Page 41 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
“I ran a stop sign,” I announce.
His brows rise. “Oh,” he says. “Not great, then.” He glances outside. “Perfect parking, though.”
“I know,” I beam. My eyes narrow. “But don’t flattery-evade. What’s going on?”
He sighs, sinking lower in his seat. His fingers pluck at a fraying edge of his seat belt. “I missed my haircut appointment today,” he says finally.
I pause, underwhelmed by the big reveal. “Ah,” I say, hoping I sound sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”
His mouth quirks. “I missed my haircut appointment,” he says again, “because my dad called.” There’s a beat. “For the first time since he left for Jaipur.”
My eyes widen. We’ve already had two Sunday dinners without Suresh Uncle, which means at least a couple weeks have elapsed since he left on his trip. While I’ve had my fair share of dry spells when it comes to chatting with Aai Baba, I can’t imagine not being in contact for this long.
“We’ve never been close,” Kush continues. “Always fought a lot, as I’ve mentioned.” An image of a bald young Kush as a spelling bee champion rises to my mind, and I shake it away. “But we’ve drifted apart even more lately, and…” He breaks off, mulling on the words. “It was a really bad call, that’s all,” he says at last.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, but with much more feeling and sincerity this time. “That sucks, Kush, I’m so sorry.”
I’ve never spent much time with Suresh Uncle; his presence at functions has always felt more perfunctory than truly immersed. Whereas Baba regularly inserts himself in Aai and Noori Aunty’s conversations, Suresh Uncle is generally content to remain on the sidelines, save for an occasional critical remark. But I didn’t realize this attitude extended to his parenting style, too.
Kush shrugs, and it’s halfhearted. “Not the point, though,” he says. “Let’s do this route again and make sure you remember your stops. I promise I’ll be much more attentive this time.”
“Or we can take a break,” I blurt, taken aback by my own suggestion. Typically, I’m irked by any attempt to interfere with my practice. But it feels necessary given Kush’s information. “Stop signs will still be there in an hour. I know a place we can rest at for a bit.” He meets my eyes, surprise and something else reflected in his gaze. He nods.
“All right,” he says. “Lead the way.”
It’s a short walk to my beloved meadow at the edge of our neighborhood. I keep a brisk pace, and he matches it, dark curls lifting in the light breeze. The pond is as serene as ever, not another soul in sight, just as I like it. We sit at the grassy bank of the water, postures mirrored, arms wrapped around tucked knees.
Kush explains why the haircut cancellation cut so deep. “I was going to get a mullet,” he tells me.
I can’t help it; I gasp. “You should never be allowed to make hairstyle decisions,” I say, and he gives me a sharp look. “Shaved head, and now a mullet? What’s next, frosted tips?”
“Mullets are in,” Kush says.
“On a different planet, surely,” I say. I consider telling him he doesn’t need a haircut at all, that his overgrown curls suit him well, but think better of it. I raise my hands. “Your body, your choice, but maybe it’s good your dad called. One crisis to avert another.”
He clucks his tongue. “My roommate Aryan got a mullet, and I’m telling you, it works.”
I think back to my sighting of Aryan at the poetry reading, and grudgingly, I have to admit it does work—on Aryananyways. I bite back a smile at the thought of their twinning styles. “I’m guessing Aryan is the Simran in your life.”
“Something like that.”
I might be pushing my luck, but my curiosity is too vast not to probe. “Did you talk to your mom?” I ask. “About the phone call, I mean.” I don’t know the specifics of Kush’s situation, but I’ve always thought of Noori Aunty as a worthy mediator. She’s helped melt the ice between me and Aai many times over the years.
His mouth twists at the corners. “They’re kind of going through a rough patch,” he says. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “More of a perpetual rough patch, really.”
My brows rise at the admission. They hide it well, for the most part. The mild tension at our first Sunday dinner of the summer was the most conflict I’ve ever witnessed between them. They tend to appear warm enough in company. Not quite affectionate, but to be fair, few older Desi couples are.
“I don’t want to involve her, anyways,” he says. “It’s my thing with my dad. No reason to make it her headache. This latest episode with him has been dragging on for far too long, as it is.” His words are loose today, inhibitions low, like he’s itching to get it out.
And I’m taking advantage. Rarely, if ever, have I seen Kush so open, unguarded. “How long?” I ask.
“December,” he says.
“December!” I cry.
He laughs at my reaction. “We got into it at my cousin’s wedding in Boston over break. And after that, I guess it just festered.” My expression must be too concerned, because he hastens to add,“It really wasn’t too rough while I was away at school. Being home thrust me back into the thick of it. My dad has a presence there even when he’s away.”
“Makes sense,” I say.
