Such a Nice Girl

Sitting there in the packed living room with its faux leather black and white sofas and improbably- bad green, leopard print rug, all of it shipped from China like slow-release carcinogenic bombs, killing us slowly with our own bad taste, Sneha thought. Sneha often found herself holding her breath when she and Dhruv would visit, first out of renewed shock at the horrifying aesthetics and then trying to not inhale the residual fumes of Chinese synthetic carpet manufacturing. 

She’d never breathed easily in her in-law’s house with its gaudy, brass-framed Hindu deity prints as art and Gujarati soap operas blasting at full volume from the jumbo screen television. The very air seemed foreign, piped in through some invisible ducts originating in 1979’s Ahemdabad, Gujarat, India to this house in 2023’s Houston, Texas. Here, only Gujarati food was consumed and to enter the home was like scuba diving, she could only stay so long before the suffocation would swallow her.

 Now, all those hunched, geriatric auntie bodies with their busy Macy’s and TJ Maxx  polyester blouses and black elastic waistband trousers and jangling gold bangles talking, shouting, gesticulating, trying their hardest to be the wisest and most compassionate person in the room, preferably closing up their proceedings before the evening rush hour begins because they hadn't yet made dinner and their husbands would grumble. But there was work to do, this committee of friends who’d become family over forty years had to ensure the right choice was made. They had been convened by Sneha’s mother who wished to demonstrate a) her deep compassion and respect for her daughter’s in-laws b) her own wisdom and moral superiority and c) her daughter was such a good girl.

Sneha stood in disbelief as the court of public Auntie opinion made its case in favor of her in-laws moving into the house Sneha and Dhruv shared. She was not called upon to testify, and to do so was against her self-interest. She pleaded the fifth, not that anyone had asked. The aunties took her quietude and steady gaze directed at her husband Dhruv to signal her unwavering support. Her husband Dhruv was nodding agreeably, and aunties being aunties assumed he spoke for both of them. His compliant, angelic nodding was a bewildering, traitorous spectacle from which Sneha could not tear her eyes away. 

She kept quiet, now was not the time to protest. She excused herself to go make some chai for everyone, just as her mother had been not-so-subtly eye-signaling for her to do from across the room for the last thirty minutes. The problem was that there had never been a time for protest. Not when her father told her as a child she should be a teacher so she’d be home with her children while her husband worked. Not when she was a teen and questioned why the aunties always ate after the uncles did at her parent’s parties. Not Tuesday when the call came saying that her father-in-law had been in a car crash, that he would be paralyzed for life, and that she should drop everything at work to go be with her inlaws. And not now when the aunties, led by her mother,  convened even before he was released from hospital to console and advise a prompt re-homing of the couple from their 1980’s Houston Mcmansion into Sneha and Dhruv’s hipster South Austin Craftsman bungalow.

Neither Sneha nor her husband had ever considered the prospect of their parents coming to live with them. In fact, they had discussed at length how much they prized their personal space so much that they wouldn’t even adopt a cat that frequented their porch. Her father had died and her mother had a flat in Mumbai she intended to move to eventually, once Sneha was “set”. Dhruv’s parents planned to move into the ashram their guru was in the process of having constructed, though after ten years of collecting donations, there was little in the way of construction that had taken place. But his parents were still in their 60’s, and so there was time, there was time. They trusted that their tidy, double income/no kids domestic life full of boozy brunches, working from home amidst all natural fibers and organic vegan meals would go on forever. 

Yes, there were the phone calls from her mother insinuating they should be participating in the local chapter of their temple society or cooking more Indian food or visiting Dhruv’s parents more often. These calls always left Sneha with the faint impression of failing.  Still, aside from the aggravations of her mother’s cellphone attacks, it seemed nothing could violate the peace and freedom of their home. But now, with one lane change by her father-in-law on I-69 too abrupt, just like that, the prospect of his parents moving in was on the brink of becoming calamitous, soul-crushing reality.

As she entered the kitchen, she passed the window which looked out onto the life-size cow her father-in-law had ordered for lawn decor. It was a nod to their favorite deity, Krishna, the cow herder. Every morning, her mother in law took her lit diya  out to the cow and sang a hymn of reverence, applied fresh kum kum powder to its forehead before serving everyone a small glass of ostensibly blessed milk, which vegan Dhruv and Sneha pretended to drink in order to keep the peace. Sneha winced at the thought of the cow moving to Austin along with her in-laws. While their snooty Westlake Hills neighborhood prided itself on being open minded, BLACK LIVES MATTER signs were ubiquitous, a plastic life-sized Brahmin cow with red kum kum powder smeared like a gunshot wound down its forehead would test the mettle of the most well-meaning, yoga and butter chicken loving neighbors who, at the end of the day, embraced diversity so long as it didn’t mess up their property value. 

“Sneha! Oh Sneha! Make some dhokras! Everyone must be hungry! I brought some batter, it’s in the refrigerator,” her mother called at her from the living room. For a moment the living room erupted in appreciation for Sneha’s mother’s thoughtfulness and so much mehnat, hard work, always thinking of others, such a nice person. Then, they returned to the matter at hand. 

“Jo, look, your son is so good. Your daughter in law is so good. They want you to stay with them. Why should you alone take care of him when they are so happy to have you live with them? Isn’t that how we raised our children?” said Jyotsna with a trace of envy detected by all in the room. But who could blame her, the mother of three daughters and no sons? Once married, daughters belong to their in-laws, her home is reserved for her husband’s family. Never mind that her daughters earned as much or more than their husbands, one could never ask anything of their chokri after she was married, her in-laws had first dibs on her home and her attention. 

For a brief second, all eyes rested pitifully on Jyotsna before returning to laser focus on Sneha’s mother-in-law who protested that she could manage caring for her husband in their house. Of course this was not true, it would be too much. But nobody besides Sneha had considered hiring a home aide to help out. Of course, everybody but Sneha needed to believe that traditional filial obligations stood the test of being raised in America. 

None thought to even glance at Sneha, the daughter-in-law of whom they assumed a generosity of spirit well beyond their own.Even now, she was making chai-naastaa for them, just as her mother had taught her to do. Not one of the eight assembled aunties had taken in their own mother-in-law, but of course how could they when the mothers-in-law lived in India and they lived in Houston? Had they not moved across the oceans to build a better future for the family, certainly it wasn’t an act of mere self-preservation, though it was true that the politics of joint family life with a mother-in-law lording over you every minute was a nice perk. And of course they were consumed with earning and saving money in this new country, clipping coupons, working overtime, re-using aluminum foil, drinking water at restaurants instead of the expensive Coke. It’s not as if their life was all all ha-ha-hee-hee. They had done their fair share of sacrifice, as any woman must. 

And did they not call their mothers-in-law every week and ask after their health and wish a swift recovery and did they not visit once every three years bearing gifts of microwave ovens, walnuts, JcPenney wireless bras, saffron and VHS players? Did they not call the relations in India three times a day for updates when their in-laws were on their deathbeds, and when they at last died did they not host grand poojas complete with a real (part-time) Brahmin priest (and full time chemical engineer) so that their spirit may find peace? Did they not do everything that could be expected? Hadn’t they in fact sacrificed so much so that their sons could make a comfortable living? And so why would they not expect their own daughters in law to welcome them into those homes that their own sacrifices had built? Of course they should and would! 

Dhruv had an older sister but of course she was absolved of all responsibility for her parents both by her gender and her marriage to Greg, a non-Indian. How the aunties had lauded Greg for his good natured willingness to wear kurta-pyjama and a turban at his wedding, exclaiming gleefully what a “mixing” boy he was. 

“Mixing is Gujju code for willing to put up with our old world nonsense,” Sneha had remarked to Dhruv as they both rolled their eyes at the frothy gushing over Greg at the wedding reception. Dhruv and his sister never outgrew their sibling rivalry, so when she announced her engagement to a gora and their parents erupted in despondent wails and shrieks, he had been so sure he’d won. But then Greg charmed them with his “Kem cho?!” greetings and asking for seconds and thirds and then the recipe for the daal dhokri Dhruv’s mom served him. 

“Do you think if I had Greg’s skin color your parents would like me more?,” Sneha had asked Dhruv at his sister’s wedding. 

“I dunno, but can we do something about it, dip you in bleach water or something and give it a try? Cuz I’m pretty sick of hearing about my sister and Greg!”  

She scowled in response. 

“So you think my parents SECRETLY preferred we marry WHITE PEOPLE even though they brought us up saying we’d be DISOWNED if we dared to? Interesting theory!,” Dhruv snorted. 

“No. I think your parents are so deeply psychologically colonized that they are honored to have a white person give them the time of day and they are so entrenched in our chauvinistic culture that to have a man willing to come home from work and cook for their daughter feels like something they should be kissing his ass for for the rest of their lives. Whereas I on the other hand, as a WOMAN with darker skin than their fair-complected lily-white son, should consider myself FORTUNATE to be chosen by you to cook YOUR MEALS after I get home from work.” 

“All right all right, I’ll cook two nights a week. And we can get you some of that Japanese laser skin whitening treatment. Ok? All better?,” he laughed as he grabbed her hands and pulled her on the dance floor. 

She recalled this as she readied the steel trays for the dhokla batter. Was her husband trying to trump his sister by taking in their parents? Was that more important than their own life? She considered how she’d made a similar trade, exchanging the freedom of graduate school for her mother’s appeasement. Maybe it was the curse of being Gujarati. She envied Greg’s ignorance of Gujarati norms, his ignorance looked like bliss.

 Greg never took his shoes off when entering his in-law’s home, leaping over the rows of chappals and sneakers lined up by the front door, his basketball shoes leaving marks all over the tiled floors. This was forgiven, for was it not wonderful that a white gora son-in-law should agree to attend his in-laws’ religious poojas? Sneha’s own mother marveled at Greg’s humility for sitting cross-legged on the floor during the poojas, disregarding the fact Greg watched football on his phone throughout the ceremony.  And when Sneha forgot to wear a bindi on her forehead for one pooja, how her mother chided her and took it upon herself to grab a Sharpie and draw one on her grown daughter’s forehead rather than suffer the shame of her daughter’s disrespect for custom. After all, good married women wear bindis for religious functions.

It wasn’t Greg’s fault that Sneha was standing in her in-law’s kitchen making chai and dhoklas for a house full of people who were inviting said in-laws and their cow to live in her house without her permission. It was Dhruv’s only partly so, because though he hadn’t had a moment’s thought about the impact of his parents moving in on Sneha, it was par for the course and she had chosen this course. Hadn’t she chosen to marry him? Now she questioned how much choice there actually had been. She might’ve chosen a different course, gone for her Masters in Literature at The University of Washington where she’d gained admittance. She recalled how her mother had responded to her announcement that she’d been accepted. 

“What about Dhruv? You said you like him, he likes you, now you’re going to throw it away for more books? And who will pay for this degree? We have money for your wedding only.”

“I’ve only gone out with him twice. TWICE. That’s not exactly an engagement,” she’d retorted. 

“I met your father once. And then we got married and moved to America. You are spoiled. I don’t know why God gave me such a daughter, must be my karma from a previous life.” Her mother was shouting and pounding her chest, imploring the gods to take her and spare her more grief from this shameless, ungrateful daughter. 

“Dad never respected you. You said it yourself. He died of a heart attack while he was yelling at you. And you want the same for me? Seriously?”

“And you want to leave me alone here, a widow? What kind of respect is that? How did I raise such a selfish, egotistical girl? You’re so smart, right? And your mother is a bud-dhu, a dummy!”

Ultimately, she’d deferred the university’s acceptance until there were no more deferrals left, but in its place came Dhruv’s marriage proposal. She said yes. It was her fault. 

The chai rose up, threatening to overflow onto the stovetop. 

“Go ahead, spill the tea!,” a voice called out. It was Dhruv’s sister, Ami. 

“Oh my god, how long have you been standing there?” Sneha exclaimed, startled.

“You mean watching you? Oh, pretty much since the first time I met you. So, are you seriously going to let my parents move in with you?”

“You know, you’re the first person that has asked me.”

“So what’s the answer? Are you really going to go through with this? Because if you do, everyone will say what a dai, good girl you are and then they’ll get back to their normal lives while your world falls apart.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you can be a bad bitch. Like me.,” Ami cackled.

“Easy for you to say, you’re a lot braver than me. You married GREG, the whitest man in the universe. Me, I dated a couple of non-Indians and the thought of my parents even finding out I was dating them scared the crap out of me. I’m not you. But I wish I was.” She surprised herself with this last addition, and then the tears began to find their way from her heart to her eyes and eventually down her cheeks.

A few moments of silence passed as Sneha quietly wept. She wept for the thousand tiny compromises she’d made her whole life, each of them taking her further from the life she’d dreamt of as a child, all the while being told she was following the right path, keep going, that’s a good girl. She wept for what could have been and she wept for what was. And finally, she wept because no one had ever told her it was in fact all her choice.”  Ami waited, never taking her gaze off her sister-in-law who was suddenly more a sister. She bided her time before speaking slowly, softly.

“What are you afraid of? That they’ll say you’re not nice? Nice to whom? How about being nice to yourself? Did your mom ever tell you to be nice to yourself, to look out for you because you’re Number 1? Of course not, because we’re raised to be Number 2. Look.  It's not about being brave enough, it’s about being fed up enough. Walk back in there without their damn chai-nastaa- you know THAT will get their attention- and tell them it’s a bad idea. Tell them Greg and I and you and Dhruv will pay for a damn home aide worker. Tell them it’s too much to have them move in. Are you fed up enough to say that?”

“Yeah,” Sneha said as she wiped the tears from her cheeks, "I’m fed up enough." She inhales deeply and then smiles. “My mom will have a cow.”

“Your mom is a bully. Better she have a cow than you,” Ami winks as she points dramatically at the cow outside the window. The two erupt in giggles. “Now go. Do the nice thing. For yourself.”