Page 14 of Debugging Love

I push my Coke Zero out of the frame. “Uh huh.”

Next to Mom, Dad looks half asleep, his hooded eyelids weighing around ten pounds each. With effort, he lifts his eyes and looks past the camera lens. “Drink your water, Adi.”

“I am.”

Mom scoots to the edge of her chair. “You’re eating too many trans fats. When you get home, I’m fixing you spirulina smoothies to detox your liver.”

“It was my LEDs, Mom.”

“You need to be here.”

“I like it here,” I say.

Dadi appears on the screen, bent over, peering at me. I hear the screech of her chair as she pulls it over the stone tiles. She sits between Mom and Dad forcing them to scoot to the sides.

“That is the problem,” Dadi says. She’s dressed in a silk navy saree with gold detailing. Her hair is tied in a bun with a few wispy hairs already coming loose in front. “Rishi, tell him that is the problem.”

“Why is it a problem?” I ask.

“Oh nothing,” Dadi replies. “Your father is just over here making sure you have a happy future. It’s no big deal whatsoever. You don’t need to worry about it.”

Dadi lives in the guest house behind my mom and dad’s. Since my family moved to India, she’s been active in my life, and my mom–to her credit–has always been respectful of Dadi’s traditions. Dadi wasn’t happy when I came over here. Not in the slightest. If it were up to her, I’d already be married and working for Dad.

I lean back in my chair. “I’m not worried about it,” I say lightheartedly, trying to diffuse the tension on Mom and Dadi’s faces.

“Well, you should be.” Dadi’s voice raises a few notches. “Navya’s parents have called it off. After all the gifts and the dinners and the kind exchanges.” She nudges Dad who lifts his head and blinks.

Navya and I went to school together. She’s a hard worker in the kitchen (so I’ve been told), she comes from money, and Dadi has determined she’s solid, healthy stock.

The only time Navya and I spoke was when our families gathered over her mother’s cooking, and even then, our conversations were sparse. Our parents did most of the talking.Did our families get along? Did we have similar interests? Were our child-rearing philosophies the same?

Dadi is convinced Navya is my perfect match. Privately, I told Dad I want a love match, and he agreed to give me a year to find one. That was eight months ago.

Not that arranged marriages don’t work. Statistically they do. But there’s no zing with Navya. She’s pretty and kind, but she isn’t my soulmate.

“What do you suppose we do, Jyotiraditya?” Dadi asks. “How are we going to win Navya and her family back?”

“There’s nothingIcan do about it. You’re there. I’m here.”

“Exactly. That is the problem.” Dadi turns to my dad again. “Tell him that is the problem.”

Dad nods and flicks his hand.

“They think you’re being corrupted by America,” Mom says.

“Navya’s parents?”

“Navya also,” Dadi says.

“How am I being corrupted?”

Dadi leans forward. “I’ve heard about all the gun-toting, and the Hollywood movies, and the booty culture.” Exasperation causes her volume to rise further.

“Booty culture?”

“Booty calls, and Brazilian booty lifts, and Kim Kardassian bootylicious badonkadunk.”

“It’s badonka-donk.”

---