Chapter Twenty-One
I hide my yawn behind my cup of rose chai.
On my left, the twins occupy themselves with a game of thumb war.
On my right, Ajoba brazenly flips the page of his Marathi poetry collection.
Aai shoots him a vicious, shaming glare across the table, but I can’t help but envy his foresight to bring a distraction.
According to the overhead clock, we are now twelve minutes into Shilpa Aunty’s second toast of the night, and she’s showing no signs of stopping.
While her first speech hardly mentioned the couple, focusing instead on memories from her own wedding and her motherhood journey, this toast feels more topical.
At least, mentions of her “beautiful baby boy” have been plentiful.
Chronologically, she has just arrived at Shekar’s high school graduation.
“Dropping Shekar off at UC Berkeley was the most painful parting,” she says with a sniff, her eyes glassy. “Overtaken only by today’s farewell.”
I’m unsure what farewell Shilpa Aunty is referring to, as Shekar and Anjali’s new apartment is less than a fifteen-minute drive from the Mehra home. I guess the pair’s delicate decline of joint living must have cut deep.
In my periphery, I notice Kush stifle a yawn of his own.
He checks his phone for the time and sinks lower in his seat.
I’d empathize if I wasn’t still so aggravated by our morning encounter.
The Khannas and Satoors have been seated at the table beside us, but I’ve managed to avoid a single chat with Kush all night.
Hot irritation spikes whenever I think of his porch brush-off.
I feel his eyes shift to me, and I immediately narrow my attention to Shilpa Aunty, refusing to meet his gaze. On instinct, I pick at my chunni, the new sunset-colored piece from Maharani. I’ve secured it to my blouse to conceal last night’s mark, but I’ve remained anxious of any slips all evening.
“Another minute of her droning, and I might just fake another stroke,” Ajoba murmurs beside me. He’s reached the last poem of his collection and shuts it with a mournful sigh.
My lips quirk in spite of myself, but I still give my grandfather a look. “Don’t make jokes like that,” I whisper.
“Where was the joke?” he says, deadpan.
Thankfully, Shilpa Aunty chooses this moment to wind down. “And so,” she says, raising her glass of mango lassi high, fuchsia-painted lips stretched in a broad smile. “I am so pleased to welcome Anjali into the family, as the second most important woman in Shekar’s life!”
Cheers and light laughter and a few titters sound. I sneak a glance at the bride, who remains impressively expressionless. Ajoba and I wince at each other. Indian boy moms truly are a case study in Freudian relationships.
But at long last, Shilpa Aunty takes her seat, and the DJ announces we’re free to grab appetizers before the performances begin.
Our table is among the first to be called up, and I beeline for the pani puri fountain in the back.
I’ve been eyeing it since our arrival. This is always my favorite part of any fancy Desi function.
I stuff a few puris with the spiced mint-cilantro water, as is customary, but I also grab a cup to fill to the brim with the teekha pani. I take a sip and release a happy breath. I know it’s a faux pas, but pani puri water has been my most beloved beverage since girlhood.
I feel his presence behind me before I even hear his voice. “What are you doing?” Kush asks, amusement lacing his words.
My eyes narrow at the judgment as I whirl around. “Enjoying my drink?” I say. “At least, I was.”
He ignores the childish dig and clucks his tongue. “You and your drinking habits,” he says, and against my will, my cheeks flush at the allusion.
I wish it escaped me, but it’s impossible not to notice how lovely he looks today.
He’s dressed in a classic black sherwani, an intricately embroidered dupatta slung around his neck to match.
Cuffed sleeves expose a sliver of forearm and a single silver bangle around his wrist. His hair is parted softly at the center, a stray curl dipping just to his brows.
I wrap my arms around myself to keep from doing something ridiculous like touching him again, and my chudiyan clatter.
The response I come up with is: “Don’t knock it till you try it.”
He reaches for my glass. I allow it, and wordless, he takes a few thoughtful sips. “Refreshing,” he says at last, passing it back. “I was wrong.”
“Typical,” I say. I turn back to the fountain to top off my glass and stuff a couple more puris while I’m at it.
“Did you like the toast?” he asks me next. The question is ironic; I lack Anjali’s poker face. It’s likely Kush caught my grimace throughout.
“I like that it’s over,” I say. “Feels like I just survived a war.”
“So the usual post Shilpa Aunty feeling,” he quips, and I duck my head so he doesn’t see my lips twitch.
Goods assembled, I start for the table, but Kush blocks my way, and I’m forced to halt. “Rani,” he says, face going wary and apologetic.
Realization sparks, and irritation climbs in my throat. “No!” I blurt.
He cocks his head, confused. “No?”
My nostrils flare. “No,” I repeat, firm. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. Excuse me.” I try to push past him, but he intercepts me again, mouth in a line.
“We’ve got to talk about it.”
“Since when?”
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he says. “I was wrong for that.”
“Broken record,” I mumble.
“Let’s step outside and talk,” he says, gaze dark and sincere. “Please.”
His tone is so earnest that I’m nearly swayed. But I remember Simran’s advice to keep it moving and steel myself. I’m no longer confident anything valuable will emerge from further discussion. “I’m hungry,” I insist. I maneuver around him again, and this time, he doesn’t stop me.
Or so I think. Not two steps past Kush, and I’m jerked back to his side with force. I just barely manage to keep my drink from sloshing over the rim.
“Oh my God,” I say, outraged by the manhandling. He’s yanked on my chunni. “Let me go.”
“I’m trying,” he says, voice weak. My eyes flash back, and I see that he hasn’t grabbed me—not on purpose, anyways.
The loose end of my chunni has caught on the buttons of his sleeve.
We lock eyes in panic for a swollen moment.
Then Kush uses his free hand to take my food and drink from me and sets it on the table.
He raises the attached arm, and I’m tugged to him. Both our fingers get to work detangling ourselves. A loose gold thread has somehow wound itself in the button.
“Let me—” I begin, trying to unravel the knot.
“Maybe if I—” he starts, picking at the fabric.
“Careful,” I scold. “This was very expensive.”
His touch turns gentle. My cheeks are aflame; our foreheads are inches from each other. A couple more delicate plucks, and the thread parts from his sleeve. We release a simultaneous sigh of relief and hastily separate.
At the movement, my chunni slips from its carefully pinned placement at my collarbone. My hand jumps to my neck to adjust, but it’s too late. Kush’s eyes snap to the blooming bruise, blinking back at the sight.
A flush creeps up his face. He scratches at his hair as if looking for something to do with his hands. “Sorry,” he says, and it’s unclear what the apology is for.
I deflate, the earlier fight leaving my body. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go talk.”
The patio outside the reception hall is still largely empty.
We have a solid ten minutes before guests start to filter through with their food, so Kush and I head for the barren seating area by the water.
The Mehras selected a dreamy lakeside resort as tonight’s venue, and a few wooden jhoolas with marigolds wrapped around the bases border the overlook.
We sink onto the farthest swing, and I take care to sit as far from him as possible.
I fold my legs in an effort to take up even less space. “Talk,” I say, smoothing down a crinkle in my skirt.
He obeys the order. “I’m sorry for the brush-off this morning,” he repeats. “I wasn’t expecting to see you, and I didn’t have, um, any remarks prepared.”
My mouth twitches at the phrasing. “What, you need a speechwriter to speak to me?”
He shrugs. “Could have used one today, yeah.” There’s a pause. “And generally, too, you don’t always make it easy.”
It’s not like I can argue with that, and maybe it’s toxic, but I can’t help feeling a little pleased that Kush seems to find me unapproachable at times.
He continues. The words are careful and measured. “I’m also really sorry about last night.”
It’s mortifying how fast my stomach drops. “You’re sorry about last night?” I echo.
He nods. He glances over at me and swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “You were drunk. I was too. Things shouldn’t happen like that.”
I hesitate, unable to parse through the specifics of my messy feelings. “Right.” I clear my throat. “But you don’t need to apologize. It was equally on me.” Perhaps even more so on me, but Kush does me the dignity of not pointing that out.
“I really hope we can move past this,” he says next.
Something that feels an awful lot like disappointment is twisting in my belly, which makes no sense, because I also desperately want to move past this. I hug my arms to my stomach as if to press the sensation away. “Of course,” I say.
“Especially since we were just starting to get along,” he says.
“I promise not to become touchy and hostile again,” I say, and a half smile starts.
“I’ll do my best not to provoke that, too,” he says.
“Good,” I say.
“Good,” he says. We sit in silence for a second, looking at the water. I feel a rising awareness of our proximity and shift even closer to the jhoola handles.
“I like the outfit,” he says now. “The chunni is really nice.”
I meet his eyes, bemused by the call back to our earlier moment. But the words are mirthful, and I recognize the attempt to cut the tension.
“A new favorite,” I agree. “Faulty mechanisms and all.”
He laughs. We rock gently on the swing until the twins come out to join us with their snacks.