Dimple and Mamma hadn’t had a real conversation about any of what had happened over the summer at SFSU with Rishi. Papa had reassured Dimple that he supported her decision to sever all ties with him, even if he didn’t know all the details. He’d just wanted to make sure that Rishi hadn’t hurt Dimple. Papa told her to focus on her app and her relationship with Jenny Lindt. He told her she’d make new friends and have new things to look forward to at Stanford, that all of this would be a distant memory soon. All the things that parents say to their kids when life deals them lemons.
And then there was Mamma. She’d looked at Dimple with reproachful eyes ever since she came home from Insomnia Con. She hadn’t said anything outright, but she’d sighed so much, Dimple was afraid the house was on the verge of collapse. And she loved to talk about Seema didi’s new pregnancy. Incessantly. Mamma talked about domestic life, and how much it suited Seema, and how happy Ritu was. And in the empty spaces between her words, Dimple heard how disappointed Mamma was in her. How much she wished she and Ritu could swap lives.
Dimple stood abruptly, tears threatening. That seemed to happen without warning now, like severing ties with Rishi had left her emotions raw and vulnerable to the elements. “Excuse me,” she said, aware that her voice was trembling. “I should finish packing.”
Ritu auntie beamed up at her from her wheelchair, oblivious, though she saw Mamma in her peripheral vision, frowning. “Haan, you’re leaving tomorrow, na? Stanford!”
Dimple tried to smile and failed, so she settled for a nod.
Ritu auntie reached in her bag and handed a dollar bill to Dimple, a common practice for elders when younger people were entering a new stage of their life. “Oh, auntie, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can, and you must,” Ritu auntie said, pressing it into her palm. “Khush raho, beti. And best of luck.”
Dimple managed a half smile then, thinking, It’s a nice sentiment, but happiness is way too tall an order.
? ? ?
Dimple sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her suitcase and pillow and her lone box of books. She wasn’t taking much else with her on this trip. She’d managed to convince Papa and Mamma to let her drive up there alone, but they’d only agreed because she’d promised to come back down for the long Labor Day weekend. Dimple figured she’d get anything else she really needed on that second trip. There was no need to overdo it; all she really wanted were her laptop and books.
She purposely didn’t glance over at the bookshelf where she’d left the graphic novels Rishi had given her in Two Sisters. She’d read one of them before she left Insomnia Con. It was full of love and magic and the promise of new things. Dimple couldn’t handle that right now. She’d wanted to donate them, but hadn’t found it in herself to do that yet. Maybe when she came back home.
Dimple looked around at her room, wondering if Mamma would even notice she was gone. Maybe she’d be happier without having to think about Dimple every single second, without Dimple’s many disappointments in her face all day, every day.
Mamma entered her room without knocking, just like usual, and set a glass of haldi doodh on the nightstand. Dimple looked away. She couldn’t bear to see more disappointment or reproach. She was so done. Things were hard enough—her own doubts were hard enough—without Mamma’s constant pressure.
“You told me you finished packing,” Mamma said, sitting on a wicker chair Dimple had bought at a flea market years ago.
“I did,” Dimple replied. “I just wanted to get out of there. Couldn’t stand the baby talk anymore.”
Mamma chuckled. “Haan. They’re very excited. First child and grandchild, na?”
“Did they leave?”
Mamma nodded. After a pause, she said, “Sab theekh hai?”
Dimple looked at her, feeling a lump in her throat rise. “No, everything’s not all right, Mamma.”
Mamma frowned, confused. God, the woman was clueless. “Kyon? Rishi—”
“It’s not Rishi,” Dimple snapped. Then, more calmly, she said, “It’s not just Rishi. It’s you, too.” She took a shaky breath. “Your . . . your disappointment is like a cold, heavy blanket around my shoulders, Mamma. You can’t even look at me without showing it.”
“Dis . . . disappointment?” Mamma said, leaning forward in her chair. “Hai Ram, Dimple, I am not disappointed in you.”
Dimple felt a tear drip down her cheek and wiped it away roughly. “Yeah, right. You wish I were more like Seema didi. Quietly get married to someone you choose, quietly have a baby, accept my path without a fight. Right? You’d love that.”
“I would love that no more than I love this.” Mamma took a deep breath and adjusted her peacock blue sari. “Dimple, you are my beti. The only thing I want is your happiness. Bas. Aur kuch nahin.”
The tears were falling more quickly now. “But you sent me to Insomnia Con to fall in love with Rishi Patel. You want me to get married young and have kids, and I’m giving you none of that. Instead, you have this headstrong child who’s determined to be alone. . . .” Dimple began to cry, her breath hitching, her nose plugged.
“Oof oh, Dimple . . .” Mamma came and sat next to her on the bed, putting her arm around her. “I am not so old. I understand; aaj kal eighteen is very young for shaadi, for marriage. I want you to have a happy home one day.” She squeezed Dimple. “But only when you are ready. Beti, I am not disappointed. I am sad for what I see in your eyes, in your silence. Very deep sorrow. Tum usse pyaar karti ho, na?”
You love him, don’t you?
Those words were the key to the floodgates Dimple had kept tightly shut for the past month. She turned, and burying her face in Mamma’s neck like she hadn’t since she was in elementary school, Dimple wept.
She wept for the moments that she and Rishi would never have. She wept for the love that had just blossomed and would never ripen. She wept for how mean she’d been, the names she’d called him. She wept for her hardheadedness, and for a world that couldn’t just let her be both, a woman in love and a woman with a career, without flares of guilt and self-doubt seeping in and wreaking havoc. No one she knew had balanced both. There was either work or love. Wanting both felt like a huge ask; it felt like wishing for hot ice cream or a bitter sugar cube. And so she’d pushed Rishi away. She’d broken his heart and decimated her own.
“I do love him, Mamma,” Dimple said when she was able to catch her breath. She sat up straighter and wiped her eyes with Mamma’s pallu—the loose end of her sari. “But there’s no way to make it work without one of us sacrificing something big. And you know how it is. It’s usually the woman who ends up sacrificing. And I can’t do that. I won’t.”
Mamma sighed and rubbed her back. “You’re right, Dimple. Usually it’s the woman who sacrifices. But, beti, looking at your unhappiness. . . . I wonder, aren’t you sacrificing now? Either Rishi or career, this is the way you see it. But to me it seems cutting off either is like cutting off a part of yourself. Hmm?” Mamma kissed the side of her head. “Whatever you do, Dimple, I am your mother. I will always support you. I am always proud of you. Okay?” She handed the haldi doodh over.
Dimple looked at Mamma through watery eyes, and saw nothing but love and patience in her smile. Something hard and painful in her chest loosened. Taking the milk, she whispered, “Okay.”