What a Desi Girl Wants

by Sabina Khan

Genres: YA LGBT & Pride; YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

The romance of Becky Albertalli meets the nuanced family dynamics of Darius the Great is Not Okay in this YA novel from acclaimed author Sabina Khan.

 

Mehar hasn't been back to India since she and her mother moved away when she was six. Her father made it clear that she was not his priority when he chose not to come to the United States with them.

 

But when her father announces his engagement to socialite Naz, Mehar reluctantly agrees to return for the wedding. Maybe she and her father can finally heal their broken relationship. And either way, her father is Indian royalty, and the famil home is a palace--the wedding is going to be a once-in-a-lifetime affair.

 

Once she arrives in India, Mehar meets Sufiya, her grandmother's assistant. Though they come from totally different worlds, their friendship slowly starts to blossom into something more . . . Mehar thinks.

 

Meanwhile, Mehar's dislike for Naz and her social media influencer daughter, Aleena, deepens. She can tell the two of them are just using her father for his money. Mehar's starting to think that putting a stop to this wedding might be the best thing for everyone involved.

 

But what happens when telling her father the truth about Naz and Aleena means putting her relationship with Sufiya at risk?

 

Mehar knows what she wants. Making it happen is a whole other story.

 

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Release date: July 18, 2023

Publisher: Scholastic Press

Print pages: 282

Sample

Chapter 1

I glare at my phone screen, willing the image on it to disappear or for the phone to spontaneously combust. Anything to erase what I’m looking at.

A few months ago I started following Aleena Obaid, an Indian social media influencer. She’s also the daughter of Naz, the socialite my dad started dating earlier this year. Aleena’s feed consists mostly of parties at opulent venues, incredible fashion, and perfectly styled photos—and my dad sometimes shows up in them too. I’ve gotten used to that. But now the caption of Aleena’s latest post proclaims her desi royalty as soon-to-be stepdaughter of Nawab Reza Rabbani of Agra, India.

That’s right—I have just found out through a social media post that my dad, whom I haven’t spoken to recently or seen in almost a year, is engaged to marry Aleena’s mother. I guess I should have answered when he called earlier.

Given how materialistic Aleena obviously is, her mother is probably some gold digger who’s after my dad’s royal title and wealth. Two things of which I know very little since I live with my mom in Newton, Kansas, a city known for … well, nothing much.

A loud clattering in the kitchen startles me. I smell something burning and quickly slide my phone into the back pocket of my jeans as Mom walks out, globs of something stuck in her hair and traces of her battle with dinner prep on her apron.

I raise my eyebrows. “I’ll order pizza?”

She nods wordlessly on her way to the bathroom. I grab my phone and order a large mushroom, onion, and jalapeño pizza.

“Mehar, did you remember to bring in the mail?” Mom is back, all cleaned up.

I nod at the pile of unopened mail on the dining table, surrounded by papers, notebooks, packages, and everything else that gets dumped there.

“By the way,” I add. “… Dad called earlier today.”

“Yeah? What did he say?” Mom pages through the mail, adding a bunch of flyers to a growing stack of recycling.

“I didn’t pick up.” I avoid looking at her.

“Well, honey, you’re going to have to talk to him sometime,” she says. She walks over to the couch and settles in. I join her, tucking my legs under me and leaning against her shoulder.

“I don’t know what to say.” I mean, I didn’t even before I found out that he was starting a whole new life without me. I know my mom is going to learn the news soon, but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud.

She brushes back my hair and bends to kiss my forehead. “Just tell him what you told me. I know you want to patch things up, and he’ll understand. He’s your dad, and he loves you—”

Without thinking, I interrupt her. “If he loves me so much, how come he’s not here, Mom? I mean, it’s easy to call every now and then, but maybe he can try harder to actually be a part of my life, don’t you think?”

I immediately regret my words. I can tell how much it hurts Mom every time I bring up the fact that my father decided to stay in India with his mother and sisters rather than live with us here. I wish I had more control over my tongue, because the last thing I want is to cause Mom any more pain. She’s already had more than her share in her life. But I get so angry whenever I think about Dad and how he chose not to be in my life the way a father should. All I get are occasional visits, as if I don’t matter.

“Look, Mom, I want to fix things with Dad, you know I do.” I look into her eyes, trying to calm the anger that rises inside me whenever I think about my father. “But I’m also so mad at him. All the time. I don’t know what to do.”

Mom doesn’t say anything, and I let out a deep sigh and snuggle even closer to her. I’ve mastered the art of not adulting, and I think I like it right here.

A little later, we’ve watched two recorded episodes of The Voice and devoured an entire pizza, and I have to peel myself off the couch. I have a late shift at the seniors’ home in downtown Newton, where my best friend, Norah, and I work part-time.

November in Kansas is typically nicer, but today the skies are gray and cloudy. I peer through the windshield of my thirdhand truck, regretting that I ran out of the house without my raincoat or umbrella. Now I’m going to get soaked running through the parking lot and I’ll have to borrow

 scrubs from one of the nurses to make it through my shift. They’re always too big because I’m barely five foot two, and I look like I’m playing dress-up. It’s hard enough to get the seniors to take me seriously. Especially old Mr. Watkins, who never wants to sit still during craft time and says he doesn’t have to listen to anyone who barely reaches up to his waist. Short or not, I beat him at chess every time.

Norah and I always try to sign up for the same shifts. It makes the time go faster because after crafts and the occasional dance sessions, the residents are pretty tired and it’s kind of hard for us to stay awake. Usually we work on school stuff, but today neither of us has much left to finish.

I pull out my phone, open the Instagram app to Aleena’s post, and shove it under Norah’s face.

“Is that Aleena? She always looks like a model.”

“Sure, yeah. Anyway, she just posted this.” Norah gives me a questioning look and I purse my lips. “My dad’s getting remarried.”

CHAPTER 2

“Wait … what? To that Naz woman?” Norah has grabbed my phone and is reading the caption. “And what does she mean she’s about to become desi royalty?”

I take a peek. “Oh yeah … that.”

Norah gives me one of her Unbelievable^™ looks. “You never told me you were royalty.”

I roll my eyes at her. “I’m not. But my dad is … kind of. He’s a nawab.”

“A na-what? Explain, please.”

“Nawab. It’s kind of a royal title back in India from the olden days. After the British barged in, they basically took all the land from most of the nawabs, but some of them got to keep their titles. These days it’s all really in name only, but it’s still a big deal in Indian society.”

“Wow.” Norah looks a little stunned. “So, I’m sitting next to a bona fide Indian princess in the break room of Sunshine Manor right here in the heart of Kansas? That’s pretty wild.”

I shrug. “I’m pretty sure I was disowned years ago.”

“Because your mom left and brought you back here?”

I nod. “I don’t think we get to keep the title, especially after we basically rejected them.”

Norah knows all about my mom and dad’s history, about how my mom didn’t want to live with my dad’s family anymore because there were way too many rules and not enough personal freedom. At least that’s what Mom always says about her life in India. She gave it her best shot at first, even stayed a few years, but in the end, she didn’t want me to grow up with so many restrictions. She gave Dad a choice, and he chose his family over us. He chose to stay. So, she came back with me and built a new life for the two of us. And I like it just the way it is. Most of the time.

“I hate this,” I say. “Aleena is all about the money and fancy cars and expensive clothes. I don’t know her mom, but I’m pretty sure that they’re only in it for his wealth.”

“I thought you didn’t care what your dad does?” Norah says. “At least that’s what you’ve always said.”

“I don’t … I mean, sure, he can do what he wants. If he wants to marry Aleena’s mother, then that’s his choice. But it’s not fair …” I trail off. It’s not that I want my dad’s money, but it doesn’t seem right that she should be able to show up and use it either.

Norah pulls out a packet of red Twizzlers from her bag and opens it. She holds it out to me and I absentmindedly pull out a few strings and bite into one of them.

“She must be raking in big bucks for all the promo she’s doing,” Norah says, continuing to scroll through Aleena’s feed. “It looks like she has a big following.”

“Nah, there’s no way she can make enough to afford that lifestyle. I bet my dad’s paying for all of it.”

“Well, you’ll find out eventually,” Norah says. “I mean, if your dad is marrying her mom, she’s going to be your stepsister.”

I glare at her. “You take that back, okay? She’s going to be in my father’s life, not mine!”

“I thought you said you were going to try to fix things with your dad.”

I love Norah, but some days I regret telling her my deepest, darkest secrets, because she always manages to bring them up at the most inconvenient times.

“Sure, but this complicates things.” I walk over to the coffee machine and fill a paper cup with the black sludge. “You want some?”

She shakes her head no. “So … do you think you’ll go?”

“Where? To the wedding?” I give a hollow laugh. “No way, I don’t want any part of it. Plus … I haven’t exactly been invited yet.”

If I’m being honest with myself, that part really stings. Almost as much as finding out on social media that my dad is getting married again. Even though I know it’s probably my fault for avoiding his calls, the fact that he went ahead with it without telling us feels like he’s officially giving up on Mom and me. Pfft. Communication is so overrated. Who needs it anyway?

***

I’ve jinxed myself. The invitation arrives a couple of days later, addressed to me. I’m surprised by my sudden curiosity as I open the envelope, carefully sliding out the card. It’s gorgeous and delicate, with a cream lace inset and gold embossing. It screams old wealth. Mom always talks about that whenever she talks about the palace, her ex–in-laws, and Dad. They come from old generational wealth, the kind that’s in their blood. Mom says that at first it was awesome not having to worry about money, being able to buy whatever she wanted. But then it started to feel excessive and wasteful and it filled her with guilt. She didn’t have to step too far from the palace grounds to see that so many people lived in abject poverty, and there wasn’t much she could do about it. Before she left, she did manage to connect with a couple of organizations that did important work on the ground in Agra, groups that helped the most vulnerable, and she kept in touch with them over the years to donate and help out even from right here in Kansas.

I stuff the wedding invitation back into my bag. I have no idea how Mom will react to the news. Sometimes I wonder whether she really has moved on. Every now and then I catch her lost in thought, her mind somewhere far away, and I know she’s thinking about him, about her life before we moved back here. And I can’t help thinking that maybe she regrets it; maybe just being my mom is not enough. I mean, I know I’m pretty amazing as far as daughters go, because no one else knows exactly how she likes her coffee or how she prefers to sit on the left side of the couch. And no one can make her laugh the way I do. Norah says I’m not as funny as I think I am, but what does she know? Mom always laughs at all my jokes and she wouldn’t fake it. Would she?

But my avoidance only lasts so long. We’re sitting down to dinner the next day when Mom’s phone erupts in the Jonas Brothers’ “I Believe.” Someone needs a talk about ringtone choices. It’s Dad calling on WhatsApp.

“Mehar, can you get that, please?” Mom walks away and pretends to look for something in the kitchen, but I know what’s really going on. Lately she’s been avoiding Dad’s calls too. She thinks I haven’t noticed, but I have. Does she know about Naz? Is Mom on Instagram?

The ringing is driving me up the wall and I figure I’ll have to talk to Dad eventually, so now seems as good a time as any. Plus, the wedding invitation is burning a hole in my bag.

I take a deep breath and swipe up to accept the call just in time to see Dad’s face disappear from the screen to be replaced by Dadi’s. Or at least Dadi’s nose.

I haven’t had a video call with my grandmother for a while, and every time I see her and my dad together, I’m struck by how similar they look. They both have the classic aristocratic noses of their Mughal ancestors and the same intense, deep-set eyes. And they could both pass for white. I take more after Mom, with the darker brown skin and larger nose. Plus, I’m not tall and slender like Dad’s side of the family, and neither is Mom. We’re both rounder and also like to eat real food, unlike Dad, who swears off carbs and believes in sports. He’s one of the top polo players in India and runs for fun. The only time I would run voluntarily is to chase after Ariana Grande or Harry Styles if they showed up anywhere near me.

“Hello, Mehar beta, how are you?” My grandmother speaks English fluently, but while Dad has sort of a British accent thanks to his English boarding school education, hers is purely North Indian. She rolls her r’s and has an almost musical cadence to her speech, which I find kind of cool. Dad, on the other hand, sounds very proper even when he’s trying to be funny, which makes what he’s saying seem way more hilarious than it actually is.

“I’m good, Dadi,” I say to her nostrils. “How are you?”

“I am also fine, but I miss you so much.” She moves the phone so I can now see the intricate web of veins on the inside of her ear. “Your dad says that you might be coming here for the wedding. Is that true? You must stay for a month at least. It would make me so happy to see you again before I die.”

My eyes dart to Mom, partly out of panic and partly out of relief that now I don’t have to be the one to break this news to her. But her face is completely neutral, which is somehow more unsettling than if she’d walked out of the room or something. And of course Dad is being so totally on-brand for using his mother to guilt me into going to India. And also, for Dadi to pretend like she’s on death’s door. She’s been doing it for years.

What am I supposed to say to that?

“I’ll see, Dadi,” I hedge. “I have a job lined up for winter break and I’ll have to make sure that it’s okay with them.” Even as I’m saying the words, I kick myself mentally. What am I doing? I could have easily said no because I’ve already committed to a job. Now I’ve just prolonged the torture. What is wrong with me?

Dadi finally holds the phone in front of her face. “Why do you need to do a job, betiya?” she says. “You father is still alive, no? And it’s important to visit your home, hai na? It’s been too long.”

“Okay, Dadi, I promise I’ll try.” It’s the best way I can think of ending this conversation that’s giving me all kinds of anxiety. I’m pretty sure I can easily find someone who will cover my shifts at the mall. I’m much less sure of whether I want to even try. A part of me can’t help wondering if this might be my last chance to fix things between Dad and me. The other part is fine with leaving things the way they are—awkward but only when we actually talk, which is rare these days. But if I go there, I’ll be putting myself smack in the middle of the mess. I don’t know if I’m ready for that or if I’ll ever be.

“Let me speak to your mother,” Dadi says. “Is she there?”

I can see Mom out of the corner of my eye, shaking her head frantically and making murderous throat-slitting gestures with her hand. I shake my head. Mom can be so weird sometimes.

“Actually she had to step away for a bit,” I lie smoothly from years and years of practice. “I’ll tell her you called.”

“Yes, please, and tell her to call me back one of these days.” Dadi doesn’t look like she believes me at all, but we’ve been playing this game for a long time.

Dad’s face pops up on the screen.

“How is everything going, Mehar?” he says. “All good at school?”

“Yes, Dad. Everything’s good. Listen … about the—”

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you, Mehar,” he interrupts. “Why haven’t you been responding to any of my messages? I don’t know if you saw yet, but—

“Yes, I did,” I say quietly. “I saw it on Instagram.”

“On Instagram?” He sighs loudly on the other side of the world. “I told her to wait,” he mutters. “Look, I’m sorry you had to find out that way. I wanted to tell you about it myself, but you never answer your phone.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” I mumble. “Anyway … about the wedding, I don’t—”

“You got the invitation card, right?” he says. “I’ll arrange all of it. I’ll fly you out first class, and you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“Thank you, Dad,

but—”

“And don’t worry about this job of yours,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken at all. “I told you I would take care of college. Just do your best at school and make sure you get into the best one, okay, beta?”

There’s no point in trying to get him to listen. Nothing ever changes with him.

“Okay, Dad, sure,” I say resignedly, and we end the call.

I toss the phone on the couch and sit down with an exaggerated sigh.

“So, he’s getting married again. And you got an invitation,” Mom says. “When were you going to tell me about it?”

“Never?” I say sheepishly, grabbing my bag to pull out the card. I hand it to her wordlessly. She stares at the card and I wait for her to say something. I’m not sure what to do here. I showed Mom Aleena’s Insta feed when I first started following her, so I’m sure on some level she may have suspected this was coming, but to see the actual card announcing the wedding has got to be hard. Then again, Mom’s a pragmatist. She never expected Dad to stay single for this long, especially not with my grandmother probably hounding him to remarry and give her some real Indian grandchildren. The kind who wouldn’t be strangers to her.

I watch Mom’s carefully composed face. I wasn’t sure how she’d react, but her expression doesn’t reveal even an iota of sadness or regret.

“You should go,” she says quietly.

“What?” I don’t know what to think of her calm demeanor. In the past she’s made it very clear to Dad that she would never want me to visit him in India, especially not by myself. Not that he’s ever invited me before. At least not as far as I know. What changed?

“Your dad mentioned a while back that your grandmother isn’t doing too well and it would be good to visit during the break. And then you might as well stay for the wedding.”

So, it sounds like this change of heart is guilt-induced. I don’t know how I feel about this.

“But I was going to work at Santa’s Village at the mall, and then Norah and I were supposed to go to her parents’ cabin. You know that.” I can hear my voice getting whiny, which means I know Mom’s going to try to convince me to be reasonable and see things from Dad’s point of view. I hate being reasonable.

“I know, honey,” Mom says. She reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. “But your grandmother is getting older. You may not have a whole lot of time left to spend with her.”

I don’t remember much about my grandmother from when we were together. I haven’t been back since we moved, and I was only six at the time. My memories of her consist of a few special moments, like my fourth birthday, when she threw a huge party and invited every single one of our relatives. But that was mostly for her and for the grown-ups, because I don’t remember having a lot of fun. There was a lot of cheek pinching and admonishing whenever I tried to get some of the other kids to play with me. There were many reminders of how proper young ladies didn’t run around screaming, pretending to be pirates. I do have vivid memories of my mom getting into it with my

grandmother, because no one gets to me without having to go through her first. I scrunch up my face. “I don’t think she even likes me.”

“Of course she does. She loves you. She’s just old-school, so you have to be a little … you know, less yourself when you’re around her. And this will give you a chance to reconnect with your father.”

“But what about school? I can’t just leave for a whole month. I’ll miss two weeks.”

“Mehar, you know you can catch up easily,” Mom says. “Norah will keep you in the loop and you can do a little bit while you’re away. You know they have computers and the internet there too, right?” she adds with a grin.

“You’re hilarious.” Sometimes I don’t like it when she’s right about stuff.

But I guess it’s true that I might not have many more chances to see my grandmother, and if I don’t go this time, I will probably regret it.

“It’s going to be so weird being there,” I say, thinking about how I’ll have to see Aleena and her mom. My future stepmother. Eww.

“It’ll be fine,” Mom reassures me. Easy for her to say. She’s not the one who’s going to spend weeks with an airheaded social media influencer and her gold-digging mother.

“You don’t know that.” I feel like I’m going to start hyperventilating. When I woke up this morning, I thought this was going to be a normal boring day, and now it looks like I’m going to be spending my winter break thousands of miles away in my sort-of-estranged father’s palace, watching him start a new life with his new family. How is this my life now?

CHAPTER 3

“You’re not going to believe this, ...