The Taste of Ginger(8)
Jared clasped his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. “I’m sympathetic. Really, I am. But with Mike leaving the firm, you’re my MVP. If you aren’t back by Monday, I have to dip down into the second-string offense . . .”
He stared at me. Expecting what? That I’d promise to be back by Monday? That was the answer he wanted to hear. It was the answer he was expecting from me because during my time at the firm, I had made clear that my family and personal life fell second to this job. The same as his did for him. It was common knowledge around the firm that Jared hardly ever saw his attractive Korean wife or kids and that she seemed fine with the arrangement as long as nannies were employed, her credit card bills were paid, flights were in first class, and she didn’t need to accompany him to law firm events. In exchange, she and the kids would pose for a holiday card each year, playing the part of the idyllic family so he could maintain appearances with his clients. If Jared didn’t prioritize his own family over his work, he certainly didn’t have sympathy for others who did.
My hands grew damp. I felt the four years and thousands of hours I’d put into this career slipping away. The travel time alone would make it nearly impossible for me to be back by Monday. “Jared, you don’t have to do that. I’ll finish the summary judgment motion on the plane and send it to you by email. The time difference might be challenging, but I’m sure we can make it work. I’ll have internet access and check my email as often as I do here.”
Internet access hadn’t been readily available in India during my last trip, but that was fifteen years ago, and surely it had to be by now. I could make this work. I had to make this work, or I would end up like Mike. Besides, I’d told Alex I couldn’t go to New York with him because I needed this damn job. I had to make this work; otherwise I had given him up for nothing.
He sighed. “Look, Preeti, I like you. You know that. I’ve been trying to groom you for partnership since you started here. But it’s what I was just talking about. Teamwork. Obviously, you should be there for your family. Within reason. After that, you have to decide whether a personal sacrifice may help our team win the game.”
“I’ll be back in no time. You won’t even notice I’m gone,” I said, hating myself for letting him minimize what was going on with my family but feeling like I had to assuage his concerns.
As I left his office, he said, “I’ll cover for you as long as I can, but everyone is overstretched, so the bench isn’t that deep right now.”
5
Back at my apartment, I only had an hour to pack before Carrie would arrive to pick me up and drive me to the airport. I flung my normal daily wear—tops, shorts, and skirts—into a carry-on bag. It had been fifteen years since I had packed for India, and every trip before that had been a struggle, resulting in several arguments with my mother because I’d wanted to stay in Illinois and spend the summer with my friends.
I grew anxious knowing I would have to see her again, and on her turf, no less. But I pushed the feeling aside. This trip was about Neel and Dipti. Not about my mother. And not about me.
As I was about to zip the suitcase, I focused on the thin bright-orange straps of a tank top. I pulled it out and held the soft cotton close to my chest, remembering my prior trips to Ahmedabad.
Before we left, my mother would micromanage every item of clothing I packed. As a girl, it was important that I dress in a modest and respectful way so I didn’t draw unwanted gossip toward our family. It had been like when we visited my parents’ friends’ homes in Chicago—Neel was able to wear jeans and T-shirts, while she demanded I put on panjabis. I’d felt like an imposter parading around in traditional Indian outfits after I’d spent so much time becoming—and wanting to be—American.
She would pull out tank tops and dresses that were bare shouldered, admonishing me to “take something sober.”
She didn’t understand that those clothes were a large part of my new American identity. They were the armor that helped me hide among my classmates at school. Our house fell just outside the city line of the public school that most of the Indian kids who lived near Devon Avenue attended, so we kept to ourselves or the few other Indian immigrant kids who also attended our public school. Those first few months after we moved to Chicago had been rough. Neel and I were teased and harassed about our accents, our clothing, and the fact that we didn’t fall into either the black or white racial category that most of the other kids did. I couldn’t understand why our parents had moved us halfway around the world, away from Nani and Nana, who spoiled us and always took our side against our parents, to experience all these negative things that we had never experienced in India. In Ahmedabad, I had never questioned whether I belonged in the community in which we lived. Now, in addition to doing work we had never done before like laundry, cleaning, and cooking, I was constantly reminded by kids at school that we did not belong. That we were “other.” That we were foreign. I quickly learned that being foreign was the worst thing you could be in America.
One day Neel wasn’t in the usual place where we would meet after school. I heard some rustling by the bushes and found him curled up with his hands over his stomach, like he’d been punched repeatedly. On his back, some schoolkids had taped a sign that said, Go Home Towelhead. I didn’t understand. We didn’t wear turbans. Neel didn’t say one word to me when we walked home, and I knew not to ask. That night, he told me we needed to learn to act like the other American kids when we were outside our home. No more lunches packed with Indian food, no more shiny gold earrings, and no more Indian clothes. Survival required blending in.