Rishi sat on the edge of his bed, his head bent as the phone at his parents’ house rang. It seemed a lonelier sound than usual, as if it were echoing around an empty home.
He felt like he’d been struck by a freak flare of lightning on a sunny, blue-skied day. He had not seen that coming. He’d thought maybe she was unhappy, but that it had to do with losing, with not being able to see Jenny Lindt. Rishi had no idea she . . . that Dimple . . . that she didn’t love him anymore. Had likely never loved him.
All those things she’d said—was that how she saw him? As some big coward, too afraid to stand up to his parents, too afraid to really live life? Someone who wanted to cower and be sheltered from every storm in life, someone who wanted an easy, placid, dull, nothing existence?
Was she right?
“Haan, bolo, Rishi beta!” Pappa’s happy greeting came down the line, startling him out of his cold, tumbling thoughts.
“Pappa . . .” His voice came out husky, unpolished. He cleared his throat. The words were gone.
“Rishi?” Pappa sounded a little concerned. “Kya baat hai, beta?”
“Am I making a mistake, Pappa?” he said, his voice just barely above a whisper. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a sudden surge of frustration he couldn’t explain. Rishi hopped off his bed and began to pace. In a louder voice, he continued. “I mean, MIT? Engineering? You’re the one with a mathematical brain, not me. I couldn’t even fix the laptop when it broke last year, remember?”
There was a moment of silence, and he knew Pappa was hurrying to catch up. “But, Rishi, there are many different types of engineering degrees,” he said finally, a little wondrously. “Tumhe patta hai, you don’t have to fix computers to be an engineer. You know this.”
Rishi kicked at the foot of his desk, making the whole thing shudder. “But it’s not about fixing the laptop!” He threw his free hand up in the air. Why couldn’t his father see? “It’s . . . it’s everything. It’s my brain, Pappa. It doesn’t work like yours. I’m not interested in mathematics and business and, and everything else that you do. Do I want to spend fifty or sixty years of my life stuck at Global Comm, doing stuff that bores me now, at eighteen? I mean, what will my life look like at that point? Who will I even become if I do that?”
“But there are many good companies besides Global Comm, Rishi,” Pappa said, still sounding bewildered. “You don’t have to work here. You can go to Google—they’re progressive, na? Many young people enjoy working—”
Oh gods. He just wasn’t getting it. “No, Pappa,” Rishi cut in, standing still in the center of his room, looking at the bed where not too long ago he and Dimple took things to another level. Where he realized he couldn’t live without her, no matter what. The bitter burn of rejection flared in his chest. “What if I want to do my comics instead?”
There was a long beat of silence. Rishi waited, his heart hammering. “C-comics?” He’d never heard Pappa stutter like that before. “Rishi, why are you saying all this, beta? Where did you get these ideas? Plan sub change kar rahe ho—you’re changing all your plans. For whom? Dimple ne kuch kahaa?”
Did Dimple say something? Rishi wanted to laugh. Yeah, he thought. She said a lot of things. But instead of getting into that, he said, “Yes. She said something. But I was feeling it before that, Pappa. I was . . . engineering doesn’t feel right for me. It feels right for you. I’m an artist in my soul. Not an engineer. Not a corporate machine.”
Pappa exhaled, the sound long and reaching for a patience it currently lacked. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled. It was the voice Rishi had heard him use in phone meetings when he was trying not to lose his temper. “Ghar aao, Rishi. Then we’ll talk about it. Aur Dimple . . .”
“There’s no Dimple,” Rishi said softly. Pappa and Ma didn’t know the extent to which they’d moved their friendship forward, and now Rishi was glad he hadn’t told them. “And yes, I’m coming home.”
He hung up and stood in silence for a full minute. Then, grabbing his bag, he thought, Semper sursum. Always upward.
ONE MONTH LATER
Was it possible to expire of boredom? Dimple was pretty sure she was close. Her heart rate was way down, her body temperature had dropped. She was going into standby mode.
For the past hour—sixty full minutes (she’d been keeping track)—Mamma, Ritu auntie, and, to a lesser extent, Seema didi, had been sitting in the living room talking about pregnancy.
Yes, it was true. Silent Seema and Ritu auntie’s spawn, Vishal, were on their way to producing spawn of their own. Dimple shuddered to think what the creature might turn out to be. Would it come into the world gossiping and nattering on about inconsequential nothings? Or would it come out hidden behind a curtain of black hair, watching the doctors with its inscrutable dark eyes?
To be fair, Seema didi did look fairly happy—happier than Dimple had ever seen her. There was a hint of a smile about her mouth as she looked down at her ultrasound picture at the grainy blob/glorified amoeba.
“But jo bhi kaho, delivery is one of the most painful experiences of a woman’s life!” Ritu auntie proclaimed, jamming another Milano into her mouth. “I screamed so much when I was having Vishal ki I couldn’t talk for two days afterward!” She sprayed bits of cookie crumbs everywhere. Seema didi was cringing beside her, but Dimple couldn’t say if it was because of the projectile partially digested food or that encouraging wisdom about childbirth.
“Haan, bilkul sahi,” Mamma said, nodding with a martyr-like look on her face. “They had to extract Dimple with the forceps, you know. Very painful. I couldn’t go to bathroom without screaming after that.” She sipped her chai and then sighed, looking at Dimple. “And they’re so ungrateful after they come out.”
Dimple rolled her eyes to herself. “So sorry to disappoint,” she mumbled too softly for anyone to hear. She thought, anyway. But when she looked up, Seema didi was chewing on her cheek to keep from smiling.
“But still, Ritu, you’re so lucky, you know,” Mamma said, smiling wistfully at the ultrasound picture, which was now in her hands. “In eight months you’re going to be a grandmother! Tum kitni khush kismet ho.”
Khush kismet. Lucky. Which, of course, implied that Mamma was unlucky. She’d gotten a dud of a daughter who ripped her way out in the world and had done nothing but disappoint her ever since.