Kunal stops once they’re at their old lockers. “They still look the same.”
“They do. Just as beaten up as ever.” Simran glances at them. They have the white residue of peeled-off stickers.
But on a second glance, she notices there’s a sticker with their names on it. “Hey, wait, our names are still on here.”
“They are?”
“Yeah . . . how is that possible? We haven’t been here in five years.”
“I don’t know,” Kunal says. “Do you think these are still being used?”
“They must be,” Simran says. “I wonder if they’re actually locked.”
She fiddles with the black combination lock. “It’s open.”
“I wonder if there’s anything inside.” Kunal stays behind her.
As the door swings open, it takes Simran a second to register the velvet, maroon ring box in the back corner of the locker.
“Look, there’s a—” Before Simran can finish her sentence, Kunal reaches over her to grab the ring box.
When she turns to face him, he’s bending down on one knee.
“Wait, what are you . . .” Her voice fades as she slowly registers what is happening. Is her mind playing tricks on her? Her boyfriend is on one knee? It can’t be real.
But it is real.
This is it, a voice in her head says. This is what you’ve always dreamed of.
“Simran, ever since you stopped me on the lacrosse field, I haven’t been the same. You’re the reason I’ve been able to accomplish anything. You inspire me every day, and I feel lucky to even be in your life. I know I’ve been acting weird lately, but it’s because I wanted—needed—this to go well. . . .”
He continues to say more, but Simran can’t process any of it. A mixture of adrenaline and excitement run through her. Is this really happening? To her?
The moment becomes a blur of colors. The white of Kunal’s Nike sneakers. The chipped teal of her old locker. The deep maroon of the ring box. The red and blue of the school’s decorations.
The past few months run through her mind. No wonder Kunal seemed to be miles away. He must have been thinking about this the entire day, the entire month. When did he tell her parents about this? How long had he been thinking of it?
“Yes!” Simran blurts even though Kunal is still talking. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Kunal laughs. “I love that you didn’t even need me to ask.”
Simran extends her shaking left hand. She loves that Kunal fumbles as he tries to slip the one-carat, princess-cut diamond ring on her finger.
Kunal kisses her hand. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, honey.” Simran turns to lean against him.
They stare at each other in silence, processing it all. She had been thinking of this moment years ago, when they started dating. But the reality was even better than what she had pictured. She now understood why so many movies and books revolved around this. Because when it was happening with the right person, it was surprising and thrilling but also peaceful and stabilizing. It gave her a sense of freedom and belonging. It was all of the right contradictions at once.
“Are you happy?” Kunal asks.
“I am so happy. So, so happy,” Simran says, unable to stop hugging her fiancé. Her fiancé! He wants to be with me forever, she thinks. We are in this together. Forever.
They stand that way for what feels like hours, not knowing how much things would soon change.
One
Simran
Present Day
To her left, Simran can see her mother, Nandini, adjusting the folds of her bloodred sari and pretending to be proud of her.
“Try to forget about what you told me and just focus on everyone here. You don’t want them to have a bad impression of you.” Nandini motions toward the room, which is stuffed with an array of first-generation Indians, most of them in arranged marriages similar to her own. Women in salwar kameezes and saris, men in dress pants and button-down shirts.
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say that I’m not in danger of that at all,” Simran says, taking a dainty sip of blushed champagne.
“Simran! I’m saying this for your own good.”
“That’s what you always say. That somehow, everything is for my good. As if every time you criticize me, you’re doing me some sort of favor.”
“Look, you’re young and . . .” Her mother’s face falls, and for a second, Simran considers telling her that she’s sorry and understands.
But then Nandini’s features twist back into a scowl. “Don’t you understand that I’m your mother and that means I know what’s best for y—”
Her lecture halts as Simran’s father approaches them, wearing a suit and striped crimson tie—a dramatic change from the goofy, smiley-faced ones he wears when he sees patients. With graying sideburns and a confident posture, his physical traits echo louder than his transient accent, giving him a gentleness ideal for any pediatric surgeon.
“I’m proud of you, cupcake,” he says, pulling his daughter into a hug.
Like the Princess Jasmine snow globe on Simran’s dresser, their interactions tend to remain frozen with childhood tenderness, despite how fervently the world around it is shaken.
“At least someone is,” Simran offers.
“Ranjit, don’t push it,” Nandini says. “We are celebrating this one time, but after it’s done, it’s time for her to move on.”
Simran opens her mouth at the same time that Ranjit motions to her with a finger to his lips: Keep the peace for now.
While the three of them make towers of her books on empty tables, Simran wonders if it was a terrible idea to tell her mother about the argument with Kunal. Indian women, especially the ones in their family, take pride in suffering quietly, in knowing when to stop lamenting and start serving cups of chai. Even her feisty mother manages to conceal her naked emotions within the ridges of her heart, where they are protected under her white lab coat.
But Simran and Kunal have suffered enough already. The first three years of their relationship were “forbidden.” Most Indian parents are appalled by the idea of high school dating, so their interactions were forced to be strategically planned. She likes to think it’s similar to Romeo and Juliet’s union, minus the whimsical balcony scene and tragic ending.
She glances at her mother now, double-checking the final gift baskets and making sure to ask Ranjit his opinion. “I let him think he’s the boss even though I’m really the boss,” Nandini always says.