“Don’t worry,” Simran says, handing him and Namita glasses of champagne. “According to Mom, I’m still not good enough.”
He places a finger over his lips, similar to her father from earlier. “Don’t go there. At least, not tonight.”
“Fine, but don’t worry. You’re still the golden child.”
“Golden child, my ass. You should have seen him all day.” Namita laughs. “He cancelled three of his patients, but two of them still showed up . . . and he was cursing like crazy when the train was late. We thought we’d never make it out of Boston.”
People who have physician parents either crave or abhor the idea of becoming doctors themselves. Ronak went the former route; Simran, the latter.
They briefly catch her up on how relieved they are to be done with wedding planning.
“Thank God we went straight from the wedding to that villa in Bali. We literally spoke to zero people for days. It’s the only way to recover from an Indian wedding . . . complete isolation from society,” she says as she twists her gold Cartier wedding band. Namita rarely wears her engagement ring since she’s always washing her hands at work.
“That sounds exactly right.” Simran glimpses around the room at the clusters of aunties definitely passing judgment on what everyone is wearing, who is dating whom, and anything else that’s none of their business. She can only imagine how much material they’ll have at her wedding.
“You’re next. And it’ll be perfect,” Namita says with the smile and self-assuredness of someone who has never screwed up in her life.
Simran’s uncle Rajan Kaka, an electrical engineer by day and self-proclaimed astrologer by night, appears and immediately wraps a plush arm around her, remarking, “I knew you’d be the first writer in the family. It was in your destiny.”
Although many Indians refer to horoscopes for auspicious occasions, her uncle uses them for everything, even claims that they predicted Brad and Angelina hooking up.
* * *
— —
A few minutes later, Sheila and Vishal, Simran’s two closest friends and the only people who have read every draft of her book, arrive with some other friends from NYU. They all talk in a large circle as more guests come in.
She weaves through her extended family and parents’ friends—adults who have known her for decades. They sprinkle in mentions about their children’s MDs and JDs and PhDs, and investment banking jobs.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she tells one cluster.
“Of course, beta,” they chime in, one after another.
Charu Foi, her dad’s sister, grabs the last samosa from the appetizer table. “Simran, when is your wedding happening? We’ve all been waiting for so long!”
All of the women around her nod in agreement, as though she’s been depriving them of oxygen. Indian weddings pretty much guarantee that a stampede of overbearing, opinionated aunties will be poised and ready to trample everyone with their unsolicited advice on everything.
Payal Auntie, one of their closest family friends, smiles at her. “I can’t believe we’re talking about you getting married. You still look like a baby with those chubby cheeks!”
She beams, as if this is the highest possible compliment she could’ve given. Simran watches her tighten her fingers in preparation for a pinch. She leans back just in time to dodge her.
“So does that mean we can plan for an uncle and auntie dance sometime soon?”
Whether it’s the dance party after a reception or various group dances, an Indian wedding isn’t complete without dancing. Her parents’ circle seems to have an endless list of adults who want to do a dance for the next wedding. Since they’ve all become empty nesters, they’ve divided into two groups: those who need to choreograph and be in the middle of every dance and those who prefer the background.
It’s easy to pinpoint the Indian aunties who need to be in the center. They tend to stand taller, wear brighter colors.
Payal Auntie is stretching her neck and staring into the distance, likely picturing herself bowing to applause to the latest Bollywood medley. “When can we start preparing for this dance?”
“Actually, we just set a wedding date,” Simran says. “June 20.”
“Really?” Charu Foi’s eyes widen so much Simran thinks they may bulge out of her head. “Next year?”
She nods. “Next year.”
Charu Foi frowns. “But that’s so far away.”
“Oh, it’s fine, Charu. You just want another occasion to eat and drink and socialize. You can do that in your own home, so what’s the rush?” Payal Auntie shakes her head as if she’s any different. “Simran, where are you having the wedding?”
“We only just started planning, since Ronak and Namita’s wedding was just last month, so most of the details aren’t finalized,” she says, finding the interstitial area between what they want to hear and the truth. “Anyway, please let me know what you think of my book and if y—”
Charu Foi leans into her. “We are all so happy that things are finally working out for you. Your psychology schoolwork, wedding . . . I always told everyone they didn’t have to worry about you. I knew you would settle down and get your priorities figured out. You wouldn’t be our little misfit forever. I mean, there was no way Ranjit and Nandini’s daughter could stay a mess! It might have taken forev—”
“Thank you, Charu Foi,” Simran interrupts. “Thank you so much.”
The rest of the conversations are similar. Nobody seems to be concerned about the book, and everyone seems to be concerned about Kunal, who still hasn’t called back. She gives rehearsed answers and shakes off the heavy isolation, the type that can only come when you’re surrounded by people who care about you. Sheila confiscates Simran’s phone after she catches her checking it for the tenth time.
While she’s talking to her cousins, Simran notices an unfamiliar guy saunter into the room, more than fashionably late, the fashionably part being apt, considering his light gray button-down and navy blue blazer over dark jeans.
That guy can dress, she thinks as he grins at everyone he passes, a grin that reaches all the way up to his square glasses and reflects back twice as strongly. He seems to be in his late thirties. His build is slender but not puny, reminding her of Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic—the kind of guy who is splashed with just the right balance of passionate aggression and sensitive romantic.
At first, Simran assumes the guy is just friends with one of the many guests her parents invited, since their network includes every Indian on the East Coast. She focuses on the carpet, ashamed that her eyes hang on him. He isn’t conventionally handsome but still falls into the attractive category. (Not that she prefers conventional looks anyway; she may be the only woman who doesn’t find Brad Pitt hot.)