Chapter 2 #2
“Are you kidding me? Manisha, take a minute and be proud of your senior-partner moment.” Manny gently touched Manisha’s hand and offered her a warm smile. “You worked so hard, and you’re like the first Indian woman they’ve ever hired in this role.”
“We all are very proud of our Manisha,” her mother added from the sink, where she was washing dishes but also apparently listening closely.
Manisha released a deep breath. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s just that being a lawyer, it’s kind of becoming…” She trailed off.
Manny’s phone pinged. “That’s Sammy,” she said, standing up. “I’ve got to get to the store—he’s already there. Where’s the mail, Auntie?”
“Over there, beta,” Manisha’s mom said, gesturing to a couple stacks of paper on the counter. “The other one, Manny. That first pile is for recycling,” she instructed. “Let me get you a bag,” she added before leaving the kitchen.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving me all alone with her,” Manisha whined as soon as her mother was out of earshot. “She’s about to give me the ‘talk.’ I can feel it.”
“We’ve all experienced the ‘Indian parent talk’ countless times, Manisha. I’m not even a Patel yet, and I think I got the talk from your mom,” Manny said with a laugh. “You’ve got this, Ish. Sammy always tells me that you kids have mastered the art of dealing with your mom.”
Manisha’s mother returned, a shopping bag fluttering between her hands. “Here. Did you get it all?”
Manny nodded, hugging Manisha’s mom. “Got it. Okay, I have to head out. I’ll see you soon, Manisha, for some wine time at our place. Thanks for the parathas, Auntie. Will you tell Uncle I said bye?”
“Of course, beta,” Manisha’s mother said, walking Manny out.
Manisha tore off another piece of paratha and slowly chewed it, contemplating Manny’s words.
Did she actually know how to deal with her mother?
Since she’d been back from London, it had felt as though they were speaking different languages.
Sighing, she got up and put her ghee-stained plate in the sink before going to the living room, where her mother was now curled up on the couch, watching the Indian news—if you could call it news.
Manisha thought of it as more sensationalized TV-tabloid updates.
She moved toward the fireplace, its mantel made of rich dark oak that harmonized beautifully with the warm hues of the room.
She swept her gaze over the Indian deities and the assorted trinkets collected from the Patel siblings’ travels.
Her mother took great pride in showcasing these items, beaming with joy over her well-educated and well-travelled children.
She painstakingly made sure everything was positioned just right from the centre of the hearth.
Manisha’s eyes lingered on the eclectic collection of photographs that also adorned the mantel.
Their frames varied—some were metal, others wood, and a few were plastic—each telling a part of their story.
There were school portraits, pictures from family vacations, candid blurry snapshots—a treasured archive of memories.
She smiled, reminiscing about how young and happy-go-lucky she and her brothers once appeared.
This was home. No matter what sensational news was playing on the television, this space always embraced her with a familiar comfort.
“Your dad is always moving the pictures from here, there, to here. I can’t keep up,” her mother said, breaking Manisha’s train of thought. “Come sit, Ish,” she said, turning away from the TV and loudly patting the couch beside her.
Manisha sighed to herself and reluctantly perched next to her mother.
“So, Ish,” her mother began, taking a sip of chai. “One wedding has wrapped up, and we’re already planning another. Once that’s over, I can focus on our final Patel wedding!”
“Sorry, what? I can’t quite hear you,” Manisha fibbed.
“Sammy and Manny are engaged,” her mother said calmly, lowering the TV volume.
“You are the only one left. I can’t worry about you while you are in London-Shondon, running around, eating and partying all day.
” She kept her eyes on the TV, effortlessly splitting her attention between the news and Manisha.
Manisha shot her a glance. “Is that all you think I do—eat and party? Mom, I’m a lawyer. I work long into the night. I truly don’t have the luxury of the carefree life you envision. Though I have to say, it does sound tempting,” she added, her tone rising more than she intended.
“Manisha, be serious! You have your career sorted; now I think it is time for you to really start thinking about the rest of your life and finding someone to have a family with.”
“Geez, Mom. Now that’s some dal boiling over in a pressure cooker.” Manisha unzipped her hoodie, a sudden tightness settling in her chest that intensified with each passing second.
“What dal? No dal today,” replied her mom, confused. “Isha, I just want to know what your plan is. And if I’m not allowed to ask you, then who is?”
“Apparently, everyone else, Mom. It’s all the aunties ever talk about, too. According to them, every single Indian kid over the age of twenty-one needs to be married, like now!” Manisha said. “Like we don’t have enough pressure already.”
“Well, beta, the aunties talk because they care.”
“They talk because they’re nosy,” Manisha corrected. After a brief hesitation, she continued, “Mom, do you care about their opinions of your single daughter? Are you bothered about what they think of me now that Sanj and Sammy are both off the market?”
“I’m not bothered,” her mother said firmly. “I have my own views. Isha, I’m just saying that women experience aging differently.”
“Mom, I’m thirty-four, and my body feels like it’s twenty-four. That’s really all that matters.”
Her mother turned to her with a stern expression. “Feels like it’s twenty-four to whom? Tell me the names of the people who think your body acts that way!”
Let’s start with the guy from my dream this morning.
“Mom, you usually wait a few days into my visit before you get into this. At least, that’s what I had prepared for and kind of prefer,” Manisha said.
She didn’t need another reminder of how single she was; she was painfully aware of that.
And the recent memories of Sanj’s wedding didn’t make it any easier.
“When will you find someone nice, dear?” one of the aunties had asked, her voice lined with concern.
“You must be so lonely!” another chimed in, nudging her playfully.
“Have you tried online dating? That is how my Mintu met her million-dollar man.”
Their “caring” questions echoed in her mind, reminding her that this was the last thing she wanted to think about again.
Manisha’s mother looked at her for a long moment before letting out another sigh and turning her full attention back to the TV.
Manisha stood up and meandered back to the kitchen, where she noticed the earlier stack of mail waiting to be recycled.
Among the pile, a gold envelope glinted invitingly in the light.
“Hey, Mom—whose wedding invitation is this?” she asked, walking back into the living room with it.
“Rohit. Rohit Khanna.”
“Oh. Right. I should have known from the weight of this thing. It’s probably made with real gold flakes.”
“Chal, it is old news now.”
Manisha carefully pulled the card from the envelope and studied its details as she recalled how the wedding news had spread throughout Baskin a year prior.
It was poised to be the most extravagant celebration in the city, with Rohit Khanna marrying Lucky Kapoor, uniting two of the most influential families in town.
The lavishness, the dazzling variety of attendees, and the blend of cultural traditions were all set to evoke memories of the Ambani wedding, one of the most extravagant celebrations in India over the past decade.
Rumour had it that, in place of horses and elephants, rare white tigers were being flown in from Bhopal, India, for a stunning entrance at the grand reception.
But that all ended abruptly a few months ago, just weeks shy of the wedding.
Suddenly, the town’s chatter shifted from the wedding to the scandal surrounding Rohit and his heartbroken fiancée.
In fact, from what Manisha’s cousin, Deena, had told her, every household was now abuzz with gossip about how Rohit had cheated on poor Lucky.
Manisha’s heart went out to her. She knew her vaguely from high school, though Manisha was a year younger.
But knowing all too well what she must be going through, Manisha felt a sense of kinship with her.
With a scoff of disgust, she marched back to the kitchen and tossed the invitation into the garbage bin.
“It doesn’t matter how old the news is; what he did to Lucky is utterly humiliating. She must be devastated,” Manisha remarked. “And let’s not forget about his own family.”
“You know, Manisha, my mother always said there are two sides to each story.”
Even when left alone, they didn’t often speak of Manisha’s grandmother, given the tension between her and Manisha’s father.
Manisha lowered her voice as she returned to her mom’s side.
“How is Grandma?” She had once been a revered member of the Patel family, but now she was conspicuously absent from their conversations and their home.
“Mr. Khanna visited the store last week and emphasized the importance of hearing out the other side,” her mother continued, sidestepping the question about Grandma.
Manisha felt her chest tighten. “Do you always have to listen to the other side, Mom? Cheating is cheating, whether it happened yesterday, a few months, or a year ago,” she said quietly.
She thought about Oliver and how hurtful and embarrassing his infidelity and its aftermath had been—not just in her personal life but in her professional one, too.
“Manisha, I want to talk to you about something,” her mother began.