Chapter Three
I spend my Friday night the best way I know how: bribing my little brothers to hang out with me.
They’re getting ready to start middle school in the fall, just approaching the age where they’ll be too cool for their big sister, so I want to savor the little time I have left.
Today, that means deluxe admission to Paint Away, a self-design ceramic shop that Nabhi adores, followed by a Taco Bell feast at Sanju’s request. I’m already preparing to shit funny tomorrow.
While I often resent Aai Baba off-loading parenting duties on me, I cherish my quality time with the twins, even more so after leaving home for school. We haven’t had a sibling date since winter break, and that feels like far too long ago.
“Window table?” Nabhi says with a nudge when the hostess asks where we want to be seated.
“Duh,” I say. The window table offers a glittering view of Main Street at sunset, as much of an artist’s muse as our hometown can offer. Nabhi beams.
I paint a wineglass hot pink for Simran. Sanju selects a cat bowl for our neighborhood strays. Nabhi meticulously shades in flower petals on a watering can for Baba.
“How are you boys feeling about starting sixth grade?” I ask after a period of silent focus.
The boys shrug in sync. I press a little harder.
“Rose, bud, thorn?” I ask, proposing the exercise that I stole from my Girl Scout meetings years ago to teach the twins healthier communication.
It helped us dialogue out of many fights during my babysitting evenings.
Sanju heaves a sigh but goes first. “Rose: Aai Baba said we’re finally allowed to walk to school alone,” he says as his positive, eyes still trained on his painting.
“Bud: Basketball tryouts are in August, and David Moscovitz just broke his ankle, so I think I have a chance at starting point guard.”
Expressing gratitude for a classmate’s injury isn’t really the behavior I’m trying to encourage, and Nabhi jumps in to add, voice heavy with skepticism, “His ankle is gonna heal by tryouts.”
Sanju makes a face. “But he’ll miss out on summer practice. It’s like you want me to be on the bench.”
“I want us to win,” Nabhi says under his breath, and I jump in before Sanju can retort.
“Let’s all wish David a speedy recovery,” I say, putting a pin to it. “Do you have a thorn?” I ask Sanju. “Anything you’re worried about?”
Sanju muses. “The honors pre-algebra teacher is supposed to be hellish,” he says.
“I don’t like pop quizzes, so I’m kinda nervous about that.
” Done with his latest polka dot, Sanju sets down his paintbrush.
“Can I get an orange soda from the vending machine?” he asks, hand already outstretched for my card.
He’ll be wanting a Baja Blast in an hour, but I hand it over anyways. I understand this is my toll for the evening.
“You’re the best,” he beams before scampering off.
I smile in spite of myself and return to my own project. I’m adding a gold trim to Simran’s wineglass when I notice Nabhi’s still beside me, a green stem left outlined but unfilled on his can.
“What’s up?” I say with a nudge, and he shifts to face me, a slight pout starting to form on his lips.
He looks like he’s chewing on his words. “I’m not going to be in Sanju’s math class this year,” he says finally. It sounds like a confession.
“Oh,” I say. I set down my glass. I remember Aai telling me about the boys’ honors placement exam in the spring, how they’d been assigned different levels, but I hadn’t thought to ask many follow-up questions. Sanju’s always been more excited about numbers, as it is. “That’s okay, right?”
“I guess,” Nabhi says with a shrug. “It’s not Sanju’s fault I’m stupid.”
I lean back so fast in surprise that I nearly get whiplash. “Hey,” I exclaim. “You are not stupid. Never say that again, do you hear me?”
He’s averted his eyes, bashful from the admission, so I reach over to squeeze his hand on the table. “Everyone learns at a different pace,” I say. “You don’t have to be in advanced pre-algebra to be incredibly clever and capable. Which you are, by the way.”
Not for the first time, I consider how challenging it must be for my brothers to navigate their boyhood as twins.
They are each other’s constants and best friends (on good days, anyways), but by virtue of sharing the same age and appearance, they’re also always forced into comparison.
Sanju is more academic where Nabhi is more athletic, and they’ve each faced unique struggles in school and beyond.
So much of why I want to enter education is because of my brothers and my observations in their upbringing. This moment is another reminder why.
He’s still quiet, so I squeeze his hand again. “You’re going to have an amazing year, Nabhi. I’m always so proud of you.”
He looks up. The twins inherited Ajoba’s green eyes, and Nabhi’s are big and glossy now. He leans over all of a sudden to wrap his arms tight around me.
“I love you, Rani Tai,” he mumbles into my side. “I missed you so much when you were gone.”
Heat pokes at my eyes. I blink back rapidly. “I missed you too, chotu,” I say, voice small and overwhelmed. Just when I’m confident the boys have outgrown affection, he pulls something like this.
Nabhi breaks away as Sanju returns, slurping his soda, and resumes shading in the final flower on his watering can.
Every Sunday for as long as I can remember, my family has eaten dinner with the Khannas.
Aai and Noori Aunty are best friends from their college days in Jaipur, and when they both ended up settling in the Seattle area after graduation and marriage, they instituted these weekly meals as a means of preserving something from home in their new, foreign lives.
Slowly, more local Desi families joined our social fold, but the core Deshpande–Khanna connection has always remained.
My attendance at Sunday dinners was absolutely mandatory throughout childhood, but Aai Baba got more lax when high school arrived, and I begged to spend my time with Simran and our other friends instead.
By then, Kush rarely made an appearance either, so my parents accepted my absences too.
Since leaving for college, though, I’ve gained more of an appreciation for the tradition, and I know how much it means to Aai.
So today, I spend my afternoon helping my mother prepare ingredients for pav bhaji, one of my favorite Marathi street foods.
“Khup chan, Rani,” my mother gushes as she observes my handiwork. She’s assigned me the very simple task of mashing boiled potatoes and veggies, and while I know she’s just thrilled that I’m in the kitchen with her at all, I’m not one to wave off compliments.
“I’m basically an expert,” I say once I finish, sliding the steel bowl over to her, and she laughs.
“Remember to talk to Kush about driving today, okay?” she says as she scoops the contents of the bowl into a bubbling pot on the stove. She’s making the bhaji now, and then we’ll heat up some bread and plate everything with fresh onion and cilantro when it’s time to serve.
My lips press into a line. “Okay,” I say, agreeing reluctantly. “I will.”
In the end, I couldn’t decline a direct offer from Noori Aunty—I’d rather deal with Kush than come across needlessly ungrateful for their generosity.
And it’s not as though I have other options.
While I’m less than thrilled about the arrangement, I’m trying to approach it with optimism.
Getting my license is the priority, whatever the means to that end.
“Good,” Aai says. “Figure out a schedule for the coming weeks.” As an afterthought, she adds, “And make sure to be kind to Kush. It’s so nice of him to be taking the time. He’s studying for the MCAT right now, you know, while working at Baba’s hospital. Such a busy boy.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Is he curing cancer too?”
“Pediatric cancer is one of his research interests, yes.”
Of course it is. “Well, don’t worry, Aai, I’m always kind.”
She snorts at this and continues stirring the bhaji.
An hour later, we’re all assembled at the dining tables in our backyard.
The weather is too serene not to take advantage, and for the first time in ages, we have full attendance, which our indoor dining room can’t accommodate.
I pour everyone tall glasses of lemon water then make sure to take a seat between Sanju and Nabhi, who got into another spat about basketball tryouts after Taco Bell.
Inserting myself as a physical buffer might be the only way to prevent a scene.
Ajoba begins a game of chess on his phone before appetizers have been served. Beyond a look of disdain tossed his way, Aai leaves him alone, busy soaking in praise on another successful function.
“Beautiful centerpieces,” Noori Aunty gushes, and Baba beams at the compliment to his floral arrangements. “Food wasn’t too bad either. Second-best catering operation in the area.”
Everyone chuckles, because the prize for first will always belong to Noori Aunty herself.
She’s been running a small, homegrown catering business for the last several years.
Aai rarely hires her for our own events, wanting Noori Aunty to enjoy rather than work, but we’re privileged enough to have her cooking for free.
Today, she’s brought paneer skewers and pomegranate raita.
The cool yogurt is a perfect complement to the spicier mains.
“Biryani was almost better than yours, no?” Suresh Uncle says, shoveling a spoonful of raita into his mouth.
Next to his father, I catch Kush’s lips twisting in a grimace. He sips his water to disguise it.
“Not at all,” Aai exclaims after a surprised pause. “Noori’s chicken biryani is world class.”
“Ah,” Suresh Uncle says. “Chicken is fine. But lamb is where Noori can struggle.” He shoots a glance at his wife. “Hard to get it just right, hai na?”
Noori Aunty blinks. My fork stalls halfway to my mouth. Without looking up from his game, Ajoba says, “I didn’t know you were a mutton chef, Suresh.”
Suresh Uncle gives a booming laugh. “Not a chef, no,” he says, reaching for another serving of bhaji. “Just a thoughtful critic.”
Thoughtful isn’t the word I’d use, and perhaps my perception is skewed, but Suresh Uncle has always struck me as one of the more severe, formidable adults in our circle.
Of course, my model for masculinity growing up was Baba’s gentleness and Ajoba’s dry, eccentric (but always loving) nature.
Even as a child, Suresh Uncle’s domineering presence felt so unfamiliar to me.
Nerves spiked when I was forced to approach him for guidance or permission instead of the other parents.
“My friends all rave about Mamma’s lamb biryani,” Kush says. “Aryan actually asked for your recipe a while back.”
“Too sweet,” Noori Aunty says. “Though that’s classified, obviously.”
Light laughter sounds, and any residual tension dissolves. I help myself to another skewer. I’m mid-bite when the conversation turns to me.
“You must be so excited for the coming year,” Noori Aunty says to me. “Be sure to reach out to Kush for any support. He would love to show you around.”
The last thing I need is Kush as my babysitter in addition to driving instructor, but I manage a smile at the proposal regardless. “Of course,” I say. My eyes slide to Kush, who meets my gaze with an air of mild merriment, tilting his glass toward me in mock salute.
“Kush is already helping Rani with so much,” Baba says. “We should be writing him a check!”
“Nonsense, Gopal, nonsense,” Noori Aunty says.
“Nice for the boy to do something productive with his time,” Suresh Uncle adds, though it’s always been my impression that Kush is nothing if not productive.
“Happy to,” Kush says. “We can’t let Rani turn twenty without a license.”
The words are playful, but something about the plural we grates at me.
It’s so classic Kush, to group himself with the adults and elders, a united front excluding me.
As children, despite being just a year older, Kush took charge at any opportunity, assuming leadership roles among the other kids in our community.
He picked movies, organized games, mediated fights.
As a girl in the throes of her first crush, I didn’t mind following in his light.
But the practice has grown wearisome in the years between.
“I don’t intend to,” I say. I pierce a piece of paneer with my fork. “In fact, I’m sure I’ll be able to drive us both to school by the fall. You can let me know whenever you need a ride.”
It might be premature, but I’ve already signed up for an August test date. Nothing is more motivating than a ticking clock, and I need all the motivation I can get.
A half smile splits his cheeks. “Looking forward to the car pool,” he says. “Good return on my investment,” he adds to the table.
The parents chortle. I stab another piece of paneer. Beside me, the boys begin bickering again, and I shift my attention, grateful for the distraction.