Choose Your Parents Well, Part II

From a makeshift stage on a grassy patch next to the Talkeetna River, as their friends gathered to witness this most important ritual of her life, Uma peeked through the turquoise curtain, scanning the front row for her parents. She had stormed out of their house last month in a fit of rage. Her mind wandered to those summer nights with her grandparents during her high school years in Ojai and their stories of civil disobedience in the tumultuous Berkeley of the ‘60s. Conversations on religion, society, culture, books, and of course, politics, enriched with some local pot, rambled on into the wee hours.

All she wanted now was her parents’ physical presence, alongside her grandparents’ spirits, blessing her, as she was about to embark on her journey with the love of her life.

****

Uma, an M.I.T. graduate with a master’s degree in aerospace engineering, has been part of the Reliability Analyses group at Boeing’s Space Division HQ in Seattle for almost five years. A petite woman with long black hair, always braided, she dressed nattily in grey or black pantsuits for that professional look. She was pleased for the first two as she tried to comprehend the complex mathematics of evaluating satellite systems, but then, as if a switch had been turned off, became disenchanted with the rote number crunching using software tools developed well before she was born. 

As she was coming back from the coffee room, having spent most of the previous night running her analyses for the proposal that was due at the Air Force customer’s offices in three days, Brian from the design team tagged her shoulder. “Uma, did you get the latest design changes? We had to add more amplifiers and completely overhaul the switching network to meet their requirements. I sent this message to everybody about an hour ago.”

Uma wasn’t sure if she should punch him or cry. She’s been constantly stressed and losing sleep trying to complete her work at the last minute. There's never been a proposal where the design wasn’t changed with only a few days to go. She worked feverishly for the rest of the day, stumbled home at midnight, and instantly fell asleep in the waiting arms of her soulmate, Lisa.

****

Maria Lisa Avanti preferred to be called by her middle name because, as she put it, “Every catholic girl in the world is called Maria.” Lisa, who graduated with an MFA from Amherst, worked for the Proposal Development group translating engineers’ gobbledygook into readable English. “I am lucky to be here, unlike my college friends who are either married and going crazy with kids, spending an eternity in graduate schools, or waiting tables,” she remarked to Uma, on one of their early dates. 

Lisa was endowed with an athletic build, a firm chin, and deep blue eyes set in a round face with short cropped dark black hair, a combination one rarely sees. The only child of devout catholics who wouldn’t accept her 'sexual deviancy', as they called it, she left for Amherst with a scholarship, never to return. Four years ago, waiting for a seminar to start, Lisa met Uma in the Enterprise conference room as they were admiring pictures of the space shuttle in various flight stages. Although she excelled at math in high school and considered engineering, her passion for history and dramatic theater took her on a different path. Ironically, she was now making a good living in a high-tech aerospace company.

At dinner, they talked about their discomfort at working for a major aerospace and defense company. “There must be a way to earn a living without contributing to the military-industrial complex which is ‘killing third world babies’,” said Uma.” 

“Have you ever wished you could throw a dart and live wherever it sticks on a map,” asked Lisa? “I am serious. We have enough saved up to reinvent ourselves. We are young and shouldn’t be imprisoned in Boeing’s cubicle cells, not be able to tell our grandchildren what we did for the greater good.” 

Uma then taped a Mercator projection National Geographic map on the wall and hurled one which stuck in the center of the North Atlantic, close to Iceland. Lisa’s dart wound up in Alaska, somewhere between Anchorage and Fairbanks.

“You know, the Gods are sending us atheists a signal,” said Lisa. “A friend of mine recently got back from a trip to Denali Park and he couldn’t stop raving about this neo-hippie haven leftover from the sixties called Talkeetna. It fuels the hordes of tourists making their pilgrimage between Anchorage and Denali, and was also the setting for ‘Northern Exposure,’ the TV show from the 90’s.”

“Sounds like a charming place,” said Uma.

In the next few months, the same drama of last-minute design changes played out. On Uma’s next work anniversary, they made the decision that would forever alter their lives.

****

Krishna was livid when his daughter broke the news: she quit a promising career in high tech and plans to move to some god-forsaken place. He had enough of that idealism during his childhood when his parents, both physicists with graduate degrees from Berkeley, turned down fantastic opportunities to work in the nuclear programs at Sandia National Labs. Instead, they ran a vegan food stand in Ojai, California, barely eking out a living and giving most of their proceeds to looney-left charities. If it wasn’t for the flush endowment at U.C. Davis, he would have never gone to college and eventually become a renowned surgeon. 

“What unsuitable boys will she meet there: Lumberjacks? Fishermen? The ‘real’ Indians? Who else would want to live in that wasteland?” Krishna cried out. He was convinced that she would end up living in a trailer park with a brood of illegitimate children, a destiny that no good Indian parent envisioned for their one and only golden child.

“I doubt she’s going there to meet boys,” joked his wife, Saraswathi, trying to calm him down. The last thing he needed was another stroke. 

“Uma has always been a sensible girl. Let her explore her wild side for a while and try to survive an Alaskan winter. She will be back before we know it.”

 Krishna was not reassured.

****

Talkeetna, a one-horse town, prided itself as a ‘drinking village with a tourist problem.’ This Alaskan wilderness village was just like the bears that surround it, fattening itself on tourist dollars over the four or five long summer months and hibernating the rest of the year. An idealized version of the fictional town of Mayberry where everyone knew everyone else, front doors were never locked, and kids played unsupervised outside at all hours.   

In Talkeetna, the two women bought a food truck for the modest sum of ten-thousand dollars. They spent a couple of weeks refurbishing it and began serving vegan food to the ample tourists driving back and forth between Anchorage and Denali Park. Their long Alaskan summer days started around nine AM, chopping the cilantro, carrots, squash, and other vegetables, cooking the rice and beans, prepping all the garnish items and special sauces, in time for the first lunch customers around eleven. They served continuously until seven or eight, and then spent a couple of hours cleaning up. This was physically demanding manual labor, not the sedentary intellectual work they had been used to at Boeing, but they loved not being stuck in a cubicle. They were self-made entrepreneurs, breathing fresh air, meeting a variety of people, and most importantly, not ‘killing third world babies.’ 

They took Tuesdays and Wednesdays off since they made most of their money on weekends. They spent these days sleeping in, making passionate love, having leisurely breakfasts, and in the afternoons, bushwhacking in the wild, gathering berries like the bears, trying to stay far enough away from those same bears. These two sun-drenched summer nights were typically spent in the company of other young refugees, who, like them, were burnt out by the hectic pace of life in the lower forty-eight. Lisa was enamored with the young progeny of their friends. She would read to them, go on evening bike rides, skip rope, play tetherball, and even tuck them into bed. Aunt Lisa was quite a hit with the under-ten crowd. They finally managed to live the simple life they had craved, literally on love and fresh air.    

A year later, in June of 2015, a miracle occurred in America—the conservative Roberts’ Supreme Court shocked everyone by legalizing gay marriage.

Two weeks later, on an evening hike, Lisa was admiring an old-growth redwood that had probably fallen over a century ago. She went around the other side, knelt, picked up something, and ran back to Uma. She then opened her clenched hand, slowly. “Look what I found, a gem in the rough, just like you,” she said, with a single teardrop in her right eye.  “With my grandmother's ring, will you help me exercise our new-found right?” 

“With all my soul,” she blurted out, tears gushing. “It’s time I came out to my parents, in person. My mother will cry but ultimately accept us, and my father will have a fit. It’s time he grew up.”

****

On the long flight to Sacramento, Uma remembered the many times Krishna would fly into Logan during her college years, especially when her mother was volunteering her services as a pediatrician in damaged zones somewhere in the world with Medicins Sans Frontieres. They would spend three or four days exploring the many cultural and culinary treats of Boston, constantly laughing about nothing, joking about family lore, especially his parents’ crazy life as the only brown people in anti-war marches while selling pot to pay for graduate school. Daddy’s favorite James Taylor song, which she would get tired of hearing every time he visited, played as an endless loop in her mind:

“…Now the First of December was covered with snow

And so was the Turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston

Lord, the Berkshires seemed dream-like on account of that frostin'

With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go…”

Uma wondered if her father would ever make that long journey for her.

 ****

“Hi honey, how was your flight. So glad that you could come home for Daddy’s birthday,” said Saraswathi. “Lisa, we’re so glad you could join us this special weekend—it’s been a while since we saw you, dear. We made up the futon in the study for you. Why don’t you girls unpack and meet us in the dining room?”

“This Pulav is fantastic. Uma made it for me a couple of times, said Lisa, but it never came out so delicious.”

“Thank you, dear. The secret is in letting the rice simmer long enough with all the spices. I’m sure Uma didn’t have the patience for that.”

Half-way through the meal, Uma, with her voice breaking, said softly: “Lisa and I have been together for over three years. The reason we came down now, besides celebrating Daddy’s 60^th, is to invite you to join our friends and bless our small wedding in Talkeetna next month.”

Krishna dropped his fork. His normally happy face crinkled up in bewilderment and he found himself speechless. His eyes looked left at his daughter whom he couldn’t recognize. Each swing of the pendulum clock in the living room, normally unheard, thundered in his head. He then picked up a fork full of his favorite eggplant curry, only to notice that it suddenly tasted bitter.

Saraswathi, who had a mother’s instinct that something was afoot when Uma called her midweek to announce that she and her friend were coming for the weekend, after telling her last week that she couldn’t make it for Daddy’s birthday, dropped her chin and remained quiet. Inside, she was bawling away.

“Happy birthday, Mr. Chaganti,” said Lisa, after about a minute which felt like an eternity.

Saraswathi regained some of her composure and suggested that they talk this through the next day when everyone is fresh. The rest of the meal was eaten without a word spoken. After they washed the dishes and cleared the table, they walked halfway down the hallway, and as Lisa was about to turn into the study, Uma reached out. “Let’s be comfortable together in my room tonight.” Her parents, trying to be the good hosts, watched in horror.

The next afternoon, when Lisa went out for her daily five-mile run, Krishna started what would be the most heated conversation in the life of the Chaganti family. 

“We had no idea you felt this way. You seemed so comfortable with boys. I still remember you were glowing for days after your high school prom date with Ashwin.”

“Daddy, I know this is hard for you, but I’ve always preferred girls. I tried to be a ‘good’ daughter and repressed any desires I had for the same sex while growing up because I knew this is a taboo in our community. I had a difficult time coming out in college, but thanks to some wonderful friends, I was able to see that I’m not abnormal. Years later, after a few relationships which eventually soured, I met Lisa at work and we grew to love each other, deeply. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that we’ve been more than roommates all these years. I didn’t think you guys were ready for such a shock. Mom and Daddy, you’ll see that Lisa and I are great together.”

“That’s not the issue,” said Krishna.

“What exactly is the issue, Daddy?” Uma wanted to hear her father’s explanation, although she had a pretty good idea.

 “Well, to start with, she is not exactly the son-in-law we looked forward to. Why are you punishing us?” said Krishna, his eyes moistening up. 

“Daddy, this has nothing to do with you guys, and I’m not punishing you. It’s completely the opposite. I would be punishing myself if I didn’t follow my heart.”

Over the years, many inquiries had been made by Krishna and Saraswathi’s friends. They sometimes forwarded the contact information to Uma, who would then politely respond with her usual line: “Thank you, Auntie, but I’m just not ready for a relationship right now.” Often, she wanted to tell them she was gay, if only to hear their uncomfortable squirming on the phone. 

“Did we not love you enough, provide you with every opportunity? Your mother and I devoted our lives to you, our only child.”

“I greatly appreciate all the opportunities you provided for me. In some way, Lisa and I hope to pay it forward because, after all, that is how payments should be made. We have been thinking of adopting, so you'll both have a beautiful grandchild, just not the way you thought.” 

“Do you have any idea how hard life is going to be in these United States for a mixed-race lesbian couple,” asked Krishna? 

Saraswathi stepped in. “You will not be able to live comfortably anywhere beyond lefty enclaves like the Berkshires; well, maybe New York City and San Francisco.”

Krishna immediately piped in, not giving Uma a chance to respond. “And beyond the overt, there is covert bias across most of this country when it comes to jobs and social acceptance. Are you sure you want to trudge down this impossible path for the rest of your life?”

“Lisa and I are not so naïve as to believe we can live our lives in blissful love, here or anywhere in this world. Of course, there is prejudice everywhere. We will find our way.”

“And what would your grandparent have said about this?” asked Krishna.

Her grandparents’ tales of the many marches they participated in graduate school in ‘60s Berkeley against the unconscionable Vietnam war, police brutality, unequal education, and financial inequity came gushing into Uma’s head. The stories of their fulfilling lives in Ojai, trading a comfortable life working in the defense industry for a difficult one running a vegan food truck in a small town were permanently imprinted upon her adolescent brain. Although she could not recall discussing gay marriage with them, she knew that they would have extended that same liberal perspective to encompass freedom of choice, not only for a pregnant woman but also to those ostracized for who they love. 

“Daddy, your parents would be utterly disappointed in you now.” 

Krishna knew he shouldn’t say this, but he couldn’t control himself anymore. “It’s one thing to espouse all those liberal causes, but when your child comes home to announce her gay marriage, that's too much."

Uma was furious with her father. “That, Daddy, is the ultimate test of one’s core values—and you have miserably failed. You always told me how much you appreciated their high moral character, and how, only after you got much older, realized that you chose your parents well. If you can’t accept Lisa in my life, then I will never be able to make that claim.” 

 “We saw you both going into your bedroom last night. We need you to respect the rules of our house while you’re here,” said Krishna, with a commanding tone that she had never heard before.

Uma stormed off to her room, and when Lisa returned from her run, Uma told her to take a quick shower and get packed for she rebooked them on the seven PM flight back to Anchorage.

****

On August 15, 2015, sixty-eight years after India liberated itself from its colonial masters, Saraswathi and Krishna quietly took their front row seats to bless the marriage of their second-generation Indian-American daughter to a fourth-generation Italian-American woman. 

A few bright red and brown leaves portending the coming fall season contrasted sharply with the dense green summer foliage surrounding the grassy patch next to the Talkeetna River. The far-away craggy peaks merged seamlessly with a cerulean sky with fluffy white clouds that God must have been painted with the help of Monet and Chagall.  

In this serene setting, from that makeshift stage, they heard Maria Lisa Avanti, attired in a formal tuxedo and beautiful corsage pinned to her lapel, softly proclaim her eternal love for their daughter, Uma Chaganti, who looked radiant in a light pink evening gown and a tiara of wildflowers. Saraswathi, in an elegant maroon sari, was immersed in joy, tears streaking down both cheeks.  

At that moment, Krishna realized, for the first time, that Uma had indeed found her soulmate. But overcoming his deeply entrenched DNA coding seemed like a Sisyphean task. To the shock of everyone, he walked away and was last seen pacing up and down a hiking trail about a hundred yards to the west, sobbing uncontrollably.

****