Epilogue
3 Months Later
As he pulled into the driveway of his mother’s home, Dev checked his watch and grimaced. He was late. Dev jumped out of his car and booked it for the front door.
When he reached the kitchen, he found Neel standing in the kitchen, eating a bowl of daal with a length of four paper towels stuffed into the front of his navy blue kurta to protect from spillage.
“Late much?” Neel smirked before shoving another spoonful into his mouth.
“Kind of hard to duck out early when you’re the new guy.”
Neel shook his head, bewilderment competing for disapproval on his broad face. “I still can’t believe you gave up your career at a firm to start at the bottom. In sports, no less.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Dev asked, heading to the stove. “I love my job.”
“Seems like a dumbass move to me.”
Several months ago, the comment might have nettled that paper-thin place inside him that crumpled at the mere mention of doing anything that inspired his family’s disapproval. But now Dev barely flinched. He’d lost track of time at a job he loved, doing things he cared about, for an organization that became more and more interesting every day. From how things were going, it was rumored that he would move up the ladder quite quickly, but for once, it didn’t matter if Neel—or anyone else—knew that.
Dev was as interested in Neel’s criticism as he was in pointing out that a fleck of lentil was hanging precariously in his older brother’s beard.
“You better get ready or Mom is going to have a fit,” Neel advised when Dev didn’t respond.
Dev glanced through the sliding backyard doors to where Dhan was playing with their nieces. Priya, in a lovely purple sari, was hovering nearby, making sure the other three stayed clean and tidy for the event.
“We’re going to an Indian wedding,” Dev pointed out. “Why are you eating now? You know they’re going to have a ridiculous spread.”
Neel scoffed. “Bro, you know they won’t serve food until, like, nine.”
Well, at least his brother wasn’t always in the wrong. Dev grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and scooped a spoonful of daal from the pot on the stove. It was a tradition in the Mukherjee household to gather at Gia’s house before weddings so they could make an entrance together. And likely, too, so his mother could approve of everyone’s choice of apparel. Ever since that one time Dhan had balked tradition and shown up wearing track pants under his kurta, gathering at Gia’s house was a mandatory precursor to attending events as a family.
Even with a thriving business occupying her time, Gia still liked to keep tabs on her brood. And she probably always would. As the shrieks of his nieces filtered into the house, Dev took a bite of perfectly spiced daal and realized he didn’t mind.
“Where’s Mom?” he asked.
“Probably in her room.” Neel rolled his eyes again. “You know she takes the longest to get ready.”
Dev spooned a few more heaping mouthfuls and went in search of his mother. As Neel had predicted, Gia was in her bedroom, but she appeared ready to go. Her sari was similar to Priya’s purple one but simpler in design, the cut of the blouse much more modest. It was startling to see her hair part devoid of sindoor, the red powder Bengali women adorned themselves with to signify their marital status, which Gia only bothered with for larger events. It was also strange not hearing his father’s impatient voice from downstairs, calling for everyone to hurry up, punctuated with the irritated jingle of his car keys. Gia, though, looked assured and at ease as she bustled about, safety pins tucked between her teeth as her hands moved in a flurry.
But what caught Dev’s eye was Naomi, standing patiently under his mother’s ministrations as Gia straightened the plum-colored sari pleats over her shoulder. Dev leaned against the doorframe, bowl of daal in his hands, as contentment pulled in his chest. Neither woman had noticed him yet.
“I like how you’ve done your hair,” Gia murmured around safety pins, referring to the riot of curls that Naomi had styled to spill over one shoulder. “Very pretty.”
“I can style your hair this way, too,” Naomi replied. “Or show you how to do it.”
His mother’s hands self-consciously reached back to pat her low, understated bun—her usual hairstyle of choice for special occasions. “Oh no, I’m too old for that. What would people say?”
“You’d look great,” Naomi said firmly. “What’s wrong with doing things that make you feel beautiful?”
There was a hesitancy in Gia’s voice as she ducked her head. “Maybe next time.”
Dev grinned. Since the bazaar’s reopening, Naomi had carved a place for herself in his family, a place that he knew sometimes baffled his mother. And yet every single time Naomi questioned, pushed back, or politely refused, Gia allowed her the room to be herself. He knew it wasn’t always easy for Naomi to be the newcomer—in more ways than one—to his family, but it did not go unnoticed by any of the Mukherjees how eager she was to learn and understand all the customs they adhered to.
She was always respectful, always careful to communicate her opinion in such a way that Gia could bend. And so his family would not break.
“What are you eating?” Naomi asked, noticing his arrival and eyeing his bowl with interest.
“Daal.”
“I want a bite!”
Dev stepped forward, ready to accommodate, as he often willingly—and, dare he say, cheerfully—felt compelled to when it came to Naomi, but his mother held up a warning hand. “No! Stay away. One drop on this sari, and she’ll be ruined!”
Naomi and Dev exchanged private secret smiles over Gia’s choice of words. They both tried to be open and honest with Gia, a united front in wanting Gia to accept them as a couple, as unlikely a pair as they were. But as far as people being ruined and such, Gia didn’t need to know everything .
“I had your clothes dry-cleaned, Dev,” Gia said. “They’re on your bed. You should get dressed.”
Without a doubt, Dev knew Gia had chosen blue. She liked the family to match, and while he would never admit out loud that his mother chose his clothes for events, he didn’t mind.
“You’re wearing navy blue,” Naomi informed him, with a mischievous smile.
“I figured as much.”
“And jutti,” Naomi cackled, referring to the old-fashioned, curly-toed shoes that forced him to walk funny because the soles lacked any grip to them. A person could break a neck in those things.
Dev groaned. “Seriously, Mom?”
Gia shooed him away. “Go get dressed.”
Shooting Naomi one last look of despair, Dev turned to go. But he didn’t get very far when his ears perked to Gia and Naomi’s conversation again.
“I’m not very graceful moving around in a sari,” Naomi grumbled.
“You’ll learn,” Gia replied. “There are many events throughout the year for you to practice.”
“But am I ever going to figure out how to put a sari on myself?”
“You’ll learn that, too,” Gia repeated, her voice brisk and firm. “Besides, a bride deserves to be pampered, so I’ll be happy to help you when you marry my son.”
Dev rolled his eyes. There his mother went again, planning his wedding without him, lining up his future according to what she felt was best for him. Here she was, talking marriage with his girlfriend before they’d done so themselves.
But, he thought with a smile, when it came to Naomi, he didn’t mind.