“I’d cooperate if he’d let me drive!”
“Well,” she says, mouth twitching. “Public safety must come first.”
I swat her, and the smile escapes. “Plus he called me hostile,” I continue.
“Aren’t you?” she asks, and my words die on my tongue. Simran goes on. “I mean, I get it,” she says. “It’s understandable that you’re so sensitive around Kush.” Her voice goes wry and teasing. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, or whatever.”
My mouth drops in outrage. “What?”
She laughs, and I swat her again, feeling very attacked by such an accusation. “Isn’t that it?” she says. “You had an unreciprocated crush as a girl, so now you’re easily insecure around Kush, and that makes you lash out.”
I waver. “I don’t think that’s true,” I say, but I sound doubtful to my own ears. I deflate. “Not the whole truth, anyways.”
It’s deeper than childhood bitterness—being compared to Kush my whole life has also played a role in my prejudice against him. Still, it’s as if Simran has held a mirror to a dark, concealed part of me, and the reality of my own vanity is discomforting.
The door jingles again, and I glance up to see Kush’s retreating frame exit, head down and pace swift. He must have gotten hismatcha to go. I recall his love for a sit-down dining experience and feel a pang at disrupting the routine.
I meet Simran’s sympathetic gaze. “Ugh,” I say. “I’ll make it right.” I clear my throat, aching for a subject change. “Did you want to berate me about online dating some more?” I request, and her eyes brighten, more than eager to oblige.
In the evening, before Sunday dinner, we stop by the Pujaris’ place to meet the newest addition to our community: baby Ishika, home from the hospital for five days now.
Baba has a shift tonight, and Ajoba is watching the twins, so it’s just me and Aai on our end. I feel confident Ajoba volunteered to babysit in order to give me and Aai some bonding time—we are still tiptoeing around each other at home, all polite formalities, no apology from either side. I’m too excited to meet the newborn to feel irked by the arrangement.
The Satoors and Khannas have already arrived. Preeti is taking a much-earned nap upstairs, so we’re greeted instead by her husband, Kumar, and the Pujari elders. Naturally, Sonal Aunty recounts Ishika’s birth like she’s the mother and not the grandmother.
“The most exhausting evening,” she exclaims. “I was at the salon when Kumar phoned and had to leave with wet hair! Then Prashant forgot to bring the camera, and we got trapped in traffic while hurrying back for it.” She shakes her head, expression alive and flushed. “But by the morning, we had our baby girl, so it was all worth it.” She beams. “Who wants to see pictures?”
Ishika is in her cradle only ten feet away, but the parents stillcrowd around Sonal Aunty’s phone. “Preview of the Facebook album,” she says with a laugh. Everyone coos and praises Prashant Uncle’s photography skills. The Satoors’ ten-year-old son, Arjun, tosses a baseball between his hands, unimpressed. Kush stands politely off to the side, as far from me as possible in such a tight space.
I seize my opportunity to intercept him when the adults move to the kitchen to grab some chai, walking over before I lose the nerve.
“Hi,” I say, halting right in front of him. He looks up, gaze wary. His eyes dart to the kitchen and back, considering whether it’s still possible to join the others.
He must decide against it. “Hi,” he says at last, hands finding his pockets.
I settle on the safest possible topic. “Have you met the baby yet?” I ask. He shakes his head, and we both step over to the cradle. Kumar dozes in an armchair beside his daughter. I drop my voice so as not to spoil his rest. “She’s beautiful,” I say.
And she is, in the way all newborns are: so miniature it’s almost impossible, tiny toes and rosy lips and glossy eyes. Ishika blinks up at me, her stare considering and steady.
“She’s so serious,” I say. “I’ve never seen a serious baby before.” Kush is wordless beside me, so I continue. “Stoic, almost.” He’s still quiet, so I add, “Pensive, even, like she’s lost deep in thought.”
There’s a beat. “Maybe she’ll be a philosopher,” Kush says finally. It’s an olive branch, and I feel my insides loosen.
“Maybe,” I agree. I glance at him; his focus is still trained on Ishika. “How was Wanda’s?” I say.
If he’s surprised that I’ve alluded to our non-encounter, he doesn’t show it. “Never disappoints,” he says, tone noncommittal.
“Real,” I say. “Though their portions are getting smaller, don’t you think?” I can’t quit the urge to ramble today, anything to delay the vulnerability of an apology. “I mean, Simran’s salmon scramble was literally four bites. Two of those were mine, of course, food always looks better on someone else’s plate, but the point stands.”
Kush’s mouth twitches at this, but he remains silent. He gives the cradle a gentle push, and Ishika stretches at the movement.
“Okay,” I say. I cross my arms against my stomach and take a long breath, steeling myself. “I wanted to talk about our botched practice. I’m sorry for being, um, touchy and hostile.” He meets my eyes at the direct quote, and I find the courage to continue. “It was inappropriate of me to snap at you when you’re being so helpful. I really appreciate you taking the time to teach me, and I’ll make sure our future practices are a lot smoother.”
It occurs to me just then that maybe there won’t be a future practice, that maybe I’ve wrecked things so badly, Kush is no longer interested in teaching me. But he nods, accepting my words. “Okay,” he says.
“I can be pretty sensitive to criticism,” I say. “And I’m going to work on that.”
“I wasn’t being critical, though,” he says. “I was being instructive.”
