So much for getting Kushi off her back. Mentioning she’d had coffee with Manny on Monday ensured Samira had fielded phone calls from her mom every day this week. By Friday night, she’d had enough and needed to tell Kushi the truth.
Considering she hadn’t seen or heard from Rory beyond a short text, SORRY FOR BEING A DICK—though he hadn’t written “dick” but had used an eggplant emoji instead—AM BUSY, TALK SOON, since their argument at the center on Tuesday, what exactly was the truth?
She’d thought they were dating, meaning his flyaway jibe “so there’s an us?” hurt more than it should. They’d fallen headlong into a few steamy liaisons courtesy of an unforgettable one-night stand, and all that mushy stuff they’d said about dating had probably been nothing more than pillow talk.
Okay, so maybe she was making light of the situation because he’d really hurt her. And she wouldn’t be hurting unless she hadn’t fallen for him a tad. He’d crept under her skin faster than she could’ve anticipated, and not seeing him since their verbal altercation had left her grouchy all week.
She’d told Kushi she’d stop by after work around seven, but by the time she’d stopped off at the Punjab sweetshop to grab her mom’s favorite besan laddoos, it was almost eight when she pulled into the drive. To find both sides of the street jam-packed with parked cars.
It could be one of the neighbors having a get-together, but the moment she stepped from the car and heard the loud bhangra music coming from her childhood home, she knew her mom had ambushed her again.
If Manny was here, it would be the last straw.
However, as she let herself into the house and followed the raucous laughter coming from the family room at the back, she wondered if that would be such a bad thing. That way, she could show Kushi that Manny was nothing more than a friend and to stop meddling. As long as Manny didn’t mention anything about her seeing someone . . . That would send Kushi’s matchmaking radar into overdrive, and no way in hell would her mom approve of Rory.
She may have given up seeking Kushi’s approval a long time ago, but she didn’t want them to end up fighting over her choice of man, even for a short-term fling, not when they were tentatively reestablishing some kind of relationship.
As she entered the kitchen and spied a roomful of aunties, she breathed a sigh of relief. No Manny. A relief short-lived when Kushi caught sight of her and bustled toward her, her eyes gleaming. Samira knew what that glint meant: Kushi and the aunties were in full matchmaking mode. Though these gossiping women being here was a surprise. What were they doing here, looking like they belonged? Their bags lay strewn over the floor, knitting spilling from some, while those that weren’t squeezed into the sofas were lounging on beanbags they’d struggle to get out of. They looked way too comfortable, and Samira hoped she could encourage her mom to get rid of them ASAP so she could unwind.
“Darling, so glad you came to see your old mother.” Kushi enveloped her in a hug, the familiar aromas of fenugreek and coconut oil clinging to her.
“Mom, I thought it would be just you and me tonight,” she said, handing over the box of sweets. “It’s been a long week, and I want to relax.”
“You work too hard, betee.” Kushi pinched her cheek before opening the box to peek inside. “My favorite. We’ll save these for later.” She placed the box into a nearby cupboard. “Now come. The aunties didn’t have a chance to talk to you at your welcome-home supper. They’re dying to hear all your news.”
From what she could remember, these women had never been her mom’s friends. In fact, Kushi had been an introvert who had preferred cooking for her cosmopolitan neighbors rather than inviting the judgmental Indian aunties around. Samira knew them because they were ever-present at every Indian function, casting their shrewd, beady-eyed glares over everyone, coolly assessing everything from appropriate fashion to potential husbands.
When she’d married Avi, the aunties had been invited, but she’d always wondered why, as they didn’t socialize with them. It made Samira contemplate how her mom had become so close to these dominating women that she’d gathered them here to assist with her matchmaking. Particularly as she’d bet they would’ve alternated between pitying her mom for having such a wayward daughter and gossiping behind her back when Samira had divorced Avi and fled Melbourne.
Mustering a tight smile, Samira entered the family room and made her way along the three sofas, greeting each of the matronly women. Four wedged on each sofa, three sprawled on beanbags, all eyeing her with blatant speculation.
Samira had borne the weight of Indian expectation before. These women had been as delighted as Kushi when she’d agreed to marry Avi all those years ago. None of them were blood related, but each held sway within their large Indian families and beyond. Samira didn’t like how many in the local community deferred to them as being doyens of Indian culture. While they’d celebrated her marriage, they’d shunned her just as quickly after her divorce. Never mind that she was the innocent party and Avi was a lying, cheating scumbag. They’d judged her and found her lacking. Escaping the endless pity and stares had been one of the motivating factors in fleeing Melbourne.
After she’d endured the hugs and cheek pinching, she chose a seat in the farthest corner, wishing she could slink out the front door and not look back. She would’ve loved a glass of wine, but she gratefully accepted a masala chai from her mom, along with a small plate covered in potato bhondas.
“Eat. Drink,” Kushi said, running a hand over her hair. “You look worn-out.”
“That’s why I wanted it to be just us tonight, Mom,” she murmured, leaning over to add, “How soon can we get rid of the battle-axes?”
Kushi covered a snort of laughter with her hand. “Be nice. All their daughters are married, so they have nothing better to do than interfere.”
“Hell,” Samira muttered, flashing a grin when the nearest auntie eyed her suspiciously.
The leader of the aunties, a formidable sixty-something woman called Sushma who’d successfully married off her four daughters to a gastroenterologist, an obstetrician, a chemical engineer, and a barrister, respectively, clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.
“On behalf of your aunties, Samira, we would like to say how happy we are to have you back in Melbourne, and how we’re willing to do whatever it takes to see you happily married.”
Hell, indeed.
Sushma picked up her teacup and raised it as if it were the finest champagne. “We know pickings can be slim at your age, but if you’re willing to settle, I’m sure we can come to a beneficial arrangement for both parties, all things considered—”
“Mom, something’s burning.” Samira stood abruptly, almost upending her bhondas in the process and not caring. She couldn’t spend one more minute listening to this drivel. “Excuse me, aunties.”
She marched into the kitchen without a backward glance, feeling the judgmental stares boring into her back and ignoring the disgruntled mutterings. Didn’t these women have anything better to do? And how could her mom let them interfere in her life when she’d effectively turned her back on all this over a decade ago?
It might’ve been fatigue after a long week at work, it might’ve been the residual aftereffects of her falling-out with Rory, or it might’ve been plain old anger at the busybody biddies in the family room, but tears stung her eyes, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand.
She heard a door close before a hand landed on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, betee, you know they can be blunt.”
“Rude, more like it,” she muttered, turning to face her mom, who appeared surprised by the sheen in her eyes but wisely didn’t say anything. “How can you stand it?”
Because Samira knew without a doubt if the aunties had confronted her so soon after not seeing her all these years, they must be constantly giving Kushi grief over her unmarried daughter. Happiness in their community consisted of seeing all their children attend university to gain appropriate degrees before being married off to prosperous partners, followed by becoming grandmothers to equally clever grandchildren.
Samira may be a successful physical therapist and had accumulated a healthy nest egg courtesy of her hard work, but without a man to put a ring on her finger, she was equated with failure. These women had lived in Australia for decades; when would they leave the traditions of the past behind and move into the twenty-first century?
“I tolerate them because I worked hard for their acceptance,” Kushi said with a fatalistic shrug. “They belittled me when I married your father, for going against tradition, and I was effectively ostracized.” She gestured toward the closed door leading to the family room. “When he died, they surprisingly rallied around me when I needed them most.”
A hint of accusation hung unsaid in the air. I needed them because you weren’t around.
In that moment, Samira understood. She’d virtually abandoned her mom not long after her dad’s funeral. Not because she couldn’t cope with the sly stares and gossip mongering but because deep down a small part of her still blamed Kushi for the fiasco that had been her marriage. But in hanging on to her resentment, she’d left Kushi alone at a time her mom needed her most. She should be ashamed of herself. She’d been selfish, fleeing back to LA to nurse her own grief, oblivious to her mom’s.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” she said, enveloping Kushi in a hug. She didn’t need to elaborate, and they clung to each other for a while before Kushi eased away, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her sari.
“I’ll get rid of them so we can talk.”
“That’ll be nice,” Samira said. “Tell them I’m on a call and can’t say goodbye.”
“I didn’t teach you to lie.” Kushi waggled her finger, but a smile tugged at her mouth. “But after what that tactless Sushma said, I’ll gladly do it.”
They shared a conspiratorial smile before Samira ducked out of the kitchen and into her childhood bedroom to wait out the interminable farewells. She knew it would take a while, as Kushi exhorted her guests to take home any leftover food and the aunties pretended to refuse but would leave with foil-wrapped parcels regardless.
She closed the door and reached for the light switch, illuminating a virtual time warp.
Nothing had changed.
Emotion welled in her chest as she spun a slow three-sixty, taking in the batik bedspread, the bookshelves crammed to overflowing, the anatomy textbooks stacked in a corner. She’d favored a yellow-and-white color scheme in her teens, with fake bunches of daisies and daffodils in tall vases bracketing either end of her desk, where she’d spent countless hours poring over online study guides for her physical therapy exams.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the wardrobe, not surprised to see a rainbow-colored salwar kameez pushed to one side. Kushi had bought her one every six months in the hope she’d change her mind about wearing Indian garb, but she never had; it hadn’t stopped her mom from buying more.
Slamming the door shut, she whirled back to face the room, unprepared for the flood of nostalgia that made her want to crawl under the covers and hide out for a week.
She’d lived at home until her marriage to Avi and hadn’t set foot in this room since the night before her wedding. When they’d separated, she’d rented a tiny one-bedroom flat in Carnegie until she’d fled Melbourne altogether, so being here thrust her back to a time she didn’t welcome.
She’d been starry-eyed that last night in here, dreaming of having a happily ever after with her Bollywood prince. Avi had been so suave, so self-assured, she’d never doubted they would have a wonderful marriage. After all, she’d been the one against it from the start, bucking tradition and her mom’s choice of groom, only to be wooed by his persistence and charm.
She’d been a virgin before she’d married, so she had spent her last night in this room hot and bothered, dreaming about her first time with Avi. She’d been so naive for twenty-two, her head filled with romantic notions and unobtainable fairy tales.
She may have blamed Kushi for pushing her toward Avi, but she’d also blamed herself for being so caught up in the whirlwind that she hadn’t stopped to question anything. She’d sugarcoated Avi’s faults, labeling his arrogance as confidence, his sleaziness flirtatious, his selfishness self-assuredness. He’d professed to love her, and she’d believed him, because for the first time in her life she’d felt a part of something bigger, embraced by the Indian community that had often eyed her sideways for the simple fact she had an American father.
She’d hated their stupid reverse racism, and the aunties her mom had ushered out the door had been a big part of that. Having her mom admit they’d ostracized her when she’d married someone outside her culture made sense of why they never socialized with her family. She’d assumed Kushi preferred being at home, but to learn the real reason . . . it made her mad. Especially as Kushi had turned to them in her hour of need because her own daughter hadn’t been around.
Her mom may have embraced them after her dad died because she felt alone, but Samira couldn’t imagine these judgmental women would’ve been truly supportive. She couldn’t remember them being at her dad’s funeral or his wake. Then again, her mom had wanted to keep both private, and only her parents’ closest friends had attended, her dad’s mostly. Nobody apart from Sindhu and Pia had attended from her mom’s circle. And Samira had been too wrapped up in her own grief to find out why.
Craving a glass of wine more than ever, she edged the bedroom door open and listened. Farewells faded down the corridor, and when she heard the familiar creak of the front door as it shut, she breathed a sigh of relief and exited the bedroom.
“You can come out now,” Kushi said. “They’re gone.”
Samira didn’t want to delve too deeply into her mom’s friendships. It was none of her business, because as Kushi had said, these women had been around for her when Samira hadn’t. But she needed to make it clear she wouldn’t stand for any interference regarding her love life while she was in town, and the sooner Kushi conveyed that message to the Bollywood battle-axes, the better.
“I’ll make some fresh chai,” Kushi said, linking her arm through Samira’s. “Or would you prefer something stronger after that ordeal?”
Samira smiled, knowing her mom didn’t drink but would have a ginger wine stock, her dad’s favorite.
“Chai is fine.” She leaned into her mom, glad for their renewed closeness. She hadn’t expected Kushi to take her side in what just happened. In fact, when she’d walked in on the aunties, she’d suspected an ambush.
But she’d been wrong, and having Kushi stand up for her meant a lot. It gave her hope that once she came clean about Manny, her mom would take the news well.
“I can do it,” she said, moving toward the cupboard above the stove where Kushi stocked her spices.
She’d learned how to make masala chai from a young age because she loved the tantalizing aroma of crushed cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom when they simmered together with pepper, nutmeg, star anise, and tea leaves. Kushi made her own blend by grinding the spices together and kept them in a small red-and-gold tin with a sizable dent in it. Samira had mentioned replacing it once, but her mom wouldn’t hear of it. In fact, she’d become quite upset, so she’d backed down.
“You sit. I’ll make it,” Kushi said, guiding her toward a chair at the small dining table where they’d shared so many meals over the years. “You look tired. Is Pia working you too hard?”
Samira knew the dark circles under her eyes she’d tried to hide with concealer were a result of losing sleep over her stupid argument with Rory rather than working too hard, but one revelation at a time. She’d come here to discuss Manish. She doubted Kushi could cope with learning about Rory too. Not that there was much to tell anymore.
“I’m enjoying the work,” she said. “I’ve even got a client requiring dialect coaching, which is part of my specialized field back in LA.”
She’d almost said “back home” but stopped herself at the last moment. Kushi may have understood her desire to leave her home city, but she never approved and often badgered her into returning during their phone calls.
“And what about Manish? Have you seen him again since your date?”
Great, her mom had given her the perfect opening to segue into the discussion they had to have.
“No, Mom. And it wasn’t a date.”
“You spent time with him; it is a beginning,” Kushi muttered, pouring the steaming chai into two cups before waddling toward the table and setting them down. “He is a lovely man and so perfect for you—”
“I’ve heard those exact words from you before, Mom, and they turned out to be untrue.”
A blush stained Kushi’s cheeks as a frown creased her brow. “Manish is nothing like that horrid Avi.”
Samira agreed, but she needed to put a stop to her mom’s matrimonial hopes once and for all. “How do you know? Did the aunties extol his virtues and you believed them?”
Kushi tut-tutted. “Leave the aunties out of this.”
“No, Mom, because we need to have this conversation, and it’s long overdue.”
The frown between her mom’s perfectly threaded brows deepened. “No good can come of dredging up the past.”
“This is about the future.” Samira laid a comforting hand on her mom’s forearm. “I like Manish. He is lovely. But there’s no spark between us and we both know it, so we’ve agreed to be friends.”
Disappointment clouded Kushi’s eyes. “But love can grow—”
“Mom, it’s not going to happen. Last time, I got swept up in a fairy tale and living up to expectations. This time, I’m older and wiser and will choose my own men, okay?”
“Men?” Kushi shook her head and slipped her forearm away to fold her arms across her chest. “You should be past the dating stage. You should be looking toward the future.” Her glance slid away. “What about babies—”
“Enough.” Samira held up her hand, ignoring the inevitable twinge of pain whenever the subject of children came up. Her mom knew how difficult it had been for her trying to conceive, and those problems would only be exacerbated now because of her age. “The only reason I told you about meeting up with Manish for coffee is so you would back off. Instead, he’s all you’ve talked about for the last week when we’ve chatted on the phone. So from now on I’d appreciate if you don’t push it, okay?”
Kushi’s lips compressed in a mutinous line Samira had seen many times before. Her mom wouldn’t give up until Samira had a shiny gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. “Friendship can grow into love, but you need to be open to it.”
Samira sighed and reached for her tea. Sipping the fragrant brew should soothe her. It didn’t, because the moment her mom had mentioned being open to love, an image of Rory popped into her head, and she knew all the chais in the world wouldn’t dislodge it.