Ours. I was back to being the NRI. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could offer you more, but please know I never wanted anything bad to happen to you. And everything will be fine between our parents. I’ll make sure of it with Virag Mama.”
He offered me a half smile. “Thank you. My parents will be happy to hear that. As for me, I think it will take a little time before we can be friends. You are learning this culture, but through you, I’ve learned a little about another way to live as well. I’ll need to think myself about those differences too.”
“You can read some books about it,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
He laughed. “Yes, you are right. I will probably read some books about America and not go there.”
“I’m not sure you need to,” I said. “You’re already home.”
I looked at him, his gray shirt tucked into his black slacks, the smell of castor oil in his hair, and tried to freeze that moment in my memory. He had helped me see myself, my family, and the world differently, and what words were enough to convey gratitude for that? I didn’t know if we’d ever be friends, or if I’d ever see him again after this, but I hoped I would. I hoped that he would grow the store until he could afford a larger home for his parents. More than anything, I hoped he would find the right wife, partner, and life that he deserved to have.
When I returned to Lakshmi, I saw my mother in the garden on the bench swing, gently rocking it back and forth. The warm weather had given way to cooler temperatures. A wool shawl was pulled tightly around her shoulders to keep away the chill. She was deep in thought, and I approached her carefully. Dried grass crackled beneath my champals. She motioned for me to sit, and I did. My legs were stretched out ahead of me, taking over the rocking motion, so she could curl hers onto the swing and relax. I recalled how on past trips I had been too short to reach the ground and needed someone else to sit with me to move it. We both stared ahead of us at the lavish home we had once lived in and the flowers and greenery surrounding it.
Finally, she said, “I was engaged before I met your father.”
I turned toward her. She continued to stare into the distance, silent. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. It was probably best because, even though I’d been steeling myself for this conversation, now that it was here, I didn’t know what to say.
“You’re not surprised?” Mom asked.
“I found a photo a few weeks ago, and I suspected.”
She nodded carefully. “I had a life before you kids. Before this marriage.” Her jaw was set, firm.
From her tone, I could not tell whether she regretted the life she had chosen—the one that included my father, Neel, and me. I steadily rocked the swing while I waited for her to continue.
“He was supposed to be a good man. A doctor. We met in college. He proposed after. It was going to be a real love marriage,” she said, a wistful smile crossing her lips. “The first in our family.”
“What happened?”
“His family had more money than us and did not approve. Before our wedding, they convinced him to marry someone more appropriate.”
Now I understood the forlorn look in her eyes. My mother had once been in Tushar’s shoes. She also felt like she had been in mine when I was dating Alex.
“Preeti, life is not easy when people who are different choose to marry. At least for me, we still looked the same. Even though the families did not approve, we still had the same skin color. Our caste difference was slight and not obvious, and not as great as between Tushar and you.” She turned toward me and put her hand on my thigh. “In India people notice those things. If you are with Tushar, they will always know he is lower caste when they compare his dark skin with your wheatish complexion. And if you date people like Alex in America, people there will always think white is better.”
She had revealed a depth I had never known in her. Even though I disagreed with her logic, I understood that for all those years, right or wrong, she was trying to keep me from the fate she had suffered.
“Do you think the world has changed since that time?” I asked.
She sighed. “Who can know? What Tushar did yesterday would not have happened when I was your age, so some things have changed. I worry that if you marry Tushar, you will still have the same difficulties that were there forty years ago, so then how much has really changed?” After pausing for a moment, she said, “And with Alex, do you think that the differences did not matter?”
I smiled ruefully. “If you had asked me before this trip if our different cultures were a factor, I’d have said no. But I think that was naive. Race, caste, whatever you call it, is always a factor.”