Chapter Thirty-Two
On the morning of my driving test, Ajoba wakes me bright and early.
Light has just started to stream through the windows, the sun still low on the horizon.
But I can tell Ajoba wants a slow start to the day, some time marked aside for us to sit and talk through the chaos of the week.
I’ve been avoiding my family since Rakhi, including my grandfather, far too hurt and ashamed to mend a fence.
Bowls of sabudana khichdi are waiting for us on the kitchen counter when I arrive downstairs.
The cozy dish of sauteed tapioca pearls, potatoes, and crushed peanuts is my all-time favorite Marathi breakfast. Ajoba would have had to set the pearls to soak late last night, then woken up practically at dawn to have the meal prepared by this hour.
Shaved coconut and fresh lemon is set beside my bowl to add as garnishes, exactly as I like it. I burst into tears at the sight.
Alarm strikes Ajoba’s features, and he hurries to my side. “Maharani,” he says. “I thought you liked this food.”
I wipe at my cheeks, tears coming out shaky and fast. “I do,” I insist through a pause in crying. “I love sabudana.” Another sniffle escapes.
A beat. “So you understand my confusion,” he says, voice dry.
I meet his eyes. “I don’t deserve this,” I say at last.
Ajoba takes his seat beside me in the breakfast nook. “Ah,” he says.
“I mess everything up,” I blurt.
He waves a hand. “Important to have some entertainment on festivals,” he says. “Aarti can be so dull.”
A smile twitches on my lips, but another tear slips out anyways. “You’re not mad at me?”
He shakes his head, and my stomach unwinds a bit.
“Aai, on the other hand?” he says, but this much I know.
We’ve been skirting around each other in common areas the last few days like bad roommates.
I duck my head. “She says to drive safe,” Ajoba says, squeezing my leg.
“And to make a big show of checking before turns. They’ll mark you off otherwise. ”
I nod, swiping at my face again. “Okay,” I say weakly, but I feel considerably lighter. If Aai can pass on advice through Ajoba, it can’t be an unsalvageable situation.
“Since you’re already crying,” Ajoba says now. He reaches across the nook to grab a small bag I somehow missed, tissue paper peeking out over the handles. “From the boys.”
I set aside the tissue and gently extract the contents of the bag.
Two ceramic jewelry trays, clearly designed at Paint Away, the site of our sibling date at the start of summer, emerge.
One tray is in the shape of an open book, and the other takes the form of a car.
Even with the inexpert paint job, I have to admire the attention to detail, from messy scribbles crafted on the book to a scratchy bumper on the car, an imitation of my fender bender.
An accompanying note reads in Sanju’s nearly indecipherable block letters: GOOD LUCK, TAI!
“Oh,” I say, voice wavering.
“When they said your gift wasn’t ready,” Ajoba says. “They meant it wasn’t dry.”
I nod. More tears slip out. “It’s very sweet.”
“It is sweet,” Ajoba agrees. “But not very high-quality, so no pressure to actually use.”
I laugh. My brothers have always struggled to color between the lines, and it shows. “It’s the thought that counts,” I say. “I’ll apologize to them later.”
“And your Aai Baba should apologize to you,” Ajoba continues. I shoot him a look, like as if. “I told them so,” he says. “Of course, I can only advise, but they should learn that you are a sister, not an extra parent. And above all, their daughter too.”
I blink fast, then burrow my face into Ajoba’s shoulder. My grandfather’s never been huge on physical affection, but he reaches an arm around to pat me on the back. His green eyes are probing when I pull away.
“Will your driving instructor be joining us at the DOL today?” he asks.
Ajoba’s voice is knowing. My eyes flit away. I haven’t spoken to Kush since our awful car ride, and it feels wrong to take my test without his presence. But I can’t bring myself to reach out just yet.
“We’re not really speaking at the moment,” I tell Ajoba.
“Ah,” he says. Perhaps in an effort to ward off even more tears, Ajoba squeezes my hand. “It will all work out, shona,” he says. “You’ll work it out.”
I squeeze his hand back and try to make myself believe the words. A peaceful quiet settles around us, till Ajoba breaks it.
“If you’re not going to eat,” he says. “I will.” He takes a large bite of sabudana and releases a satisfied breath. “I’ve outdone myself,” he decides.
I laugh and follow suit. The khichdi is as delicious as ever.
Once we’ve eaten our fill, Ajoba takes me to the Gilmore DOL.
It’s a short ride, but I’m not sure I’ve driven with him since before his stroke, and faint nostalgia rises at the realization.
He kisses my forehead in good luck when it’s time, and jerks his head to the white benches outside the building to let me know where he’ll be waiting.
“You’ll drive me home?” he asks as I walk in, and I knock on the wood of the door to prevent the jinx.
Thirty minutes later, my chest is light when I exit the DOL. I feel like I’m walking on air; it’s as though a yearslong curse has, at long last, been lifted. Ajoba lifts his head at the sight of me.
“Hi,” I say. His eyes stay wary, trying to gauge my expression. A smile breaks across my lips. “What do you say?” I ask. “Want shotgun?”
I drop Ajoba off at home before heading out for a drive.
During my test, Valdivia at last replied to my frantic, apologetic email from yesterday, formally granting an extension request. Good things clearly do come in pairs, and my relief is immeasurable.
I know I’m getting far more grace than I deserve, so I fully plan to dig into the project for the rest of the day, but there’s a necessary stop I need to make first.
I roll into Simran’s driveway at just past eleven. I know from checking her location that she’s home, and Saira and Sharmila should be at their gallery by now, so she’s all but certainly home alone. Still, I feel mildly apologetic to the neighbors when I park and start to honk. And honk, and honk.
What feels like ages later, when I’m starting to feel fearful that I’ll receive a ticket on my very first day as a driver, Simran’s head finally appears in the window. Her hair is a knotted mess, and she’s clearly just woken from her slumber.
The glass flies open. She squints at me. “Rani?” she calls out, incredulous.
“Get down here!” I call, watching with amusement as her eyes spark at the realization.
She claps a hand to her mouth. “Shut. Up.” Her face disappears in the window, reappearing at the door moments later. She hurries to the passenger side, still dressed in sleep clothes.
“No way,” she says, voice all wonderment, as she slides into the car. “Has hell frozen over?”
I shrug. “I passed a flying pig on my way here,” I say.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” she says, hushed.
“Few did,” I agree.
She beams. “My girl,” she gushes, reaching over the console to squeeze me tight. “You did it.”
I squeeze her back. We pull away and study each other. Our expressions twist.
“I’m sorry,” we blurt at the same time. There’s a beat. “No, I’m sorry,” we say again in unison. We giggle at the repetition. I let her go first.
“I never meant to sound judgmental,” she says.
“You weren’t,” I say. “I was being way too sensitive.”
“You’re my favorite person,” she says.
“You’re mine,” I return.
“Even if I don’t support a specific decision of yours,” she says. “I always support you.” She tilts her head at me. “I’m always, always on your side. I’m sorry if that wasn’t clear.”
I blink quickly. “Likewise,” I say, voice warbled. We embrace again, and her eyes are soft when we pull apart. “Still,” I say, tilting my head at her. “The Frank promo was kind of crazy.”
She laughs, raising her hands. “I know, I can own it,” she says. “It wasn’t about Frank so much as I was just trying to offer up an alternative.”
“But I know I’m not blameless,” I say. “I haven’t always been the most supportive about Steve, so it was pretty unfair of me to get so upset when you dished it back to me.”
She shrugs. “He won you over in the end,” she says, and while this is a far too generous take, I don’t push back against it. “I can be open to Kush doing the same with me.”
I might have squandered any prospect of that on Wednesday, but I don’t let myself dwell, not when I have a harder truth to admit.
“I think,” I begin, letting the words take shape slowly.
“I’ve been a bit jealous of you this last year.
” She tilts her head at the admission, surprised, and I force myself to hurry on.
“Even if it wasn’t true, it totally seemed like you had it all together when I didn’t.
Which made me very quick to feel judged or talked down to, when that clearly was never the intention. ”
“Never,” she confirms warmly. “And I very much did not have it all together. My advice to you comes from love, never personal expertise.”
This makes me laugh. “Regardless,” I say. “I’m sorry for the overreaction.”
She waves it away. Then she raises a brow. “So what’s the latest,” she says, “on K-word?”
With a sigh, I fill her in on Michael’s intel and the consequential horrible car ride. She listens thoughtfully and purses her lips. “Not to play defense,” she says. “Like, at all, you know my stance. But didn’t he tell you he was planning on reaching out to her at the fair?”
I swallow. This is what I’ve been thinking too. “He did,” I confirm. “And it’s not like I was in a space to let him explain further.”
“Well,” she says. “What do you want to do?”
I have a lot to think through, more work than fathomable cut out in front of me, but for now: “Let’s drive,” I say.