Chapter Fourteen
For the first time all month, Baba isn’t on call with the hospital this weekend. Naturally, this means I’m elbow-deep in soil before noon on Saturday.
We’re planting Brandywine tomatoes. Baba picked up a starter crop from one of his coworkers yesterday, eager to branch out from his floral niche into a true home gardener.
Aside from a lone, mostly barren mango tree, our backyard has been reserved for Baba’s blooming roses and zinnias and hydrangeas for as long as I can recall.
This morning’s visit to Home Depot for a vegetable planter bed marked the start of a new chapter.
“Perhaps we can do bhindi next,” Baba says, brushing dirt from his hands.
I wrinkle my nose. “Perhaps not,” I say. Indian okra, beloved by the rest of my family, is one of my least favorite foods. The last thing I need is for Aai to have easier access to the ingredient.
“Who knows, Rani,” Baba says. “Maybe homegrown bhindi will change your aversion!”
Very improbable, but Baba’s excitement is so infectious I can’t help but smile. “Crazier things have happened,” I say. Baba pours another shovelful of soil into the bed, and I pack it in around the baby crop with my hands, as he demonstrated earlier.
My father’s love for greenery is a relic from his youth.
Unlike Aai and Ajoba, who belong to one of Mumbai’s new-money families, Baba grew up with modest means and worked throughout his adolescence to support his studies.
He always admired the flourishing home gardens of his wealthier classmates, promising one day he’d grow his own, and now he has.
I like seeing Baba in this setting, boyish and bright. I might not have his green thumb, but I do my best to support nonetheless.
And being Baba’s helper today has the added benefit of keeping me occupied. It’s been two days since meeting Frank, and he still hasn’t texted me.
I spent my entire work shift yesterday refreshing my messages in confusion, wondering if I’d mistyped my number.
Or maybe he felt a lot angrier about the stained shirt than I picked up on.
Finally, today, I considered the more hurtful possibility that he had simply decided he wasn’t all that interested.
I know it’s not a loss in the scheme of things, and all we shared was one night of conversation, but it stings all the same.
It felt so nice to be noticed at a party I was apprehensive to attend, and I hate to get excited about a person only to be embarrassed moments later.
Disappointments of this nature tend to sit and fester for me.
I can’t help but feel reminded of similar past situations, from Kamran to Kush, and feel like my naivete is a pattern.
Last night, I succumbed to the temptation of online stalking and discovered that I’ll be seeing Frank on campus this fall. School somehow hadn’t come up much at the party, but his (private) Instagram bio contained UW’s handle. I make a mental note to casually ask Michael for intel later.
When the Brandywine starter crop is securely set in the soil, I head to the garage to wash my hands, and Baba runs to the kitchen to make us some celebratory chai. I check my phone in the dull garage light once my hands are clean, and there’s nothing from Frank, but I have a slew of texts from Sim.
he could still text, she reassures me. do you want me to ask Steve about him for you?
I wince. Though not yet back together, Steve and Simran have committed to having many long conversations about their future. definitely not please, I reply because I can’t imagine anything worse than Steve playing desperate matchmaker for me. I send a row of exclamations to underline my stance.
Simran replies: well to be FRANK i low-key hate Frank. She follows this up a second later with a #FrankCanceled. A moment later: also world’s most unmoanable name tbh.
My lips quirk. I slip my phone in my pocket and come outside to fresh mugs of chai waiting for me. Baba and I sit and sip and admire our work, and I do my best to push troubled thoughts from my mind.
But the day has other plans for me.
I check my email after lunch to see Professor Valdivia has passed back notes on early pages of my research paper.
I sent in an outline along with a preliminary draft of my introduction last week, not over-fussed given how early in the process we still were.
But Valdivia’s comments are almost all critical, verging on harsh.
Vague, she writes over and again in the margins.
Support your claim! is another popular refrain.
A few passages are simply crossed out in brutal red.
I close my laptop before I make it to the end, telling myself I’ll return to it when I’m in a better headspace.
Downstairs, I still can’t catch a break.
Sanju and Nabhi shatter one of Aai’s prized vases while tossing around a basketball in the living room, and I spend the next twenty minutes on all fours, scrounging around to grab the last of the glass.
I halt the boys when they try to help, lest one of them winds up with a cut and Aai tries to disown me again.
She’s thankfully out at yoga all afternoon and doesn’t witness the crime itself, but I can never be too careful.
Through it all, Frank still hasn’t texted.
I am in a well and truly foul mood by the time I meet Kush for driving, my morning attempt at optimism all but evaporated.
It translates on the road: turns bumpy, indicators forgotten, lane positioning veering far too right.
Kush directs me to pull over within ten minutes, and I slide lopsided into a spot, wheels way past the white line.
We haven’t focused on parking procedure yet, but I notice Kush clock the transgression, and my irritation rises.
“How are we feeling?” Kush asks.
“Fine,” I say. My fingers tap against the steering wheel. “I just need another few turns about the lot. Then I can try out the main road.”
Kush clicks his tongue. “I’m not sure we’ll make it to the main road today,” he says. “I want us to feel more confident here before we drive around lots of other cars.”
My eyes narrow at his use of the first-person plural. It’s how I talk to the library kids when they’re struggling—group language softens the blow, makes it seem like less of a personal blunder. I don’t like seeing my tactics used against me.
“I feel confident,” I say. “Thanks, though.”
He releases an exasperated breath. “Rani,” he starts.
“It’s, like, our fourth practice,” I say. “And we’re still in the parking lot. My test date is in less than two months, so I really think I need some roadside experience.”
“We’ll get there,” he says. “Just not on a day when you’re hitting every curb in sight.”
My nostrils flare. “Not every curb.”
“The goal is none, to be clear.”
“I don’t understand why you’re always trying to prevent me from driving,” I say. “You’ve got to see how counterproductive that is.”
“I’m not trying to prevent you from driving,” he says, some frustration breaking through his usual air of forced patience. “I’m trying to prevent another vehicular dog-slaughter.”
This earns him a glare. “That goldendoodle didn’t even have a scrape.”
A short, ironic laugh escapes Kush. “You do hear yourself?”
I do, and I sound ridiculous, but I always struggle not to feel ultrasensitive around Kush. It’s so easy to interpret his every action as condescending when I spent so much of my childhood wishing he’d take me seriously.
For months after the poolside day the summer of his return, I dreaded any chance encounter with Kush.
His dismissive, practically offended words to his friend made clear that he didn’t see me as an equal.
So I did my best not to see him at all, minimizing our interactions to the best of my ability in the years to come.
The first few months were the hardest. On Diwali, Aai assigned me and Kush to create our front porch rangoli, and I pulled her to the hallway in a desperate plea.
“Please don’t make me be alone with him,” I begged.
The sting of his cool rejection was fresh, and I couldn’t stomach spending time with someone who considered me so beneath him.
Bemused, Aai agreed to pass the task to Ajoba, and as time passed, Kush and I were naturally thrown together less and less.
Now, given our driving arrangement, some of those old feelings of inferiority are reigniting. I hate being talked down to by anyone, most of all Kush.
“Look,” I say. “If you’re not going to let me drive, then just take me home. There’s no need to waste my time, I have a lot of work to get done today.” I speak to the air, arms crossed, and Kush stills in my periphery.
There’s a long beat. “Is that really what you want?”
My reply is immediate. “It is, yes.”
“All right,” he says finally, voice flat, mouth set. I’m unclipping my seat belt and out of the car to swap seats before he can add another word.
We’re silent on the ride home, which feels like an eternity though no longer than a mile. Kush glances at me and away during stops and red lights.
“I’m not sure why you always get touchy and hostile with me,” he says as we near my neighborhood. The words are quiet, contemplative. “My only motivation here is to help you.”
The accusation grates, but I can’t muster the energy to defend myself. “Thanks for the ride,” I say instead, when we reach the driveway. It comes out more passive-aggressive than I wanted. Still, he nods in acceptance, and I grab the keys before heading to the house without a backward glance.