sometimes people are very traditional and expect you—”
“You’re being ridiculous.” Sunil said. He pushed his chair back and the table shuddered. “Why can’t you just be on my side for once?” He creaked up the steps, reminding her of how he’d stomp away as a kid in the middle of a tantrum. But this time he was not having a tantrum, he wasn’t a kid anymore.
What did he mean? She was always on his side. That was the point. She wanted to protect him from heartbreak. She heard his murmured voice talk to Anjali, and Shilpa imagined what her son was saying about her. Unfair. Crazy. The boys had used those words when they were teenagers and she’d imagined how angry her own parents would have been if she’d done the same. But she wanted them to be themselves and not feel the pressure of doing everything just right. That’s what she liked about living in America. Reputation mattered—it mattered everywhere—but the stakes just didn’t feel quite as high here. If Sunil married Anjali, the world Shilpa had tried to construct for her family would crack.
While Sunil and Anjali were downtown, Shilpa tried to distract herself. She tidied things around the house that didn’t need tidying: picture frames, the cutlery drawer, couch cushions. Outside, she repotted the hibiscus plants and weeded around the hostas. She had only recently started gardening, finding the quiet of it satisfying. There had been no garden when she was growing up; her life was different from her mother’s in so many ways. She liked the idea of planting bulbs before the end of winter that would sprout months later. The flowers bloomed even when she doubted them. She liked to crouch in silence, feel the sun on her back, and not think about the bustle of her life at the clinic. To sink her fingers into damp soil. Even plants that seemed dead would one day sprout small green shoots from the dirt like little fingers. Humans were different from plants. They moved away from you as they grew.
After dinner that night, the family sat together eating chocolates Sunil and Anjali picked up on their way back from town. The day of quiet had calmed Shilpa and she decided that she’d do her best to make the rest of the weekend go well. She could feel Sunil not looking at her, his responses to her questions much shorter than those to Paul’s. Anjali flourished and talked excitedly about the day—in addition to being in med school, she seemed to also be taken by modern art.
Sunil went upstairs and returned with a concerned look on his face. He sat back down, his eyes glazed over deep in thought.
“What’s the matter?” Anjali asked.
“The ring,” he said. “It’s not in my bag.”
“What ring?” Paul asked.
“My engagement ring,” Anjali said.
“Isn’t it supposed to be a surprise?” Shilpa said. “Proposals.”
As soon as she said it, she understood. She glanced at Anjali’s hand and saw the faintest outline of a tan line hugging her ring finger. “You’re already engaged?”
“We were about to tell you,” Sunil said. To Anjali, “Did you move it?”
“Why would I move it?”
“Where the hell is it?”
“I don’t know, Sunil. I wasn’t the one who wanted to take it off.”
“If you had kept it where I told you,” Sunil said.
“Let’s talk about this later,” Anjali said. She looked apologetically at Shilpa and Paul.
Shilpa could feel the weight of the soft red pouch in her pocket. She could tell them right now, apologize, say that it was a mistake. Save them the fight and the worry.
“It has to be in my bag,” Anjali said. She picked up her purse from near the front door and shuffled through it.
“It could have fallen out,” Sunil said. “In the car? At a gas station?”
“Maybe you left it at home?” Paul chimed in.
Sunil stood. “I’m going to look again.”
Anjali excused herself and followed Sunil upstairs.
“They’re engaged,” Paul said. He seemed finally as struck by the whole thing as Shilpa was. “A bit soon, no?”
If Anjali already had a tan line, it must have been weeks if not over a month since he’d asked her.
“How could he not tell us?” Shilpa said.
Paul furrowed his eyebrows like he always did before saying something he wanted to be careful about. “Maybe he knew you’d react badly to her.”
“Not all of us can be as laid back as you,” she said. Paul, the parent everyone preferred.
She left him sitting there and went upstairs to the bathroom. She could hear Sunil and Anjali looking around their room, the scrape of furniture pushed around, the dumping of belongings onto the bed. They continued to argue about where it might be and whether they should drive back to Cleveland, stopping at the same rest stops in case it had fallen out somehow. Shilpa pulled the bag out of her pocket and fiddled with the gold strings that tightened it.
By the time Shilpa took Paul to Bombay, they’d already decided to get married. Her parents had been so worried that he would change her. How could she say, I’ve already changed! But she knew the life she’d created in Chicago was far from theirs; they would never witness who she was becoming in her new home. She hadn’t considered how that would happen with her sons too. Anjali would now always be around. If it weren’t her, it would be someone else. What would not having the ring do? Eventually it would be a funny story, nothing that would actually make them second guess their decision. Nobody could know it had been her. Even Paul wouldn’t be on her side if he found out.
Shilpa heard footsteps descend the stairs and she quietly went to their room. Clothes and toiletries scattered across the floor, books pulled out from shelves that were moved away from the wall. Not wanting to disturb the disarray, as though each piece of furniture or clothing was in a specific place, she carefully placed the pouch underneath a pair of jeans on the floor. As she turned to leave, she saw Anjali in the doorway. The girl’s brow furrowed, taking her in. Her eyes were red.
“Did you?” Anjali started. She didn’t finish the question.
Shilpa felt the thoughts cycling in the girl’s mind. Anjali had the right to be angry, to tell Sunil that she didn’t want to visit his family anymore. That’s what Shilpa would do if Paul’s mother had done such a thing. She wanted to deny it, to say that she was just helping them look for the ring. But Anjali was too smart to believe that. Shilpa passed her silently, careful not to brush her arm in the small doorway. She went downstairs where Sunil and Paul were starting a movie. Anjali came down a few minutes later, the ring shining on her finger.
Sunil exclaimed. “Where was it?”
Anjali glanced at Shilpa. “Between some clothes.” She leaned onto his shoulder and made herself comfortable on the couch.
“Mom,” Sunil said. “What do you think?”
Shilpa made her way to the couch and sat in the only empty seat, next to Anjali. She could smell the girl’s citrus shampoo, and the women’s shoulders brushed against each other’s. The ring sparkled on Anjali’s long finger, the lamplight brightening the stones.
“It’s lovely,” Shilpa said. She turned to Anjali. “It suits you.”