The Taste of Ginger(5)

I felt a tug on my ponytail.

Neel hoisted himself onto the counter, his long legs dangling almost to the floor. Like me, he was more legs than upper body. “Did we get some good loot?”

“A bunch of these.” I handed him the stack of checks I had collected from the cards Dipti had opened earlier. Each was for twenty-one, fifty-one, or one hundred and one dollars.

He glanced through them and smiled wryly. “I’m sure Mom and Dad would be appalled if they knew when we give money to our friends we give them”—he paused for effect—“even amounts.”

I laughed. We’d grown up hearing that gifts of money had to be in odd amounts. An even number meant bad luck. No one would dare take that risk. And people never dropped down a dollar. That would be cheap. But adding a dollar was generous. If I’d learned one thing from my mother, it was that perception was everything.

He placed the checks back on the counter. “The aunties try to marry you off to a nice Gujarati boy?”

“No. Turns out I lost my luster when I turned thirty.”

Neel laughed and then pretended to study my face. “I thought there was something different about you.”

I threw a towel at him. “I had to fly to Middle America to be at this party because you knocked up your wife. You can finish the dishes.”

“But dishes aren’t men’s work.” He imitated our mother’s nagging tone while he grabbed a dirty bowl. “Seriously, I’m glad you’re here. But I wish you were coming to India with us.”

“I can’t.” My gaze shifted to the pale-green linoleum floor. “It’s like being in a sea of brown people who all seem to be judging me for not being brown enough.”

Another voice said, “What does that mean? India is home.”

Neel and I spun around. It was just like our mother to sneak into the room and start eavesdropping. Her arms were laden with platters, but she somehow still moved as silently as a ninja. My expression was as sheepish as Neel’s, both of us hoping she hadn’t heard him making fun of her.

Her lips pressed together. She placed the trays on the counter and ripped off a large piece of aluminum foil.

“I was seven when we left India. Of course it’s not home for me.”

Neel wiped his hands on the towel as he headed for the door. “If you two are going to get into this again, that’s my cue to check on Dipti.”

The foil crackled as my mother wrapped samosas. “It’s still your country.”

“No, it’s not! This is my country.” I pointed my finger toward the ground. “I’ve got a passport to prove it.”

“When people look at you, they see who you are, not your passport.”

I cringed inwardly when she touched upon one of my biggest insecurities. Even though I felt American and wanted to be seen that way, with my brown skin and dark hair, I knew I didn’t look the part. Everywhere I went, my Indian culture and appearance followed me. When I was fifteen, within months of getting my American citizenship, I’d been at the grocery store with my mother, and an older white man had cut in front of us in the checkout line. I looked at my mother, and her eyes told me to ignore it. But I thought it was a simple mistake. I got his attention and politely said he’d cut in front of us, assuming he’d apologize and take a step back. Instead, he glared at me and said words I’d heard both before and after that day, but the chill in his tone was something I never forgot: “Go back to your country.” My passport had changed nothing of who I was. To this day, when someone cut in front of me, I remained quiet.

After several moments of strained silence, my mother said, “It’s good you came for Dipti’s baby shower.”

I was taken aback by the change of subject and compliment. Varsha Desai wasn’t big on thank-yous, so this was as close as it got. If she was trying, I guessed I should too.

Before I could open my mouth to say something polite in response, she continued. “But you should be coming to India to celebrate your cousin’s wedding. I didn’t raise you this way.”

There it was. Her trademarked, patent-pending civil comment followed by an insult. Why should I think our first conversation after our falling-out would be any different from any of the ones before it?

I threw up my hands. “Four months ago you told me you wanted nothing to do with me because Alex didn’t meet your biodata requirements. I assumed that included family weddings.”

She stopped packing the leftovers and met my gaze. “I was trying to protect you. You need someone who shares your culture and values.”

“I didn’t ask for your protection. I can take care of myself.” That last part was mostly true. She didn’t need to know that even though I hated saris, the real reason I didn’t wear one today was because I’d lost so much weight from the stress of the breakup that the form-fitted sari blouses I owned sagged off my shoulders in a way that no amount of safety pins could salvage. “Did you ever consider that if you had looked past the fact that he wasn’t Indian, then maybe you would have liked him?”

“Preeti, start taking responsibility for your actions. I told you to do whatever you want.”

“Oh, sure! And you also said if I stayed with him, I wouldn’t be welcome in this house again.” I put my hands on my hips. “So, which is it? If I were still dating Alex, would you have invited me to Dipti’s baby shower today? Would you still want me to come to the wedding?”