The Taste of Ginger(57)
Biren had suggested we meet at a new dessert shop near me to celebrate Christmas as best we could. Swiss Cottage was Ahmedabad’s answer to a nightclub—without the alcohol, mingling with strangers, or physical touching. It was full of groups of twentysomethings dressed for a special night out. We shared a belgian chocolate torte that tasted nothing like the Western version would have. The absence of eggs changed the flavor and texture dramatically, but it didn’t matter because I was there for the company and not the food. Biren had become the only friend I had outside of my family and had been a welcome respite from drama over the past few weeks.
As we picked at our dessert, Biren shared his stories of going to school in Australia. I shared the few stories I had from when Alex and I had visited there, leaving out my travel companion and focusing on the gorgeous landscapes and laid-back people. He spoke of how he’d learned to surf and become decent at it before moving back to India and retiring his board.
His laugh was natural and frequent, the lines around his eyes evidence of his happy demeanor. We shared stories like old friends, and I realized that in many ways, that was what we were. There was the safety and comfort of knowing he’d been part of my childhood, even if the memories were difficult to conjure. I trusted him, and with Carrie so far away, it was nice to have that feeling with someone nearby.
I leaned closer to him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he said, pushing some crumbs around the plate.
“Doesn’t all of this caste stuff bother you? Especially after spending time in Australia, where you don’t see this?”
He shrugged. “Every culture has a caste system, even if they don’t call it that.” He chuckled and said, “Including your precious America. And definitely Australia.”
There was truth to what he was saying. There were degrees of segregation everywhere, and America’s was color based, while India’s was caste based, given that on the surface everyone looked the same. Even my law firm had a hierarchy, and when I had quit, my limitations within that hierarchy became clearer.
“I know that’s true, but isn’t it harder for you to ignore after spending time outside of the country?”
“There are a lot of things I would change about this country. There are a lot of things I’d change about Australia too. But there are also a lot of things I wouldn’t change in either place. Countries are like people—you have to accept all sides of them. The good comes with the bad. India has a sense of community that has always resonated with me more than anywhere else. Guess I was built for a collectivist culture over an individualistic one.”
I envied his clarity and pondered his words. It wasn’t that easy for me. I wasn’t as clear on who I was or even wanted to be. Until this trip, I would have chosen America and its values—the good and the bad—over India’s without hesitation. I wondered if that was because I had put on blinders. When the goal was assimilation, there was no blending and balancing of cultures. Assimilation required total devotion. And I had devoted myself to America’s dominant caste, doing everything I could think of to be accepted. Not realizing privilege was something you were born into and could not earn.
“Do you have friends from other castes here?” I asked him.
“Not really. To be honest, it doesn’t come up much. The reality is that the people who have a similar background are likely to be from the same caste anyway, and that’s who I interact with. The only people I meet otherwise are when I help my papa out with his foundation work. But those are all such tragic stories, and people are in so much pain, so it’s not a breeding ground for friendships.”
“Monali Auntie mentioned that. What exactly does he do?”
“The work of the gods, if you ask my mother!” Biren laughed before turning serious. “It’s great work, really. He helps abused women and children find safe new homes—often overseas because we made so many contacts while living outside of India. Mostly women and children, and he helps them start over. Works with them to get them set up with immigration papers and jobs and money to start off with. For so many, it’s a step up because while the West has its own caste system, too, Western poverty is rarely like Indian poverty!”
I thought back to the single immigration case I had worked on with Jared. He had taken on a pro bono case to help his image within the firm, which meant that he had me do all the work while he took the credit. But I hadn’t minded because it had been interesting to hear the story of the family who had arrived from Nicaragua to seek asylum, and it was impossible not to think of my family’s journey to America and want to help.
“I’d love to learn more about the foundation.”
Biren’s eyes lit up. “Papa would love to talk your ear off about it! And he’ll probably try to get some legal advice out of you if you know anything about American immigration laws. They’ve become so strict, so he’s been placing more people in Canada and Australia, but I’m sure he would take any advice you could give.”
“I’ve done a little bit of immigration work, and if there’s anything I can do to help him, I’d love to do it.”
“Don’t seem too eager,” Biren said with a wink, “or you just might end up with another lawyer job! Papa has been trying to hire an American lawyer to help him all year.”