Simran drifts to the transatlantic words she and Kunal exchanged just one hour before the official start of her book party. This time they couldn’t stop fighting about which type of food to serve for their wedding lunch. His mom wants a traditional Gujarati lunch—with lentil flour cakes; eggplant, green pea, and potato curry; and puffy, fried bread—while Nandini and Ranjit envision something fusion. Phone arguments are always the worst, just one step ahead of online ones; not only do they feel impersonal, but making up is even more difficult without the physical comfort of the person.
Not that they made up, anyway.
Kunal started yelling and instead of taking the high road, Simran yelled back and hung up the phone. It was a childish move; a mini quiz to see if he would call back.
In any case, tonight Kunal is left with the power, because the one who can care less is the one calling the shots. The one who can be hung up on and continue saving malnourished African children. A surge of pride runs through her as she pictures all six feet and two inches of him, head to toe in teal scrubs, scribbling symptoms onto a notepad and handing out iodine pills.
Of course, she shouldn’t be upset with him in the first place. Their recent distance—both physical and emotional—is due to the fact that, even with a taxing medical student schedule, he’s doing something that most people only get around to in theory: making the world a better place.
The yellow light dances off the clear diamond on her left hand as a winking reminder that she’s picked. She’s lucky. She’s exhausted.
This is how independent women behave, she tells herself. They whittle down their lives into distinct compartments, so they aren’t reliant on just one for fulfillment.
She forces herself to focus on more important things about Kunal, like the way he finds her sexy in mismatched sweats. Or how he wakes up in the middle of the night to stack extra blankets on her feet because they always get cold. And how, despite his private personality, he always leans down and kisses her shoulder when they’re out together.
From their parents’ arranged marriages, they both knew that nobody was perfect and relationships required hard work, work that they were both willing to put in. Work that caused their bond to become more resilient throughout the years. Work that made daily, banal activities, like flossing before bed or putting in contacts in the morning, more enjoyable simply because they were shared.
As if on cue, Simran’s phone rings with an out-of-country number. She darts from the room and finds a spot in the lobby. The buzz of Indian aunties gossiping vibrates through the walls.
“I’m sorry,” she says without waiting for either of them to say hi.
“Me too. This is dumb. Can we move past it?”
Hearing Kunal’s deep voice instantly gives her a sense of peace. He’s always known how to calm her down.
“Yes,” she says. “It was a pretty dumb argument.”
“You know, we’re going to have so many decisions to make over the next year.”
“And we can’t let those decisions cause arguments. We won’t. This is just the start. And we’ll get through it all. We’re just adjusting to this.”
“Yeah. I agree.” He sighs. “I really do wish I was there with you. I’m so proud of your book release.”
“I wish you were here, too,” she says. She refrains from telling him that it isn’t the same without him. It’ll only make him feel worse. Besides, she wants him to be able to take advantages of the opportunities he gets in med school. She gives herself a mental reminder that everything is going to be fine, that part of being a med student’s partner is dealing with an unpredictable, grueling schedule.
On Kunal’s end, Simran hears people singing in Swahili.
“How’s it going?” he asks. “What were you doing when I called?”
“I was just talking to my parents. The decorations look good and everyone se—”
“Sorry, honey, can I call you right back?” Kunal says. “Something came up. I’ll call you back in one minute.”
“Sure,” she says as he hangs up.
After ten minutes of mindless Instagram scrolling, Simran decides to go back inside. She approaches her mother as her father attends to his sister and three brothers, who have just arrived.
Nandini squints at her. “Where were you?”
“Just on the phone with Kunal. We’re fine.”
When she doesn’t say anything, Simran whispers, “You knew I was having a bad enough day even though this is supposed to be an exciting time for me. Did you really have to remind Dad and me how much you didn’t want to throw this party?”
“First of all, calm down. Second, we didn’t throw this party just because Nani insisted,” she says, referring to Simran’s grandmother, the only person in her family who has supported her writing. “Even though I’m sure you’ll tell her all this when she’s here for your engagement party.”
Simran nods. “If the pipes didn’t burst in her house, she would be here now, and she’d see for herself how unfair you’re being. I wouldn’t have to tell her anything.”
Nandini’s eyes narrow. “I’m not trying to be unfair. I just want you to remember the importance of being practical. Right now, you’re just a student. Writing isn’t something you can sustain once you’re a full-time psychologist.”
“This project is important to me. Being a psychologist isn’t the only thing in my life.”
Nandini shakes her head. “You’ll see how hard it is once you’re working. And not to mention, you don’t want your future husband and in-laws to think you’re some flighty girl they can’t take seriously.”
Simran rolls her eyes and scans the restaurant. At the entrance, there is a bronze statue of Ganesha, the Hindu god of good fortune and new beginnings. Every table has signed scarlet bookplates and a mountain of red velvet cupcakes. Nani suggested that red be the primary color since it’s auspicious for Hindus. The scent of grilled paneer and fried samosas permeates the room in the way only heavy Indian food can.
Luckily, they’re interrupted by her newly married brother, Ronak, and his wife, Namita. They are what Simran likes to call a “modern-day arranged marriage”: introduced by each other’s parents but still allowed to date and make the final decision on whether to marry.
She checks her phone again. Nothing.
Something about her brother arriving forces perspective. So what if her mother isn’t excited for her? So what if Kunal’s not here? She reapplies lip gloss and puts on her I-am-fine face, an essential for being surrounded by type A people.
Ronak rustles her hair and whistles after he soaks in the room. “Whoever thought my baby sister would be such a rock star?” He kisses the top of her forehead and places a Tiffany & Co. bag on the gift table.