A good Indian Girl

Chapter 5

Anjali couldn't believe her ears. One minute Henry vowed to hate her the next he wanted to "fix" things. What is he thinking? She couldn't wrap her head around it. She looked at the clock, 2:38 a.m. She let out a sigh and pushed herself out of bed. She decided to see what was streaming and browsed through Romance and Drama.

"No thanks," she said aloud.

She ended up watching an episode of Friends, the one where Ross and Rachel were on a break. Anjali laughed as Ross yelled, "We were on a break!" She laughed and then suddenly began to cry. She let the show keep playing and just kept crying. Her frustration and hurt getting the better of her. Ugh, I don't understand my life.

She froze at the sound of the doorbell. Who could be here this late? She slowly walked to the front door and looked through the peephole. Upon realizing who it was she let out a gasp and her head fell on the door.

"I can see the light from your television, open the door!"

Resigned, she opened the door allowing her mother and her obviously annoyed father through.

"Why can't you call your mother back?" Anjali's mother shouted as she made her way through the living room. "Just because we are in America, please do not treat me like an American!" She walked into the kitchen and took a seat at the table. Ma loved the perks of America, often humming the national anthem at a Macy's two-day sale, but cherished her culture first and foremost.

Anjali's parents were not of your typical Indian family but held many traditions and customs close to their hearts. Her mother, Parvati was born in Sigatoka, a small town in the Fiji Islands that sat at the mouth of the Sigatoka River. Born to an Indian farmer and a native Fijian woman she was often referred to as a half-caste. As a child she would help her family grow fruits and vegetables and sell them at the market. She hated to have to get her hands dirty but when she spoke of her childhood she spoke with reverence and seemed to get lost in her stroll down memory lane.

Anjali's father, Ashok, was also from Fiji. He was from Lami, a beautiful coastal town. Ashok loved the beach and ocean mist on his face growing up. His father, being a fisherman, would take him to explore the ocean around them. Hard work and determination were taught to him at a very young age. His father, though proud of his work, wanted more for Ashok and made him apply himself in school.

Ashok focused on his studies, and at twenty, he immigrated by himself to America. Once he graduated from medical school, and at the insistence of his mother, he married. He was twenty-six. His marriage allowed him to bring his new wife, his parents, and Parvati's parents to America.

As he was never one for dramatics and oftentimes chose to let his wife lead the inner workings of the home, Ashok followed closely behind Parvati, not saying a word.

Anjali turned off the television and joined them in the kitchen. She instinctively began making masala chai for her parents and waited for them to begin.

"So, why have you yet to answer me?" Parvati growled, "I have to drive two whole hours to this city to see you, this better be good."

"Lucky for me you weren't driving," Ashok forced a smile, wanting to alleviate the tension in the room and on his wife's shoulders.

"Ma, I just missed a few calls, I was busy... I was planning on calling you back," Anjali said with her back to her parents.

"Look at me," her mother's no-nonsense voice was in full effect, "busy with what?"

"Nothing, Ma. I had a long day, my phone died, I planned on calling — "

"Are you still seeing that American boy?" Ashok asked. He hated beating around the bush.

Wait, since when did he know about Henry? "Um, what?" Anjali's eyes widened.

"Answer my question," Ashok's temperature rose, he was never one for deception. Anjali was young, he understood her desire to do what she wanted, but that didn't mean she could throw her responsibilities away. He leaned back in his chair and tried to contain his temper.

"I-I'm not." Anjali decided not to beat around the truth. Somehow her father had found out about Henry, but how?

"So, what's the problem? I am trying to plan the wedding of my...your dreams," her mother exaggerated as Anjali set a steaming cup of chai in front of her.

Before she could place a cup in front of her father, he refused it with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Listen beti, I know that this isn't easy," Ashok's voice began to soften, "but we had an agreement. I let you come here for school and enjoy the time you asked for, but you have to honor your side of the deal. You will marry Nikhil, none of this funny business. You can either live up to that promise and make me happy or disappoint me."

Her father got up and made his way to the guest room, he was tired and didn't feel like having a heart to heart. This surprised Anjali, her father's tone was stern and his demeanor irritable, that wasn't like him to not even hear her response.

"Anjali," her mother cooed, grabbing her attention, "Papa and I love you. I understand how hard this is but if you only knew why this was so important for all of us —"

Her mother's voice was cut short by the sound of the doorbell. Anjali got up, and without checking, opened the door. She screamed and slammed it shut. Ashok ran from the guest room to see what the commotion was all about. Without a word, he stepped in front of Anjali and yanked the door back.

"Who are you?"

"Hello, I am Henry, Henry Cade," Henry smiled and extended his hand to meet Anjali's father.

Ashok took a step back trying to catch his bearings, his brow furrowed as he looked from Henry's smiling face to his daughter's petrified one. Ashok drew in a breath and squared his shoulders. Instead of shaking his hand, Henry was reintroduced to the front door as Ashok slammed it on him.

Ashok let out his breath, locked the door, then turned to Anjali, "So, you choose to disappoint me?"