Page 8 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
Next to his father, I catch Kush’s lips twisting in a grimace. He sips his water to disguise it.
“Not at all,” Aai exclaims after a surprised pause. “Noori’s chicken biryani is world class.”
“Ah,” Suresh Uncle says. “Chicken is fine. But lamb is where Noori can struggle.” He shoots a glance at his wife. “Hard to get it just right, hai na?”
Noori Aunty blinks. My fork stalls halfway to my mouth. Without looking up from his game, Ajoba says, “I didn’t know you were a mutton chef, Suresh.”
Suresh Uncle gives a booming laugh. “Not a chef, no,” he says, reaching for another serving of bhaji. “Just a thoughtful critic.”
Thoughtfulisn’t the word I’d use, and perhaps my perception is skewed, but Suresh Uncle has always struck me as one of the more severe, formidable adults in our circle. Of course, my model for masculinity growing up was Baba’s gentleness and Ajoba’s dry, eccentric (but always loving) nature. Even as a child, Suresh Uncle’s domineering presence felt so unfamiliar to me. Nerves spiked when I was forced to approach him for guidance or permission instead of the other parents.
“My friends all rave about Mamma’s lamb biryani,” Kush says. “Aryan actually asked for your recipe a while back.”
“Too sweet,” Noori Aunty says. “Though that’s classified, obviously.”
Light laughter sounds, and any residual tension dissolves. I help myself to another skewer. I’m mid-bite when the conversation turns to me.
“You must be so excited for the coming year,” Noori Aunty says to me. “Be sure to reach out to Kush for any support. He would love to show you around.”
The last thing I need is Kush as my babysitter in addition to driving instructor, but I manage a smile at the proposal regardless. “Of course,” I say. My eyes slide to Kush, who meets my gaze with an air of mild merriment, tilting his glass toward me in mock salute.
“Kush is already helping Rani with so much,” Baba says. “We should be writing him a check!”
“Nonsense, Gopal, nonsense,” Noori Aunty says.
“Nice for the boy to do something productive with his time,” Suresh Uncle adds, though it’s always been my impression that Kush is nothing if not productive.
“Happy to,” Kush says. “We can’t let Rani turn twenty without a license.”
The words are playful, but something about the pluralwegrates at me. It’s so classic Kush, to group himself with the adults and elders, a united front excluding me. As children, despite being just a year older, Kush took charge at any opportunity, assuming leadership roles among the other kids in our community. He picked movies, organized games, mediated fights. As a girl in the throes of her first crush, I didn’t mind following in his light. But the practice has grown wearisome in the years between.
“I don’t intend to,” I say. I pierce a piece of paneer with my fork. “In fact, I’m sure I’ll be able to drive us both to school by the fall. You can let me know whenever you need a ride.”
It might be premature, but I’ve already signed up for an August test date. Nothing is more motivating than a ticking clock, and I need all the motivation I can get.
A half smile splits his cheeks. “Looking forward to the car pool,” he says. “Good return on my investment,” he adds to the table.
The parents chortle. I stab another piece of paneer. Beside me, the boys begin bickering again, and I shift my attention, grateful for the distraction.
Chapter Four
After my shower, I sit with my back to Ajoba on the sofa as he rubs oil into my scalp and damp hair. It’s our bedtime routine from my girlhood, and it’s still just as soothing and peaceful as an adult. After tonight’s dinner, I need all the peace I can get.
“Good job on pav bhaji,” Ajoba says, his nimble fingers massaging my temples. I’ve graduated from the Indian grocery store variety of coconut oil to a rose-infused blend, and the subtle scent is sweet on my nose. I close my eyes and let my body relax against the cushion. “Ekdam mast.”
I contributed almost nothing to the meal, but the bar for my cooking is low in this family. “Thank you,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. Itwasdelectable, after all. We paired the bhaji with Noori Aunty’s homemade bread, and Aai squeezed fresh lemon on the bhaji before serving, so every bite was the perfect combination of tart and spicy. “I did my best.”
“Kes khup laamb jhaale,” Ajoba observes next, remarking on my hair growth, and he’s right. At winter break, my ends hit just below my collarbone, and now they’re already a few inches past my chest.
“I know,” I say. “It might be time for a trim.”
I don’t need to turn around to know Ajoba’s grimacing. “Long is good,” he says. “Yours is long and perfect. Just like your Aaji.”
My smile deepens, insides warm. This is my favorite of Ajoba’s compliments. Thick, beautiful hair is at the heart of every Marathi woman’s vanity, but beyond that, I love when Ajoba alludes to Aaji. I never met my grandmother, since she passed before I was born, and I’ve always been comforted by the thought that I carry parts of her with me nonetheless. I’m often told I resemble Aai like a mirror when she was my age, and Aai is told the same about Aaji. I like how linear that feels.
As a child, I latched on to every passing mention of Aaji from Ajoba’s lips.And then what?I’d ask, if he spoke of a newlywed trip they took to a hill station or a film she adored. I was mesmerized by the thought of Ajoba in his youth, a world away, spending all his time with a woman so connected to me but somehow a stranger.What else?
He always entertained my curiosity, green eyes alive and sparkling with memory as he spoke.
