Chapter Fourteen Rupi #2
A startlingly handsome white man walks in with one baby on each arm behind a woman who was part of the ambush at the hospital. She, too, looks like a model and carries the third baby. I assume that’s Preeti—Prem’s sister, the babies’ mother, and my sister’s employer.
Behind them Simi trails in, arms filled with diaper bags.
Prem takes the bags from her and looks at her as though the sight of her is at once too tragic and too joyful to bear.
Simi ignores him. Her jaw is tightly clenched. She’s going to wear off her tooth enamel if she doesn’t loosen up.
The babies, who are unsurprisingly cute and surprisingly loud for creatures who can’t talk yet, are deposited on the bed and promptly crawl all over their grandfather.
The man is so frail, I want to ask if that’s safe, but no one else seems the least bit concerned.
For the next half hour pandemonium ensues. Everyone hugs everyone, and the party moves to the living room.
A huge quilt is put down over the peacock-splattered rug, and the triplets are let loose. Prem and his brother carry their father and deposit him with utmost gentleness against a mattress seat on the floor, where the girls can crawl to him.
Everyone else sets about bringing an absurd amount of food into the room and setting it on a sideboard and then dropping down on the floor or the extensive expanse of the sectional couch.
After a stiff hug when she got here, Simi has avoided meeting my eyes. The rest of them seem determined not to bring up the engagement-ring-shaped elephant in the room. It’s like their son getting engaged to a stranger happens every day.
Prem’s mom hands me a plate with a samosa, dhokla, bhajjias, and green and red chutney. The smell hits me hard. After the food poisoning, food smells have been making me gag.
One look at my face, and she pulls it back and smacks her head. “Oh no. Your stomach. I knew you wouldn’t be able to eat any of this.”
Why thank you, Mom-in-law.
“I’m fine.” I try to take the plate from her out of politeness. I really need the woman to like me.
She hides it behind her back, as though I’m five and reaching for too much cake. “I’m an idiot. I did make you some khichdi and forgot all about it. Too much excitement, no?” She starts to walk away.
“That’s not necessary. Truly.” I follow her, trying not to think about how the mention of khichdi is making me drool.
“Come come,” she says, “I want you to see the kitchen anyway.” Suddenly she stops in her tracks and turns to me.
“I don’t mean that in a mean mother-in-law way.
You don’t have to do anything in the kitchen if you don’t want to.
We have people, and I love to cook. Chandni and Preeti hate to cook.
But Prem and Pawan love it. It’s all okay. Everything, everything is okay.”
Are we still talking about cooking?
I have no idea how to respond, because I think she’s trying to convince herself more than me. So, I say the first thing that pops into my head. “Thank you for being so nice. I know this was not what you were expecting for Prem.” I hate to admit it, but she really is trying.
She looks at me with some surprise. Oh, her face says, I was not expecting to have an honest conversation today.
“Why do you say that?” she says, then sighs.
“Never mind. Of course we didn’t expect it to happen like this.
But that doesn’t mean there is anything the matter with you.
” She throws a quick glance at my tattoos, then seems embarrassed to have done it.
“I just wish . . . well . . . My children don’t usually hide things from me. ”
Her son hasn’t told her about Simi. Not that I’m about to correct her. Prem did, however, under Saj’s direction, drop something about my visa issues to them before he brought me here.
“It wasn’t him. I was the one who was scared of how you would react. Because . . . well . . .” I give her my best sad eyes. “I have some issues I’m dealing with. But Prem . . . well, he thought you’d understand.”
“Oh yes.” She looks around the gigantic empty kitchen. “Prem was saying there might be some”—she lowers her voice—“immigration stuff.”
“Yes,” I say, and inexplicably my voice lowers too. “I don’t know how much Prem has told you, but can I be honest?”
“Of course.” Her eyes sparkle at the prospect of learning something about the stranger her son has brought home.
“The only way I can stay in the country is if I marry Prem. And I didn’t want to put that pressure on our relationship.”
Her eyes fill with understanding, and regret, and the slightest bit of doubt. She might have the most transparent face of anyone I’ve ever met. “Ah, and I can’t imagine that my son would listen to that.”
“You know Prem,” I say worshipfully. “Is it okay if we wait for him to explain the rest?”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to turn this into an interrogation.
I just meant to feed you.” She takes the lid off a pot on the stove.
“I hope Prem and you will trust us in the future.” Hurt flashes in her face, but she covers it up with a determined smile and sets about ladling some soft khichdi into a bowl.
“I’m not like other mothers. That’s what everyone says.
” She blushes like a happy light bulb, and my heart does something weird.
“One must be open minded in today’s day and age, no? ”
She drops a healthy dollop of ghee on the khichdi and holds it out to me.
The gentle buttery aroma wafts up my nose and around me and wraps me tight. I can’t remember the last time the smell of food soothed me. Of all the mortifying things, my mouth fills with drool, and tears clog my throat.
“Beta?” She squeezes my shoulder. “Did I say something?”
I shake my head. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. “Sorry,” I say. I never apologize, and I want to take it back. But something just opened up inside me that I can’t control. I think I’m just hungry. God, I’m so very hungry.
She pushes me into a barstool at the oversize island and places the bowl in front of me. “Eat.”
I do. After what is days, but really a year, or maybe a lifetime, I eat.
It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten. The lentils and rice are perfectly cooked into a soothing, perfectly seasoned porridge.
The ghee and the salt dance on my tongue.
My heart sings. My belly screams with long-awaited satisfaction.
She refills my bowl and hands me a glass of thin churned buttermilk. It’s spiced with cumin, ginger, and cilantro, and forget Prem—I think I was born to marry this woman.
Just as I’m scarfing down the second bowl of magical khichdi, the other daughter-in-law walks in, followed by Preeti.
At this point, if the immigration people walk in, I wouldn’t break a sweat. I’d ask them to wait until I’m done.
“Are you still sick?” Preeti asks, looking at my bowl.
“Obviously,” Chandni says. “Why else would she be eating bland khichdi when there’s so much good food?” She finishes up the samosa on her plate with relish.
This khichdi is better than any samosa anywhere, but I’m too lost in it to argue the case.
For a while they go off into the merits of samosas over khichdi, then Tanuja clears her throat. “Girls,” she says to the two grown-ass women, “at least ask Rupi how she’s doing or if she needs anything.”
“Omigosh, of course,” one says as they both drop into the stools on either side of me.
The first order of business is my engagement ring, which has been feeling like a ten-ton abscess on my finger.
Much gushing happens, which explains why the horrendous experience at the diamond store was necessary.
Then just as suddenly, they fall into a cascade of questions.
“How did you get food poisoning? What a nightmare.”
“And where did you meet Prem? Was it through Simi?”
“Had you seen each other before? Or was it all online? Oh no, were you sick when you saw him for the first time? How mortifying.”
“How long have you known each other?”
The questions flow, but they don’t pause for answers.
“I see him every day. I have no idea how I missed it.” That from his sister.
“Well, I live in the same house as him.” That from his sister-in-law.
“I should’ve guessed. Actually, to be honest, I was quite sure the boy was in love.
You met last year, didn’t you? Around the time the triplets were born.
Prem totally changed then. Became bouncy and chatty and just generally sweet as hell. Not that Prem was ever not sweet.”
“He’s the sweetest,” Preeti says. “And yes, I noticed the change a year ago too. I guess he didn’t say anything because of the immigration stuff.”
“How did you end up in this situation with the visa?”
I’m not sure which of them that last question comes from, but after that the two of them go silent. It’s as though all that chattering was orchestrated to get to that last question.
I look at their eager, waiting faces.
Saj already made Prem, Simi, and me practice our story, so I’m ready. I’m also adept at leaning into stories to save my ass. My soon-to-be mother-in-law hands me a glass of water, and the lies stick in my throat.
Just then Prem rolls into the room, looking like the world has ended. I swear to god, that boy is not winning an Oscar anytime soon.
He walks up to me, probably forced out here by a pleading look from Simi. “You feeling okay?” he asks, looking at the wiped-clean bowl in front of me.
“This might be the best khichdi I’ve ever eaten in my life.” Why am I telling him the truth?
“Let me get you more,” his mother says.
“No, please. I don’t think there’s space for another morsel inside me, but this is the most I’ve been able to eat in days. Thank you.”
“You need some flesh on those bones,” she says and then stops guiltily.
“Sorry, we aren’t supposed to say anything about weight these days, no?
My girls will kill me.” Sure enough, her “girls” widen their eyes at her.
“Sorry, all I’m saying is that food poisoning weakens the body, you need to get some nourishment. There, better?”
“It’s okay. Really,” I say, feeling that weird warmth in my chest again.
“What a lovely girl, Prem,” she says. “You could definitely have told me about her. I only want you all to be happy. Now I’m just sad that you didn’t trust me.”
“It’s not that at all,” both Prem and I say together, and the three women make an “awwww” sound and burst into delighted giggles.
“How adorable you two are,” Chandni says.
“They are, aren’t they?” Prem’s mom says. “You know what? You should make a portrait of them as a wedding present, Chandni.”
“Are you an artist?” I ask.
“She is!” her mother-in-law says proudly.
“I’d love to make them a portrait. They can hang it in their room,” Chandni says.
Our room?
Prem looks like death would be a better alternative to sharing a room with me. Well, likewise, rasgulla.
“I don’t think Rupi likes portraits,” Prem says a little too loudly. His face is all flushed. Apparently, I’m not worthy of Chandni’s art.
“I’d love a portrait,” I say.
“Perfect. We can talk about how to gather your material later,” Chandni says.
Material?
Prem looks like he’s going to explode with something I can’t identify. “We should talk about a wedding date,” he says.
“Oh yes,” his mother says. “We have a wedding to plan!”
Now we’re getting somewhere, Tanuja.
“Like I said before, there are some legal issues,” Prem says, looking at his fingernails and then at me. It’s the moment of truth. “We’re going to have to do it soon.”
Tanuja seems to sense the worry gathered inside her son. Not surprising, given how terrible he is at hiding his feelings. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Well, I don’t believe in long engagements anyway. How soon is soon? And how bad is it?”
So, he tells them. It’s the ultrasanitized, Saj-approved version of how I came to lose my visa status. With hardly any untruths but with many an omission.
I came to America to work at the restaurant at the invitation of the owner, who I met in India.
Instead of converting my visa to a work permit as promised, the restaurant owner took away my passport and blackmailed me into working for almost no pay.
Finally, when he died in an accident, I escaped and went to Chicago, where I found a job in a tattoo studio.
After this part the untruths get a little thicker on the ground: When Prem visited Chicago six months ago, Simi gave him my number, and he called me.
We connected immediately, but I was too scared to get into a relationship, given my situation.
But we couldn’t let each other go, so we talked on the phone for six months and fell in love.
Then Tina found me again and threatened to deport me if I didn’t go back.
That’s when Prem decided we should just go ahead and get married.
All the truly heinous parts aren’t even in the story, but all three of them look like they’ve been knocked off their feet by the injustice of it. Their eyes shimmer with unshed tears. Must be nice, to be hurt so easily.
“We’d better hurry up, then?” Tanuja says. “The girls’ birthday is in a few weeks. Let’s do it right after that.”
They start discussing the details of the wedding.
At the Gaylord in Nashville, obviously, just like the other two kids.
They’ll have to call in some favors because it’s such short notice.
Some cousin will get Prem’s and my clothes made in time.
Food, the guest list, even the priest is discussed as though my visa-shaped trouble is already a distant memory.
“Prem, beta,” Tanuja says when they’ve fixed all my problems just like that. “Why haven’t you shown Rupi your room yet?” And we’ve circled back to the room. Prem looks like someone just placed his neck in a guillotine. “Come on, let’s show her where she’ll be living after you’re married.”