The Taste of Ginger(92)
We both stared ahead, lost in our thoughts.
After several minutes, she said, “I didn’t realize how hard it would be on you kids.”
“What?” I asked.
She sighed. “Going to America.”
I stared at her.
“I had never left India before it. Everything I knew of America was from television. I could not have known.” Her face fell as she said the words. “I thought we were doing the right thing.” Her voice broke. “Especially for you.”
“I don’t think you did the wrong thing,” I offered, not able to imagine a different life than the one I’d had. I reflected on my life and experiences up to that point, and a moment of clarity shone through. “I don’t think you realized that I couldn’t be both a traditional Indian girl like you were used to seeing here, and a successful American. I had to choose one. In America, they are mutually exclusive. And I saw how much we struggled as a family for money when we first arrived, and I knew I had to choose professional success. That meant I had to immerse myself in that world if I had any hope of surviving. Everything in my life has been about making sure I could do that and be able to help our family. All I ever wanted was for you and Dad to not have to worry about money and us the way you did when we were little.”
She pondered my words, her expression changing as if a fog was lifting for her as well. “We’ve all made a lot of sacrifices for this family. I did not know that the Great Melting Pot forces immigrants to make that choice. That it would force you to make it.”
“It didn’t feel like a sacrifice to me. It felt like the only choice. It’s the same one I would go back and make again if I had to.” I’d realized that the only way I could succeed in the way that I wanted to for my family and the way I felt they needed me to was to distance myself from the values that my parents held so dear. America didn’t allow immigrants who retained their home cultures to be accepted as American. The only way to be convincing in the workplace was to transition into American values and customs and hold them as your own.
She let my words sink in. “Maybe we were both naive. We cannot understand what we do not know.”
“Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if your first engagement had gone through?” I asked. “If you’d stayed here and never left India?”
“There is no need to worry for me. My life is as it should be.” She turned to me and put her hand on my leg. “If that marriage had gone through, I would not have you and Neel. And maybe that man and I wouldn’t even have developed the deep friendship that I have with your father. Chetan and I did okay in the end. It’s not Hollywood love, but we love our kids and respect each other. That is what marriage should be. At least, for us.”
I smiled, basking in the warmth of the moment.
She patted my leg. “We should stop idling. Things will get hectic as we rush to pack to go home.”
I felt heavy as she mentioned the flight.
“There’s something else I want to talk to you about,” I said. “I’m not ready to go back. I want to stay in India longer. I’ve been gone for so long, and I really need to understand this part of me again.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve never been here without me.”
“I know, but it’s time I discover my own India.”
“What about your job? What will you do for work?”
“Anand Uncle asked me to help with the foundation. The lawyer he works with is on maternity leave. I think it would be nice to help other immigrant families get set up. Give them the help we never got. And I can keep working on my photography while I’m here. This is the most creative and inspired I’ve ever felt.”
“You’ll just stay here?” she asked. “Maybe I should stay with you then . . .”
I shook my head. “You’ve protected me long enough. I need to take this next step on my own.”
I looked at her face, trying to read her expression, but it was impossible to do so. I hoped she could understand this latest decision.
After several minutes, I said, “Mom, are we going to be okay?”
Without even a moment’s hesitation, she said, “Yes. Preeti, we both made mistakes before, but we are starting to understand each other. I understand you need to do this for yourself. I may not understand why, but I see that it matters to you. Following tradition is what I have always known, but it may not be the answer for you.”
I replayed Mom’s words while inhaling the floral scents of jasmine and roses from our garden. For the first time, the silence between us was comforting, relaxed. In the background were the sounds of honking cars, barking dogs, and vendors blowing whistles. I smiled when I heard laughter from children strolling along the road outside the subdivision.
It had taken me this long to realize how lucky I was. My mother and I had butted heads for as long as I could remember, but it had never stopped me from chasing happiness and had never stopped her from loving me. Even though we disagreed, I didn’t have to hide who I was from her, like so many other Indian kids did with their parents. Mom didn’t understand all my decisions, but she was trying to understand the ones that mattered, and I needed to do the same for her.
The smells of freshly ground cumin, chili powder, and cloves from the nearby spice shop wafted over to us. It was the very shop where I had captured one of my best photographs: a man around my age, leaning over a large mortar and pestle, his forehead furrowed and sweat beads dancing atop his brow, crushing dried red chilies into a fine powder.