The gold-and-red foliage that had created such a gorgeous canopy of colors over my parents’ suburban street had withered down to a few brown leaves clinging for dear life. I knew how they felt. Vulnerable, depleted, desperate, and susceptible to even the barest breeze. But the last leaves were the most resilient, and one had to step back and look at the organism as a whole. The tree might seem frail in its worst time, but spring was just around the corner. It only had to withstand winter to flourish later. Much like myself.
I parked in the driveway, beside Mummie’s old green Camry, and hauled my backpack out from the passenger seat. I rang the doorbell to announce myself, and then shuffled through my keys to find their house key. It was also green, Mummie’s favorite color. I’d just turned it in the lock when Mummie opened the door and grinned ear-to-ear.
“Mummie!” I squealed and hugged her tight.
“My beta!” she replied, like she hadn’t seen me just yesterday at mandir. “Come in! There’s a cold front coming.”
And by “cold front,” she meant anything below sixty degrees. She was already bundled up in a burnt-orange sweater, a pair of cream-colored wide-leg trousers, and socks. Her hair was back in her usual braid that reached her waist with a coconut oil sheen, the gray tinted burgundy from mehndi. She smelled like the gardenia soap I had shipped in for her from Hawaii, very subtle but soft and fresh.
I took off my shoes in the foyer and walked through the hall, passing the door to my old bedroom on the left and following Mummie into the kitchen, where the house opened up to its epicenter. Our lives revolved around the kitchen. When I was growing up, Mummie made sure that we cooked together, ate together, and cleaned up together, all while discussing life.
I took a second to stand by the fridge, close my eyes, and inhale the rich aromas of family cooking. Spices from curried veggies and ghee on hot buns sizzling on the griddle hit my nostrils.
“What can I help with?” I asked as I washed my hands.
Papa walked by and patted my shoulder. “Nothing, beta. We’re done.”
“Really?”
“You worked all day.” He set the dining table.
“So have you.”
“Well…”
“What your papa is trying to say,” Mummie interjected as she filled a pitcher with water, “is that we didn’t want you to cook.”
“What!” I objected. “I can cook.”
Mummie arched an eyebrow while Papa tamped down a laugh. “It’s not a bad thing. No one expects you to do it all.”
I frowned. “You’d think I’d have better cooking skills after spending every day in the kitchen with you.”
“To be honest, you were always preoccupied with studying.”
“Probably should’ve paid more attention to cooking, huh?”
“Studying was a good choice,” she reminded me as she brought over a large bowl filled with pav bhaji filling—a mixture of curried mashed potatoes, cauliflower, and peas.
Papa grabbed the platter of stacked, warm, and grilled-to-toasty-perfection hamburger-style buns nearly saturated with ghee. That scandalous amount wasn’t the best for our cholesterol, but no one in this house could resist butter. And cheese. In fact, a rather large bowl of grated cheddar was already on the table, beside small portions of chopped onion, diced tomatoes, cilantro, crispy sev noodles, and lime wedges.
I pulled down six glasses from a cabinet, my thoughts drifting toward Daniel at work. He’d looked so adorable as a yellow bunny.
“Why are you smiling?” Papa asked.
“Oh, isn’t it obvious?” Mummie answered. “She must be so happy to see Yuvan tonight.”
My smile faltered, even as I nodded.
Yuvan and his parents arrived as we finished setting up. I opened the door for them on the first ring. I immediately, albeit barely, touched his parents’ feet and clasped my hands at my chest in respect for my future in-laws.
Yuvan’s parents were full of smiles and laughter and warmth but maintained their physical distance. His dad hardly ever touched females outside of their family and kept his hands clasped behind his back in a nonverbal announcement that he wouldn’t be offering a handshake. I wished everyone could be that way. His mom patted my head the way elders often did.
My parents greeted them behind me and lured them away while Yuvan walked up the driveway with a small bouquet of Stargazer lilies.
“For you,” he said and handed them to me.
I smiled as I took them. “Thank you. They’re beautiful. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”
“To me getting you gifts?”
“Yeah. Is that weird?” I asked, stepping aside to let him in.
“We’re still new. Honeymoon phase, right?” He took off his shoes on the porch and came in, his hand landing on my lower back. I froze.
The very slight, very fleeting touch had me clenching my teeth and fists.
My parents greeted Yuvan with praise and hugs. When had he become so much a part of my family? Had I been that busy that I never noticed? We’d been dating for six months and it was all a blur. And by dating, I meant texting, phone calls, and family dinners. Maybe a movie? It was all so sterile and unmemorable.
I hadn’t dated anyone other than Daniel before Yuvan. I’d never been interested in dating, was too busy, too focused. Then I’d met Daniel and after a few innocent run-ins, things avalanched into a furious need. A need to talk, to be close to him, to touch him and be touched by him. While marriages didn’t always start with whirlwind love, I’d really expected mine to.
All this with Yuvan was simplistic, ideal given how our families, culture, religion, and backgrounds coincided. But he wasn’t the love of my life, and I was beginning to wonder if he ever would be.
Mummie shooed him away when he offered to help in the kitchen, not that there was anything left to do. She had impeccable timing when cooking for guests. We all sat down to eat in the dining room. When I scooted my chair closer to the table, I also, hopefully imperceptibly, scooted away from Yuvan. I couldn’t stand that his shirt grazed my arm.
We fell into chatter about life and work. Papa and Yuvan took up the majority of the conversation while I plated for everyone. Three buns to the side, heaping dollops of filling, and all the garnishes and toppings, minus the cheese, in imaginary compartments. We served guests first, and I always made sure my parents had their food before I started eating.
I laid my buns open-faced on my plate and topped them with a good heaping of filling, a super helping of cheese, a fair amount of onion and tomato, a sprinkle of sev and cilantro, and a squeeze of lime. Before I dug in, my mouth watering, I caught Yuvan watching me.
“What?” I asked around a bite, savoring the crunch of sev and onion and the burst of lime on my tongue. I wiggled in my chair, it was so divine! Mummie grinned at me, knowing my favorites.
“Is that how you eat pav bhaji?” Yuvan teased.
“I know, you’re supposed to tear off the bread and eat it like roti, but whatever.”
“I meant with…cheese.”
“In this house we eat cheese with everything.”
“Try it. It’s very good,” Mummie insisted, but Yuvan looked skeptical. In the end, he decided not to be the least bit adventurous. Oh well, he was missing out; more cheese for me.
“This is amazing,” he said around a bite. “Did you make this?” he asked me.
“No. I don’t really cook,” I said quietly, bracing for his reaction.
“What do you mean you don’t cook?” his mom asked, peering around him. “Beta, you must learn quickly.”
I tried to control my RBF for the sake of respecting my elders and not shaming my parents…but wow, was it hard!
Yuvan asked, “Not even this? You can cheat and use a spice packet.”
“Do you know how to cook? Even with spice packets?” I asked, because we’d been through this before. We’d had lots of meals together and not one of them had I cooked. Yet he always seemed determined to remind me in this sort of passive-aggressive way that I should know how to cook. I didn’t look at any of the parents but felt their silence thicken around us.
“Not much, honestly. I was too busy studying and hanging with friends. My sisters were the ones who cooked. My parents are really proud of that, girls who can cook.”
I gritted out, “My parents are proud of a daughter who’s a doctor.”
“My sisters are doctors, too,” he reminded me as he bit into his bun, absolutely unaware of how tense I’d become.
“So…are you expecting me to cook after we’re married?”
He laughed. “Of course. I don’t know how to cook.”
“What if neither of us knows how to cook?”
His right brow hiked up, as if I’d thrown some lengthy physics equation at him.
“We should both plan on cooking after the wedding,” I clarified.
“We can get into the kitchen with our moms, maybe take some cooking classes? Sounds fun.”
“I don’t mean once in a while cooking together. I mean cooking together every day.”
His eyebrows knitted together, as if the concept confused him. “I don’t think every day is viable long term.”
“But it is for me to cook every day? Long term?”
“I mean, you’re…the…wife. Every wife I know is the cook.”
His parents nodded, chattering about how young his mother had been when she began cooking and how they’d taught his sisters to cook from an early age, too.
I stuffed another bite into my mouth to keep from snapping. Thank god for Papa, who swooped in and defused the tension. “You know, I’ve cooked with my wife since we married. I strived every day to help her. And trust me, it’s a great way to spend time together. You’re working with your hands and talking about your day, about any discussions to be had. You’re enjoying your time and not wasting it in front of a TV or apart, reading or studying or with other people. And as for Preeti, who doesn’t always like to talk a lot, she’s a great listener. I really miss having you here.”
My heart melted. “Aw, Papa! I miss being here, too.”
“You could always move back in,” Mummie suggested. “Save some money.”
I smiled. “Nice try. The house is too far from work.”
I ate dinner faster than anyone else and leaned back into my seat, satiated.
“You eat much too fast,” Yuvan commented.
“By-product of working at the hospital.”
“You can slow down and savor at home, though.”
Not when I wanted to get out of here and get back to…Daniel? No. No. I just wanted to breathe and get away from Yuvan and take a shower and sleep. It was only six thirty. It’d been half an hour since he’d arrived.
“Speaking of home, where are you living now?” Mummie asked. “Did you ever find a new place? You hadn’t mentioned moving. Or are you still with Reema? Beta, that’s not good. Reema is married now. You can’t live there if a man is there, too.”
“No, Mummie. I left before she returned from her honeymoon.”
Papa added, “Your rooms are just the way you left them if you want to move back home.”
“Rooms?” Yuvan asked.
Papa laughed. “Yes. Plural. This daughter of mine had too many things to fit into one room. The guest room became the overflow area. Make sure you have lots of space in your house for her to move into.”
Yuvan grinned. “That much stuff, huh?”
“In my defense, Indian clothes take up a lot of space. I needed a bigger closet. Plus, it was nice to use the guest room as a study. I needed a place for my books.” I shrugged, hoping that my mom didn’t volley the conversation back to my current living arrangements. Not that the subject of my postwedding living arrangements was any better.
“We’ll have plenty of space for Preeti,” Yuvan assured us and placed an arm over the back of my chair, forcing me to sit up and away from his touch. I sipped water as he continued, “We’ll look at two-bedroom apartments after our engagement. We can convert one into a study and all that space will be for Preeti.”
“An apartment?” his mother guffawed.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” his father added with a wave of his hand. “You’re going to live with us. As is the Indian way.”
No. No. No. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to live with a bunch of other people. I needed privacy and quiet and not to be expected to clean up after everyone or be looked down on because my cooking was subpar. I needed the ability to come home, shower, and pass out without any other responsibilities for people who could take care of themselves.
His mother added, “Right. What will people say if you live on your own when you’re so close to us? We don’t want others to think we don’t get along or have diverted from tradition.”
I looked to Yuvan to speak up, because if I said anything in this moment, it was sure to come out scathing and tactless.
He nodded once to me and told them, “Newlyweds need their own space. Time to adjust to each other.”
His mother opened her mouth to argue, but Mummie intervened. “Oh, it’s fine. They need to learn to take care of responsibilities and become comfortable with each other. I think an apartment is a fine idea.”
“Why don’t you start looking at a house? Investment,” Papa recommended.
“Well, I don’t have a job secured yet,” I reminded him, then said to Yuvan’s parents, “Which is why we can’t decide on where to live just yet.”
Papa asked around a bite, “Why wouldn’t the practice give you a position? I thought they liked you and you were doing a good job.”
I shrugged. “It seems like they will, but they have lots of residents and external applicants and only one position.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get something soon,” Yuvan assured me. “Have you been applying to other places?”
“Of course,” I replied. “I’ve had several interviews.”
“Where are you living now?” Mummie asked, as if she’d been waiting patiently to broach the subject again.
“I took over Liya’s place for a couple of months, since she’s in Dallas,” I replied.
“Oh! That worked out perfectly, gives you time to find a permanent place.”
“Hopefully.”
“You are living by yourself?” Yuvan’s mother asked, concerned.
“They have security on premises at all times, and it’s an upscale area. It’s a perfectly safe apartment,” I reassured her.
Mummie said, “You’re always saying that her place is very nice. Send us the new address and maybe we can stop by.”
“Of course.” Only if she insisted that I write it down right then and there as she stood beside me and watched every stroke of the pen.
The conversation quickly moved on to more pressing matters.
“Are you two any closer to setting an engagement date?” Papa asked, looking first to me and then to Yuvan.
He replied, “We’re working on it. Actually, letting Preeti take the wheel on that. Gor dhana and wedding dates will revolve around her work demands. But I think as soon as she gets her new position, we can move forward.”
“Great!” Mummie beamed and clapped her hands. “Ah! I’m so excited to send out invitations and get all the emblems ready.”
“Ready?” Papa asked. “You already have them.”
She blushed. “Oh, well, maybe I got ahead of myself.”
“I must see!” Yuvan’s mother said, and, of course, Mummie was ready to show them the entire display.
“We’ll be ready to go at any given time, right?” Yuvan looked to me.
I nodded. Yeah. Sure. Watching how lovingly my parents reacted to Yuvan, talking to him at all hours of the day like he was their son, I knew this was the right thing to do. I wanted to make my parents happy and proud, and marrying Yuvan would do that. I couldn’t stay planted in one spot my entire life. I had to move forward. While seeing my mom giddy made my heart burst, the anxiety started creeping back into my brain.
I breathed in and out, concentrated on my plate, and managed to keep my fists from balling up.
“Good. I had your foi bring some items from India,” Mummie said.
I almost choked on my water. “Didn’t she go to India six months ago?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’ve been planning ceremonial things since last summer?”
“Yes. As soon as you and Yuvan started talking.”
“Mummie. You really did jump ahead of yourself.” I almost laughed. Saying that Mummie was prepared was an understatement.
She waved off my remark. “I knew Yuvan was the one the moment you told me you began texting.”
Yuvan’s mother giddily added, “No need to waste time! You two are a perfect match.”
Oh, boy. Eight months ago, Yuvan’s mom and my mom had suggested us as potential marriage partners. Seven and a half months ago, Yuvan and I agreed to text. Seven months ago, we agreed to meet. Six months ago, we had our first date, and despite social rules not to unleash all your baggage on the first date, I had to be up front with him. I’d told him about Daniel.
He knew that we’d dated and that I’d loved him. He knew that I’d been intimate with Daniel and that it still circulated within the gossip mill in the community. And he didn’t care, as long as I was over Daniel.
I told him that I was. I thought I was.
“Your sister had beautiful engagement pictures that she sent out with the invitations,” Yuvan’s mother said to him. “You should do pictures.”
“We can go together,” Mummie suggested. “Or make a girls’ trip with Reema? She must be up to date with all of the latest trends. We’ll need a nice salwar kameez. Or gown? For the pictures. What about the engagement: lengha or sari?”
“Oh, lord no. I can’t handle a sari,” I reminded her.
“And bangles to match. Some new jewelry?”
“No, no. We don’t need to get so extravagant.”
“Nonsense,” Yuvan’s mother said. “This is a very special occasion. Please, let me gift you both with engagement attire. I insist.”
“You only get engaged once,” Yuvan said. “We should look extra nice. We can shop together, match?”
“That’s a wonderful idea!” Papa agreed. “Why don’t the six of us go shopping together?”
“Shopping!” our moms said in unison, all splendidly with a clap of their hands.
“And you can pick out engagement photo outfits. At least three to mix up the photos. You should really do engagement photos, beta.” Yuvan’s mother clucked her tongue. “All the young people are doing that these days. And it looks very professional, huh?”
Papa added, “Reema and others used their engagement photos as decorations and slideshows during their reception. It would be very nice for you to do that.”
“I think so, too,” Yuvan agreed and turned to me. “What do you think? As soon as you establish a permanent position, and I’m sure you’re going to land the job at your current practice, we can start scheduling all these things. We can start a list tonight.”
I stuttered over my thoughts before my parents jumped back in.
“Ha! Great idea!” Papa grabbed the notebook and pen he kept by the phone and brought it over, while the moms began a side discussion about all the ornate details with great enthusiasm.
Papa wrote as Yuvan spoke. “Things to do. Let’s see: engagement photo session, gor dhana date and invitations and menu, shopping for three engagement photo outfits, shopping for all six of us for gor dhana outfits. Then we need to pick a date for the wedding and a venue. Look at mehndi party details, pithi, garba if we decide to do that, have to find a horse for the baraat, reception theme. Colors for each event…”
My heart skipped a beat, and not in a romantic, warm, lovey-dovey, be-still-my-heart way, but in premature ventricular contractions. I’d only had PVCs before episodic panic attacks. My heart skipped a beat and then pounded so fiercely with a premature contraction that it literally knocked the air from my lungs. I wheezed to catch my breath, but Yuvan simply rubbed my back and I stilled, tightening my fists. He didn’t stop to ask what was wrong, but instead checked his phone as it pinged with a message.
Goose bumps puckered up and down my arms. My head was getting too crowded with a growing cacophony of whispers and questions and reminders. Was this too soon? Could I be happy with him? Was this the right thing to do?
Yuvan snapped his fingers. “Ah! I just received an email that there might be an opening for the group engagement at mandir at the end of the month.”
The moms were immediately enthralled with the idea, ignited by chatter and excitement.
I sucked in a shuddering breath. “End. Of. The. Month? This month?”
“Yes! Isn’t that perfect?” he asked.
“Ah! What a blessing!” his mother exclaimed, while Mummie added, “A group engagement means being blessed personally by His Holiness. You’ll be the first in the family to receive such blessings, beta.”
“We have to act fast, though,” Yuvan said. “Before the spots fill up.”
“Oh! Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you partook in a group wedding, too? Maybe next year they do the wedding portion, and your wedding will be personally blessed again by His Holiness,” Yuvan’s mother added.
“Actually, in Chicago, the mandir is performing group weddings next month,” he said.
My PVCs went into overdrive. I gripped the edge of my seat, focused on catching my breath. “Oh, no. I’m not…not ready for a wedding.”
“Yeah, of course. I’m just throwing that out there. I mean, all we would need are airline tickets, a hotel room, and nice clothes. But think about it, we wouldn’t have to pay for anything, just a donation to mandir. We wouldn’t worry about the procession and all that wedding stuff. They have all the emblems needed, everything is taken care of. And it’s quick.”
“If you were married by the end of the year…” Mummie said dreamily. And off she went chattering with Yuvan’s parents over pros and cons.
But Papa caught the panic that I felt was so abundantly twitching across my face. How could no one else see it?
“Well, let’s just relax on the wedding portion,” Papa said, his hands moving outward in a calming motion. “Even a group wedding has to be planned a few months out.”
Yuvan took in a large breath, his chest expanding and then deflating with disappointment. He cleared his throat and turned to me. “I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m just so excited to start married life with you.”
He placed his hand over mine, but I flinched and retracted my hand to my lap. The look of rejection on his face pained me, but I still couldn’t force myself to hold his hand.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“Don’t worry about it,” he replied in a flat tone.
I blew out a breath and Mummie nodded. “You’re right. It’s too soon, too rushed. What if people talk?”
Although my mom didn’t mean it in any sort of foreboding way, a hush washed over everyone. Every person at this table was unwillingly thinking of my past relationship and how people gossiped. That was all it took: harbingers with torches lighting rumor fires all over the community. A quick wedding meant only one thing, right? That I must’ve been pregnant. Why else would we rush?
“Let me think about the group engagement,” I told Yuvan after dinner as he walked me to my car.
“The sooner, the better,” he insisted. “The seats fill up fast.”
I nodded. It was a very big deal to get blessings, which was why people didn’t mind group engagements and group weddings. But once we were engaged, it was almost as final as being married—without the benefits. Engagements were rarely broken in our community and in my family.
“Can’t believe it’s been six months already,” he commented.
Six months of dating, of barely realizing I was finally in some sort of relationship geared toward engagement and everyone was waiting on me to announce a date. And as of tonight, everyone was waiting on me to agree to the group engagement at the end of the month.
This was happening too fast.
“I would really love to be blessed,” he started.
“I know. I just…need to think about it. It’s so soon.”
“It’s logical, right?”
Logical? Yes. Idyllic? No. Feeling right and absolute down to my bones? Not at all.
He continued, “Everything is set, ready to go. We show up in our best threads. We don’t even have to go shopping if you don’t have time. We have plenty of heavy outfits. I mean, if we’re getting engaged anyway, might as well get blessed, right? Jumping to the wedding, sure, I get that it’s too much, too fast, although I’m not concerned about gossip. But the engagement is doable.”
“Mm…” I pressed my lips together with a grunt.
“How far is the drive home?”
“Almost an hour.”
He checked his watch. “It’s getting late. Text me your new address. I’d love to drop by.”
“Sure.”
He came in for a hug, albeit slowly and cautiously.
I tried. I really tried. I managed to stay in place but stiffened with fists at my side.
He hugged me gently and pulled away, frowning. “You really have to learn to let me touch you.”
I really have to do nothing. “You say that like it’s my fault, or like it’s anything personal against you. It’s not. It’ll become more natural over time,” I said, trying to convince myself more than him. Six months of getting to know each other for the purpose of determining if we would make a match and not being able to touch? Maybe even Yuvan could see through it. “I’m perfectly fine hugging my parents and my close friends. You’ve seen that.”
He reached out for my hand, but his slight touch felt like burning coals branding my flesh. I jerked back.
“See?” he said, his voice edging toward irritated. “That’s not normal. You should be okay with a hug or a touch. I don’t understand why you can’t stand to be touched to this extreme.”
“You don’t have to understand it. But you should respect it and be patient,” I replied, sifting through my own irritation and matching his tone.
“How patient can I be? We’ve been dating for six months and I can’t even hold your hand. How did you get so far with him?”
And by “him,” he meant… “I was comfortable with him. I’d been in love with him. You know that.”
“So. You’re not comfortable with me? You’re not in love with me? Yet we’re about to get engaged?”
I swallowed as his gaze bored into mine. A disturbing silence engulfed us because we both knew the answers.
Yuvan was not Daniel Thompson.
