The Taste of Ginger(52)
“I’m sorry you couldn’t,” I said, guilt rising within me.
Money had been so tight when Nani passed away that my mother could not even fly back for her funeral because it was too expensive. She’d been practical and said that it wasn’t worth spending that kind of money when Nani was already gone. That year Neel was going to be starting college, and they needed to put as much as they could aside for his education.
Mom had married my father based on the families’ suggestion when she was twenty-four years old. Thirteen years later, she was whisked off to America—a country she had never set foot in. She was half a world away from her parents and brother and surrounded by strangers who didn’t understand her language or customs. I couldn’t imagine a lonelier or more terrifying situation.
Tears were now brimming in both our eyes. I couldn’t envision a time when I had felt this close to her.
Finally, Mom said, “But we cannot dwell on the past. Now, we must focus on Neel.” She looked me straight in the eyes, something she rarely did. “Together.”
I looked at her, knowing we were on the precipice of a great shift. She and I had never acted as a team in anything that truly mattered. We had worked together on homework when I was a kid, but since then we’d both been on our own paths and existed as part of the same family, but I’d never felt we were emotionally together. After I moved away from Chicago, the physical distance let us mask the emotional one that had formed between us. In many ways, it had seemed like we were both more comfortable with that game of pretend. Now, we needed to join forces for the first time in my adulthood, and I hoped we could do it.
22
Ahmedabad hadn’t been home for such a long time, and time passed slowly without day-to-day distractions like work and errands. It seemed all we did was spend each day milling about the bungalow consumed by the grief. So, when Virag Mama suggested I create an album with the photos I had taken from the wedding, I was ecstatic to have a project away from the sadness and some sense of purpose to my days. As was the Indian way, Virag Mama knew someone who was willing to let me share the darkroom space he had for his photography business. December 24 was just another workday in India, and I was happy to be distracted from the memories I had with Alex last year at this time. Virag Mama and I went to the workspace together so he could make the introductions and leave me there to work as he headed to the office to meet Bharat.
As we made our way through the Ahmedabad traffic, I tried to remember what it had been like in India before we moved. My conversations with Neel and my mother had brought back a flood of memories, but they were now filtered through an American lens. I’d been happy in Ahmedabad but now wasn’t sure if that was because I hadn’t known any different. I hadn’t yet seen the Western world outside of television and had never experienced what a life of so many choices had to offer. But maybe that didn’t matter, and happiness was happiness, no matter how it came to be. Ignorant bliss, as they say.
What I recalled most was that life in India had felt simple. Neel and I went to school six days a week, had tutors seven days a week, and played with other neighborhood kids when we weren’t studying. There were no chores because those tasks were handled by the servants. I recalled enjoying certain things like helping my mother or Indira Mami shell peas or trim green beans because they were novel rather than required. Those were fun times in which I’d heard them gossip about other families, and I’d been excited to be sitting with the adults and be a part of their club for a short while. After we’d moved to America, chores became a part of everyday life, and prepping vegetables was work that was needed, so there was no joy in it. My mother and I often did the tasks in silence, and I could always see the strained look on her face, as if her mind were racing a thousand miles an hour, so I never wanted to disturb her.
As Virag Mama drove, we passed some kids playing a heated game of cricket in a field. I had enjoyed playing cricket as a child, but I was so far removed from those days. I longed for how carefree they had been. It took returning to India for me to realize how quickly I had grown up after moving to America. While I hadn’t realized it at the time, stress had become a constant part of life because money had been scarce and the feeling of being an outsider was pervasive. It was something that clung to me like skin and was part of everything I did. I’d never felt that during my early years in India.
There was certainly stress in India, and surely the adults must have felt it during my childhood, but I thought about Hari and Bharat and saw how much children in India were sheltered from it. I thought back to my conversation with Neel about our dad having worked a manual-labor factory job when we first moved to Chicago but telling me it was his same engineering job. In India, adult matters were handled by adults, and children were not meant to be burdened with them. While it made me less angry and hurt about the lies I’d been told, it made me even more curious about how many there were and what the truth really was. It seemed Neel knew more of it than I did, but it would surprise me if even he knew it all. Other than my parents, who had lived it, I doubted anyone could know the full truth. With my dad having returned to Chicago, that left my mother as the person who could answer these questions, and I wasn’t sure how to even begin to raise them with her. She and I didn’t speak of such things, and I’m sure she’d never spoken of such things with her own mother. That was the Indian way. But I also knew that my American side would have to try to find the answers, because they would help me complete the picture of my identity. And there was nothing more American than the search for one’s identity. But I also knew my curiosity and questions would have to wait because right now we had to focus on Neel. His visit to see Dipti had not gone as well as he’d hoped. They had only spoken for a minute before she stormed back to her room. Dipti’s dad then stepped in to tell Neel that she just needed more time. He sympathized with Neel, knowing how good Neel was for his daughter, but in the end, his loyalty had to remain with her. They were blood. Seeing the hurt on Neel’s face when he returned was too much for me. I was happy for a day away from the bungalow.