Page 7 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
I smile in spite of myself and return to my own project. I’m adding a gold trim to Simran’s wineglass when I notice Nabhi’s still beside me, a green stem left outlined but unfilled on his can.
“What’s up?” I say with a nudge, and he shifts to face me, a slight pout starting to form on his lips.
He looks like he’s chewing on his words. “I’m not going to be in Sanju’s math class this year,” he says finally. It sounds like a confession.
“Oh,” I say. I set down my glass. I remember Aai telling me about the boys’ honors placement exam in the spring, how they’d been assigned different levels, but I hadn’t thought to ask many follow-up questions. Sanju’s always been more excited about numbers, as it is. “That’s okay, right?”
“I guess,” Nabhi says with a shrug. “It’s not Sanju’s fault I’m stupid.”
I lean back so fast in surprise that I nearly get whiplash. “Hey,” I exclaim. “You arenotstupid. Never say that again, do you hear me?”
He’s averted his eyes, bashful from the admission, so I reach over to squeeze his hand on the table. “Everyone learns at a different pace,” I say. “You don’t have to be in advanced pre-algebra to be incredibly clever and capable. Which you are, by the way.”
Not for the first time, I consider how challenging it must be for my brothers to navigate their boyhood as twins. They are eachother’s constants and best friends (on good days, anyways), but by virtue of sharing the same age and appearance, they’re also always forced into comparison. Sanju is more academic where Nabhi is more athletic, and they’ve each faced unique struggles in school and beyond. So much of why I want to enter education is because of my brothers and my observations in their upbringing. This moment is another reminder why.
He’s still quiet, so I squeeze his hand again. “You’re going to have an amazing year, Nabhi. I’m always so proud of you.”
He looks up. The twins inherited Ajoba’s green eyes, and Nabhi’s are big and glossy now. He leans over all of a sudden to wrap his arms tight around me.
“I love you, Rani Tai,” he mumbles into my side. “I missed you so much when you were gone.”
Heat pokes at my eyes. I blink back rapidly. “I missed you too, chotu,” I say, voice small and overwhelmed. Just when I’m confident the boys have outgrown affection, he pulls something like this.
Nabhi breaks away as Sanju returns, slurping his soda, and resumes shading in the final flower on his watering can.
Every Sunday for as long as I can remember, my family has eaten dinner with the Khannas. Aai and Noori Aunty are best friends from their college days in Jaipur, and when they both ended up settling in the Seattle area after graduation and marriage, they instituted these weekly meals as a means of preserving something from home in their new, foreign lives. Slowly, more local Desi families joined our social fold, but the core Deshpande–Khanna connection has always remained.
My attendance at Sunday dinners was absolutely mandatory throughout childhood, but Aai Baba got more lax when high school arrived, and I begged to spend my time with Simran and our other friends instead. By then, Kush rarely made an appearance either, so my parents accepted my absences too. Since leaving for college, though, I’ve gained more of an appreciation for the tradition, and I know how much it means to Aai. So today, I spend my afternoon helping my mother prepare ingredients for pav bhaji, one of my favorite Marathi street foods.
“Khup chan, Rani,” my mother gushes as she observes my handiwork. She’s assigned me the very simple task of mashing boiled potatoes and veggies, and while I know she’s just thrilled that I’m in the kitchen with her at all, I’m not one to wave off compliments.
“I’m basically an expert,” I say once I finish, sliding the steel bowl over to her, and she laughs.
“Remember to talk to Kush about driving today, okay?” she says as she scoops the contents of the bowl into a bubbling pot on the stove. She’s making the bhaji now, and then we’ll heat up some bread and plate everything with fresh onion and cilantro when it’s time to serve.
My lips press into a line. “Okay,” I say, agreeing reluctantly. “I will.”
In the end, I couldn’t decline a direct offer from Noori Aunty—I’d rather deal with Kush than come across needlessly ungrateful for their generosity. And it’s not as though I have other options. While I’m less than thrilled about the arrangement, I’m trying to approach it with optimism. Getting my license is the priority, whatever the means to that end.
“Good,” Aai says. “Figure out a schedule for the coming weeks.” As an afterthought, she adds, “And make sure to be kind to Kush. It’s so nice of him to be taking the time. He’s studying for the MCAT right now, you know, while working at Baba’s hospital. Such a busy boy.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Is he curing cancer too?”
“Pediatric cancer is one of his research interests, yes.”
Of course it is. “Well, don’t worry, Aai, I’m always kind.”
She snorts at this and continues stirring the bhaji.
An hour later, we’re all assembled at the dining tables in our backyard. The weather is too serene not to take advantage, and for the first time in ages, we have full attendance, which our indoor dining room can’t accommodate. I pour everyone tall glasses of lemon water then make sure to take a seat between Sanju and Nabhi, who got into another spat about basketball tryouts after Taco Bell. Inserting myself as a physical buffer might be the only way to prevent a scene.
Ajoba begins a game of chess on his phone before appetizers have been served. Beyond a look of disdain tossed his way, Aai leaves him alone, busy soaking in praise on another successful function.
“Beautiful centerpieces,” Noori Aunty gushes, and Baba beams at the compliment to his floral arrangements. “Food wasn’t too bad either. Second-best catering operation in the area.”
Everyone chuckles, because the prize for first will always belong to Noori Aunty herself. She’s been running a small, homegrown catering business for the last several years. Aai rarely hires her for our own events, wanting Noori Aunty to enjoy rather than work, but we’re privileged enough to have her cooking forfree. Today, she’s brought paneer skewers and pomegranate raita. The cool yogurt is a perfect complement to the spicier mains.
“Biryani was almost better than yours, no?” Suresh Uncle says, shoveling a spoonful of raita into his mouth.
