Chapter Eleven
This week’s Sunday dinner is thick with the anticipation of adding a new member to our small circle of family friends. Preeti’s due date is fast approaching, and Sonal Aunty has been flooding the WhatsApp group chats with premonitions of an early labor.
Aai doubles tonight’s recipe to bring a plate over to the Pujaris’ later on. We’re having chicken karahi, such a staple comfort meal, and the warm smell of fresh spices and aromatics fills the kitchen. I try to sneak a bite as the curry bubbles on the stove, but Aai swats my hand away.
“Don’t be greedy,” she says. “It’s for the baby.”
“Didn’t realize newborns could have solids,” I say but let it rest. I’m already planning to help myself to seconds at mealtime.
I set the table for seven. Baba’s working late, and Suresh Uncle just left on a trip to Jaipur, so everyone fits in the dining room for once.
Sanju and Nabhi are riding high from a just-won basketball game, but excitement quickly morphs into chaos when I make the mistake of assigning them the side salad.
In true Desi fashion, our salads consist of nothing more than sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, and raw onions with salt and lemon added to taste.
Simple enough for the twins to assemble, in theory.
But Nabhi’s eyes begin to water at the mere sight of the peeled onion, which Sanju finds too funny not to record, which in turn spirals into a physical argument over the mandoline.
The doorbell rings as blood starts to gush down Sanju’s palm—he’s just sliced his finger on the blade.
“Can you get that, Rani?” Aai calls from upstairs. She dashed away to get dressed ten minutes ago, and in a stroke of good luck, missed the accident.
I lock eyes with the twins, who have finally gone mute and frozen, understanding the gravity of the situation.
Aai is a wreck when it comes to injuries of any kind.
“I’m a bit occupied,” I reply on a delay, hurrying to the cabinet where we keep our first-aid supplies.
Sanju moves to set his hand under the icy tap, and the water runs pink.
I hear Aai sigh and grumble, and her footsteps sound as she scrambles to open the door herself just as the bell rings again.
Voices fill the foyer, effusive greetings and compliments, and I use the moment to treat Sanju, who doesn’t seem to be in much pain, despite his considerable bleeding.
He winces as I swipe the antibacterial ointment on.
“You idiots,” I whisper weakly, and the boys have the decency to look chagrined.
“Sorry, Tai,” Nabhi whispers back. From his use of honorifics, the apology is sincere. He pauses. “But Sanju started it.”
Sanju kicks him. “Did not.”
I shush them and finish wrapping the gauze right when Aai, Noori Aunty, and Kush appear in the kitchen door, the latter balancing a foil-wrapped tray in his arms. The boys and I do our best to look inconspicuous. My stomach feels queasy, already anticipating Aai’s reaction.
“Fresh kulchas from Noori!” Aai announces. “Gopal is going to be so sad he missed. Boys, help Kush Bhaiya with the dishes.”
I lurch forward, but the damage is done. Sanju outstretches his hands, and my mother’s eyes narrow at his bandaged finger, bloody spots already blooming on the white.
“Arre!” she cries, rushing over. Sanju tries to hide his hand behind his back, but Aai halts him to examine. “What has happened?”
“The onions—” Nabhi starts.
“He just looked so stupid—” Sanju continues.
“The important thing is that everyone is totally okay,” I interject, before providing a punctuated, mechanical summary of Sanju’s cut. Aai looks faint, and Noori Aunty pulls out a chair for her to sink into. Kush observes the scene with a hint of amusement, still holding the tray.
Once I finish, Aai fixes me with a glare. “They never should have been in the kitchen to begin with,” she says. “They’re children.”
“They’re twelve,” I say. For all her virtues, my mother is not immune to our cultural disease of babying sons. “It’s important for them to have basic kitchen skills.”
“Good job, Rani, now they have knife wounds,” Aai snaps.
“It was a mandoline,” I say, helpless. “And it’s a very minor cut.”
She shakes her head, mouth set in a firm line. “This was so irresponsible. I’m so disappointed by you.”
I pull back, startled and hurt. I’m used to Aai’s dramatics when it comes to medical concerns of all natures; she’s well known for acting like I’m on death’s door whenever I contract a seasonal cold.
But her response here still strikes me as harsh, especially since I was doing her a favor by watching the boys and finishing dinner tasks.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Noori Aunty sends me a sympathetic look, and the twins glance between themselves, abashed at being the cause of my scolding.
“Karahi smells too good, Vandana,” Noori Aunty says next, quick with the subject change.
Aai sniffs. “Yes,” she agrees, not too irritated to deny praise over her work.
Their conversation switches to Hindi, and the twins resume their whisper-fight over the salad plate.
Kush takes the opportunity to set his tray on the counter beside me and gently nudges me with his hip.
He smells clean and sharp, his dark curls damp like he’s fresh from a shower. I blink back fast, composing myself.
“Not your fault,” he says, voice low to avoid detection.
I’m surprised but gratified by the solidarity. “Thanks,” I say. “I know.”
“Though the boys probably shouldn’t have been using a mandoline,” he adds.
My brows furrow. “Mandolines are far easier to use than knives.”
He shakes his head. “More accident-prone,” he says. He holds up his left hand to show a faint pink scar on his ring finger.
“Maybe you’re just clumsy,” I say. The words slip out, a little severe, so I smile to let him know I’m joking.
“Maybe,” he says. He fiddles with the foil edges of the tray before him. “How’s your research been going?” he asks next.
“Good,” I say, automatic, even though I’m miles behind on my readings.
I’ve been so involved getting things up and running with the library program that everything else has fallen to the sidelines.
But our first meeting is coming up this week, after which I intend to devote more energy to the paper.
“Really, really good.” I clear my throat and return the question. “How’s MCAT prep?”
I don’t get to hear a reply, because Aai’s voice interjects right then. “And you didn’t even drop off a plate at Sonal Aunty’s,” she says, voice loud and accusing.
My mouth drops, and I turn to meet her eyes. “When was I supposed to do that?” I haven’t had a single moment between watching the twins and getting the house ready for dinner.
“You could have found the time,” she says, voice tight. I know she’s mad and simply looking for reasons to lash out, but the hostility still grates. Noori Aunty busies herself with the stove, not wanting to bear witness to her best friend’s outburst.
“We have some time now,” Kush says before I can retort. I glance over to him. “It’ll take a bit to cook the kulchas,” he says, nodding at the tray. “So Rani and I can drop off a plate and get driving practice in at the same time.”
Aai considers. “Not a bad idea,” Noori Aunty offers. “Get both things done at once.”
Aai waves a hand. “Fine,” she says. “Go.”
There’s no need to tell me twice. I grab the keys and head to the garage, letting Kush follow with the food.
When he meets me a couple minutes later, my arms are still crossed, my face hot with irritation. He pauses in the dim garage light after setting the carefully boxed karahi in the trunk.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say, voice small and hard, the very antithesis of fine. I move toward the driver’s door, but Kush halts me.
“You didn’t actually think I was going to let you drive, did you?”
“Will you ever let me drive,” I say, “is the golden question.”
“Tomorrow,” he says, patient and refusing to rise to my bait.
“At our scheduled practice time.” I begin to retort, but he continues.
“It’s getting dark, and you have no experience on the road.
We’ve yet to have a successful parking lot session.
I was just trying to give you an escape from the kitchen. ”
It’s hard to argue with this logic; the sun has indeed started to dip below the horizon, casting the neighborhood in hazy yellow light. And it’s not like I don’t appreciate the out. Spending another moment with Aai would surely have triggered a full-on fight. Or worse, my tears.
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks for that.”
He slides into the car, and I follow after him, clicking in my seat belt. We start to drive, and the radio automatically queues on low volume in the background.
“Is she like that often?” he asks at the first stoplight.
“Psycho and blaming, you mean?”
His mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have used those exact words.”
I deflate, feeling a twinge of immediate guilt for my characterization.
“Neither should I. She is … very overprotective. Of us all. She panics over our well-being very easily, as you saw.” I consider.
“And she expects a lot from me when it comes to taking care of the twins. But I guess that’s kind of my job. ”
He tilts his head. “Is it?”
I consider the question. “I want it to be,” I say.
“Most of the time, anyways. I love the boys, and I like being involved in their lives.” It’s the truth, but a deeper answer is that I can’t really imagine an alternative.
Since my childhood runaway attempt, this has always been my role within our family.
“Still,” Kush says, skepticism lacing his voice. “It’s got to get a bit excessive.”
I shrug, giving him this. “Sometimes,” I agree. “But it’s a big-sister thing.” I cluck my tongue. “You wouldn’t get it. Only-child privilege and all.”