Gowda Quotes

Notice if you are holding your breath after inhaling, and if so, what are you afraid of letting go. Or are you holding it after exhaling, and what are you afraid of letting in.

At some point, the family you create is more important than the one you were born into.

Sometimes she wishes she could return to the naive happiness of their life. But mostly, she aches to go forward, to a place her body doesn't seem willing to take her.

Sometimes, as she has well learned in life, one's actions must precede the emotions one hopes to feel.

If the mother falls, the whole family falls.

...tried to be faultless as a parent, but still she worries that in the end, all her love for her daughter will not compensate for the loss she suffered as a baby

Still others, like Kavita, just sit and sit, sometimes for hours. They are the ones, she now understands, who are mourning. Like her, they mourn a loss so wide and sodeep and so all-encompassing that it threatens to wash them away with grief.

Priya Gowda had never met a book she wouldn't read, and she'd met a lot of them.

Some of India’s most stellar appointments include H.D. Deve Gowda as prime minister, A.K. Antony as defence minister and Sharad Pawar as anything at all.

At somepoint, the family you create is important than the one you're born into

Then she rushes to pick up Asha from school, where she is known only as "Asha's mom" by the other mothers, who seem to all spend a lot of time together. Somer has no time for the PTA and bake sales. She has no time for herself. Her profession no longer defines her, but neither does being a mother. Both are pieces of her, and yet they don't seem to add up to a whole.

This story is going to be told. I can’t stop it. Neither can you. But what I can do, what I have the power to do, is to ask you if you’ll let me tell it the way you want it told. If you’ll let me tell the truth.

Wedding was quiet and small, home they shared was soulless, their food bland. Sarla and her husband felt like guests in that home rather than family. They wondered what had happened to their son.

It has been more than twenty years since she lost her two daughters here, the one who was never given a name or a life, and her precious Usha. With thoughts of Usha comes the physical ache in her heart. There has not been a day since Usha’s birth that Kavita has not thought of her, mourned her loss, and prayed for the hollow feelings of grief to melt away. But God has not listened. Or else he has not yet forgiven her. Because the heartache has endured.

Kavita’s arms are still outstretched, but they hold nothing. After the metal gate clangs shut behind them, Kavita can still hear Usha’s piercing wail echoing inside.

You've got to check your ego at the door, and change your goal from having the right answer to learning everything you can. Understand?

He can’t recognize when his own body needs to go to the toilet, but he notices the first night in fifty years his wife is not sleeping beside him.” Rupa shakes her head. “I don’t quite understand it, but that is a powerful love.

Most people, including Ma, preferred to brush unpleasantness away, as if, by sweeping it outside with the dust, it could be forgotten. As if, by acknowledging the existence of something unsavory in their community, they might be tainted by it themselves.

It has been an assault on her senses: smells that suddenly overpower her, and heat she can taste, thick as dust on her tongue. Not only does she feel powerless in the face of Indian bureaucracy, but as further punishment, the torrential downpours also keep them trapped inside Krishnan’s parents’ flat.

Jasu offers a weak smile to the taunting men, but Kavita sees the pain in his eyes. She sees the injured pride, the shame, the disappointment she knows he feels. In this moment, witnessing him in his messy, helpless state, Kavita feels her anger and fear washed away by sorrow. All this time, Jasu has had only one goal above all else, to provide for his family. And over the last twenty years, it seems as if God has been dreaming up one cruel complication after another to keep him from even this modest goal. The poor harvests back in Dahanu, the illusive dhaba-wallah job, the bicycle factory raid, the moneylender, and now his broken hand, dangling limply at his side as he tries to stand. Kavita rushes over to help him. “Come, Jasu-ji,” she says, using the respectful term of address for her husband. “You wanted me to tell you when dinner was ready. I’ve made all your favorites—bhindi masala, khadi, laddoo.

She goes through the same motions as every other day, but something has shifted. It feels as if someone has picked up her world and tilted it off its axis. Everything familiar to her is slipping away. Kris and Asha not only don’t need her, but they also can’t seem to tolerate her in their lives any longer, betraying her to make their plans.

I love your smile, that smile. Don’t cover it up. It’s the best part of you.” The

a girl you still could not forget?

Not only was it impossible to truly belong in America, but he didn't fit in here anymore either. He was a dweller of two lands, accepted by none.

We all have something that haunts us, that prevents us from reaching our true potential. ... You can do extraordinary things with your life, if you choose.

The real world is all an illusion. It’s all in how you see it.

ನಮ್ಮ ಸುತ್ತ ಎರಡು ತರ ಜನ ಇರ್ತಾರೆ. ಒಂದು ಹಣಕ್ಕಾಗಿ ಮನುಷ್ಯನ ಕಳೆದುಕೊಳ್ಳುವವರು; ಮತ್ತೊಂದು ಮನುಷ್ಯನಿಗಾಗಿ ಹಣವನ್ನು ಕಳೆದುಕೊಳ್ಳುವವರು. -ಲೀ

ಎಲ್ಲರೂ ನಮ್ಮವರಾಗಿರಲ್ಲ; ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ನಿಮ್ಮ ಸ್ವಾಭಿಮಾನಕ್ಕೂ ಬೆಲೆ ಕೊಡಿ. -ಲೀ

ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಜೀವಗಳಿಗೆ ಜೀವನ ಕೊಟ್ಟಿರೋ ನಾಡು ನಮ್ಮ ಕರುನಾಡು

Usha is Kavita’s choice alone, a secret name for her secret daughter. The thought brings a smile to her face. That one day she spent with her daughter was precious. Though she was exhausted, she would not sleep. She didn’t want to miss a single moment. Kavita held her baby close, watched her small body rise and fall with breath, traced her delicate eyebrows and the folds of her tender skin. She nursed her when she cried, and in those few moments when Usha was awake, Kavita saw herself unmistakably in the distinctive gold-flecked eyes, more beautiful on her child than on herself. She could hardly believe this lovely creature was hers. She didn’t allow herself to think beyond that day.At least this baby girl will be allowed to live—a chance to grow up, go to school, maybe even marry and have children. Kavita knows, along with her daughter, she is forsaking any hope of helping her along the path of life. Usha will never know her parents, but she has a chance at life, and that will have to be enough. Kavita slides one of the two thin silver bangles she always wears from her own frail wrist and slips it onto Usha’s ankle. “I’m sorry I cannot give you more, beti,” she whispers into her downy head.

Somer cannot give voice to her real fears. That she will lose Asha, even a little bit. That the bond she’s worked so hard to build will be tainted by this ghost. This, after all, is the outcome she has tried to avoid all along—why she hasn’t wanted to go back to India, why she’s never encouraged Asha’s questions about the adoption. It is at the core of almost every decision she has made since Asha came into their lives.

Being a woman in India is an altogether different experience. You can’t always see the power women hold, but it is there, in the firm grasp of the matriarchs who still rule most families. It has not been easy for Sarla to navigate the female path: she has become a master traveler, but one with no pupil. She thought she might develop this relationship with one of her daughters-in-law, but the others, like Somer, didn’t quite fill the role. And when they had babies, they relied on their own mothers, leaving her once again in the company of men. But now, Sarla muses as she glances at the clock, anticipating Krishnan’s arrival, she will finally get her granddaughter.

I like to think of myself as a reasonable man. But I have buried too many friends in the too-recent past, and I have seen too many lies go unquestioned, and too many questions go unasked. There is a time when even reasonable men must begin to take unreasonable actions. To do anything else is to be less than human. And to those who would choose the safety of inaction over the danger of taking a stand, I have this to say: You bloody cowards. May you have the world that you deserve.

Now, her mother lifts Kavita’s head up out of her lap and holds her face, hot with tears, in her cool hands. “I am glad it is you who is going,” her mother whispers. Kavita looks up at her with shock. “I won’t worry about you, Kavita. You have strength. Fortitude. Shakti. Bombay will bring you hardship. But you, beti, have the strength to endure it.” And through her mother’s words and her hands, Kavita feels it—shakti, the sacred feminine force that flows from the Divine Mother to all those who have come after her.

But most of all, when Somer closes her eyes, she imagines the moment she will hold her baby for the first time. She keeps Asha’s photo in her pocket and looks at it often. That one photo vaporized her doubts and made everything come to life. She lay awake at night, picturing her daughter’s sweet face.

He blinks several times. The house is spacious and beautiful but feels sterile to him, just like their lives. He doesn’t notice it as much when Asha fills it with her chatter and laughter, but even then, it never feels as full and rich as the family get-togethers he remembers from childhood. This is the life he envisioned, the life he hoped for, but somehow the American dream now seems hollow to him. Just a few weeks ago, his family back home was all gathered for Diwali dinner at his parents’ home, at least two dozen people in all. Krishnan was the only one missing, so they called him, passing the phone around so each could wish him a happy Diwali. He had been rushing out the door that day when the phone rang, but after hanging up, he sat motionless at the kitchen table with the phone in hand. It was evening in Bombay, and he could close his eyes and picture the millions of diyas, the tiny clay pots holding small flames lining the balconies, the street stalls, and the shop windows. Visitors came to exchange boxes of sweets and good wishes. Schools closed and children stayed up to enjoy fireworks. Ever since he was a child, it had been one of his favorite nights of the year, when the whole of Bombay took on a magical feel.

She knows if the test shows another girl growing in her womb, all of the possible outcomes are wrenching. Jasu can demand she have an abortion, right there at the clinic if they had the money. Or he could simply cast her out, forcing her to endure the shame of raising the child alone. She would be shunned, like the other beecharis in the village. But even this, becoming an outcast from her home and community, would not be as bad as the alternative. She cannot face the agony of giving birth, of holding her baby in her arms, only to have it taken away again. Kavita knows in her soul she simply will not survive that.

I wish you were here to help me.         I’m supposed to write a biography of myself for eighth-grade social studies, but I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know where I really came from. Whenever I ask my mom, she just gives me the same story—they picked me up from the orphanage in India when I was a baby and brought me to California.         She doesn’t know anything about you, or why you gave me away. She doesn’t know what you look like. We must look like each other, and I bet you would know what to do with my bushy eyebrows. My mom doesn’t like to talk about this stuff at all. She says I’m just like everyone else now and it shouldn’t matter.

Kavita looks peaceful when she's sleeping, when the Morphine finally brings her some comfort. Jasu sits in a chair next to the bed and reaches for her frail hand. With his touch, her eyes flutter open and she licks her dried lips. She sees him and smiles. “Jani, you’re back,” she says softly. “I went there, chakli.” He tries to begin slowly, but the words come tumbling out. “I went to Shanti, the orphanage. The man there knows her, he’s met her, Kavi. Her name is Asha now. She grew up in America, her parents are doctors, and she writes stories for newspapers—look, this is hers, she wrote this.” He waves the article in front of her. “America.” Kavita’s voice is barely a whisper. She closes her eyes and a tear drips down the side of her face and into her ear. “So far from home. All this time, she’s been so far from us.” “Such a good thing you did, chakli.” He strokes her hair, pulled back into a loose bun, and wipes her tears away with his rough fingers. “Just imagine if…” He looks down, shakes his head, and clasps her hand between his. He rests his head against their hands and begins to cry. “Such a good thing.”He looks up at her again. “She came looking for us, Kavi. She left this.” Jasu hands her the letter. A small smile breaks through on Kavita’s face. She peers at the page while he recites from memory. “My name is Asha…

It seems as if everything she’s cared about over the past twenty-five years has disintegrated, oblivious to the time and energy she has invested. She can call herself a physician but can’t take the same pride in this she used to. She is not really a wife at the moment, not much of a mother. Somewhere along the way, Somer realizes, she has lost herself.

You know,” she says softly, “what I’ve learned is that everything’s more complicated than it seems. I’m so glad I came here, got to know my family, learn about where I come from. India is an incredible country. There are parts of it that I love, that really feel like home. But at the same time, there are things here that just make me want to turn away, you know?” She looks to Somer. “Does that sound awful?” “No, honey.” She touches Asha’s cheek with the back of her hand. “I think I understand,” Somer says, and she means it. This country has given her Krishnan and Asha, the most important people in her life. But when she has fought against the power of its influence, it has also been the root of her greatest turmoil.

After some consideration, she adds a third book to this pile, a book of poetry by Mary Oliver, a parting gift from Jeremy. Inside the front cover, he wrote an inscription and included her favorite quote: “Truth is the only safe ground to stand on” —ELIZABETH CADY STANTON To my brightest star— Never hesitate in your pursuit of the truth. The world needs you. —J.C.

Oh my gosh,” Somer whispers, one hand flying up to her mouth. “She’s beautiful.” Krishnan fumbles with the papers and reads, “Asha. That’s her name. Ten months old.” “What does it mean?” she asks. “Asha? Hope.” He looks up at her, smiling. “It means hope.” “Really?” She gives a little laugh, crying as well. “Well, she must be ours then.” She grasps his hand, intertwining their fingers, and kisses him. “That’s perfect, really perfect.” She rests her head on his shoulder as they stare at the photo together. For the first time in a very long time, Somer feels a lightness in her chest. How can it be I’m already in love with this child, half a world away? The next morning, they send a telegram to the orphanage, stating they are coming to get their daughter.

At some point after Asha went to college, the distance between her and Krishnan grew. By the time their daughter left for India, they were too far apart. It was as if they stood on opposite sides of a lake, neither of them having the ability to cross the distance between. The angry words they hurled fell like stones to the bottom of the water, leaving ripples of sadness on the surface.

Everyone has been overjoyed with the birth of their first son, bringing celebratory sweets, new clothes for the baby, fennel tea to bolster her milk supply. They have showered on her all the traditional gifts, as if this is her first baby, their first child. What about the other times I’ve carried a baby in my womb, given birth, held my child in my arms? But no one acknowledges this, not even Jasu. Only Kavita has an aching cavity in her heart for what she’s lost. She sees the pride in Jasu’s eyes as he holds his son and forces herself to smile while saying a silent prayer for this child. She hopes she can give him the life he deserves. She prays she will be a good mother to her son, prays she has enough maternal love left in her heart for him, prays it didn’t die along with her daughters.

She knows that making it to the orphanage in the city is the only chance Usha has. Usha, dawn. The name came to her in the quiet hours of early morning after the midwife left them alone. It echoed in her mind as she gazed at her baby girl, trying to memorize every detail of her face. Amid the first rays of light that crept into the hut, as the cocks crowed the daybreak, Kavita silently named her daughter.

Why don’t you ever tell me about my real parents? You’re scared they’ll love me more than you do.” “Asha, we’ve already told you,” her mom says in a cracking voice. “We don’t know anything about them. That’s just the way things worked in India back then.” “And why don’t you ever take me to India? Every other Indian kid I know goes all the time. What is it, Dad—are you ashamed of me? I’m not good enough for your family?” Asha stares at her father, looking down at his hands clenched so tightly the knuckles are drained of color. “It’s not fair.” Asha can’t hold back the tears now. “Everyone else knows where they come from, but I have no idea. I don’t know why I have these eyes that everybody always notices. I don’t know how to deal with this damn hair of mine,” she yells, clenching it in her fist. “I don’t know why I can remember every seven-letter Scrabble word, but none of the periodic table. I just want to feel that someone, somewhere, really understands me!

Somer reclines in her airplane seat, watching through the window as the glimmering lights of Mumbai recede into the darkness of night. In the seat next to her, Asha is already asleep, her head and pillow resting on Somer’s lap, her feet in Krishnan’s. They should both try to sleep as well, but she knows Krishnan, like her, is reluctant to disturb Asha. He extends his hand to Somer, and she takes it. They rest their interlocking hands on Asha’s sleeping body between them, just as they did the first time they made this journey.

She lets out the deep, horrible wails waiting just below the surface. These tears are always accumulating, intensifying inside her. She pushes them down over and over, a hundred times a day—every time she hears a child’s voice, or examines a patient’s small body—until that moment comes. It always happens when she least expects it, a moment when she’s doing nothing at all: rinsing her coffee mug, unlacing her shoes, combing her hair. And in that moment when she is unsuspecting, the tears finally rage uncontrollably, from someplace deep, deep inside her she barely recognizes.

She nods, turning the silver bangle around on her wrist. “She came from some village north of here, a few hours away. She traveled all the way to the city just to…” She trails off, feeling a lump grow in her throat. “…to take you to that orphanage?” Sanjay finishes for her. Asha nods. “And she gave me this.” She slides the bangle back on her wrist. “They gave you everything they had to give,” Sanjay says. He reaches across the table for her hand. “So how do you feel, now that you know?” Asha gazes out the window. “I used to write these letters, when I was a little girl,” she says. “Letters to my mother, telling her what I was learning in school, who my friends were, the books I liked. I must have been about seven when I wrote the first one. I asked my dad to mail it, and I remember he got a really sad look in his eyes and he said, ‘I’m sorry, Asha, I don’t know where she is.’” She turns back to face Sanjay. “Then, as I got older, the letters changed. Instead of telling her about my life, I started asking all these questions. Was her hair curly? Did she like crossword puzzles? Why didn’t she keep me?” Asha shakes her head. “So many questions." “And now, I know,” she continues. “I know where I came from, and I know I was loved. I know I’m a hell of a lot better off now than I would have been otherwise.” She shrugs. “And that’s enough for me. Some answers, I’ll just have to figure out on my own.” She takes a deep breath. “You know, I have her eyes.” Asha smiles, hers glistening now. She rests the back of her head on the booth. “I wish there was some way to let them know I’m okay, without…intruding on their life.

The civil servant looks back at the file and says flatly, as if reading, “No children?” and then, looking directly up at Somer, “No babies?” Her cheeks flush with familiar shame in this country where fertility is so celebrated, where every woman has a child on each hip. She shakes her head. After a couple more exchanges with Krishnan, the civil servant tells them to come back in the morning for an update on their case. K rishnan takes her arm and leads her out of the building. “What was that about?” she says once they are outside. “Nothing,” he says. “Indian bureaucracy. Everything is like this here.” He flags a taxi “What do you mean ‘like this’? What happened back there? They kept us waiting an hour, that guy clearly hadn’t even read our file, and then he barely even talks to me!” “That’s because you’re—” “I’m what?” she snaps at him. “Look, things work differently here. I know how to handle this, just trust me. You can’t come here with your American ideas—” “I didn’t come here with anything.” She slams the taxicab door and feels the whole car reverberate.

And she knew her defiance in escaping his grasp, even temporarily, had shown Jasu the depth of her strength. In the months afterward, though he behaved awkwardly, he had allowed her the time and space she needed. It was the first genuine show of respect he had made toward her in their four years of marriage. Jasu’s parents made no such concession, their latent disappointment growing into relentless criticism of her for failing to bear a son.Kavita walks outside and spreads her mat on the rough stone steps, where she sits facing the rising sun in the east She lights the small ghee-soaked diya and thin stick of incense, and then closes her eyes in prayer. The wisp of fragrant smoke slowly circles its way up into the air and around her. She breathes deeply and thinks, as always, of the baby girls she has lost. She rings the small silver bell and chants softly. She sees their faces and their small bodies, she hears their cries and feels their tiny fingers wrap around hers. And always, she hears the sound of Usha’s desperate cry echoing behind the closed doors of the orphanage. She allows herself to get lost in the depths of her grief. After she has chanted and sung and wept for some time, she tries to envision the babies at peace, wherever they are. She pictures Usha as a little girl, her hair wound in two braids, each tied with a white ribbon. The image of the girl in her mind is perfectly clear: smiling, running, and playing with children, eating her meals and sleeping alongside the others in the orphanage.Every morning, Kavita sits in the same place outside her home with her eyes closed until the stormy feelings peak and then, very gradually, subside. She waits until she can breathe evenly again. By the time she opens her eyes, her face is wet and the incense has burned down to a small pile of soft ash. The sun is a glowing orange ball on the horizon, and the villagers are beginning to stir around her. She always ends her puja by touching her lips to the one remaining silver bangle on her wrist, reconciling herself to the only thing she has left of her daughters. These daily rituals have brought her comfort and, over time, some healing. She can carry herself through the rest of the day with these peaceful images of Usha in her mind. Each day becomes more bearable. As days turn to weeks, and weeks to months, Kavita feels her bitterness toward Jasu soften. After several months, she allows him to touch her and then, to reach for her at night.

Or does she still come here simply because it's become a habit, like a scar etched onto her body, one that she can't help but think about, scratch at, pick at, all the while hoping it will miraculously heal one day?

Survival rates for breast cancer are relatively good, but Krishnan has been around illness enough to know there is usually a cruel injustice about the way it strikes. Cranky patients defy the odds, while the kind ones, the ones who bake him cookies or bring him tomatoes from their garden, always seem to die early. Mortality rates utilize the law of averages without consideration for who is most deserving.

I was unaware that Darwinism was a race. —Mahir Gowda

Always so eager to achieve the next milestone on her path, she has neglected to question that path or to look ahead.

the emergency

Americans are so tightly wound, the way they kill themselves to get ahead. It’s no way to live,

love the way you know me better than I know myself.

those memories and his feelings for her, had lain dormant but not forgotten.

He stole a glance at her profile, the soft curve of her nose, the sharp angle of her chin, the glint of yellow gold against her dark earlobe.

He opened his heart to me. He wasn't afraid to show me his weakness. It was a remarkable thing, in that time, for a man to do that. That's the key thing about a strong marriage. It gives you a safe place to be yourself, entirely, even the weak parts.

There were two dials: one set to the time here in Panchanagar, the other to the time in Dallas,

Americans are so tightly wound, the way they kill themselves to get ahead. It's no way to live, I tell you.

Ma believed every step Anil took away from Panchanagar was temporary; she assumed a connection with home he no longer felt. But the problem with planting seeds, as the son of a farmer well knew, was that you couldn't always be sure where or how they would grow.

It seems wrong for beauty to still exist isn’t the world, doesn’t it?

Everything had a purpose, once you appreciated the spiritual laws of the universe.

God had created human individuals, not systems. When you lost that connection with personal touch, you lost what made us essentially human.

The rest is just and money and things,

Pain is always there to serve a purpose," Jaya says, "to teach us something, whether it's to not reach into a hot oven or to not fall in love with the wrong person." Karina looks up at her with startled eyes, but of course there's love involved here. What else could cause such pain? "And once we've learned what we're meant to learn," Jaya continues, "we are better than before. The wounds will heal." She lightly touches Karina's arm. "And the pain inside will help you grow.

That’s the best part of being a pair, isn’t it? Just being with someone and feeling better that way, even if you’re not doing anything together or speaking. Being part of a silent pair can feel really, really good.

That’s the thing about pairs. Even the best ones don’t last forever.

Only Asha’s closest friends know she is adopted; she lets everyone else make their own assumptions. It’s easy enough to believe she could be the natural product of her Indian dad and American mom, and this has spared her many explanations. She doesn’t want to share her whole personal history with the perfect mirror girls. She wonders if they would envy the black hair that sprouts every day on her legs, or her dark skin that tans after just ten minutes in the sun, even when slathered with sunscreen. “Oh, Asha, you’re so exotic.” She hears someone behind her, in a low teasing voice. She turns around to see Manisha, rolling her eyes with a smile. “Come on, you want to get some frozen yogurt?” Manisha motions toward the locker room door. “Sure,” Asha says. “I hate that ‘exotic’ thing we always get from people,” Manisha says once they’re outside. “I mean, come out to Fremont and you’ll see it’s not that exotic. Indians everywhere.

The only thing more unbearable than suffering alone was the idea of having to share it with one of her parents, where it would multiply.

continued,

momentary lift in mood was dissipating again

so, he

Why not?” Trey shrugged. “I owe you, man.

At some point, the family you create is more important than the one you’re born into,

ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಎಲ್ಲರದು ನಿಷ್ಕಲ್ಮಶ ಹೃದಯವೇ;ಆದರೆ ಎಲ್ಲರೆದುರು ಹೇಳಿಕೊಳ್ಳಲು ಅಷ್ಟೇ -ಲೀ

But her mother always said the key to a successful marriage was for each spouse to give as much as they thought they possibly could. And then, to give a little more. Somewhere in that extra giving, in the space created by generosity without score keeping, was the difference between marriages that thrived and those that didn’t.

She reaches in and pulls out the carved white marble box. My box of secrets. It has been years since she’s seen this box, though she could still sketch it from memory. It too looks smaller than she remembers. She wipes off a layer of dust and leaves her hand there for a moment, on the cool surface. She realizes she’s holding her breath, draws it in deeply, and opens the box. She unfolds the first letter inside, a small rectangular piece of faint pink stationery. Slowly, she reads the words written there in familiar childlike script: Dear Mom,         Today my teacher asked our class to write a letter to someone in another country. My father told me you are in India, but he doesn’t know your address. I am nine years old and in the fourth grade. I wanted to write you a letter to tell you I would like to meet you one day. Do you want to meet me? Your daughter, Asha The raw display of sentiment makes her cringe. She feels tears prick at the back of her eyes and the slow flood of emotions she has not experienced in a long time.

This morning, Dad called his family in India and I spoke to them again. It’s still a little weird talking to people I’ve only seen in pictures, but it’s getting better. He got those recipes from his mother, and we drove all the way down to the Indian grocery store in Sunnyvale for the ingredients.         Tomorrow, we’re going to play tennis—Dad’s been coaching me on my backhand. So, we’re getting along pretty well now. The only thing that sets him off is when we talk about my future and I say I want to be a journalist and not a doctor. It actually caused a big fight between them when my mom helped me find an internship at a radio station for the summer. I thought that was pretty cool of her. She even seemed happy when I was appointed editor of the Bugle next year.

At work, every patient Asha’s age reminds Somer of her bright smile or her wobbly walk. The mothers and children she sees in her practice seem so comfortable together. Somer wonders if it’s the biological connection that underpins their confidence, or is it the time they spend together, the time Somer spends at work? Would she know better what to do with Asha if they shared the same blood? Would Asha respond better to Somer if she didn’t look so different from everyone she’d known in her short life? Krishnan doesn’t understand her anguish over this, and by now, Somer doesn’t expect him to.

She has no time for herself. Her profession no longer defines her, but neither does being a mother. Both are pieces of her, and yet they don’t seem to add up to a whole. Somer didn’t know that having it all, as she always believed she would, would mean feeling like she’s falling short everywhere. She tries to reassure herself that life is about trade-offs and she should make her peace with this one, though more often than not, it is an uneasy peace.

The President may first appoint him the Prime Minister and then ask him to prove his majority in the Lok Sabha within a reasonable period. For example, Charan Singh (1979), VP Singh (1989), Chandrasekhar (1990), PV Narasimha Rao (1991), AB Vajyapee (1996), Deve Gowda (1996), IK Gujral (1997) and again AB Vajpayee (1998) were appointed as Prime Ministers in this way.

when you meet him, look up ever so slightly, not so much to meet his eyes, just enough so that he can see yours.

Just Keep Grinning Till The World Stops Spinning

Every time, however, Atal rose to the defence of the RSS. For instance, on 27 May 1996, when the short-lived Atal government was sought to be replaced by Deve Gowda, Atal said on the floor of the Lok Sabha that the RSS was an organization that was wedded to the cause of the nation. He gave two examples, one of the Republic Day parade of 1963 (after the Chinese debacle) when the RSS was one of the organizations invited to send in representatives to participate in the march past to demonstrate national unity. The other one related to 1965 when, at the time of the Indo-Pak war, the government had deployed RSS men to regulate traffic on the roads of Delhi. Atal went on to quote Deve Gowda who, while speaking at a function in Bangalore in the midst of the Emergency, had said, ‘RSS is a spotless organization.’ Atal added that the RSS was an independent organization and while ‘you can differ with the RSS, the allegations against them are not required’.

Disappointment? He told me not to expect the girl to wear Indian clothes, didn’t he? “Thank you. It’s beautiful.” Somer clutches the folds of silk fabric to her chest. Sarla sits back, pleased with herself and the way the evening has turned out. Sometimes, as she has well learned in life, one’s actions must precede the emotions one hopes to feel. 19

Somer didn’t know that having it all, as she always believed she would, would mean feeling like she’s falling short everywhere.

An immigrant-rich country like ours makes for a complex fabric.