Epilogue
Two years later
There are lobsters on Rumi’s sherwani and a jeweled ocean floor on Saket’s anarkali. Go obvious or go home is the theme for this wedding, obviously, and the twenty guests at the ceremony are fully on board with the symbolic deliciousness of it. Krish and I are hosting, of course, on the terrace of our apartment overlooking Central Park. Nana Nasty , as Saket and Rumi call Krish’s grandmother, knew how to plant an urban garden, and it’s everyone’s favorite place to hang out.
Turns out her plants, like her grandson, have my whole heart. I spend so much time in this garden with my hands in the dirt, it’s like I was born into it. I love my job at NewYork-Presbyterian, working with children in pain, but after a full shift, I need this garden to put me back together. We haven’t used a single flower for the wedding that I haven’t grown myself, and the terrace is blooming like the joy on Rumi and Saket’s faces.
“Was this rooftop garden always so gorgeous?” Karl Hale asks Krish as we watch the guests admire the view and the wine while they generously ignore the delay and wait for the ceremony to start.
“Not to me,” his son says and rubs my shoulders to relieve the tension gathered there.
Karl’s looking dapper in a black Pathani suit with lightning bolts on it, and his girlfriend, Linda, has on a caftan dress with lightbulbs. Saket’s mother has kathak dancers embroidered into her lehenga, and his stepfather has musical instruments on his sherwani. They join us with a plate of pakoras that are being fried on an open flame by the bar.
It wasn’t easy to keep Krish from frying them himself, because his obsession with Indian cooking is a little out of control. He’s insisted on cooking the biryani himself. It’s Reva’s special recipe that she helped him perfect when we spent four months in Darjeeling with Vasu. Four months that were miraculous in every way. Vasu let us soak up her spirit, and we carry it with us every day.
Reva is wearing a white sari with a wide pink border of pagodas. It’s the first time I’ve seen her wear color since Vasu left us a year and eight months ago to the day. I squeeze her in a hug. “You okay?”
She nods. “I’m fabulous.” Like the rest of the guests, she’s being patient with the delay. We’ve already made all the Indian Standard Time jokes. “Love the lehenga, by the way,” she says. “I get that those are rings, but are you going to tell us what Krish’s kurta is supposed to mean?”
“It’s an inside joke,” I say.
“She’s not telling you, either, is she?” Saket comes over and kisses Reva’s cheek. “Come on, guys? As the person who brought you together, I have the right to know. Rooh, can’t you use your twinsies thing to figure it out?”
Krish wraps his arms around me from behind and nuzzles a kiss into my cheek. “It’s not that complicated, people. The pocket on my kurta is made out of duct tape.”
I start laughing. The memory of Krish and me tied up in that stinky room should be a terrible one, but instead it’s one that never fails to warm my heart. It also belongs to us alone.
“Duct tape and rings, that totally makes sense,” Rumi says. “If you’re into bondage.”
Wine spurts from my mouth, and I punch my brother.
Everyone’s still laughing when the doorbell rings. Rumi’s gaze flies to mine, and I see everything I’m feeling reflected in my brother’s eyes, hope and nervousness but also wholeness that feels unshakable no matter what’s waiting for us on the other side of the door.
Krish squeezes my hand. I haven’t seen my parents since I went to Naperville to give Druv back his ring after coming back from Darjeeling. He didn’t meet me, but Romona did. We still follow each other on social media and like each other’s posts every once in a while. She’s never made me feel small, and she did text me a few months ago when Druv got engaged again to his childhood friend Priyanka Joshi. I texted back my congratulations. Something tells me Priyanka is just the person to make Druv feel like a gigantic wave knocked him down and took him under.
“I hope you’re happy now that you’ve shamed us” were Aie’s last words to me.
“I am happy, Aie,” I said. “But it’s not because you feel shamed. It’s because I learned how to be happy.”
Last month Rumi and I let Saket and Krish talk us into inviting our parents to the wedding. Baba refused to talk to us, but Aie asked why we were calling when we’d already abandoned them.
“Because life is too short,” Rumi had told her. “And because Miru is hosting the ceremony in her beautiful home, the likes of which you’ve never seen, and because it would mean a lot to Saket and me if you came.”
Until yesterday we believed they weren’t coming. Then yesterday Aie sent me a text requesting the address and then ignored my response and questions about whether she needed a ride or a place to stay.
It’s been over an hour since the ceremony was supposed to start, but Saket and Rumi wanted to wait. Now Rumi and I stand at the door, too nervous to open it.
When I pull it open, it is her. She looks even more nervous than I’m feeling.
She’s wearing a silk sari and leaning heavily on her cane. A suitcase stands next to her. “I couldn’t convince your father to come,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
Rumi takes her bag, and I help her in. It’s the first time one of our parents has apologized to us for anything. It is the smallest thing, but deep in my heart I know that everything is going to be okay.