opened the front door to find a cage containing a cougar cub, which, to her lasting regret, her mother donated to the Oakland Zoo.
Belle’s right, too, in that she’d be a great Special Attraction.
But here’s Rakhi’s shameful secret: she doesn’t want her mother in the store. The Chai House is her sanctuary, the one place she has made her own. Much as she loves her mother, she doesn’t want her taking it over—the way she (effortlessly, without a single word, without even wanting it) dominates other areas of Rakhi’s life.
Her mother gives a small laugh, as though she knows what Rakhi is thinking. “Tell Belle I can’t do that, and even if I could, having me there wouldn’t solve things. You need to find something authentic to offer your customers, something that satisfies a need in them that’s deep and real. I know you’ll figure it out. I have full confidence in the two of you.”
Rakhi looks morosely out the window, wondering what she means by authentic. The Java employees are out on the street, watching the workmen put up the sign. They cheer and clap when it’s in place. She can hear them all the way in here. The blond manager seems to be dauntingly good at motivating her staff.
“You’re just giving us a motherly pep talk,” she grumbles.
“Well, what do you expect? I am your mother, after all.”
“But Mrs. Gupta,” Belle says, wresting the phone from Rakhi again, “can’t you give us a little hint as to what we should do? Maybe it’ll come to you as you sleep—”
“It may—or it may not,” Rakhi’s mother says. “I don’t control my dreams, Balwant.”
Belle begins to apologize, but she goes on. “If I did, they wouldn’t be of use to anyone.” In a lighter tone she adds, “If I can help you in any way, I’ll do it—you know that! Meanwhile, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of you hears some good news soon.”
“Wait a minute.” Rakhi leans over Belle and shouts into the mouthpiece. “Did you get that from a dream, or is it just a motherly feeling?”
“It’s one of the primary laws of the universe,” her mother states. “ There is no darkness but light follows. Haven’t you heard of it?”
She hangs up, leaving Rakhi to wonder if this is ancient Indian wisdom or New Age Californian.
8
FROM THE
DREAM JOURNALS
Once my daughter came to me weeping, and I couldn’t help her.
You don’t love me, she accused me later. You do it for everyone else, but you won’t do it for me.
Impossible to prove your love to someone who doubts it.
The warnings of the elders came back to me. Those you love the most, you’ll help the least. You’ll be defeated by the oneness of your blood . I’d thought, What do these dried-up old women know of love? If love is strong and pure, it can overcome all barriers. That’s the kind of love I’ll possess.
Rakhi was thirteen that year, a young and worshipful thirteen. She was so unlike other girls her age. Her Indian classmates wore tank tops and tight-fitting jeans. They smoked and wanted to go to Madonna concerts. They hated anything to do with their culture—or their parents. My daughter came back from the library with a stack of books on India. She observed me from behind doors. She started Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams but lost interest because it focused too much on Western methodology. I tried to turn her attention from the long ago and far away, to get her to focus on her American life, but she continued to believe that what I did was amazing and wonderful.
In these pages I can admit what I’d never tell her. It was a disappointment to me, too, that she couldn’t decipher dreams. To have had her company on this path would have eased my loneliness. I’d wished for it when I was pregnant with her. But that gift wasn’t mine to give.
The night I’m writing of, she came crying to where I slept on the floor of the sowing room, where the seeds of dreams fall into me. It was two hours past midnight. She was
Belle’s right, too, in that she’d be a great Special Attraction.
But here’s Rakhi’s shameful secret: she doesn’t want her mother in the store. The Chai House is her sanctuary, the one place she has made her own. Much as she loves her mother, she doesn’t want her taking it over—the way she (effortlessly, without a single word, without even wanting it) dominates other areas of Rakhi’s life.
Her mother gives a small laugh, as though she knows what Rakhi is thinking. “Tell Belle I can’t do that, and even if I could, having me there wouldn’t solve things. You need to find something authentic to offer your customers, something that satisfies a need in them that’s deep and real. I know you’ll figure it out. I have full confidence in the two of you.”
Rakhi looks morosely out the window, wondering what she means by authentic. The Java employees are out on the street, watching the workmen put up the sign. They cheer and clap when it’s in place. She can hear them all the way in here. The blond manager seems to be dauntingly good at motivating her staff.
“You’re just giving us a motherly pep talk,” she grumbles.
“Well, what do you expect? I am your mother, after all.”
“But Mrs. Gupta,” Belle says, wresting the phone from Rakhi again, “can’t you give us a little hint as to what we should do? Maybe it’ll come to you as you sleep—”
“It may—or it may not,” Rakhi’s mother says. “I don’t control my dreams, Balwant.”
Belle begins to apologize, but she goes on. “If I did, they wouldn’t be of use to anyone.” In a lighter tone she adds, “If I can help you in any way, I’ll do it—you know that! Meanwhile, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of you hears some good news soon.”
“Wait a minute.” Rakhi leans over Belle and shouts into the mouthpiece. “Did you get that from a dream, or is it just a motherly feeling?”
“It’s one of the primary laws of the universe,” her mother states. “ There is no darkness but light follows. Haven’t you heard of it?”
She hangs up, leaving Rakhi to wonder if this is ancient Indian wisdom or New Age Californian.
8
FROM THE
DREAM JOURNALS
Once my daughter came to me weeping, and I couldn’t help her.
You don’t love me, she accused me later. You do it for everyone else, but you won’t do it for me.
Impossible to prove your love to someone who doubts it.
The warnings of the elders came back to me. Those you love the most, you’ll help the least. You’ll be defeated by the oneness of your blood . I’d thought, What do these dried-up old women know of love? If love is strong and pure, it can overcome all barriers. That’s the kind of love I’ll possess.
Rakhi was thirteen that year, a young and worshipful thirteen. She was so unlike other girls her age. Her Indian classmates wore tank tops and tight-fitting jeans. They smoked and wanted to go to Madonna concerts. They hated anything to do with their culture—or their parents. My daughter came back from the library with a stack of books on India. She observed me from behind doors. She started Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams but lost interest because it focused too much on Western methodology. I tried to turn her attention from the long ago and far away, to get her to focus on her American life, but she continued to believe that what I did was amazing and wonderful.
In these pages I can admit what I’d never tell her. It was a disappointment to me, too, that she couldn’t decipher dreams. To have had her company on this path would have eased my loneliness. I’d wished for it when I was pregnant with her. But that gift wasn’t mine to give.
The night I’m writing of, she came crying to where I slept on the floor of the sowing room, where the seeds of dreams fall into me. It was two hours past midnight. She was
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