Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel

Chapter One

My grandfather’s birthday party is always a night to remember.

For the fifth year and counting, we’ve rented the event space at Taj Mahal Express, the sole Indian restaurant in our corner of Seattle suburbia.

It’s not the fanciest venue, but we’ve added the Deshpande touch: gold diyas glittering from windows, marigold garlands draped through doorways, and floral centerpieces picked fresh from Baba’s garden.

As the eldest grandchild, I’m tonight’s designated party planner, responsible for checking off any last tasks before guests arrive.

Micromanaging Ajoba, of course, is at the top of my list, and admittedly, one of my favorite parts of being home for the summer. I find my grandfather at the open bar, already two mocktails deep.

“Look alive, Ajoba,” I say. He’s dapper in a silver sherwani, and his white hair is cleanly parted at the center, but by his grim expression, you’d never know we were preparing for his own celebration. “We need people to think you want to be here.”

“How will I ever pull off such a lie, my maharani?”

I smile at the nickname. My name is Rani, Marathi for queen, but since I was a girl, Ajoba has affectionately called me his maharani, or his great queen. It’s safe to say my grandfather is who I turn to whenever I need a confidence boost.

“I’m hoping it won’t be a lie.” My voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Shilpa Aunty has generously offered to perform a solo dance during tonight’s program.” I pause for effect. “And I have agreed to the plan.”

My grandfather meets my gaze for the first time, eyes twinkling with stunned amusement. “Your mother knows?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.” Aai will kill me once she learns, but I want to bring Ajoba some enjoyment where I can tonight.

It’s tradition at these gatherings for a few songs and dances to be performed for the guest of honor.

Performers are usually children, but Shilpa Aunty is by far the most attention seeking of the ladies in our family friend circle.

She’s been taking Bollywood dance lessons in preparation for her son’s upcoming wedding, and no opportunity to be in the spotlight can possibly be passed up.

My grandfather derives most of his entertainment at our functions from Shilpa Aunty’s nonsense.

Ajoba sighs in contentment. “I don’t know how I’ve done without you this last year,” he says, and I laugh, something squeezing in my chest. I don’t know how I’ve done without him, either.

My phone lights up now with a video call from my best friend. “I’m going to take this,” I say, because I’ve been waiting to talk to Simran all day. “You’ll be okay on your own for a bit?” My parents have been absorbed with the caterers, but they’re bound to start pestering Ajoba at any minute.

“Go,” he says. “One day I will finally gather the courage to tell your mother I vastly prefer to celebrate my birthday at the Cheesecake Factory,” he murmurs as I leave.

Aai would have an aneurysm if he ever suggested so, but I don’t have the heart to tell him.

Simran’s calling me back from the airport. She stayed an extra week at Dartmouth after finishing up her finals, so she can’t make tonight’s festivities.

“My flight got pushed two hours,” she says in explanation for missing my morning call. “Never fly Spirit.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I was never planning to.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m just devastated to miss the party,” she says, lips pulling into an exaggerated pout through the screen. She’s wearing the chunky pink headphones I got her for Christmas a couple years back and a gray matching set, the picture of travel comfort.

“I’m sure,” I say, and Simran giggles. She hates these events almost as much as Ajoba.

Simran was raised by Cool Brown Parents, second-generation Indian moms who own an art gallery in downtown Seattle.

While I spent my childhood being dragged from one family friend’s house to another, Simran attended poetry readings, restaurant openings, the goddamn ballet.

“Kush can keep you company in my absence, no?”

“Was that a threat, Sim?”

She giggles again. Kush Khanna, Noori Aunty’s son, is pretty much the bane of my existence. Polite, handsome, and insufferably overachieving, Kush is beloved by every elder in our community. He’s just a year older, so I’ve been compared to him my entire life, always falling short.

“Bad joke, I take it back, running on very little sleep here.”

“How was the roomie trip?” Simran’s spent the last few days in the mountains near campus with her school friends.

“Magical. You’ve got to come visit me next year. I won’t accept any excuses.”

“It’s in the calendar,” I say, but an odd feeling lurches in my chest, just like every other time Simran has told me about her college escapades.

Simran Sinha is my favorite person in the world next to Ajoba, but we had very different freshman year experiences.

As thrilled as I am for her, it’s hard not to feel some envy too.

I clear my throat, pushing the sensation away. “When do you get home?”

“By morning, granted my flight isn’t delayed again.” She pauses here, dimples deepening. “And then we have the whole summer together. I’ve missed you immensely, Rani.”

“I’ve missed you. This summer is going to be fabulous.

” I sound like a High School Musical character, but after the year I’ve had, I can’t overstate how bad I need this win.

“Especially, since I have some very exciting news,” I add, finally getting to the purpose of my original call.

I pause to let her anticipation swell. “I got my learner’s permit!

” Simran’s mouth drops, and I continue. “It’s real, it’s happening, I will be getting my driver’s license very soon! ”

“You’re joking,” she accuses.

“Cross my heart.”

It’s been a running joke between the two of us forever that I might die not knowing how to drive.

But I stopped by the DOL (Department of Licensing) the day I got back from college.

I want this summer to be a true fresh start, a clean slate to set me up for a strong sophomore year, and this is the first step in that direction.

Simran has been my chauffeur for years now, so I know this development is a dream come true for her.

“Rani Deshpande, passenger princess no more?” Simran says, all wonderment.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say. She laughs, and we talk through the rest of our summer plans until Aai calls me over to finish party prep.

An hour later, I take a break from greeting guests and help myself to a steaming mug of rose chai. I’ve hardly taken a sip before I’m accosted by Shilpa Aunty.

“Rani!” she beams, engulfing me in her arms. The silk of her sparkly magenta sari rustles with each movement. “It’s been far too long, beti.”

Not nearly long enough, but I squeeze her back. “So good to see you, Aunty.”

She pulls away to study me, gaze scraping over my salwar kameez and loosely curled hair. “You are looking healthy,” she announces with a broad smile. “But I worry pink washes you out. Jewel tones are much more flattering.” She gestures to herself here and laughs to soften the blow.

It’s an outrageous remark, but I expect nothing less from Shilpa Aunty, who is so predictably audacious it’s almost comical. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

Her smile deepens. “Now that you are moving back home, I am sure we’ll see much more of you, yes?”

I frown. “I’m not moving back home,” I say, but she’s not listening.

“I was telling your mom that I think it’s so brave of you to switch schools. It’s so important to find the right match. Second time’s the charm and all.”

My lips tighten. Coming into tonight, I knew the news of my university transfer had spread through the aunty grapevine, and while I truly am excited for a new beginning at UW this fall, it’s not the easiest topic for me.

The singular benefit of being with Shilpa Aunty, at least, is that I’m not required to talk much at all. She’s droning on, unhindered.

“Now, my Shekar felt right at home the moment he stepped foot on Berkeley’s campus, but not all can be so lucky!

I am sure you will blossom at Washington next year.

” She pats my arm distractedly, and I try not to recoil at the touch.

“Anyhow, I wished to speak to you as I believe there’s an error with the seating chart.

Mukesh and I have been placed with the Satoors in the back, but surely performers are to have a front table?

Mukesh will record my dance for Facebook. ”

This is my ticket out, and I jump at the opportunity. “Let me go check on that for you,” I say, with absolutely no intention of doing so. I pull my chunni tighter around me as I walk away. “I can’t wait for your routine,” I add before she can respond.

I decide to camp out on the back patio with my chai until the coast clears. Shilpa Aunty’s voice is still grating in my ears, and I want a moment of peace before having to return and mingle.

Frowning, I open up the camera app on my phone and examine my reflection. My skin glows golden in the sun, and my cheeks are still flushed pink—the Charlotte Tilbury blush I invested in this spring is clearly worth the acclaim. Shilpa Aunty must be deluded; I look fabulous.

As if I conjured the compliment, a voice sounds behind me: “You look nice, Rani.”

I whirl around to see Kush Khanna leaning lazily in the doorframe. His words are affirming, but they’re laced with amusement, and I immediately feel self-conscious. Does he think I’m that vain? Sitting here alone just to stare at myself?

“I wasn’t—” I break off, unsure how exactly to clarify. I clear my throat. I should probably tell him thank-you, but what leaves my mouth instead is: “What are you doing out here?”

His brows rise slightly at my rudeness, and my face warms, in no small part from the realization that he looks nice too.

Really nice. He’s grown his hair out since I last saw him over winter break, so it curls softly over his ears and the nape of his neck.

He’s wearing round frames instead of his usual contacts and a navy button-down—most male guests have opted for Western attire tonight.

Kush has always been attractive, and now he knows it.

There’s a quiet confidence in how he holds himself, how he speaks, how he smiles.

“Looking for you,” he says after a beat. “Your grandfather was asking,” he adds.

“Oh! I shouldn’t have left him alone for so long,” I say, already rising to my feet. “This party is really more of a punishment for him.”

“For all of us,” he quips.

“Careful,” I say. “My mom put a lot of effort into tonight.”

He looks genuinely alarmed for a moment, so I smile to let him know I’m joking. The corners of his mouth curve up too.

“Speaking of,” he says. “She mentioned you’re transferring to Washington.” He tilts his head at me, gaze thoughtful and curious. “Why?”

My smile vanishes almost instantly. How is it possible he has less subtlety than Shilpa Aunty? Kush is a rising junior at UW himself (in the Honors Program, obviously), and while congratulations might be too much, the rush to interrogate irks.

“I just thought it’d be a better fit,” I say. Before he can ask a follow-up, I quickly add, “I should go check on Ajoba. Thanks for getting me.”

I slip past him through the door, careful not to let our arms brush.

The cake is a rich chocolate-raspberry confection that my twin brothers picked out.

Aai wanted simple vanilla, but the boys begged at the bakery, and she’s never been good at denying them.

We unveil it after everyone has finished dinner, and I slide birthday sparklers into the center before we sing.

In loopy lettering, the frosting spells out: EIGHTY’S NEVER LOOKED THIS GOOD!

“What’s your wish?” I whisper to Ajoba as guests snap pictures of the cake and of our family behind it.

“What could I possibly ask for when you’ve already given me so much?

” he says, and my lips twitch. Shilpa Aunty’s six-and-a-half-minute rendition of “Bole Chudiyan” had quite literally brought a tear to Ajoba’s eye.

And made Aai send me a strongly worded WhatsApp message during our meal. “I’m transferring my wish to you.”

I laugh, but in all honesty, I could really use one. The chorus starts, and I think of the summer stretched out before me—driving practice, adventures with Sim, preparing for sophomore year. I want this time to be restful and rejuvenating, my second chance. A do-over.

So when the candles are blown out and everyone cheers, I close my eyes and wish.