Of course not, Dimple thought. Because you’ve been too busy hovering. She bit her tongue and sank down on the sofa, knowing that once Mamma got started, she’d be at it for a while. It was better to let her talk until the words petered out, like those windup chattering teeth you could buy at the joke store. There were a million things she could say in acerbic response, of course, but Dimple still hadn’t ruled out asking to enroll in Insomnia Con if the opportunity presented itself. It was in her best interest to hold back.
“No, I haven’t,” Mamma continued. “?‘Lazy’ shouldn’t be in a woman’s vocabulary.” Adjusting the violet dupatta on her gold and pink salwar kameez, Mamma settled against the couch. She looked like the brilliant Indian flower Dimple knew she herself would never be. “You know, Dimple, a grown daughter is a reflection of her mother. What do you think others in our community will think of me if they see you . . . like this?” She made a vague gesture at Dimple’s person. “Not that you aren’t beautiful, beti, you are, which is what makes it even more tragic—”
Dimple knew she shouldn’t. But the flare of temper that overtook her made it all but impossible to stop the flood of words leaving her mouth. “That is such a misogynistic view, Mamma!” she said, jumping up, pushing her glasses up on her nose. Papa was muttering something under his breath now. He might’ve been praying.
Mamma looked like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Misogynistic! You call your own mother misogynistic?” Mamma darted an indignant look at Papa, who appeared to be extremely invested in a loose thread on his kurta. Turning back to Dimple, Mamma snapped, “This is what I’m worried about! You lose sight of the important things, Dimple. Looking nice, making an effort . . . these are the things girls value in our culture. Not this”—she made air quotes, which up until now Dimple hadn’t realized she knew how to use—“?‘misogyny’ business.”
Dimple groaned and clutched her head, feeling like that ancient pressure cooker Mamma still used when she made idli cakes. She was sure there was an actual chance she would explode. There was no way she and Mamma were related; they may as well have been two entirely different species. “Seriously? That’s what you think I should be relegating my brain space to? Looking nice? Like, if I don’t make the effort to look beautiful, my entire existence is nullified? Nothing else matters—not my intellect, not my personality or my accomplishments; my hopes and dreams mean nothing if I’m not wearing eyeliner?” Her voice had risen incrementally until it echoed off the high ceilings.
Mamma, caught up in the moment, stood to meet her glare. “Hai Ram, Dimple! It is not eyeliner—it is kaajal!”
Dimple’s temper flashed, the heat tempered only slightly by the dampness of disappointment. This was an argument they’d had so many times, she and Mamma could probably say each other’s lines. It was like they were constantly speaking two different languages, each trying to convince the other in an alien lexicon. Why couldn’t Mamma make the smallest effort to understand where Dimple was coming from? Did she really think Dimple had nothing valuable to contribute besides her looks? The thought made Dimple’s pulse skyrocket. She leaned forward, face flaming, ready to speak her mind about how she really felt—
The doorbell chime echoed through the house, bringing them to a standstill. Dimple’s heart still raced, but she felt all the million old arguments stall, unspoken behind her lips.
Mamma adjusted her dupatta, which had begun to fall off during the argument, and took a deep breath. “We have guests,” she said demurely, patting her hair. “I trust you will behave for them, Dimple?”
Papa looked at her with big, pleading eyes.
Dimple managed a curt nod, thinking, Saved by the bell, Mamma. You don’t know how lucky you are.
CHAPTER 2
Mamma bustled out of the room in a cloud of sandalwood perfume to open the door. Dimple tried to take deep, calming breaths. Stanford was only a few months away, she reminded herself. And if she could swing Insomnia Con, freedom would be hers very, very soon.
“Helloooo!” Dimple heard after a moment. The word trilled and echoed like a small, annoying bird’s song.
Papa grimaced. “Ritu auntie,” he said, half resigned, half annoyed. He reached over and grabbed the phone. “Important phone call,” he murmured as he disappeared around the corner.
“Traitor,” Dimple called softly at his retreating back. She stood and pressed her palms together just as Ritu auntie rounded the corner in her wheelchair, pushed, as usual, by her silent, watchful new daughter-in-law, Seema. “Namaste, Ritu auntie, Seema didi.”
Technically, Ritu wasn’t her aunt, and Seema wasn’t her didi—older sister. But it was customary to always be respectful of your elders, a lesson that had been drilled into her since she was a baby. And yet, somehow, Dimple found herself questioning them—and really, everything—all the time. Mamma often lamented that her first word had been “why.”
“Namaste!” Ritu auntie said, beaming up at her. Behind her, Seema watched unsmilingly through a curtain of long, sleek black hair.
“Please sit, Seema,” Mamma said. “Can I get you some chai? Biscuits? I have ParleG, bought specially for you from the Indian market.” Mamma was constantly on a mission to make Seema feel at home. It was her opinion that the reason Seema was as withdrawn as she was, was because Ritu auntie hadn’t done a good enough job making her feel welcome in her sasural—bridal home. This had created a strange rivalry between Ritu auntie and Mamma. Dimple pitied Seema, caught like a helpless fly in the web of their crazy.
“Oh, Seema and I found something she likes better,” Ritu auntie said. “Milanos. Isn’t that right, Seema? Tell her how much you like those.”
“They’re delicious,” Seema said dutifully. After a pause—perhaps awaiting another directive—Seema sat in the empty armchair next to Ritu auntie. Dimple sat down too.
“Oh, we have those also!” Mamma announced triumphantly. “Let me go and get. And some chai for everyone.”
Left alone with the visitors, Dimple pushed her glasses up and attempted to rack her brain for something to say. Thankfully, Ritu auntie had majored in small talk in college. “So! All ready for Stanford, Dimple? Your mamma can’t stop talking about it!”
“Really?” Dimple smiled, touched. She hadn’t heard Mamma say much about Stanford besides to lament the price tag of a private school education. It just went to show, Mamma was proud of her only daughter’s intellect, deep down. Maybe, in spite of Dimple’s doubts, Mamma really did want her to get the best education, even if she pretended to be—
“Yes! So many boys go there for engineering. You’ll have the pick of the litter.” Ritu auntie looked at her with an expectant gleam in her eyes.
Of course. Dimple should’ve guessed. It was the I.I.H. nonsense again. She suspected the entire community of aunties was in on it. It was like some bizarre version of a geocaching club; the minute somebody’s daughter turned eighteen, all the aunties began to scheme the shortest route from her parents’ home to the ultimate prize—her sasural.