beer—strictly an export, not available in India.
“Peanut, take this to Daddy, please,” I say to Lina, my sous chef in training. Will I become like my mother and micro-manage my daughter one day? I vow
no way, never,
even as I instruct, “Careful. Walk slowly. Don’t skip, or you’ll spill.” Lina’s such a bubbly child, she constantly skips, rarely walks, given free will.
“Ah. This is the life,” Eric says from the den, where he’s sprawled on the couch in front of his new wide-screen television. He did the grocery run, so he’s earned full couch-potato rights.
“Ah. This is the life,” Jack echoes as he pushes his dump truck around the floor.
“Ah. This is the life,” Lina says, skipping back into the kitchen.
I laugh and, just like that, the missing ingredient occurs to me. “Um, Eric? How much do you love me?”
“Enough to go back out and get whatever you forgot, if it can wait until halftime.”
“That’s love.” I smile and lean back against the counter. Tipping back my beer bottle, I take a long sip. Life is good.
Don’t open Pandora’s Box.
O ne intercepted phone call in Goa, and it was over.
“Who’s calling?” my mother asked. When her eyes widened, the hairs on my arms rose in foreboding. She looked directly at me. “Preity isn’t available right now. I’ll tell her you called.” She hung up. “Arsallan Khan. A friend of yours?”
I nodded.
“
Just
a friend.” A statement she wanted me to confirm, rather than a question.
I couldn’t lie. I shook my head.
“Preity,” she shot the two syllables of my name rapid-fire like two bullets. “Khan is a Muslim name. He is a
Mussalman
.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
She set her jaw in a firm line. “How can you know and be more than friends?” She paced, cheeks red, breath labored. “You know, but you obviously don’t understand. You
can’t
understand the scars of Partition.” She shook her head, pain in her eyes. “It’s
my
fault. That’s what everyone will say. Your father and I shouldn’t have raised our children in America. We sold out on our heritage.”
I ached for my mom when she talked this way. “That’s not true—”
“See how you talk back! That would never happen in India. Children don’t contradict their parents!”
I couldn’t defend myself—more backtalk—so I stood there with my gaze lowered as she delivered another of her lectures, her duty as a good Indian parent: tough love.
“You learned trivial details of American history, but not even the most vital of Indian,” she said. “Your schools didn’t teach you
one single thing
about
our
holocaust,
our
wars,
our
independence,
our
leaders.
Far
more important the leaders of tomorrow can name Columbus’ three ships, your state bird, tree, and flower.
That
will help avert the next hostage crisis, or hijacking, or nuclear attack of
your
generation.”
She was right that, up until then, everything Indian of relevance, consequence—everything critical to understanding problems facing the modern world—I learned from my parents. From their homeschooling. Even the significance of Gandhi.
When the movie
Gandhi
hit theaters, my parents took me opening day. They cried through most of it, even parts that didn’t strike
me
as particularly emotional. Later, I learned their tears were as much, if not more, for the epic bloodshed that
followed
a nobly won independence.
For me, India’s independence wasn’t just a history lesson, pages in some dull, dry textbook. My parents, my family, lived it. Partition isn’t
a
story. It’s
their
story:
In 1947, after almost two centuries of British rule, India won independence, the triumph of a monumental freedom movement—
nonviolent
activism—led by Mohandas Gandhi, who came to be known as Mahatma, meaning “great soul” in Sanskrit. “I’m willing to die for this cause,” Gandhi said, “but for no cause am I willing to kill.” And Albert Einstein said about him,
“Peanut, take this to Daddy, please,” I say to Lina, my sous chef in training. Will I become like my mother and micro-manage my daughter one day? I vow
no way, never,
even as I instruct, “Careful. Walk slowly. Don’t skip, or you’ll spill.” Lina’s such a bubbly child, she constantly skips, rarely walks, given free will.
“Ah. This is the life,” Eric says from the den, where he’s sprawled on the couch in front of his new wide-screen television. He did the grocery run, so he’s earned full couch-potato rights.
“Ah. This is the life,” Jack echoes as he pushes his dump truck around the floor.
“Ah. This is the life,” Lina says, skipping back into the kitchen.
I laugh and, just like that, the missing ingredient occurs to me. “Um, Eric? How much do you love me?”
“Enough to go back out and get whatever you forgot, if it can wait until halftime.”
“That’s love.” I smile and lean back against the counter. Tipping back my beer bottle, I take a long sip. Life is good.
Don’t open Pandora’s Box.
O ne intercepted phone call in Goa, and it was over.
“Who’s calling?” my mother asked. When her eyes widened, the hairs on my arms rose in foreboding. She looked directly at me. “Preity isn’t available right now. I’ll tell her you called.” She hung up. “Arsallan Khan. A friend of yours?”
I nodded.
“
Just
a friend.” A statement she wanted me to confirm, rather than a question.
I couldn’t lie. I shook my head.
“Preity,” she shot the two syllables of my name rapid-fire like two bullets. “Khan is a Muslim name. He is a
Mussalman
.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
She set her jaw in a firm line. “How can you know and be more than friends?” She paced, cheeks red, breath labored. “You know, but you obviously don’t understand. You
can’t
understand the scars of Partition.” She shook her head, pain in her eyes. “It’s
my
fault. That’s what everyone will say. Your father and I shouldn’t have raised our children in America. We sold out on our heritage.”
I ached for my mom when she talked this way. “That’s not true—”
“See how you talk back! That would never happen in India. Children don’t contradict their parents!”
I couldn’t defend myself—more backtalk—so I stood there with my gaze lowered as she delivered another of her lectures, her duty as a good Indian parent: tough love.
“You learned trivial details of American history, but not even the most vital of Indian,” she said. “Your schools didn’t teach you
one single thing
about
our
holocaust,
our
wars,
our
independence,
our
leaders.
Far
more important the leaders of tomorrow can name Columbus’ three ships, your state bird, tree, and flower.
That
will help avert the next hostage crisis, or hijacking, or nuclear attack of
your
generation.”
She was right that, up until then, everything Indian of relevance, consequence—everything critical to understanding problems facing the modern world—I learned from my parents. From their homeschooling. Even the significance of Gandhi.
When the movie
Gandhi
hit theaters, my parents took me opening day. They cried through most of it, even parts that didn’t strike
me
as particularly emotional. Later, I learned their tears were as much, if not more, for the epic bloodshed that
followed
a nobly won independence.
For me, India’s independence wasn’t just a history lesson, pages in some dull, dry textbook. My parents, my family, lived it. Partition isn’t
a
story. It’s
their
story:
In 1947, after almost two centuries of British rule, India won independence, the triumph of a monumental freedom movement—
nonviolent
activism—led by Mohandas Gandhi, who came to be known as Mahatma, meaning “great soul” in Sanskrit. “I’m willing to die for this cause,” Gandhi said, “but for no cause am I willing to kill.” And Albert Einstein said about him,
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