Chapter 12
chapter 12
“I thought you moved out?”
Dev faltered on the staircase and almost face-planted, much to the amusement of Aashi, who was stooped in front of the back door of his mother’s home to remove her sandals. She waved a handful of herbs at him, fresh from Gia’s garden.
“I did,” Dev said, holding up a black laptop charging cord. “I forgot this.”
“I see.” She eyed him from head to toe. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so… alive in the morning.”
Dev paused midstride and swallowed. Aside from going to the gym every morning, there usually wasn’t much else propelling Dev forward early in the day. Let alone someone. But lately, the too-bright rays of early-morning sunshine and mid-September’s crisp chill was having an entirely different effect on him.
He was eager , for God’s sake.
“Got a store to save,” Dev croaked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker and hunching his shoulders forward.
“Mmm.” Aashi raised an eyebrow before nodding toward the kitchen. “Come, join me for some tea and biscuits.”
“No, thanks. It’s too early for sweets.”
Aashi smiled to herself. “That’s interesting. I always find something sweet is exactly what’s needed to get a person out of bed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” But his voice lacked conviction as his mind drifted to the smell of coconut tinged with sugar the closer he was to Naomi’s skin, most potent along the curve of her neck.
With a cheeky bounce in her step, his aunt ignored the question and made her way toward the kitchen. “Come, sit with your mashi for a while.”
“I really should get going…”
“Please, putro?” Aashi insisted with wide, plaintive brown eyes. “Spend some time with your poor old aunt.”
Dev rolled his eyes but followed, accepting the tin of cookies his aunt handed him from the pantry before seating himself at the table. A few minutes later, Aashi handed him a cup of tea and sat across from him. Dev took a sip before staring into his mug with surprise. “Green tea? I thought homemade chai was the only way to go.”
It had been both a running joke and a sore spot growing up in the Mukherjee household: at every opportunity, Gia and Aashi had clung to old-world traditions no matter how much Dev and his brothers clamored for North American convenience. Like making chai from scratch regardless how pressed they were for time or grinding their own spices rather than relying on curry powder from the grocery store.
“Don’t get me wrong, chai runs in my veins,” Aashi said. “It may be labor intensive, but it’s calming. And the scent of spices in the air? That first sip of milky, golden perfection? That’s home.”
Dev eyed the watery tea in front of him doubtfully.
Aashi chuckled at his expression. “But green tea is easy and convenient. Healthier.” She paused to top up her cup. “There’s a time and a place for each, and either way, you get a cup of tea.”
Someone needs to inform my mother of that , Dev thought, taking a tentative sip of his tea. It was neither rich nor sweet, but it was refreshing.
“So, the bazaar seems to be eating up all your free time,” Aashi said, cupping her mug between two hands and examining him over the rim. “You’ve been working on it every day.”
It was true and, in addition to moving out and spending the precious free time he had scouring online job postings, Dev had seen very little of his family in the last few weeks. He’d clocked in plenty of hours with Naomi, though, accompanying her to a variety of design and furniture stores, hanging around the bazaar with Nick and his construction crew, and, his favorite, poring over one of her many spreadsheets.
He could barely admit to himself how much he liked sitting beside Naomi, their heads bent over her beautifully organized columns, working together to ensure that everything lined up. Especially then, the temptation to tug on one of her springy curls gnawed at him. His unsatisfied fingers always tingled afterward, a pleasant reminder that he would be tortured by the same temptation dangling in front of him the next day.
But sitting across the table from his aunt, he could admit that he kind of missed his family, even as Aashi examined him with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin teasing her lips.
“It needs a lot of work, in case you haven’t noticed,” he said.
“Mmm.” Aashi hummed again before taking a long sip of tea. “I’m sure Naomi and Nick can handle things without you.”
“Naomi needs my input.”
“Mmm.”
“I want the bazaar to succeed,” Dev protested weakly. As soon as he heard the words, he realized they weren’t completely untrue. With every deliberation over roman or roller shades or the never-ending conversations about the merits of oak versus walnut, he found himself more and more eager to see the finished product. The business had been in his family for thirty-five years, almost like a fourth child, sucking all of Gia’s attention. Dev had never cared much for the store, had even at times felt the faint traces of resentment when he and his brothers ate half-heated frozen curry for dinner while their mother tended to customers, their father spending his waking hours, and then some, in the operating room at the hospital.
But now, for the first time, Dev could see himself in the bazaar and imagine what his contributions might mean for its success. He had ended the accent wall debate between Nick and Naomi, and had broached the idea that they broker a deal with Sweets That Make You Singh to provide some of the desserts not in Gia’s wheelhouse. He was making decisions and seeing them come together. Sure, they were the insignificant pieces of the overall puzzle, but still, he was part of creating the big picture.
His father would roll over in his grave if he were to learn this was how his son was occupying the bulk of his time after quitting a lucrative job. Yet Dev didn’t feel the sense of shame or guilt he might have a year ago. Being part of something from the ground up was satisfying. Having a say, however inconsequential the matter, was growing increasingly important to him.
Of course, if he never had to listen to Naomi insist on the differences between Chantilly Lace and White Heron again, he wouldn’t complain. There were only so many paint samples—all in the same glossy shade of white—that a man could take.
“For someone who has spent most of his adult life avoiding the bazaar, you’re very cozy with it now,” Aashi said. “Why, you’re even sleeping there.”
Dev’s eyes narrowed. Aashi knew of, and likely secretly supported, his decision to move out of his mother’s home and into the apartment above the store. But she was doing a laughable job of hiding her knowing grin behind a flower-patterned teacup.
He eyed his aunt. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m merely suggesting that while it’s very noble of you to spend your holiday helping your mother with the store, you don’t have to work yourself to the bone. You should find time to relax.”
In response, Dev dragged the cutlery canister sitting in the middle of the table closer toward him and began sorting the overabundance of spoons, forks, and knives. Telling his family that he was using vacation time from work to help with the store had been, in his opinion, a quasi lie: they just didn’t know he was on a permanent vacation. But keeping his unemployment status a secret, especially from Aashi, curdled his stomach. His father had been staunch in his expectations about his sons’ career paths: unemployment was for the lazy; pursuing anything outside of medicine, law, or engineering was a waste of one’s talents; and climbing the ladder was a measure of one’s success. Dev wasn’t ready to admit that he had no intention of returning to the world of taxes, not when he had nothing else lined up for the future.
“I’m enjoying the remodel,” he said, wincing when the mishandling of a fork resulted in a pinch to the pad of his forefinger.
“Mmm.”
“I’m doing this for Mom—”
“What about me?” Gia bustled into the kitchen, peeling off her gardening gloves as she moved toward the sink. Dev’s fingers lost their grip and the crash of several teaspoons falling from his grasp onto the table jerked him upright in his seat.
“Dev was telling me about all the time-consuming changes he’s making to the store,” Aashi said, earning her a warning glance from Dev.
“Satyi?” Gia said over the sound of rushing water. “Really?” she repeated once she’d turned off the tap.
“Oh yes.” Aashi slipped a wink in Dev’s direction. “It has given Dev a new spring in his step.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Gia mused, staring out the kitchen window above the sink. “It’s a special place.”
“It’s going to be even better than before,” Aashi commented as Gia sat down beside her. When his mother rubbed her wrists—a giveaway that her arthritis was flaring—Dev stood and went to see if the dishwasher needed emptying.
“I’m almost afraid to see what this girl has done to my store.”
At the faint squeaking sound of his jaw clenching, Dev forced himself to relax his grip on the dinner plates he was pulling out of the dishwasher. His mother hadn’t stepped foot in the store since hiring Naomi. It was like Gia had washed her hands clean of the fate of the bazaar, diving headfirst, instead, into orchestrating her second-born’s death march toward the wedding altar. Or more apropos, toward the sacred, matrimonial fire, since nothing short of a weeklong series of traditional wedding-related activities would do for someone like Gia.
Still, there were the odd moments that Gia managed to make her digs—a sly comment about the Brand Lady’s lack of knowledge about Bengali culture or a derisive sniff when Naomi’s name was mentioned. Every time, Dev’s jaw tightened in response, a troubling tic for someone who ground his teeth at night. The soreness in his jaw was nothing new, though: raised in a household where children were meant to be seen (seen studying, to be exact) and not heard, he was well versed in keeping his arguments to himself. Besides, Gia wasn’t one for listening or changing her mind. Speaking up against one’s elders was also considered the ultimate sign of disrespect, even when a paternal grandmother came to visit for the summer and demanded her grandsons be pulled out of outdoor swimming lessons because their skin was growing too dark. Dev hadn’t much enjoyed jumping into the freezing pool every morning, but still.
He considered himself a pro at swallowing his arguments and grimly accepting whatever fate was decided for him, but holding back when it came to Naomi was threatening to give him lockjaw.
“I’m sure the rebrand will be lovely,” Aashi said. “Dev has been working by Naomi’s side day and night.”
“Well, then, you deserve a night off. I expect you to attend Garba tomorrow night,” Gia said. “The Patels invited us.”
Dev paused from where he’d been lining up mugs in the cupboard with military precision. He hadn’t been to a Garba dance celebration since college. It wasn’t even a Bengali tradition, but far from home and with a relatively small population of South Asians to contend with, it wasn’t abnormal for the Desi community to celebrate whatever custom was available to them if it provided some kind of connection to the world they’d left behind.
“Why?” Dev asked. “Are you going?”
“No, I’m going to Saisree Auntie’s house for dinner,” Gia said as she gestured for him to bring her a mug. “Your brother and Priya are home with the girls, who have a cold. And you know Dhan,” she added, “he’s so busy with university.”
“If no one else is going, why do I have to go?” Dev complained, resuming his seat at the table.
Gia glowered at him. “It’s been a full month since we hired Veera’s matchmaking services, Dev, and you’ve made zero matches! Zero!”
“And what do you think that means, Mom?” Dev asked dryly.
“It means that you’re not trying hard enough. In the span of a month, I met your father, got engaged, and had my wedding!” Gia leaned back in her chair so she could address the ceiling. “Why I have been cursed with such a difficult son, I’ll never know.”
“What does this even have to do with going to Garba?”
Gia sucked her teeth. “A slow , difficult son,” she amended. “How do you expect to meet a wife if you don’t put yourself out there? These kinds of events are the perfect opportunity to find your match.”
At this rate, his mother would probably deem bumping into someone at a restaurant bathroom as the “perfect opportunity” to find his future wife.
“Veera Auntie said lots of the girls on my approved list will be there,” Gia added. “And that the women will likely outnumber the men ten to one. It’ll be like you’re on that show…What is it called?”
“ The Bachelor ,” Aashi supplied, and Dev shuddered.
Gia pointed a cookie at him accusingly. “Take this seriously, Dev. I don’t want to hear from Veera that you are disinterested and difficult. Turn on the charm, son. Act like you want to find a wife.”
He’d heard enough. Pushing his chair away from the table, Dev stood up. “Well, I better go. The sooner the day’s work is done, the sooner I’ll get to meet my dream girl.”
His mother was immune to his sarcasm. “Finally, some enthusiasm!” she said, before looking upward again and nodding her approval at whatever higher being she was addressing.
Aashi, however, heard him loud and clear. “Yes. You wouldn’t want to miss your dream girl,” she said to his departing back.