Chapter One
My grandfather’s birthday party is always a night to remember.
For the fifth year and counting, we’ve rented the event space at Taj Mahal Express, the sole Indian restaurant in our corner of Seattle suburbia. It’s not the fanciest venue, but we’ve added the Deshpande touch: gold diyas glittering from windows, marigold garlands draped through doorways, and floral centerpieces picked fresh from Baba’s garden. As the eldest grandchild, I’m tonight’s designated party planner, responsible for checking off any last tasks before guests arrive.
Micromanaging Ajoba, of course, is at the top of my list, and admittedly, one of my favorite parts of being home for the summer. I find my grandfather at the open bar, already two mocktails deep.
“Look alive, Ajoba,” I say. He’s dapper in a silver sherwani, and his white hair is cleanly parted at the center, but by his grimexpression, you’d never know we were preparing for his own celebration. “We need people to think youwantto be here.”
“How will I ever pull off such a lie, my maharani?”
I smile at the nickname. My name is Rani, Marathi for queen, but since I was a girl, Ajoba has affectionately called me his maharani, or his great queen. It’s safe to say my grandfather is who I turn to whenever I need a confidence boost.
“I’m hoping it won’t be a lie.” My voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Shilpa Aunty has generously offered to perform a solo dance during tonight’s program.” I pause for effect. “And I have agreed to the plan.”
My grandfather meets my gaze for the first time, eyes twinkling with stunned amusement. “Your mother knows?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.” Aai will kill me once she learns, but I want to bring Ajoba some enjoyment where I can tonight.
It’s tradition at these gatherings for a few songs and dances to be performed for the guest of honor. Performers are usuallychildren, but Shilpa Aunty is by far the most attention seeking of the ladies in our family friend circle. She’s been taking Bollywood dance lessons in preparation for her son’s upcoming wedding, and no opportunity to be in the spotlight can possibly be passed up. My grandfather derives most of his entertainment at our functions from Shilpa Aunty’s nonsense.
Ajoba sighs in contentment. “I don’t know how I’ve done without you this last year,” he says, and I laugh, something squeezing in my chest. I don’t know how I’ve done without him, either.
My phone lights up now with a video call from my best friend. “I’m going to take this,” I say, because I’ve been waiting totalk to Simran all day. “You’ll be okay on your own for a bit?” My parents have been absorbed with the caterers, but they’re bound to start pestering Ajoba at any minute.
“Go,” he says. “One day I will finally gather the courage to tell your mother I vastly prefer to celebrate my birthday at the Cheesecake Factory,” he murmurs as I leave.
Aai would have an aneurysm if he ever suggested so, but I don’t have the heart to tell him.
Simran’s calling me back from the airport. She stayed an extra week at Dartmouth after finishing up her finals, so she can’t make tonight’s festivities.
“My flight got pushed two hours,” she says in explanation for missing my morning call. “Never fly Spirit.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I was never planning to.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m justdevastatedto miss the party,” she says, lips pulling into an exaggerated pout through the screen. She’s wearing the chunky pink headphones I got her for Christmas a couple years back and a gray matching set, the picture of travel comfort.
“I’m sure,” I say, and Simran giggles. She hates these events almost as much as Ajoba. Simran was raised by Cool Brown Parents, second-generation Indian moms who own an art gallery in downtown Seattle. While I spent my childhood being dragged from one family friend’s house to another, Simran attended poetry readings, restaurant openings, the goddamn ballet.
“Kush can keep you company in my absence, no?”
“Was that a threat, Sim?”
She giggles again. Kush Khanna, Noori Aunty’s son, is pretty much the bane of my existence. Polite, handsome, and insufferablyoverachieving, Kush is beloved by every elder in our community. He’s just a year older, so I’ve been compared to him my entire life, always falling short.
“Bad joke, I take it back, running on very little sleep here.”
“How was the roomie trip?” Simran’s spent the last few days in the mountains near campus with her school friends.
“Magical. You’ve got to come visit me next year. I won’t accept any excuses.”
“It’s in the calendar,” I say, but an odd feeling lurches in my chest, just like every other time Simran has told me about her college escapades. Simran Sinha is my favorite person in the world next to Ajoba, but we had very different freshman year experiences. As thrilled as I am for her, it’s hard not to feel some envy too. I clear my throat, pushing the sensation away. “When do you get home?”
“By morning, granted my flight isn’t delayed again.” She pauses here, dimples deepening. “And then we have the whole summer together. I’ve missed you immensely, Rani.”
“I’ve missedyou. This summer is going to be fabulous.” I sound like aHigh School Musicalcharacter, but after the year I’ve had, I can’t overstate how bad I need this win. “Especially, since I have some very exciting news,” I add, finally getting to the purpose of my original call. I pause to let her anticipation swell. “I got my learner’s permit!” Simran’s mouth drops, and I continue. “It’s real, it’s happening, I will be getting my driver’s license very soon!”
“You’re joking,” she accuses.
