I stared ahead with an open expression and closed mouth. Even though I was family, I was still technically a guest in their home.
Virag Mama and Indira Mami exchanged a look; both seemed unsure how to proceed. Mom remained quiet, deferring to her brother because she was a guest in his home as well. Per Indian tradition, even though she had been raised there, she had lost her rights to the home when she married into Dad’s family.
Indira Mami took the lead. “We are very happy you are here,” she said. “But we know you are spending a lot of time with Tushar. People talk. It is not decent for an unmarried girl to be out with a boy like that.”
Wow, I thought, stunned by how quickly word traveled in this city. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize that we couldn’t be friends.”
My apology was sincere, but only to the extent that I did not want my relatives to be the subject of gossip. I firmly believed I should be able to spend a day with Tushar—or anyone else for that matter—and not have the entire city comment on it. I missed the anonymity of LA, where I could stroll through my neighborhood without anyone speaking to me, even if they had passed me on the street a hundred times before. I also noticed the double standard that was clearly caste based, because I had been out alone with Biren on Christmas just three days earlier, but they had no cause to be alarmed about that.
“Here people gossip,” Indira Mami continued. “They are looking for someone to make a mistake. We must be careful that we do not give them that chance. Our family can never be seen throwing ice cream at someone in public.”
How does she know every little detail? I was shocked and annoyed that someone had bothered to report the minutiae of an innocent outing. It was such a nonissue as far as I was concerned. I would now have to assume my every action would be reported back to Mami and Mama each time I set foot outside the house. It was frustrating to think that the life I was starting to enjoy in Ahmedabad had suddenly become a fishbowl with nowhere to hide.
“We were just playing around,” I said, knowing my tone sounded like that of a petulant child.
I turned to Mom, but her gaze remained fixed on her hands, primly folded in her lap. I then glanced at the closed door to Neel’s bedroom and wondered if he even knew about the conversation we were having in the living room. If he did, surely he would come to my aid.
Virag Mama cleared his throat before he spoke. “Yes, but here it looks bad if people see those things. How do you think it looks for a person from our family to throw food at someone from a working-class family? Hah? On top of everything else, there are so many poor people, and it is not right to waste food, even if it is a single bite.”
His words stung. Of course I saw the poverty in Ahmedabad; it was all around us. I wasn’t trying to insult anyone. But I also couldn’t help noticing the hypocrisy in his statement.
“I should be respectful of the lower caste, but I should not spend any time with them? What sense does that make?” I said.
Mom sat straighter. She had heard my defiant tone many times before. She perched on the edge of her seat, ready to intervene if needed.
Virag Mama’s eyes widened at my statement. I stared at him, holding my ground. Hari and Bharat would never have dared question him.
“This is not America. We don’t talk back here.” His tone had chilled.
Mom fidgeted. She’d made that same statement to me so many times but seemed more sympathetic today.
Virag Mama opened his mouth, but Indira Mami put a hand on his arm to stop him.
She said, “An unmarried woman must protect her reputation here. It is her greatest gift to the man she marries. Your age will already make that process hard enough.”
Oh God, she was serious. I had to fight to keep my jaw from dropping. Out of the corner of my eye I tried to gauge Mom’s reaction. Some of the color had drained from her face. I sensed she had heard a similar statement a time or two before.
“I think that’s a little extreme,” I said, “but I will be more considerate of your wishes.”
“We want you to be more careful, beta,” Virag Mama said, his tone softening.
Indira Mami said, “Someone like Biren is more appropriate.”
I had to bite my tongue to keep from calling out their bias. I sat silently until it seemed there was closure to the awkward conversation, and I could retreat to the solitude of my room.
After a few minutes, there was a knock. Mom entered and closed the door behind her.
“Are you here to yell at me?” I asked.