Chapter Twenty-Four
The Khannas host this week’s Sunday dinner.
It’s a smaller affair, since Suresh Uncle is still in Jaipur, and Baba’s on shift again.
The twins’ attendance is grudgingly procured by a promise to let them use the Khanna movie room without restriction.
In full only-child fashion, Kush’s family home has more spare rooms than needed, hence the movie room, in addition to Suresh Uncle’s work office and Noori Aunty’s yoga studio.
My iPad kid brothers are very appreciative.
I’m glad to have the twins and Ajoba with me. Nothing I told Simran was a lie; driving lessons have been smooth and professional, but it doesn’t hurt to have some more insulation if I have to be around Kush.
Noori Aunty’s in the kitchen when we arrive, so Kush gets the door. He’s fresh from a shower, hair still damp, dressed in a UW half zip and navy joggers. It’s a rare, pleasant sight, Kush in his home environment, in this relaxed state. I catch myself admiring and instantly avert my gaze.
Aai takes one sniff of the foyer and brightens. “Kadhi bana rahi hai?” she asks Kush in lieu of hello. When he smiles, affirmative, she pushes forward, calling out, “Noori, you spoil us!”
My mouth waters too. Kadhi pakora is by far my favorite Punjabi dish. The tangy, creamy curry is an ultimate comfort meal, and Noori Aunty’s variation has a particular magic. Her pakoras somehow retain their crispiness despite being immersed in the thick kadhi.
“This is what I came for,” Ajoba says with a sigh, sliding his shoes off and heading after Aai.
The twins make a beeline for the movie room.
I think of following them, eager not to be alone with Kush, but my eyes catch on a portrait on the entry wall.
I haven’t been to the Khanna home in a while, and this piece is a new addition: a framed print of the Alina Joshi painting that captivated me at the Sinhas’ gallery.
I halt before it, and Kush catches my stare. “Incredible, right?” he says. “My cousin’s the artist. She’s the one who just got married in Boston.”
“Woah,” I say. “Jealous.” None of my cousins are quite so talented. I peer close and admire the detailing on the younger sister’s chunni; every brushstroke is precise and masterful, even on the print. “She was at Simran’s moms’ gallery. Couldn’t look away.”
“I’ll pass it on,” he says. “She’ll be giddy to hear it. Alina lives for flattery.”
Finally, I pull myself away from the work, and we approach the kitchen together.
Already I can hear the twins’ movie starting where they’ve hunkered down.
They’ve settled on a true hit—Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, a Bollywood boys’ trip film that I introduced them to years back.
It always makes me proud to have passed down a love for Hindi cinema to my brothers.
Ajoba’s made himself comfortable on the window nook, lost in a game of online chess, when we reach the kitchen. I hear my name carry from bits of our moms’ conversation, and Noori Aunty beams at me from the stove.
“Vandana was just telling me how helpful you’ve been with Nabhi’s schooling,” she says.
I blink. “Oh,” I say, eyes flitting to Aai, who sips her chai beside Noori Aunty. It’s very classic of her: Aai rarely expresses gratitude to me herself, preferring to compliment by proxy instead. “Well, someone’s gotta do it.”
“The boys are so lucky to have you,” Noori Aunty says. She pushes a tray of chai toward me, and I take a glass, handing another to Kush, careful not to let our fingers brush. “I hope they celebrate you properly at Rakhi.”
Rakhi is a Hindu festival honoring the bond between sisters and brothers, and it’s customary for brothers to present their sister with gifts as a token of appreciation.
For the past couple years, the twins have gotten me a joint card and very well-intentioned but ultimately unwearable jewelry.
Rakhi is a few weeks away now, and I’m hoping this year they just go with a check.
“Raksha Bandhan truly is Rani’s holiday,” Aai says. “Two brothers, double the presents.”
“As she deserves,” Noori Aunty says with a laugh, and I try to smile. I’ll take the flattery on my big sister skills, but it’s not as though I relish the role. It’s just come to be expected of me. When I glance over at him, Kush is watching my reaction. I take a few sips of chai to avoid his gaze.
Noori Aunty stirs the kadhi and continues with a sigh. “Makes me sad sometimes that Kush will never experience Rakhi. Such a cherished festival for me growing up. My brothers spoiled us with gifts each year.”
Aai clucks her tongue. “Don’t be silly, Noori,” she says. “We are like family, no? Kush is always welcome to celebrate Rakhi with us.”
A strangled sound escapes Kush’s throat. I almost choke on my chai. “No,” I blurt.
All eyes turn to me; Ajoba even pauses his chess game to raise a brow. My cheeks flush dark. “I just mean,” I say after a dreadful beat. “I have enough brothers.”
Aai tilts her head at me, bewildered. In a stroke of good fortune, the timer on the rice cooker goes off then, capturing both her and Noori Aunty’s attention. Next to me, Kush’s mouth twitches, and I shoot him a glare.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“For the record,” he says. “I’d make a great brother.”
“Not really looking to add incest to my list of regrets,” I say.
“Long list, huh?”
“Longer by the second,” I say. “I should have crashed the twins’ movie night instead.”
“This close to Rakhi?” he says. “Another Claire’s charm bracelet would be in your future.”
My lips twist in a smile in spite of myself. I’m surprised he remembered—after last year’s Rakhi, I spent Sunday dinner complaining about my very unsatisfactory gift. I’d dropped enough hints about the necklace I actually wanted that the boys’ ultimate present hit like a true disappointment.
“I do so much for the twins,” I say. “And they can’t even bother to keep in mind that I’m a gold jewelry girl.”
“Shameful,” he agrees. “You should get Mother’s Day in addition to Rakhi as compensation.”
“Father’s Day, while we’re at it,” I say.
“Not a huge celebration in this household,” he says. “But I’m familiar.”
It might be the wrong thing to say, but he’s brought it up, and my curiosity overpowers tact. “Have you spoken to your dad?” I ask. “Since the haircut fiasco, I mean.”
His mouth thins, and he averts his gaze. “Nah,” he says, taking a sip of chai. “Happy to keep it that way.” His tone is light but clipped. “And anyhow, I’ve been way too swamped with working at the hospital to think about much else.”
I feel amusement rise. “Swamped with what, answering phones?” Baba’s interns have always seemed pretty relaxed to me.
His mouth drops in mock outrage. “I do more than that,” he says. “Research, sometimes.”
“Right,” I say.
“The workplace culture is very intense,” he says, and this, I buy. “If they like me this summer, I’ll get called back for the fall. Plus a med school rec letter. I feel like I always need to be performing.”
“Just like Grey’s Anatomy,” I say, and he furrows his brow.
“Sorry?”
I stare at him. “Like, the show?” He still looks confused, and my eyes widen in shock. “It’s been going on for twenty years now or something, there’s no way you haven’t heard of it.”
His eyes crinkle, mirthful, and I realize he’s making fun. “I’ve heard of it,” he says. “Just wanted to let you freak out for a sec.”
“An understandable freak-out,” I say. “You don’t have a great track record with pop culture knowledge.”
“True,” he says. “And to be fair, I’ve never actually watched.”
I shake my head. “Mandatory viewing, especially for someone working at a Seattle hospital.”
“Hm,” he says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He sips his chai, and I waver, knowing I probably shouldn’t push it, but I can’t bring myself to abandon the subject. “On your dad,” I say. “I’m sure he’s just busy with work, business trip stress and all. But it might be productive to still reach out, for your own sake.”
He meets my eyes again, and there’s a beat of hesitation, like he’s weighing whether or not to tell me.
He decides for it. “My dad’s not actually on a business trip,” he says, the words matter-of-fact.
Reading my surprise, he hurries to add, “Your mom definitely knows, so it’s hardly a real secret now.
But he’s gone to Jaipur to get some space, not for work. So I’m not too bothered to reach out.”
My eyes widen, taking it all in. “Oh,” I say. It hadn’t occurred to me that Kush and Noori Aunty’s issues with Suresh Uncle had reached such a tipping point. “Did something specific prompt this?”
Kush shrugs. “Long time coming,” he says. “He was in Jaipur for a few weeks earlier this year when my grandma passed. And I think he just prefers it, being around his family.”
My nose wrinkles at his phrasing—aren’t Kush and Noori Aunty Suresh Uncle’s family too?
But it’s clear there’s something in the Khanna household dynamic beyond my comprehension, that I just can’t relate to.
Ajoba is a fully integrated part of our home; I can’t imagine a construction where I’d suggest we belong to separate families.
His mouth twitches at my bemusement. “It’s for the best, Rani,” he says. “I like being home a lot more when he’s away.” He straightens, done with the matter. He angles his head toward the hallway. “Should we join the twins for a bit?” he asks. “We’ve got a little while before dinner’s ready.”
I know when to let something go. “Let’s,” I say. The boys might be irked to be interrupted, but the film is too much of a favorite to deny myself the entertainment.
We enter the movie room to a particularly exciting scene. The characters are on a bucket list bachelor trip, and their scuba diving lesson functions as a meet-cute for one of the leads. Kush and I plop into the back-row couch, and the twins don’t even glance up at us.
“This was my favorite movie as a kid,” Kush tells me in a low whisper. He pulls absently at a loose thread on his cushion. There’s a draft in the room, and the hair on his arm has risen in response.
I can’t hide my smile. “Very typical,” I say. Perhaps every Indian man I know would say the same.
He raises a brow at the tone. “You disagree?”
“I love Zindagi,” I say. “But I have a preference for the classics.”
“Ah,” he says. “So some dancing in the mountains type shit.”
He’s mocking me, but he’s also a hundred percent right. “Or the rain, or mustard fields, etcetera etcetera.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but Sanju’s voice cuts in before he can. “Popcorn, please, Rani Tai!” he calls without so much as a backward glance.
My eyes narrow at the command. Something about parental absence always incites the inner spoiled brat in my brothers. “No,” I say. “It’s almost dinnertime.”
“And your sister’s not your maid,” Kush adds, and surprised pleasure sparks at his coming to my defense. “Manners next time.”
“I said please,” Sanju grumbles, but he sinks farther into his seat, chagrined.
When I meet Kush’s gaze, I realize he’s been watching me, expression thoughtful and steady.
I mean to thank him, but for some reason, my face grows hot at the attention, the words dying on my lips.
I’m grateful for the dim lighting, and Kush continues on without notice. “This movie is a classic to me.”
“Hm,” I say. I shift away from him for good measure and nod at the screen. The characters are now deep in the ocean, marine life bright around them. “What would be your bucket list activity?”
He considers. “Probably this,” he says. “Since I can’t swim.”
A laugh escapes. “I’d almost forgotten,” I say. Throughout childhood, Kush was famous in our family friend circle for standing in the shallow end of pools while the rest of the kids enjoyed a few laps. “Still?”
He throws a dark look. “Still,” he confirms. He hurries from the topic before I pile on further. “And what would be yours?”
“I’m not sure,” I say truthfully. “I don’t really like trying new things.” As I’m speaking, I realize that the admission makes me sound like a massive bore, so I try to explain. “I like what I know, I mean.”
That doesn’t sound much better. Kush tilts his head as I try to find a way to rephrase. “That’s not how I see you,” he says. “Transferring, driving, these are all new things. You’ve always seemed very open to change.”
An odd, warm sensation settles in my chest. Kush’s description isn’t really how I see myself, but I prefer his more generous perception. “Huh,” I say. “Maybe so.”
He nods. “It’s pretty brave,” he says. “The transferring part, especially. Not easy to just start all over.”
The corners of my mouth push up, gratification rising. “Well, thanks, Kush.”
He returns the smile, and then we rest back in our seats, enjoying the film until we’re called in for dinner.
At the table, Ajoba fills up on seconds and thirds. He gives a satisfied sigh as he clears his last bowl of kadhi pakora.
“I hope you know how lucky you are, Kush beta,” he says, and Kush laughs.
“Very much,” he says. He reaches for the empty dishes. “Let me take your stuff.” Ajoba allows it, and as Kush retreats to the kitchen, my grandfather looks up at me, green eyes knowing.
I shrink under his gaze. “What?” I ask.
“You have enough brothers?” he drawls, and my face warms at the callback.
“Well,” I say. “We are a full house.”
Ajoba tuts, but he does me the dignity of returning to his chess game without another remark.