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to say to him sometimes when we were on our own. I don’t know when it happened—maybe around the Bobby era. And it made me sad, because I really did love my dad and whenever we had to write Hero papers I wrote about him and how no matter how hard he was working at the hospital he always had time to show me how to draw a face in proportion or solve an equation or hear all the details about my day. And he’d always tucked me in. But somehow whenever the two of us were out alone now we ended up working each other’s nerves.
    —She’s taking a very long time, isn’t she? my father tittered.—And it is worrying, as she most certainly has the American Express with her.
    We both knew my mother liked to gaze into the glass cases at jewelry stores, and even sometimes have the salespeople unlock them so she could try on the flashing bracelets, the blinding rings. But if she liked something she usually made a mental note of the design and had a version of it created in India for a fraction of the price. She really wasn’t dangerous with a credit card—it was just an easy thing to say, like, Can you believe this heat? to a stranger in an elevator. It made me sad that my dad and I talked as if we were in an elevator.
    —Are you hungry? he said now, rubbing his right arm.—We can order for her. She’ll be here any minute, I’m sure.
    That was at least something to do.
    I’d drunk half of the coffee ice cream concoction we’d ordered for my mom (as well as my own) by the time she suddenly burst upon us, face flaming with excitement.
    —Where were you? asked my dad a little petulantly.
    —You’ll never believe whom I just saw! my mother cried, squeezing in next to me.
    —Who?
    —Radha Kapoor!
    —Who’s Radha Kapoor? I asked.
    — Radha Radha? said my father, a tiny fried clam dropping out the corner of his stunned mouth.
    —Yes! I tried to convince her to join us, but she was parked illegally and had to go.
    —That’s Radha! I’m happy to see she hasn’t changed in all this time. Ram, it’s been years since I’ve seen that woman.
    —Who’s Radha Kapoor? I repeated.
    —Radha was one of my dearest friends in college and med school in Bombay, said my mother.—I knew her even before your father, and she met her husband around the same time I met Daddy. It was on a double date—we were supposed to be chaperoning them! Radha and I did everything together. She was like…she was like my Gwyn.
    —Really? I said, interested at the mention of Gwyn.
    —What on earth is she doing here? my father asked.
    —She’s just moved to the area and set up an ob-gyn practice in the Manhattan. And you’ll never believe where she’s living—that last house on Lake View!
    —Aaray baapray! exclaimed my father.—It will be wonderful to see her! And Samish was with her?
    —No, she said something about business in India. He must be tying up loose ends. But…
    My mother looked at us slyly.
    —She is here with her son.
    —Son?
    My dad’s interest perked. It was as discernible as a coffee machine clicking on.
    —Son. Who happens to be just a bit older than Dimple.
    —A bit older than Dimple, said my father, ever the apt English pupil.
    —Who is studying at the NYU. Computer engineering and Sanskrit.
    —And Sanskrit.
    —Who is single, said my mother, sitting down satisfied and punching open her straw on the last syllable.
    —Single! Dimple, did you hear that?
    —I’m sitting right here, I said.
    —We’ll have to have them over for chai! said my father.—What do you think, Dimple?
    Uh oh—I didn’t like where this conversation was heading one bit. The matchmaking was definitely on. Ever since my folks got the news that Sangita was having her marriage arranged by Meera Maasi and Dilip Kaka back in India they’d been dropping hints galore (about how wonderful it was that she was keeping up with tradition, how nice it would be to have a suitable Indian boy in the family) and suddenly, it seemed, ringing all their