Isha, Unscripted


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 BERKLEY
 An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
 penguinrandomhouse.com
 
 Copyright © 2023 by Sajni Patel
 Readers Guide copyright © 2023 by Sajni Patel
 Excerpt copyright © 2023 by Sajni Patel
 Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
 BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
 Names: Patel, Sajni, 1981- author.
 Title: Isha, unscripted / Sajni Patel.
 Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2023.
 Identifiers: LCCN 2022025630 (print) | LCCN 2022025631 (ebook) |
 ISBN 9780593547830 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593547847 (ebook)
 Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.
 Classification: LCC PS3616.A86649 I84 2023 (print) |
 LCC PS3616.A86649 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220531
 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022025630
 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022025631
 First Edition: February 2023
 Cover design by Rita Frangie
 Cover art by Louise Billyard
 Book design by George Towne, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 pid_prh_6.0_142459014_c0_r0
 
 
 
 To the Brohan. I know you didn’t want a book inspired by your awesomeness, yet here we are. You’re too amazing not to share with the world.
 
 
 Chapter 1
 When Mummie sent me off to college ten years ago with a prayer over my head and a sweet to my lips, she’d said, “Excel in school, beta. Don’t bring shame to your family.”
 Shame came.
 Everyone and their uncle had my dad’s ear on how he could’ve possibly allowed this embarrassment to continue. That was right. The Asian equivalent to American kids going to raves and experimenting was being a lit major. Every auntie locked up her sons when I came around toting my voluptuous love of the arts and sultry grasp of grammar. Forbid that my mastery over the written word seduce good Indian boys.
 Worse yet? I left college.
 Hello, two-time college dropout, was that you?
 Third time was a charm. But it wasn’t exactly what my parents had hoped for.
 “A degree in film and theater!” Papa had bellowed. “Was that what I’ve been paying for this entire time?”
 Um. Yep. Surprise . . .
 “Oh, ma . . .” Mummie had muttered, rubbing her temples in complete dismay and invoking the gods to ask what she’d done in her past lives to deserve this punishment.
 I swore their yells haunted the house to this day like wraiths reminding me that I wasn’t meeting my potential.
 In the past six months, to make matters worse for a struggling creative soul, rent had skyrocketed (thanks, Apple, Tesla, SpaceX, and other Californians mass migrating to Austin and tipping over the market), and without a full-time job, I ended up moving back home.
 Whomp-whomp. Adulting fail.
 So here I was: twenty-eight, somewhat jobless, practically friendless, and living back with my parents. What a prize, right?
 And, yes, yes, I know twenty-eight sounded too damn old to be living with one’s parents. But not-so-fun life fact: things don’t always turn out to our best expectations, no matter how hard we try.
 To add insult to injury, I was destined to spend yet another Friday night home alone.
 Papa grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter and tilted an invisible hat to me. “I’m off!” he said. I wished I had his big weekend-project energy. It practically sizzled through the air.
 “Are you sure you trust YouTube enough to fix Uncle’s broken sink?” I asked warily.
 “Ah. We’re civil engineers.” He shrugged as if that explained anything, or in some way gave him handyman superpowers.
 “Right. Because Indians can suddenly do anything when they don’t want to pay a professional.”
 “Between us and YouTube, we can fix anything.”
 “Can you, though?” I asked from the kitchen, the heat from the stove warming my side.
 He flashed a grin. Wow. I was jealous of his sense of confidence as he went in headfirst with a wrench in hand to tackle a plumbing issue he’d never seen before at someone else’s house. And he didn’t even bother wearing jeans and a T-shirt like someone who was about to tackle a sink. He was, as always, decked out in a button-down shirt and khakis. I mean, talk about dad swagger.
 He jerked his chin toward the simmering pot at my side. “Making Maggi?” he asked, referring to the desi version of Top Ramen and quintessential food for singles.
 “No noodles tonight,” I replied. Then I remembered. “Oh, here!” I said, whipping toward the cabinet beside the pantry and then back to Papa to hand him his blood pressure medicine. “You usually have this with dinner, but since you’re eating over there, take it now. You don’t need food with it.”
 “Thank you, beta,” he said, taking the medicine with a swig from the cup of water I offered. “Always looking out for me.”
 “Of course, I’ll always look out for you.”
 “What’s on the agenda for you tonight?” he asked as I walked him to the foyer.
 My younger brother, Mohit, rushed down the stairs like a thunderclap. Rogue, my ferocious miniature Yorkie, barked with annoyance from the living room around the hallway.
 “Motiben’s going to binge on chocolate in her sweats,” Mohit jested. “Like every Friday night.”
 He shoulder-shoved me and I shoved him back. “That is not what I do.”
 “Sure, sure.” He hopped into one shoe, then another, and flew out the door before Papa even slipped into his