When Dimple Met Rishi Read online

  “If he doesn’t take his medication like he is supposed to, he will! Checking his blood sugar, eating a balanced diet—he doesn’t want to do any of this!”

  The tips of Papa’s ears began to turn pink, and he cleared his throat. “Okay, okay. Now, why did you call me?”

  The air in the room tensed. Mamma adjusted her salwar kameez and looked at Dimple. “Tell him what you told me.”

  Barely daring to breathe, Dimple repeated verbatim what she’d told Mamma. “I have the link to the website, if you want to look at it,” she finished.

  Papa and Mamma looked at each other. It always amazed her, how they could seemingly communicate without speaking. She wondered what that was like, that level of intense bond. Though she’d take to wearing kaajal every day before she’d admit it, Dimple sometimes felt a pang at the thought of never having that. Because, she was sure, the kind of bond Mamma and Papa had would require a self-sacrifice she would never be okay making.

  Finally, Papa turned to her. “Yes, I would like to see the website. But I think your Mamma and I both feel that you should go.” His cheeks were tinted vaguely pink, as were the tips of his hairy ears, like he was embarrassed by this show of caring.

  A beat, two beats, three. Dimple blinked, not quite sure what had happened. And then her body caught up with her brain.

  “Oh my God, thank you both!” she squealed, throwing her arms around them.

  Seriously? Was that all she had needed to do this entire time? Ask Mamma for things while Ritu auntie and Seema didi were present?

  Her parents chuckled and patted her on the back. She pulled back and grinned at them, still not able to completely believe it. They were letting her go to San Francisco to attend Insomnia Con, just like that. It felt unreal. She should buy Ritu auntie a present.

  “This is toh great news!” Ritu auntie clapped her hands together. “Leena, before she goes, you must take her to buy some new salwar kameez.” The older woman appraised Dimple’s current outfit with pity. “Clearly she could use the help, na . . .”

  “Good idea. And kaajal, of course,” Mamma said, nodding sagely.

  Okay, maybe no present for Ritu auntie.

  CHAPTER 3

  The girl was scowling. Literally scowling.

  She was pretty, with wild black hair and huge brown eyes she hid behind square frame glasses. And petite, a perfect match for his five-foot-eight-inch frame. But that scowl . . .

  Rishi handed the picture back to his parents. “She doesn’t look too . . . happy, does she?”

  Ma put the picture away in the envelope and handed it back to him to keep. “Oof oh, don’t worry, beta. They probably just clicked it at a bad time.”

  Pappa put his arm around her and laughed. “Remember how Ma and I met?”

  Rishi grinned, misgivings receding. The story was legendary in their family. Within minutes of meeting each other, Ma had beaten Pappa with her umbrella because he took her seat on the bus. He maintained that, in his defense, he hadn’t seen her in line (she was rather short). And in her defense, she said it had been a long, wet day schlepping through monsoon floods. That seat on the bus was the only thing she’d had going for her. What made it funnier was that Pappa had been on his way to her house to meet her parents to arrange their marriage.

  “You ended up giving her the seat after all,” Rishi said. “Even after she beat you up with her umbrella.”

  “Or maybe because of it,” Ma said knowingly. “You men are all the same—you need a strong woman to keep you in place.”

  “But not too strong,” Rishi said thoughtfully, looking back down at the envelope on the counter. “Dimple Shah looks . . . fierce.”

  “Na, beta, we’ve known Leena and Vijay Shah for decades. You might even remember them from some weddings we’ve all attended over the years,” Pappa said, though Rishi had no memory at all of this girl. And he definitely would’ve remembered her. “Hmm, maybe not . . . you were so young. Anyway, they are a good family, Rishi. Solid. From the same part of Mumbai as us. Give it a chance, toh, beta. And if you don’t get along . . .” He shrugged. “Better to find out now than in ten years’ time, no?”

  Rishi nodded and drained the last of his chai. This was true. What was the harm, anyway, in attending a program in San Francisco for a couple of weeks to meet Dimple Shah? Obviously, she’d already agreed, so she must think it was a good idea too.

  Everything looked good on paper, he had to admit. She’d just graduated high school like he had, and had apparently gotten into Stanford. Which, of course, was across the country from MIT, where he’d been accepted, but he was sure they could work something out. Their parents already knew each other and felt their personalities would be compatible. She’d been born and brought up here too. They probably had a lot in common. Besides, when had his parents ever led him astray? Just look at them, arms around each other, eyes twinkling with anticipation for their oldest son. They were the poster children for arranged marriage.

  “Okay, Pappa,” Rishi said, smiling. “I’m going to do it.”

  • • •

  Rishi whistled as he walked into the den, his heart lifting like a helium balloon in spite of himself. He fully believed romantic comedies were idiotic. There were no insta-love moments in real life that actually lasted. Rishi had watched dozens of his friends—of all ethnicities—fall in love at the beginning of the school year and become mortal enemies by the end. Or worse, become apathetic nothings.

  Rishi knew from watching his parents that what mattered were compatibility and stability. He didn’t want a million dramatic, heart-stoppingly romantic moments—he wanted just one long, sustainable partnership.

  But in spite of his immense practicality, he could picture her in his life. He already knew the first time he saw Dimple’s picture that their story would become a sort of legend, just like Ma beating Pappa with that umbrella. She’d have some cute, funny quip about the day that picture was taken that would totally endear her to him. Maybe her parents picked that one to send because they wanted to convey her playful personality.

  And if it all worked out? If they found that they were, in fact, as compatible as their parents predicted? Rishi’s life would be on track. Everything would fall into place. He’d go to MIT; maybe she’d transfer there or somewhere close by. They could hang out, date for a couple of years through college and maybe grad school, and then get married. He’d take care of Dimple, and she’d take care of him. And a few years after that . . . they’d make his parents grandparents.

  But he was getting ahead of himself. First, he’d have to feel her out, see where she was with things. Maybe she wanted to get married before grad school.

  He stopped short when he saw Ashish sprawled on the couch, mantislike legs splayed out so he took up every inch of space on the love seat. His hair had grown out, and it curled over his forehead and into his eyes. He was dressed, as usual, in his basketball uniform.

  It didn’t matter that it was summer: Basketball and Ashish had been in a serious relationship since he was in elementary school. Now, eight years later, he was good enough to be the only rising junior on the varsity team. He’d been training at a special camp for athletic prodigies like him all summer.

  “Dude, get your nasty feet off the pillows. How many times does Ma have to tell you before you’ll listen?” Rishi thumped his little brother’s shoe, but it didn’t budge.

  On the TV someone scored, and Ashish groaned. “Ah, man. You’re bad luck, bhaiyya.”

  “That may be, but I think my luck’s about to change, my friend. I’m doing it. I’m going to San Francisco.” Rishi’s stomach swooped. If he was telling Ashish, it must really be happening. Whoa.

  Ashish muted the game and sat up slowly. Rishi tried not to be too jealous of his little brother’s bulging muscles; they just had very different interests, he reminded himself. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  Rishi shook his head and flung himself into the empty spot next to Ashish. “Nope.”

  “
You’re actually going to go meet that . . . girl dragon?”

  Rishi punched Ashish’s arm and tried not to wince when his fist stung. “Hey. Don’t forget, the first time Ma and Pappa met—”

  Ashish groaned and sank back against the couch. “Yeah, I think I have the gist of that story after hearing it four million times.” More seriously, he said, “Look, man. I know you . . . you and I don’t always see eye to eye on everything. You’re, like, some weird thirty-five-year-old teenager. But don’t you think you’re rushing things? First MIT, and now this girl and Insomnia Con . . . I mean, what about your comics?”

  Rishi’s shoulders tensed before his brain had fully processed what Ashish was saying. “What about them?” He was careful to keep his voice light, casual. “Those are just a hobby, Ashish. Kid stuff. This is real life. It’s not high school anymore.”

  Ashish shrugged. “I know. I just think, I mean, college doesn’t have to mean you just let go of everything, does it? Like, I plan to play ball in college. Why can’t you do what you want too?”

  Rishi smiled a little. “What makes you think this isn’t what I want?”

  His brother’s eyes, the same color of dark honey as his own, searched his face for something. Finally, apparently not finding it, Ashish looked away. “Whatever, man. As long as you’re happy.”

  Rishi felt a pang of something, looking at his little brother. Ashish was now taller than him by a full inch. They were so fundamentally different. And to Ashish, he was just some weird relic, something that belonged in their parents’ time in India, not here in modern America. Maybe this is the beginning of us growing apart, Rishi thought, and his heart hurt. But he forced himself to get up, because he knew they’d said all there was to say for now.

  He made his way up to his room, to pack for San Francisco. For Dimple Shah, whoever she was.

  CHAPTER 4

  “What about this one? The color will really suit you, Dimple.”

  Dimple couldn’t resist rolling her eyes at the voluminous salwar kameez Mamma was holding up. It was swaths of gold brocade, with a vibrant peacock blue dupatta. It looked like a costume for a Bollywood movie. “Sorry, Mother, I cannot wear that to Insomnia Con.”

  Mamma lowered the offending garment, looking outraged. “Why not? You should be proud of your heritage, Dimple.” From around the tiny shop full of imported Indian clothing, parents gave Mamma approving looks. Dimple could see her practically preening for the crowd. “Papa and I have held on to our culture, our values, for a quarter century! When we came to America, we said we would never—”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t come to America,” Dimple interrupted, darting a defiant glance at all the shoppers. “I was born here. This is my home. This is my culture.”

  Mamma clutched the gold salwar to her bosom. “Hai Ram,” she said faintly.

  Dimple sighed and grabbed a few kurta tops hanging on the rail next to her. They were all variations of the same color and pattern: black with grayish-silver accents. “What about these?” she said. She could pair them with her skinny jeans and Chucks and look almost normal.

  Mamma made a face, but Dimple could already see she was going to agree. “I suppose that will do, but a little bit of color would really be nice for your complexion. Since you refuse to wear makeup . . .”

  Dimple hurried Mamma to the counter to pay before she could begin looking around the store for kaajal.

  • • •

  Back at home Dimple texted Celia. Leaving tomorrow 8 AM! Should take me about 4 hrs from Fresno.

  Celia was one of the few other girls who were attending Insomnia Con. They’d met on the forums and decided to room together for the month and a half.

  Of course Dimple hadn’t told Mamma and Papa about that. They’d worry that Celia would turn out to be a fifty-year-old man with a shovel and a van if they knew that Dimple met her online. (She wasn’t. Dimple had checked her out on Facebook.) It had been hard enough to convince them to let her drive herself. Dimple wasn’t completely sure they grasped the concept of college—that, in just a couple of weeks, she’d be living apart from them, making decisions for herself. Alone.

  Her phone beeped with an incoming text.

  I. Cannot. Wait.

  Celia, who’d also just graduated high school, lived in San Francisco with her parents. She would start at SFSU in the fall.

  Me either! Do you want to meet up for lunch when I get there?

  Sure! How about on campus? They have a great pizza place.

  Sounds awesome.

  After they’d settled the details, Dimple sank back in her bed and smiled. It was all falling into place. Her life was finally beginning.

  Ma performed the ritual in the driveway. She’d set a bowl of kumkum powder dissolved in water on a silver tray, and she circled it around his face and shoulders. Her lips moved feverishly in prayer to Lord Hanuman as she asked that good fortune smile on her oldest son. When the ritual was completed, she stepped back and smiled up at him, tears glistening in her eyes.

  Pappa put his hand on Rishi’s shoulder and squeezed once, briefly, before letting go. “You have everything you need?”

  Pappa said “everything” with a meaningful weightiness, and Rishi nodded solemnly, knowing what he meant.

  “Call us the minute you get there,” Ma said.

  “We’re in Atherton. It’ll take him, like, an hour to get to SFSU. He takes longer baths.” Ashish was a few feet away, shooting hoops while he waited for his friends to swing by and pick him up for whatever fun weekend activity they had planned—contracting hep C or maybe alcohol poisoning.

  His mother glared over her shoulder. “Yes, but this is a special trip. He could be meeting your future bhabhi, Ashish. Have some respect.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll call as soon as I can,” Rishi said quickly. Then he bent down and touched their feet. “Bye, Ma, Pappa.”

  He felt his chest swelling with emotion as he got in the car and drove off, his parents waving like mad in the rearview mirror. Something bigger than him threatened to flatten Rishi, something bigger than all of them. He could swear, as he drove down the tree-lined street in the late morning light, that he saw dozens and dozens of flickering ghosts—his grandparents and their parents and their parents—watching him, smiling. Escorting him to his destiny.

  Dimple stretched out her stiff muscles as she made her way to the cluster of stores and restaurants across from the parking garage. The afternoon sunlight was luxuriant on her skin; she’d been sequestered in her car for the past three hours. The open air of the city felt positively therapeutic after all that inhaled air-conditioning.

  Dimple had gotten here faster than she’d anticipated, so she’d texted Celia to tell her that she was here, but to take her time. She would explore the campus a bit while she waited. But first—Starbucks.

  She needed some caffeine in her system before she called home to tell her parents she’d arrived. Mamma was sure to have another litany of questions and warnings about American college boys. Dimple had to actually roll up the car window while Mamma was talking this morning so she could leave on time. Even Papa had given up and gone inside after twenty minutes. The woman was relentless, with the jaw muscles of a jungle predator.

  The upside was that because she’d been so worried about being late, Dimple had driven ten above the speed limit the entire time, refused to stop for breaks, and made it early.

  “An iced coffee, please,” she told the cute male barista with the septum piercing. The coffee shop buzzed, college students mingling like showy tropical fish with their brightly colored hair. The sheer scope and number of tattoos and piercings would have Mamma fainting. Dimple adored it.

  Clutching her iced drink, she made her way outside and meandered over to a stone fountain of the SFSU gator (which was turned off; thank you, drought conditions). Dimple sat on the lip of the bowl and tipped her face up to the sky, soaking up the sunshine and thinking about how she’d spend the next hour. Should she go by the Insomnia Con buil
ding now or do that with Celia later? She wanted to stop by the library, too, to see if they had the new Jenny Lindt memoir. . . .

  Man, the freedom made her feel almost drunk. She really did love her family, so much, but being at home was starting to feel like wearing an iron corset, painful and breathless and pinchy in all the wrong places. Although, she had to hand it to them: sending her here was unprecedented.

  Dimple didn’t know what had brought on her parents’ sudden change of heart about Insomnia Con, but maybe she was having more of an influence on them than she thought. Maybe they were finally beginning to realize she was her own person, with a divergent, more modern belief system that renounced the patriarchal dynamics of their time—

  There was a sort of scuffling sound nearby, and Dimple opened her eyes, startled. An Indian boy about her age was gazing down at her with the weirdest, goofiest grin on his face. His straight, jet-black hair flopped onto his forehead.

  “Hello, future wife,” he said, his voice bubbling with glee. “I can’t wait to get started on the rest of our lives!”

  Dimple stared at him for the longest minute. The only word her brain was capable of producing, in various tonal permutations, was: What? What?

  Dimple didn’t know what to think. Serial killer? Loony bin escapee? Strangely congenial mugger? Nothing made sense. So she did the only thing she could think to do in the moment—she flung her iced coffee at him and ran the other way.

  CHAPTER 5

  Oh, crap. Oh, no, no, no. He’d been kidding.

  As Rishi watched the rapidly retreating back of his possible future wife, he realized he’d totally freaked her out because of his poorly executed joke. This was why he usually left the humor to Ashish.

  Wringing out the cold coffee from his shirt, he considered running after her, explaining himself. But he knew by the mileage she was clocking right then that she was probably not in the head space to really listen.