Chapter 8
“YOU’RE ALL BEING so dramatic,” Kiran says on Saturday morning. “I talked with Dr. Tran. She’s optimistic. Mom can probably just get a hysterectomy and move on.”
Simran watches the pot of chah on the stove and tries not to show her irritation. “We don’t know that yet. And either way...I don’t think she can just move on.”
“Oh, I know.” Kiran rolls her eyes and fluffs her short hair.
Once, her hair was longer than Simran’s, brushing past her knees.
But at eighteen, she cut it all off, then cut ties too and left home.
The rift has never quite healed in the years since.
“She’s the most dramatic of all of you. I bet she was going on about how her life is over, blah blah. ”
She had been going on about her life being over, but Simran isn’t about to tell Kiran that. Kiran seems to know anyway. She nods sagely.
“That’s what I can’t stand about her. The smallest inconvenience will happen, you’ll get one bad grade, and she’ll start talking about how hard it was to move to Canada for you and give up her whole life. Guilt-tripping much?”
Simran’s irritation grows, partly because Kiran’s analysis is not entirely untrue. Partly because it’s just like Kiran to parachute in and make judgments after a year of barely any contact.
Apparently, Kiran had finally gotten in touch with their father a few days ago.
When she showed up last night, their mom actually came downstairs.
She’d even washed her face and put on semi-nice clothes.
Her dad opened their expensive box of biscuits.
They hosted her in the living room like a guest—which she is, in a way.
“That’s irrelevant.” Simran twirls her kara. “We’re talking about her being sick. The scans this week are to see how much it’s...spread.”
On the word spread, Kiran stands, her chair scraping back from the kitchen table.
“Oh my god. She’ll be fine. She’s booked to see a surgeon!
Stop looking so miserable. We’ll be laughing about this by Christmas.
Here, your chah’s about to overboil.” She hurries to the stove, where the chah is barely simmering.
Simran watches Kiran fumble around the cupboards, as disoriented as a houseguest. “Mom and Dad are really sad. I’ve been thinking about what we could do to make them happier.”
Kiran snorts, tossing a cinnamon stick into the chah. “Simmi, you’ll never make them happy. Unless you completely shape your life according to what they want.” She tosses a glance over her shoulder. “Which I guess you’re kind of doing.”
Simran’s forgotten how talented Kiran is at getting on her nerves.
Back in the day, when it came to their parents, Kiran never picked her battles.
She fought all of them. By the time she moved out, everyone was tired of the never-ending conflict.
Simran the most of all. “It takes less than you think to make them happy.”
“Not our job. They need to learn to have a life outside of their children.”
“I know it’s not my job,” Simran snaps. “I just want to. What’s wrong with that?”
Before Kiran can respond, their dad comes down the stairs, still in his nightclothes. His eyes fall on them—tired, but affectionate. “It’s so nice seeing you two together again.”
Kiran and Simran look at each other and then away. Probably best not to mention they were arguing.
He doesn’t notice, extending his arms for a hug. Simran goes over immediately, and as always, his embrace is tight and safe and welcoming. When they pull apart, he glances at Kiran, who rather deliberately turns away. He lowers his arms, a trace of sadness in his eyes.
Sometimes Simran wants to shake her sister. Instead, she busies herself pouring chah for them all. Her father takes a biscuit from the box on the table. Kiran takes one, too, and so does Simran. They stand around the table munching their cold biscuit breakfast silently.
Just then, there’s a creak of the staircase as footsteps come down. They all stop to stare as Simran’s mom appears in the doorway. “Mom,” Simran says, trying not to sound too hopeful. “You’re up.”
Her mom’s freshly showered, eyes red-rimmed. “Of course I’m up,” she says, voice feather soft. “I wanted to see my daughters. For as long as I’m able.”
And just like that, any possible normalcy for the day goes out the window.
Kiran turns her eyes to the ceiling. “Mom. Seriously?”
Their mother sinks into a chair at the table.
Simran rubs her shoulders. Her dad busies himself at the fridge, but Simran suspects he’s turned his back for other reasons.
Kiran doesn’t move, just stands in the middle of everything with her arms crossed and lips thin.
She seems immune to the anguish in the room, but Simran can feel it. Suffocating her.
She’s guiltily glad she has a reason to leave the house today. She steps away from her mother. “I’m going to the university this morning. Jassa and I are cleaning things up at the student society office.”
Kiran whips around to her, earlier frustration gone. “Ooh, ‘Jassa and I’?” Her eyes twinkle. “A boooy?”
Simran sends her a flat look. This is not the time.
“Is he good-looking?” Kiran teases, but her mother cuts her off.
“Kiran, that’s enough. Jassa is a respectable boy. I won’t hear any more of these jokes.” She leans her head back. “Let Simran go with him in peace.”
Kiran raises her eyebrows at Simran, and for a moment, they share mutual surprise. Usually, if Kiran were to make a joke like this, their mom would take the opportunity to remind Simran to avoid romantic entanglements. But not today, apparently. Today it’s Kiran getting berated.
Of course, Kiran’s used to getting berated, and simply mutters, “Whatever,” before grabbing her chah mug.
Simran studies her mom curiously. Why is she not giving the usual lecture about boys whose brains are only half developed?
Does graduating high school mean her mom is suddenly okay with dating?
Or is it because it’s Jassa Singh and her mom adores him?
While she’s musing, Simran’s phone rings. She fishes it from her pocket. “It’s TJ.” Right. She’d forgotten to call back after hanging up last week. “Let me—”
“Don’t tell her,” her mother says. Her eyes are fixed on Simran’s phone. “Don’t tell anyone anything. But especially not her. I don’t want her mom to know. Accha?”
Her voice is firm. Simran nods hesitantly, but...
“Couldn’t Masi ji be helpful?” TJ’s mom is a doctor—an orthopedic surgeon, but still. And she has connections in the medical community. “Maybe she could get us in faster—”
“No.”
“But why not ask—”
“I said no.” Her mother glares. “Promise me you won’t breathe a word of this to TJ. I don’t care if you think she can keep a secret. I don’t want her to know.”
Simran sighs. The rift between her mother and masi is out of her hands. “I promise.” She glances at her phone, suddenly unsure she can act completely normal on the call. She needs to mentally prepare.
So, she lets TJ’s name fade from her screen.
During her drive to UBCO, TJ leaves a voicemail, then sends three texts, the last of which is ARE YOU EVEN ALIVE. When Simran parks, she puts her phone on silent.
In the student services building, Jassa is already hard at work clearing out filing cabinets. It’s a dull job, but one of those end-of-year tasks that need doing. She’d offered to help at the end of their conversation yesterday, just to skate over what felt like a supremely awkward moment.
They wordlessly sort through files until Jassa says, “How’s your mom doing with her new thing?”
For a moment, Simran panics. “I—What?”
He doesn’t seem to notice. “Last time I saw her at the gurdwara, she said she was learning to play the tabla.”
Simran exhales. Slowly. “She did?” Her mom plays sometimes, but usually it’s her dad who accompanies Simran at home.
“Yeah. She said the way I played made her want to learn.”
He sounds vaguely surprised, but Simran’s not.
Jassa’s a tabla expert. Despite herself, Simran enjoys performing at the gurdwara with him.
When he first moved to Kelowna for university, Simran deliberately sang shabads in uncommon taals to test his drumming skills.
But he never faltered. He’s always matched her flawlessly.
Her mom probably noticed that, too. Simran swallows, suddenly looking at Jassa in a new light. Her mother not even mentioning that Simran should stay professional with him suddenly feels like a flashing neon sign screaming at her to pursue him instead.
Jassa doesn’t seem to notice her staring. He pulls something out of the filing cabinet. “Huh. Look where all those ‘missing’ votes for the student fees referendum went.”
Simran glances at them. “Chandani?”
“Yeah. I get the sentiment, but hiding votes is, how do I put this? Oh yeah. Illegal.” He rolls his eyes.
“You know she never did send those emails after the meeting? She said she was ‘too busy getting laid.’” He uses air quotes.
“Why do some people act like getting drunk and laid is the pinnacle of enjoyment?”
Simran represses a smile at his uncharacteristic grumbling. He’s always so diplomatic in meetings. “Are you going to report her?”
“No. I don’t want to pay higher student fees, do you?
” He starts feeding the stolen votes into the shredder.
Simran laughs, and he grins, too. And she realizes this is the most at ease they’ve ever been with each other.
Sitting on the floor between desks with files scattered around them.
No hesitation, no wariness. This is real.
Simran’s treacherous brain goes back, as it has many times recently, to that conversation she overheard. I’d get to see her become an adult, get married, have children, and be settled. And now I’m learning I won’t even get that.
And it comes out of her mouth without any further thought.
“Do you want to get coffee after this?”