Page 49 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
Chapter Twenty-One
I hide my yawn behind my cup of rose chai. On my left, the twins occupy themselves with a game of thumb war. On my right, Ajoba brazenly flips the page of his Marathi poetry collection. Aai shoots him a vicious, shaming glare across the table, but I can’t help but envy his foresight to bring a distraction.
According to the overhead clock, we are now twelve minutes into Shilpa Aunty’s second toast of the night, and she’s showing no signs of stopping. While her first speech hardly mentioned the couple, focusing instead on memories from her own wedding and her motherhood journey, this toast feels more topical. At least, mentions of her “beautiful baby boy” have been plentiful. Chronologically, she has just arrived at Shekar’s high school graduation.
“Dropping Shekar off at UC Berkeley was the most painful parting,” she says with a sniff, her eyes glassy. “Overtaken only by today’s farewell.”
I’m unsure what farewell Shilpa Aunty is referring to, as Shekar and Anjali’s new apartment is less than a fifteen-minute drive from the Mehra home. I guess the pair’s delicate decline of joint living must have cut deep.
In my periphery, I notice Kush stifle a yawn of his own. He checks his phone for the time and sinks lower in his seat. I’d empathize if I wasn’t still so aggravated by our morning encounter. The Khannas and Satoors have been seated at the table beside us, but I’ve managed to avoid a single chat with Kush all night. Hot irritation spikes whenever I think of his porch brush-off.
I feel his eyes shift to me, and I immediately narrow my attention to Shilpa Aunty, refusing to meet his gaze. On instinct, I pick at my chunni, the new sunset-colored piece from Maharani. I’ve secured it to my blouse to conceal last night’s mark, but I’ve remained anxious of any slips all evening.
“Another minute of her droning, and I might just fake another stroke,” Ajoba murmurs beside me. He’s reached the last poem of his collection and shuts it with a mournful sigh.
My lips quirk in spite of myself, but I still give my grandfather a look. “Don’t make jokes like that,” I whisper.
“Where was the joke?” he says, deadpan.
Thankfully, Shilpa Aunty chooses this moment to wind down. “And so,” she says, raising her glass of mango lassi high, fuchsia-painted lips stretched in a broad smile. “I am so pleased to welcome Anjali into the family, as the second most important woman in Shekar’s life!”
Cheers and light laughter and a few titters sound. I sneak a glance at the bride, who remains impressively expressionless.Ajoba and I wince at each other. Indian boy moms truly are a case study in Freudian relationships.
But at long last, Shilpa Aunty takes her seat, and the DJ announces we’re free to grab appetizers before the performances begin. Our table is among the first to be called up, and I beeline for the pani puri fountain in the back. I’ve been eyeing it since our arrival. This is always my favorite part of any fancy Desi function.
I stuff a few puris with the spiced mint-cilantro water, as is customary, but I also grab a cup to fill to the brim with the teekha pani. I take a sip and release a happy breath. I know it’s a faux pas, but pani puri water has been my most beloved beverage since girlhood.
I feel his presence behind me before I even hear his voice. “What are youdoing?” Kush asks, amusement lacing his words.
My eyes narrow at the judgment as I whirl around. “Enjoying my drink?” I say. “At least, I was.”
He ignores the childish dig and clucks his tongue. “You and your drinking habits,” he says, and against my will, my cheeks flush at the allusion.
I wish it escaped me, but it’s impossible not to notice how lovely he looks today. He’s dressed in a classic black sherwani, an intricately embroidered dupatta slung around his neck to match. Cuffed sleeves expose a sliver of forearm and a single silver bangle around his wrist. His hair is parted softly at the center, a stray curl dipping just to his brows. I wrap my arms around myself to keep from doing something ridiculous like touching him again, and my chudiyan clatter.
The response I come up with is: “Don’t knock it till you try it.”
He reaches for my glass. I allow it, and wordless, he takes a few thoughtful sips. “Refreshing,” he says at last, passing it back. “I was wrong.”
“Typical,” I say. I turn back to the fountain to top off my glass and stuff a couple more puris while I’m at it.
“Did you like the toast?” he asks me next. The question is ironic; I lack Anjali’s poker face. It’s likely Kush caught my grimace throughout.
“I like that it’s over,” I say. “Feels like I just survived a war.”
“So the usual post Shilpa Aunty feeling,” he quips, and I duck my head so he doesn’t see my lips twitch.
Goods assembled, I start for the table, but Kush blocks my way, and I’m forced to halt. “Rani,” he says, face going wary and apologetic.
Realization sparks, and irritation climbs in my throat. “No!” I blurt.
He cocks his head, confused. “No?”
My nostrils flare. “No,” I repeat, firm. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. Excuse me.” I try to push past him, but he intercepts me again, mouth in a line.
“We’ve got to talk about it.”
“Since when?”
