Prologue
Let’s set the scene: Move-in day at Stanford, fall of 1992, and I’ve just found out that I’m one of the few freshmen to score big-time with a dorm room all to myself! Does the English language even have a word to describe this feeling of beyond ecstatic? (Answer: Probably not—not that I know of, anyway.)
Hauling the black garbage bags and cardboard boxes of my stuff from our car to my single doesn’t take long with my parents and older brother, Sai, helping me. We finish lickety-split, and then my family starts unpacking.
“Don’t worry about that,” I say, gently tugging my medical dictionary and human anatomy book out of Sai’s hands and setting them on the desk. “I’ll finish putting everything away—I know the donuts aren’t going to sell themselves.”
Back in 1980, my Gujarati-Indian immigrant parents opened a Donutburg—just one of many Donutburgs dotting the California coastline—in Union City. They kept costs down by operating the entire business themselves, and to this day, it’s still all in the family.
Dad immediately lets go of the flaps on the box with my bedding and towels and nods. In a thick Gujju accent, he says, “Unfortunately, that is true, Gita beta. We should be going.”
Behind Dad’s back, Sai rolls his eyes, then smiles and sticks out his arms. “Bring it in, sis.”
I wrap my arms around him and hold on tightly as he gives me a giant bear hug. Meanwhile, Mom squeezes my shoulder, and Dad lays his hand on my back. When we release, I give them each a grateful half smile. “Thanks for everything,” I tell them, fully intending to be upbeat, then horrified that I can feel tears in my eyes.
“Oh—one more thing, beta!” Mom says suddenly, and bile rises in my throat. The excitement in her voice shatters the sweet familial moment between us, because I’m certain that she’s about to remind me—for the third time since we drove away from our Union City apartment at sunrise—that my arranged marriage dharma isn’t expunged, only delayed until I graduate from Stanford. As the daughter of strict Gujarati parents, it’s my duty to accept an arranged marriage to a suitable Chha-Gaam—six village—Gujju guy they select for me. Chee.
Chee: To get the full experience of this Gujarati word that literally means “shit” but colloquially means “gross,” say it while drawing your face back in disgust and curling your upper lip, then after, poke your tongue out a little.
Chee, chee, chee. To both the arranged marriage and the hairy dude who’ll probably want me barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, making him dal-bhaat-shaak-rotli. Did I mention I can’t cook?
Much to my relief, though, Mom doesn’t bring it up again. Instead, she holds out a plastic grocery bag withIndia Spice Bazaar printed on one side. Swallowing, I take the bag and check out the contents.
My mouth starts watering at the sweet and savory packages of Gujarati love—burfi, magas, methi khakhra, and chevdo. I look at Mom, eyes wide. “Thanks.”
“Welcome,” she says, then grins.
“Share it with the friends you make,” Dad chimes in. Then he smiles too.
I stand there, tugging my ear and staring at them as if they’ve suddenly opened their third eyes all Shiva-like.
My parents never smile. Well, hardly ever that I can remember. Sure, Sai’s told me stories otherwise—like the time he and Dad shared laughs after my bhai’s first botched attempt at parallel parking. Or when Mom used to grin and stroke Sai’s hair while he sipped on the mug of cha she’d make for him every day after school. Or their proud parental smiles when he won the national science fair at age fourteen.
Back in the homeland, Mom and Dad gave away smiles like kaju katri on Diwali. I know because a year ago, I found a box of my parents’ old Polaroids in the hall closet. I sat there, clutching the photos against my heart, overcome, as if I’d discovered an ancient, illustrated Hindu book entitled Raj and Tanu Desai Left Their Best Smiles and Extended Family Behind in India. I felt my smile bloom as I studied the photos the way I studied flashcards. . . .
A sweaty Dad and his friends taking a break from cricket, sharing grins and beers.
A beaming Mom decked out in a silver, gold, and black channia chori, in full dandiya raas ecstasy with her cousins.
Mom flashing a toothy smile as she and my grandma pick tiny pebbles and other debris out of large stainless steel thalis of split mung beans.
Giddy-faced Dad taking Mom for a ride on the back of his scooter through the crowded, littered streets of Gujarat.
But I didn’t get those parents. I got the work-is-always-busy-therefore-no-time-for-smiles parents whose primary form of communication with their two children—mostly me, though—involved muttering, growling, or yelling, “chup-re!”
Chup-re: The Gujarati expression for “be quiet.” But depending on the tone, volume, and coinciding facial expression with which it’s delivered, it can also sound more like, “SHUT UP!”
Growing up, Sai occasionally tossed a chup-re my way. But when he said it, it wasn’t layered in disgust. Quite the opposite—it was playful. Or protective. Come to think of it, the same was true when Pinky Auntie or Neil Uncle said it to me.
Pinky Auntie and Neil Uncle left Gujarat and moved in with us for a couple of years when I was six. Like my parents, their plan was to try to make it in America. But even more than the opportunity to work better jobs, save up enough to afford living on their own in the Bay Area, and eventually thrive, the essence of their coming-to-America story was necessity: They’d eloped.
When Sai—who was twelve at the time—told me that, I’d scratched my head. “Sai bhai, what kind of bad crime is ‘eloped’?”
“Chup-re.” The corners of Sai’s lips ticked up and he flicked my arm, a little harder than intended. “It isn’t bad or a crime. It means they ran off to get married in secret.”
I pouted at Sai and rubbed my arm. Why wasn’t Mom and Dad’s marriage a secret but Pinky Auntie and Neil Uncle’s was? Only later, when I learned that Pinky Auntie and Neil Uncle had met and fallen in love in school, but their families had forbidden them from marrying, did I understand why their “love marriage” had been secret. Mom and Dad, on the other hand, hadn’t even known each other before their marriage, because it had been arranged in Gujarati-Chha-Gaam tradition by their parents, and was therefore highly approved of.
None of that mattered though. I loved Pinky Auntie and Neil Uncle: Especially Pinky Auntie, who I thought was the most beautiful, kind, smart woman in the world. With her broad, closed-mouth smile, affectionate gaze, and lovely nose adorned with a small gold nath, she was even more beautiful than that Bollywood star Sai was gaga over—Rekha. And in my eyes, Pinky Auntie was smarter and kinder than any of the characters Rekha played on the big screen.
Put simply—I worshipped my dear Pinky Auntie.
This one time, after she and I finished playing Candy Land, I tapped her glinting nose ring and asked if I could get one. I’ll never forget what she said:
“Of course! Only, wait a little. My nose ring honors Parvati, the goddess of marriage, and she wouldn’t want you to get married so young.”
I sat up in excitement. “Yes! I’m going to become a doctor first, right, Pinky Auntie?”
Back then, Pinky Auntie was the only one I’d revealed my future career plan to.
It surprised me when she had paused to check over her shoulder before pressing her index finger to her maroon-painted lips. “Shhhh,” she whispered. “Don’t let your parents find out about that.”
My eyes widened. “Why not?”
“Because they want you to marry a doctor, not become one. So chup-re, Gita beta.”
I hesitated. An unusual, uncomfortable silence descended around us.
Finally, after a beat: “Okay, Pinky Auntie,” I said slowly, nodding. And with that, I sealed my lips, locking away my secret.