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.
Mom took my hand and said, “Preeti, I’m proud of the woman you have become.”
I was so shocked to hear the words that I’d been searching for since I was a little girl. A tear formed in my eye, and I realized this was the only thing I needed from her.
As I watched a monkey hop onto the garden wall from a nearby tree, I realized that for the first time in thirty years, she had given me her blessing to live as I chose and deviate from the plan she had mapped out for me. I had been striving toward that moving target for most of my life. I had been searching for my identity and sense of belonging everywhere other than the one place I had needed to. I had convinced myself that I needed to know who I was without my family and culture getting in the way. But that had been an impossible goal. My family and culture were the backbone of my identity, and I’d never be whole without either. And I had to accept that I would never fully belong to India or America. Being adrift was the plight of any immigrant, and it was foolish to think that I could somehow circumvent that. But I now felt like I belonged in the only place that mattered. I inched closer and rested my head on my mother’s shoulder as the hichko swayed back and forth, the scent of jasmine all around us.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My journey to publication has been long and winding, and there are many people to whom I owe my deepest gratitude. First is my agent, Lauren Abramo, who championed my authentic voice and story from the start, and without whom I would not have come so far in this journey. Second is my editor, Alicia Clancy, who seamlessly picked up where Lauren left off and pushed me to an even deeper and more genuine place with this story. I am eternally grateful to these talented women who helped make my lifelong dream come true.
This book would also not be possible without the wonderful team at Lake Union who helped guide this new writer from story to book. A huge thanks to Danielle Marshall, Gabe Dumpit, Rosanna Brockley, Nicole Burns-Ascue, Susan Stokes, Riam Griswold, Heather Buzila, Micaela Alcaino, and Christina L.
Special thanks to the talented instructors at the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program who began guiding me on this path over a decade ago, especially Claire Carmichael, Deirdre Shaw, and the late Linda Palmer.