There's Something About Sweetie(9)

Amma looked at her over her glasses as she took off her apron and sat at the table with a cup of chai. Sweetie went to sit by her with an apple and a chai of her own. “Why?”

Sweetie shrugged. “Just … I saw a picture of him in the paper. And I wondered if you knew the family.”

“They’re very prominent. Kartik Patel is the CEO of Global Comm, and their first son, Rishi, is supposed to be matched with a good girl at Stanford, Dimple Shah. I don’t know much about the younger boy, but he seems to be on track to get into a good university. He’s very handsome, Tina auntie says.”

Of course she did. Tina auntie had a rating system of the prettiest desi girls and handsomest desi boys in her head at all times. She was like a walking Indian version of People magazine. Needless to say, Sweetie did not rank anywhere on her list. In fact, she was probably on some anti-list of some kind, knowing Tina auntie. “Top Ten Fat Feminist Desi Girls to Keep Your Boys Away from Before They Go Over to the Dark Side” or “Five Girls Whose Bodies Do Not Match Their Pretty Faces—BEWARE.” To Tina auntie, Sweetie’s fatness was both outrageous and personally offensive.

Amma turned around the magazine she was reading. “You can wear this for your birthday party, mol.” It was a voluminous, somewhat shapeless salwar kameez made of thick silver brocade fabric. Sweetie was pretty sure she’d seen the mother of a celebrity wear it in one of Tina auntie’s Bollywood gossip magazines.

“Um, yeah, I guess I could. …” Setting her apple down, Sweetie grabbed a catalog from the stack in the center of the table. Her sweaty palms stuck to the pages as she flipped through it, her movements feeling artificial and weird. Surely Amma could tell something was up? Wiping her palms on her shirt, Sweetie took a few surreptitious deep breaths. Come on, Sweetie, she told herself. What would Aretha Franklin do? She’d toss the catalog to Amma and demand some R-E-S-P-E-C-T, that’s what. Sweetie flipped to the dog-eared page in the catalog and stared at the picture for a good ten seconds, psyching herself up. “Actually, Amma …” Her voice came out a squeak. Dang it. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I was, um, kind of thinking maybe something like this instead?” She slid the catalog over, her eyes on the page and nowhere near her mother’s.

Amma took the catalog and studied the page, her face giving away nothing. Sweetie could see the outfit through her eyes: It was an Anarkali suit. The top was made of the most gorgeous emerald-green georgette fabric—long and flowy and mid-shin-length—and would expose just a bit of the pale-gold leg-hugging pants underneath. But the style of the top was what had caught Sweetie’s eye and heart. It was a halter cut, and her upper back would be bare. Best of all? They made it in plus sizes.

Sweetie knew Amma wasn’t opposed to halter-cut clothes like some other Indian parents. Last Diwali, when Tina auntie’s daughter, Sheena, had shown up in one, she had actually complimented her. Of course, Sheena was a size two. And therein lay the rub.

“It’s really cute,” Sweetie rushed to put in when Amma continued to study the picture in silence. The sound of her thundering heart almost drowned out her words. “And I think that color would look really good with my eyes. You know how you say they’re light brown until I wear something green and then they look green? Plus, it comes prestitched, so you wouldn’t have to take it to—”

“Mati. That’s enough. You can’t wear that.” Amma put the catalog in the stack without looking at Sweetie.

“But …”

“No. People will laugh.”

Sweetie swallowed the lump in her throat. Of course Amma was embarrassed. Why wouldn’t she be? Sweetie was no size two, and apparently to her, that meant Sweetie was shameful, something to be hidden. Sweetie felt the bitter burn of hurt. “So?” she found herself saying. “Who cares?”

Amma looked up sharply. “Me. I care. You would too.”

Sweetie stared at her, feeling that old pressing, weighing sense of disappointment. “Right. Okay, then. I won’t wear that. I wouldn’t want you and Achchan to be embarrassed by me.” She got up.

“Sweetie, it’s not … That is, I’m not worried about …,” Amma said, but when Sweetie waited, she stopped and shook her head. “Nothing. There’s nothing to say.”

Sweetie nodded and turned to go to her room. “Big surprise,” she said under her breath, her eyes glinting with tears.




“Chef really outdid himself this time,” Pappa said, leaning back and belching quietly. “That kulfi was out of this world. Never tasted anything that came close to …” Then, seeing Ma’s expression, he added hastily, “Of course, it’s nothing compared to yours, Sunita!”

Ma laughed easily. “It’s okay, Kartikji. After twenty years of marriage, I suppose I can take a little competition. Plus, if Chef frees up my evenings and I don’t have to cook, then I’m a happy woman!”

She turned to smile at Ashish, and he returned it just a moment too late. Her smile faded. “Thik ho, beta?”

“I’m fine,” Ashish replied. Then, forcing himself to take a bite of his dessert: “Yeah, this kulfi’s great, Pappa.”

There was silence around the table, punctuated only by Ashish’s spoon scraping against the small clay pot, or matka, the Indian ice cream had been served in. Ashish glanced up at both his parents; they were watching him with concern. Pappa’s bushy eyebrows were pulled so low, Ashish could barely see his eyes. Jeez. As much of a pain in the butt as Rishi was, at least he’d been another person for them to pay attention to. Since Rishi left for college, it felt like 149 percent of their attention was always laser-focused on him.