Chapter 7
chapter 7
As Dev carried yet another set of folding chairs from Aashi’s basement into her kitchen, he strained to hear the chime of the doorbell over the cacophony of clanging pots, a whirring blender, and two arguing sisters who shouldn’t cook together.
Nothing yet. Dev glanced at the clock above the kitchen table: five minutes to seven.
Where was she?
“You need more green chili!” Gia admonished while rhythmically chopping eggplant into thick slices at the kitchen island.
Aashi waved a dismissive hand in the air as she stirred a large pot at the stove. “Too much gives me heartburn.”
“It won’t be tasty—”
From where she was stationed at the blender, his sister-in-law, Priya, threw Dev an exasperated glance before jabbing the blender back on high. But when the doorbell sounded in the distance, all noises ceased at once.
“I’ll get it,” Dev said.
“You keep bringing up chairs,” Gia instructed, reaching behind her back to untie her apron. “I can get it.”
Dev’s brain scurried for a reasonable excuse to answer the door. Since striking the bargain with Naomi the night before, he had called his aunt to suggest she invite the brand consultant to her dinner party the next night as an opportunity for her to get to know the Mukherjee family for the bazaar’s rebrand. A fan of Naomi and her work, Aashi had been happy to comply.
The threat of another matchmaking ambush washed away any guilt Dev might have felt from manipulating his aunt in this way, even as Aashi came to his aid again. Scooping a spoonful of sauce from her pot, she thrust it in Gia’s face. “Let Dev get it. Taste this.”
“It needs more chili—”
Dev ambled out of the kitchen but as soon as he hit the hallway, he bolted for the door. As he had hoped, Naomi was waiting on the other side and, after verifying that no potential brides were hiding behind his aunt’s rosebushes, he ushered her through the entrance.
“Quick, get inside.”
“Uh, hello to you, too,” Naomi said with a nervous chuckle. “Why do you look like a cornered rat?”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Sorry. You just seem…” Naomi studied his face. “Like you’re down by two in the bottom of the ninth.”
Dev lifted an eyebrow. “From rats to baseball metaphors. Interesting.”
With an eye roll, Naomi waved her hand dismissively. “Never mind. Where is everybody?” she asked as she slipped her shoes off onto the plastic mat Aashi had lined the front entrance with for her guests’ footwear.
“What do you mean?”
“Aashi said dinner would be at seven.” Naomi gestured to her lone pair of shoes.
“Seven means eight according to Indian Standard Time. Seven thirty for the geriatric bunch.” Dev threw her a dubious glance as they made their way to the kitchen. “I’m pretty sure that’s a worldwide thing. Don’t tell me the Desi community in Alberta is different?”
Naomi didn’t bother with a response as they entered the kitchen, where chaos had resumed: Priya was blending, Gia chopping, and Aashi bustling between five large pots on the stove. But when his aunt noticed them, she immediately abandoned her work, arms extended with a big smile on her face, and shouldered her way past Dev to pull Naomi into a hug.
“Oh, you made it. I’m so glad!” Aashi said when the blender had died down again.
“Dev, the chairs,” Gia reminded him, barely sparing Naomi a second glance. “And the folding table.”
“And the serving dishes,” Aashi said. “And paper plates.”
“And extra garbage bags,” Priya added as she peered into the contents of the blender.
Shyly, Naomi reached into her bag and pulled out a large resealable bag containing a dozen or so of the plumpest monster cookies Dev had ever seen. “I brought dessert.”
Aashi smiled back. “That’s so thoughtful, dear. Dev, take her downstairs and show her where I stowed the desserts for tonight.”
Dev led Naomi to the basement, not bothering to acknowledge Aashi, who hollered at their departing backs, “Grab the plastic cutlery, too!” Having attended dinners like this his entire life, he knew the drill: show up early, help set up, and then hang out by the front door like a well-trained dog to trot the guests’ coats off to the den. They all had their parts to play when a family member hosted dinner. A child himself, his younger brother, Dhan, always corralled the kids to the bonus room to watch a movie while the eldest, Neel, along with their uncle, played host to the men in the front sitting room in lieu of their father.
The honor of playing errand boy fell on Dev, the reluctant but silent butler attending to whatever his mother or aunt needed before, during, and after they hosted their friends. Even though it was the worst role of the three, he’d always accepted the responsibility as his: Neel bristled at taking orders and Dhan was too flaky to follow through.
When Dev opened Aashi’s basement fridge to reveal a large bowl of prepared fruit salad, two boxes of store-bought mishti, and a punch bowl filled with homemade payesh—Bengali rice pudding—Naomi glanced at her puny bag of cookies and frowned.
“Your aunt said this was a family dinner.”
Dev snorted. “That means immediate family plus several nonrelated aunts and uncles, including a sprinkling of senior citizens who will park themselves on the sofas all night and look like they’re asleep until they hear some juicy gossip.” Dev had been shuffled to dinners like this every weekend his entire life. He rarely attended anymore unless, of course, one of his family members was hosting. As a child, he had been insanely jealous of the other kids at school, whose weekends were spent loitering at the mall or going to the movies, while he had been at Mira Auntie’s house, shoved in a room with kids aged four to seventeen, half watching some Disney movie while counting down until he could leave.
“Oh.” Naomi stepped past Dev, close enough so the fleeting brush of her arm against the front of his dark green shirt raised pinpricks of awareness. When the tingle didn’t immediately subside, Dev rubbed at the spot roughly.
She slid the bag into the fridge. “I didn’t know.” Naomi’s voice was meek, all hints of her trademark cheerfulness squelched under the weight of a custom she hadn’t anticipated.
Welcome to my world , Dev thought grimly.
Still, something about the tentative way Naomi nudged her humble contribution deeper into the fridge plucked at someplace unfamiliar in Dev’s chest. It was a nettling tug, urging him to say something comforting.
Which, on his best days, he sucked at.
“No one’s going to eat what you brought anyway,” he blurted out.
“Great. Thanks.”
Dev winced inwardly. “I mean, in a room full of Bengalis, you can’t compete with homemade rice pudding,” he said, flicking the bowl with his fingernail. “Even those boxes of mishti can’t compete.”
Naomi shot him a sideways glance. “Is rice pudding your weakness, too?”
With a scoff, Dev closed the fridge door with more force than necessary. “I don’t care much for sweets.”
“Why does this not surprise me,” Naomi muttered behind him. Clearing her throat, she added, “I appreciate your aunt including me tonight.”
Dev rubbed the back of his neck. “About that…I kind of told her to.”
“Why?”
Despite having laid everything out for Naomi yesterday, Dev sensed a telltale heat creeping onto the tips of his ears. There was no other way to put it: “I wasn’t sure who might show up tonight.”
Naomi studied him, her lips rolled in ever so slightly and her eyes glittering with amusement. Even though he’d known her for only a few days, Dev knew this face all too well. She was trying not to laugh. At him. And for once in his life, he didn’t mind.
“Are you…scared of Veera Auntie’s bridal brigade, Dev?”
Her eyes were so luminous that Dev forced himself to look away. “Maybe.”
“Seriously? They’d try to find you a love connection here? Tonight?”
“It’s possible.”
“In front of all their friends? What if it turned out to be another terrible match?”
Dev raised his eyebrows. What kind of world did Naomi inhabit where one’s parents tried to spare their children from embarrassment? No wonder she was such an optimist.
“Maybe,” he replied. “A lot of their friends have daughters.”
Naomi fisted her hands on her hips. “You could’ve given me a heads-up. We’re in this together, after all.”
Dev leaned against the fridge and crossed his arms across his chest, more than a little startled by the kernel of pleasure blossoming there. It was peculiar—but pleasant—to think he had someone on his side. He was used to being on his own.
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he found himself saying. “I panicked when I realized that there might be hopeful brides skulking around every corner of my life from now on.”
“?‘Skulking’?” At Naomi’s grin, the pleasure that had blossomed in Dev’s chest a few seconds ago spilled outward into his veins.
“Skulking,” he confirmed as he tamped his smile. Of all the Mukherjees, he had always considered himself the least dramatic, but it was kind of fun, plotting with his partner in crime.
And maybe Naomi thought so, too. She slapped a hand to her heart like a faithful knight. “Then I swear to protect you from their womanly wiles.”
With a solemn nod, Dev turned to the stack of folding chairs and grabbed three to carry upstairs. Following his cue, Naomi grabbed two for herself and trudged along behind him.
When they returned to the kitchen, they found that Dev’s brothers, Neel and Dhan, had joined the group. They flanked their mother’s sides at the kitchen island, Neel crunching loudly on the vegetables she had painstakingly cut while Dhan leaned on his elbows, lazy and unaware that his unkempt, shaggy hair hovered dangerously close to the food.
Aashi clucked her tongue. “Naomi, you don’t need to carry chairs. Leave that to the men. Why don’t you help coat and fry the eggplant instead?”
Dev looked away as Naomi’s front teeth raked over her lower lip. “I…I don’t really know how to cook.”
Mid-tomato slice, Gia’s knife stilled. “Your mother didn’t teach you?”
Naomi’s face reddened. “No.”
“How come?”
That uncomfortable tug was back in Dev’s chest as Naomi’s feet shuffled a little on the linoleum floor. “She’s not much of a cook, either,” she replied.
It was obvious that the answer didn’t sit well with Gia. For a woman who clung to reminders of home as tightly as Naomi’s wringing hands clung together now, such a revelation was unfathomable to her. After all, she had done her due diligence to adhere to the customs and traditions she had been raised by, even going as far to attempt a turkey curry when her sons’ clamoring for a Thanksgiving dinner had gotten the best of her. Anything short of re-creating memories from back home was unacceptable in her eyes.
Those same eyes sought his out now. See? they said. You want a life of hot dogs and hamburgers? This is why you need my help to find a proper wife.
Priya dislodged the blender from its base loudly. “Why don’t you help me over here, Naomi?” she asked. “I need someone to stir the pot while I pour this in.”
As Naomi went to Priya’s side, Dev retreated to the basement to bring the rest of the items upstairs, the guilt of abandoning Naomi to his mother’s clutches mollified when he reminded himself that Priya would extend a friendly hand. His brother’s wife had immigrated to Canada in her teens, and while she possessed many of the qualities Gia deemed appropriate for a proper, brown wife, she was also kind and patient with everyone who crossed her path.
How she ended up with his dickhead of a big brother, Dev would never understand. He hadn’t realized Neel had followed him down until he felt the sharp sting of his meaty hand on his shoulder.
“Mom told me that she hired a brand consultant,” his older brother said. “And that you’re going to help.”
Scooping up three more folding chairs, Dev grunted in response. But when he made a move to skirt around his brother, Neel shifted his bulk and blocked his escape.
“I gotta say, I was relieved to hear you’re on the project, too,” Neel continued.
“Why?”
“What’s a whitewashed girl like her know about rebranding a Bengali business?”
Dev’s jaw clenched. He’d always hated that word whitewashed . He’d been living in a kind of invisible hierarchy his entire life, positioning those who clung to traditions and old-world customs as the upper tier that everyone should strive to model themself after. Time and time again, his parents had compared him to his fellow brown peers, reminding him how he came up short against their accomplishments and talents. Hearing Naomi compared to what a true snob would consider the lowest of the low uncurled something thick and gray in his chest, a kind of smog that wrapped around his lungs.
“How do you know she’s unqualified?” he asked in a curt voice.
“Who’s unqualified?” their younger brother asked as he loped down the stairs to join them. He came to the kind of wavering halt that only rangy bodies with too-long limbs could master. Now the two of them blocked any chances of a hasty retreat.
Standing side by side with his brothers, Dev was struck, as he always was, by how similar they were. Appearance-wise, it was like comparing an apple to a banana: stocky Neel, with his trademark sneer and sharp crew cut, looked especially unforgiving next to Dhan, whose dreamy gaze and slack posture always gave the impression that he had just woken up. Yet they were so comfortable with themselves, like two soccer players on the field, one who had memorized the playbook and was determined to win, the other uncaring of how he might perform on game day but happy to go to town on the orange slices.
Meanwhile, Dev was always on the sidelines, aware of the rules but unsure how to play.
And probably wearing the wrong jersey.
“The brand consultant Mom hired is a coconut,” Neel reiterated for Dhan’s benefit.
“She’s hot,” Dhan said with a shrug.
“Doesn’t change what’s on the inside,” Neel argued before turning to Dev. “Trust me, you’re lucky Mom hired a matchmaker. You don’t want to end up with the wrong kind of girl.”
Dev didn’t want to end up with anyone at all, especially if it meant turning into an old-fashioned, judgmental asshole like his older brother. Or worse, their father. Although, judging from the arrogant gleam in Neel’s eye, his brother was halfway there.
“Hopefully you’ll end up with a good girl like Priya,” Neel added.
“Oh yeah, I’m sure married life with you is her wish come true,” Dev replied sarcastically. The chairs in his arms were beginning to weigh on him. “If you two would just move out of the way…”
“So you think the bazaar will hold its own in the neighborhood once Naina is done with it?”
“I think her name is Nandini,” Dhan interjected. “Or was it Nadia?”
“Her name is—” Dev stopped midsentence. “Wait. Why do you care?” Although Dev had never shown much interest in Gia’s Bazaar, his older brother had been the least caring and often dismissed its presence in their lives as Mom’s hobbyhorse .
“Because if things turn out well, I’m going to take over the store.”
Dev shook his head as he tried to picture barrel-chested Neel in an apron, peddling chai. “ You want to run the bazaar?”
“No, I have a career,” Neel said, affronted. “It’d be for Priya.”
“Priya wants to work at the store?” Dhan shook his head, confusion wrinkling his forehead. “Isn’t she a stay-at-home mom?”
“She’s back at the library,” Dev replied tightly. “Part-time.” It had been apparent to everyone that the decision to return to work had been more Neel’s than his wife’s; Dev couldn’t imagine Priya wanting to devote the time and energy it would take to get a new business off the ground.
“My wife needs to get out of that stuffy library.” Neel rolled his eyes. “She can do better.”
Shifting under the weight of the chairs, Dev stared at the idiot before him, wishing he felt taken aback at the turn of events. But he wasn’t. Hadn’t their father done the same thing by changing the course of Gia’s life by gifting her with an Indian convenience store without any prior discussion? And now Neel was doing the same thing: making decisions for others, thinking he knew what was best. He’d gotten even worse since assuming his role as patriarchal head of the family after their father’s passing.
“You’re right,” he said, passing another assessing look over his brother’s ironed golf shirt and obnoxiously large watch. “Priya can do better. But why don’t you let Mom decide what she wants to do with her store?”
“Trust me, Dev. Mom needs someone helping her run her life. She’s been a mess without Baba.”
“It’s true.” Dhan nodded and raked his hands through his hair. “Sometimes she leaves me two voicemails a day.”
Since her husband’s passing, Gia did seem a little unsure of how to spend her time. The majority of her adult life had been devoted to her family’s care, and now—as a widow with adult children—she seemed lost. Two of her sons were (to her knowledge) settled in their careers, and the youngest was attending law school a five-hour drive away. She tried to fill her time with granddaughters and social visits, but more often than not, Dev walked in on his mother frozen in front of the television for hours on end. Or cooking late into the night, only to fill their freezer for some unknown purpose.
Dev knew his mother was still grieving, but making decisions for Gia wasn’t right. He wanted to tell his brothers so, but they had never shown much interest in Dev’s opinion—especially Neel. Besides, for all of his head-of-the-household crap, Neel was not above tattling to their mother at the barest hint of a perceived slight.
Still, the idea of the bazaar falling into his brother’s graceless hands didn’t sit right with Dev. It should belong to someone who cared .
When Dev shifted his weight again, Neel chuckled before leaning forward to help relieve him of his burden by taking one chair out of his grasp. “Geez, little brother,” he said, turning toward the staircase where Dhan, empty-handed, was already on his way to the main floor. “Maybe you need to take a break from crunching numbers and lift some weights once in a while.”
Dev glared at his older brother’s retreating back. As if engineers were known for being in top physical condition—Neel’s bulk was more rice and roti than muscle. But he refused to engage any more than he already had because, from the sounds of new voices upstairs, he would need all the patience he possessed to get through the next few hours.