The Taste of Ginger(50)
“Maybe that’s the problem. I didn’t grow up dreaming about marriage contracts and dowries.”
“For us, marriage is a business arrangement between two families. What do you lawyers call it?” She snapped her fingers as she found the word. “A merger! The woman fulfills her duty, the man fulfills his, and there’s nothing left to discuss. With you chasing this Western love, it’s hard for your mother to understand that. All she saw was that you had hurt your reputation in the community. With something like that, she feared you would end up unhappy and alone.”
“She was right about that, even if not for the right reasons.” My eyes met Monali Auntie’s.
“Beta, I’m sorry.” She reached across the table and placed her hand on mine. “When it comes to love, the gods control it, not us.” She then smiled. “You know, maybe you are more like your mother than you realize.”
“Except that she doesn’t think love factors into major life decisions. Why can’t she see that there’s more to life than money and biodatas? You were raised the same way, and you get it.”
“Because, beta, I don’t have daughters. I love my children, but the bond between a mother and daughter is different. Boys are supposed to grow up and do whatever they wish. But the girls”—she sighed—“the girls are the ones who carry on the family traditions.”
I’d been so focused on my career that I hadn’t really thought about children. In fact, during this past week of watching what Neel and Dipti were going through, it made me wonder if I’d ever want to put myself in a position in which I could be hurt so badly. But I suppose Auntie had a point that mothers and daughters were different. Mine had been so much stricter with me than she had ever been with Neel, and maybe that was because she expected more from me than she ever had from him.
She reached across the table and touched my forearm. While gesturing to the photo, she said, “This is something between you and her. Not me.”
I had so many questions for my mother but didn’t know how to bring up something so personal after we’d been keeping each other at arm’s length for so long. I still hadn’t told her what really happened with Alex and why we ended things. She didn’t know I had tried to go back to him even if it meant losing her. If I was still keeping secrets from her, it was hard to convince myself that I had a right to know hers.
She’d ended up with my father, and maybe she wanted to leave the rest in the past, like I now did when it came to Alex. But Monali Auntie seemed to think the information might help me understand her in a way I never had, possibly even bridge the gap between us, so it was hard to think that we could continue to ignore it. I thought back to her message in my birthday card and the calls that I had ignored following the breakup. Maybe this was what she’d wanted to talk to me about.
I squeezed Monali Auntie’s arm and said, “I’m glad you’re here, Auntie. If it had been any of Mom’s other friends here, I don’t think I could have handled it.”
She laughed. “Of course not! If it were just that pesky Gita Auntie here, you would never get a moment of peace. That woman is more trouble than a goat in the vegetable garden!”
21
Night jasmine perfumed the air, and crickets chirped as I swayed back and forth on the hichko in the garden. The sun had long since retreated to the other side of the world—the side that had been my home. It had been another hot day, and the cooler night air against my skin was a relief. The rusty hinges holding up the swing creaked with each movement. The front door opened, and footsteps shuffled toward me.
Mom sat next to me. Her weight disrupted the smooth motion, and the hichko wobbled as it rocked back and forth, eventually settling back into a rhythm.
“I’m worried about Neel and Dipti,” she eventually said, a big emotional concession for her.
“So am I,” I said.
Mom took in a deep breath. “This was my favorite smell when I was little.”
“Mine too,” I said, realizing how much this floral smell reminded me of those early years in Ahmedabad before we had left for Chicago.
“When I talk to Neel, it doesn’t feel like he is there anymore.”
“It felt the same way when I talked to Dipti.”
She nodded. “You never expect something like this. You never expect to watch your child bury his child. I’m supposed to be well into another life before even thinking about burying my child, let alone a grandchild.”
We continued to rock slowly back and forth on the swing. “I guess no one can be prepared for something like this,” I said.
“And to not lean on each other . . .” She shook her head. “That’s what love marriages are for, right? You have a partner?”
She was admitting she did not understand such a central part of Neel’s life. Of mine. She could not understand marrying for love because it was such a foreign concept to her. I thought about how much romantic love wove its way through my being and wondered how a parent and child could be close when they lacked the ability to understand the other’s worldview on love at such a basic level.
I found myself wondering about her life before marriage. About more than the man in the photo. I knew she had a degree in pharmacy from a prestigious Indian university, but I had never heard her speak of a career or any professional aspirations. I had never heard of any of the women in our family seeking such goals. It had never occurred to me that my mother might have wanted something different. Something more like the life I had back in LA: career, choices, freedom. I wanted to ask her but didn’t feel like I could be that direct. My family didn’t talk about the past or hopes and dreams like that.