a speech, a dream, some tears

Does there come a time when some of us look at our actions and realize with a faint sense of irony, that we are becoming more and more like our parents? Not all my actions are an echo of my parents, for example in the last few weeks, I have been glued to the TV watching the mesmerizing feats of the athletes participating in the 2008 Olympics with rapt attention and sleep a forgotten memory. I watched in awe and frequently held my breath for the athletes as they crossed finish lines in record time; demonstrated steely control on narrow bars and beams; performed poetry in motion from diving boards or in floor exercises; defended goals; vaulted dizzying heights and so many many other feats. I accompanied the winners in my own victory laps around the room as my dog looked on in puzzlement, or shed tears with the ones who just missed getting a medal. No it was not the Olympics that made me wonder how much of me was evolving into my parents, watching any kind of sports was a waste of time for them. But it was the Democratic convention that did me in. The convention was broadcast live every night for the past week and I did not miss a speech or any piece of action from the audience that was broadcast to home viewers like me. Now granted that this is no ordinary convention, we were after all nominating our first African American candidate for the President of the United States of America! But still, to watch it as if I was reading a fascinating novel from end to end? Certainly this was something that I must have picked up from my parents. Since I remember vividly how they would come alive and participate in the Indian elections with fervor and dedication towards getting their candidates elected.

I must admit that my remote participation in this historic event has touched and moved me so much that it really does not matter if I can attribute it to either me imbibing my parents characteristics or to the importance and enormity of what I was watching unfold on my TV screen. It was only important that I watched and experienced the events. As I watched Barak Obama's passionate but controlled delivery of his acceptance speech, his remarks towards the end prompted this post, as it triggered a very real sense of connectedness within me. I truly felt that this exceptional nominee and so many others like him or me are connected by the similarities in our life stories, of successes against terrible odds in the pursuit of a better life for ourselves and our children in a land that provided a fertile soil that allowed immigrants to plant themselves, push down roots and reach for as high as they could.

Towards the end of his speech Obama spoke about America’s promise, a sentiment that resonates with all who have immigrated to the US or the first generation that has witnessed their parents strive for and become living proof of this promise. The words so true to my experience brought tears to my eyes -

This country of ours has more wealth than any nation, but that’s not what
makes us rich. We have the most powerful military on Earth, but that’s not what
makes us strong. Our universities and our culture are the envy of the world, but
that’s not what keeps the world coming to our shores.

Instead, it is that American spirit - that American promise - that pushes us
forward even when the path is uncertain; that binds us together in spite of our
differences; that makes us fix our eye not on what is seen, but what is unseen,
that better place around the bend.

That promise is our greatest inheritance. It’s a promise I make to my
daughters when I tuck them in at night, and a promise that you make to yours - a
promise that has led immigrants to cross oceans and pioneers to travel west; a
promise that led workers to picket lines, and women to reach for the ballot.

I am an immigrant, a single mother who has spent the last twenty five years living this American dream. Due to the nature of my entry into single motherhood, life on my own in the US began with no assets, a liberal arts education from another country and two young daughters ages 1 and 3 for whom I had to provide for. The kindness and generosity of strangers got us through the very early days but what helped me move forward with our lives was the safety net from social services. With food stamps and fees for child-care computed at a sliding scale supplementing the paychecks earned after working long hours at minimum wage. I found a an America very receptive to hard work and ambition. I did not even notice when survival issues like paying the rent every month and having food on the table every day turned into the joys of thriving in this world that gave back most of what I put into it. I found inspiration from all corners, one of my first employers told me that I could do or be anything I wanted to, her words have carried me forward since. I have proved to myself and my daughters that I could pretty much do anything I wanted to and set my goals accordingly. Better jobs came quickly, followed by a degree, and even better jobs, a house in a nice neighborhood, and all the things one wants to lead a comfortable life. There were ups and downs, brief periods of unemployment as result of shifts in the economy or by choice as my vision of what I wanted to do changed. Yes, I was making decisions based on choice - this is the true realization of the American dream - having choices and the freedom to pursue dreams. Today, my daughters having grown up in a nurturing, happy environment, have completed college and are now pursuing their own career and life goals.

So yes, Mr Obama, I got your message today, with a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes, and a smile on my face as I felt connected to you and the many many others who have lived the success of a life in the US. As I write this, I am thinking again of the many way in which I act or mirror my parents with whom I seem to have more in common as I grow older. This is not a new revelation, but a generally common experience about which much has been written and that many of us go through, but it feels unique when I apply it to myself.

memory joggers

Rugby Road a small road in suburban Northern Virginia , it begins at West Ox Road, intersects with Fairfax County Parkway and ends on Route 50. It's an unremarkable road, with the usual mix of houses except for the fact that it links three major roads - Fx Cty Pkwy, W Ox and Rt. 50 in addition to a Hospital. I had known this road as the land mark for when I needed to move into the right lane to exit at Route 50 from the FFC Parkway until it became an actual turn I had to make to get to the Nursing home that housed my mother for a brief period before she breathed her last in the hospital which was on the same road. And for a brief period, the land mark that signified a lane change had become the doorway to my destination.

My mother was in the nursing home towards the end of a long drawn out end-of -life dance, during which she was consumed by periods of terror and pain and the ones who loved her watched on helplessly, wrapped in their own pain and despair as they witnessed the suffering of a loved one. I would go see her in the evening, after I had completed the mechanics of what the day required me to do - work, cook, clean, walk the dog etc. I would usually find her tired from her day, frequently lost and scared in a place where no one spoke her language.

The call from her doctor came with a feeling of deja-vu, mom has high fever and was on her way to the ER, I needed to meet her there as decisions would have to be made. I watched myself go through the mechanics of informing my siblings on what was expected of us. I still held hope that the denial and the thin layer of feigned ignorance on their end of how sick she was would be abandoned for the truth of the situation. Our mother was tired, treatment was painful and was extending pain and not any form of quality to her life. But the clarity of this situation seemed to loose its simple truth in translation, and the message that this was the end of the road for our mother translated to a much murkier one as I went through the several rounds of calls. My words and messages soft and kind at first, went to a tired but imperative- "Her doctors do not expect her to last the night, come now." Direct and clear I thought, but it still left them wondering if they could have time to settle the pressing demands of life and work before they journeyed to her death bed. What they really wanted to ask in their normal double talk was a request for the doctors to continue to keep her alive, but there was no direct question. If asked, I was ready with the response from my deepest conviction, "I will not authorize any aggressive or invasive treatment to keep her breathing just so you may have extra time to get here." Some things are to be understood, I would also not give them the odds of whether this was their last chance to be with her, it was left to them to choose to cancel what the could and abandon other important deadlines and be with her or not.

The hours between the decision of not continuing treatment and her passing were the most peaceful for her and for me. She seemed to be on the easiest leg of her long journey. It was as if after weathering so many squalls and stormy weather, she was smoothly sailing towards a calm harbor. Her face reflected this inner calm with a suddenly smooth brow and a serene expression. And this how she passed away, without a struggle for breath or a glance back, she had reached her journey's end.

So back to Rugby road, I continue to pass it on my way to the various destinations that lay past it. Now, when I pass the sign for this road, my mind quickly shifts back to her last days and a series of images from the nursing home or the last day at the hospital flash in my minds eye with quick succession and for a few brief moments I re-live those moments. I struggle for a few moments to find my center and bring myself to the present where she is no more but she is also without pain.

One of my co-workers, Chris who lives in the vicinity of Rugby road recently starting a walking regimen and uses it as his turning point for his daily walks. He does not remember the name of the road where he turns back, for him its the road with the big H sign on it signifying its proximity to a hospital. As we gather around the coffee machine in the mornings, and he is recounting his daily walks, Chris will usually say, "I walk up to this road not sure what its called, but it has and H sign on it" and and I chime in with "its Rugby Road" and as soon as I say the name, I flash back to the now familiar flashes of images of mom and her last days. As I walk back to my office, now with a tinge of loss and sadness, I tell myself that I should stay away from any conversations leading up to the naming of this road or driving by it. Not until I can re-live memories of mom without it triggering the sense of loss and a reminder of how helpless I felt as I watched her suffer.

But I realize some things I can not run away from and memories will continue to be jogged into appearance and someday healing will occur and I will smile at the flashbacks rather then feel sad and depleted. So when a few days later, Chris is talking to someone and calls me over with a "what's the name of the road that I walk up to?" I hear myself say "rugby road" as I walk back to my office in a cocoon of memories, but now I softly cradle the familiar sad painful feelings with the knowledge that the sadness will remain, but the pain will eventually diminish.

A quest for a son at any age?

A woman said to be 70 years of age has given birth to twins in India's northern Uttar Pradesh state after taking IVF treatment making her the record holder for the oldest woman to give birth-

We already have two girls but we wanted a boy so that he could have taken care of our property. This boy and girl are God's greatest gift to us," Omkari said.

Father of the twins, Charam Singh, a farmer in his mid-70s, told ABC News he was very happy.

"The desire for a male child has always been there, but God did not bless us with a male child. Now, we are very grateful to God, who has answered our prayers," he said."

Are we to surmise that scientific intervention (IVF) was the offering made to God in place of the usual offerings of money, food and clothing to the temple priests. This made God happy and they were granted a son? That debate could wait as what is really bothering me about this saga is that since the couple used up all their life savings and took a bank loan out to pay for IVF treatments, with what source of income are they going to raise these new born children. And being in their 70's they are old by Indian longevity statistics, well past the age of when they should be taking on the responsibility of raising children. Will these babies ever see a childhood or will they be passed on to the care of their older siblings as the parents decline in health? And as then as soon as they are past the toddler age, its them taking care of the parents? I paint a rather bleak picture, but it seems a pretty real one given the circumstances. It's also ironic that the price this couple has paid for having a male heir so he may look after the property had robbed him of his inheritance.

The link to the BBC Article - Woman in India 'has twins at 70'

Gandhi in the morning

I woke up to what I thought was a normal day, the radio woke me up like it usually does and I groggily slipped into the routine of a weekday morning. I followed my exuberant dog downstairs and let him out in the back yard, started the kettle for the morning tea and brought in the paper. With cup of tea in hand, I scanned the headlines and turned to the Style section to read my horoscope which is usually in the back of this section. I never made it to the back as a familiar face was on the front of the Style section.

A black and white picture of Gandhi is accompanied by an article titled Saying His Peace - Rare recording of speech by Gandhi landed in safe unknowing hands . The author reminds us that

millions of people visualize Ben Kingsley as Gandhi and associate Ben's voice as what must have been Gandhi's voice. That can't be true for me, so I stop reading and reach back in memory and try to remember his voice. I try to conjure up the sounds from the scratchy recordings of Gandhi's speeches I had heard during history classes and independence day broadcasts. The voice that drowns the other memory is that of Ben Kingsley, the face is his and not of Gandhi, perhaps its because I never saw the real Gandhi in other then the one dimensional black and white pictures in books and magazines, or in his statues, or in grainy documentaries. My failure to remember his voice propels me to the computer, I must get online and listen to the recording.

I click on the link and wait impatiently for the introduction to end, wishing I could fast forward, even the voice of Sarojini Naidu introducing Gandhi is irritating, I am holding my breath as the first sounds come across the tiny laptop speakers. The tenseness eases as Gandhi's voice comes on, its familiar and not forgotten, I breath again and begin listening to what he is saying. The message to an English speaking audience is of love and forgiveness, of peace and non-violence, it's him, it's unforgettable. I finish listening, read the article and the associated commentaries, my morning routine is broken, I am a little behind schedule but the day has taken on a different hue.

The world around me seems connected to Gandhi, validation is all around me, Obama's nomination being the most visible evidence of an integrated tolerant world. The headlines from today's paper also illustrate the presence of violence in many parts of the world, of Zimbabwean president Robert Mugabe's recent win with violence and coercion. We are still at war and so are other countries, but I see hope in this day for peaceful ends, of increasing numbers who believe that there is more to be won by non-violence, of a growing awareness and acknowledgment of the power of non-violence. And leave my house with a lighter step, the day has taken on a brighter look, and my two selves (desi and US) are back together, the desi blending in easily with the US self and a whole me leaves for work.

And just like that, what would have been another routine day in the life of this US desi, Gandhi, history and the past entered and with a single broad stroke painted my day with memories and thoughts of a great man who achieved so much for so many people Just like that......

Here's the link to the recording:

Yeh Youngistan Hamara

A report titled India's Young Spenders, in The Washington Post's Business section on 6/24 talks about the how the increase in spending power for India's younger generation is changing their outlook towards spending and becoming the largest growing consumers in the world-

"These middle- and upper-class consumers, known here as "indies," or financially independent young Indians, are also delaying having children until they are in their mid- to late 20s. Studies show that they are eager to put the latest iPods, brand-name sunglasses and cellphones on their credit cards, take out a loan to get an apartment or car, and worry about it all later. "

I grew up in a different India, in the 60's, amid the fresh memories of a newly minted Independent India after the hard won freedom from the British Empire. Independence had brought Partition with it and since my grandparents homes ended up west of the Radcliffe Line they became part of the 20 million population exchange as people crossed the new borders to reach their new homelands. They like many others refugees, they had to flee due to the increasing communal violence and found themselves in their new country with nothing except the clothes on their backs. Survival was tough in the early years as they had to re-build their lives amidst the chaos the British Empire had left behind. My parents had been in their early teens and seen their world change from a comfortable lifestyle to a struggle to survive. Despite the economic struggles and adjusting to a new way of life, these were heady days. Independence had brought hope, optimism and pride in India and all things Indian. The mood reflected the lyrics of a poem written by Iqbal in early 1924 which was later set to music by Ravi Shankar and recorded by Lata Mangeshkar in the 50's - sare jahan se achcha hindustan hamara, hum bulbule hai us ki, yeh gulistan hamara which translates to "better than the entire world, is our Hindustan,We are its nightingales, and it (is) our garden abode". I grew up listening to this song in its various incarnations on the radio, Independence day celebrations, school functions and other patriotic events.

For me growing up in India during the 60's and 70's both decades of very slow economic growth and economic policies that did not promote private enterprise and strangled entrepreneurship, and large import duties meant that "stuff" such as American jeans, shampoos, tape decks etc. that young children want was not available in the open market. Specially the much coveted Levi's jeans. Friends who had relatives in the US were a hot commodity, somewhat akin to friends with beach houses in the US. The US relatives were a source for US branded clothes and other "foreign" items. One could purchase jeans in the black market, but the prices were exorbitant, and my parents just did not understand the concept of paying three times for a foreign good. They were living the legacy of simple living as taught by Gandhi plus bore the scars of their own struggles to survive and build a new life in free India.

The younger generation with their newly acquired buying power are breaking away from the traditions of marrying early, living in joint families and handing over their entire pay-checks to the parents.  They are its seems spending beyond their salaries by using credit to buy some of the big ticket items such as cars and TVs.  

The spending habits of the country's young have even given rise to a new term: "Youngistan," a twist on Hindustan, a time-honored moniker for India. Pepsi created the term as part of an ad campaign, and it's now frequently invoked by ad executives and Indian bloggers trying to describe a generation whose habits in love, life and spending are anything but traditional.

Although I love reading about the new generation defining their own highly materialistic world with no more sneaking around or waiting for approval from parents to spend their own money, I am at the same time a bit envious of this new India of this young generation with their spending power,  their break away from the bindings of Gandhian austerity, living the new Desi American Dream.  The unfulfilled yearnings for Levi's jeans, Sony tape decks and Revlon lipsticks are fading away as memories of an old world order in stark contrast to the new booming India.

If Iqbal lived in today's India would he have written -

"Sare jahan se achcha youngistan hamara, hum shoppers hai us ki, yeh mall hai hamara" which translates to "better than the entire world, is our youngistan, We are it's shoppers, and it (is) our mall".

Relationship lessons for desi girls

How most of us deal with our adult relationships are a result of what we learnt from the relationships around us when we were growing up. One continues to be manipulative if we had to use round about ways to get what we wanted as children, we are less needy in relationships if we grow up surrounded by the love of parents and siblings, we are more trusting as adults if our trust has not been broken as children.

Growing up female in India brings on additional cultural lessons on our vulnerability and the need for a man in our life to protect us. We were reminded of this annually on Raksha-Bandhan, a day where Hindu sisters tie a sacred thread around their brothers wrists who vow in return to protect them in. The festivities of the occasion makes girls feel special, and this makes it difficult for girls who did not have brothers who would then turn to cousins or friends to become their Rakhi brothers. The message in this annual ritual was clear- women needed the protection of our brothers and the fortunate ones had brothers where the unlucky ones had to make up pretend brothers! All for a ritual that re-enforces women's inferior or dependant state year after year

Twice a year at the end of the Navratri festival, little girls were worshipped as representative of the goddess. It's a fun day for little girls as the ritual includes adults washing the girls feet followed by offerings of food, money and gifts. This continues till the girl reaches puberty, from when on she is considered impure and is not eligible to be worshipped any more. Girls begin to live a life of diminished value as they grow into puberty, as they become more dependent on the protection of fathers and brothers in a society that is supposed to be too rough for then to face alone. The messages of this dependency come from customs, rituals and media and the validation comes from girls being frequent victims of "eve-teasing", which covers the spectrum of leering, groping and rude gestures from men of all ages. The confident young girl is gradually replaced by a subdued version as these messages send her to a place where she needs a "man" to be anything in life.

The fasts begin when the girl reaches her teen years. The most common fast is Karva Chauth, kept by women to ensure a long life for the husband and to get the same husband for seven more lifetimes! Unmarried girls keep the fast to get the perfect husband. There is also a fast for Lord Shiva on Monday's. Shiva is known as the granter of good mates, so girls fast on sixteen consecutive Monday's to ensure a good husband and married women keep the fast to ensure a happy married life. I am not aware of any fasts geared towards boys or men so they may get a good wife.

The Hindu wedding ceremony includes the time honored ritual of kanya daan or the giving away of the bride. The ritual is a transaction, of ownership, the parents pass ownership of the daughter to the groom who from that point onwards owns the bride. The message is clear, the girls life was never her own, she belonged to the parents and now belongs to the husband.

Conditional love is the norm, love from the husband and his family will be a reward for acting as the model bahu - the one we see in the media. When good behavior fails to bring the promised reward of a loving husband and a happy married life, girls are often left rudderless adrift in a sea of unknowns. The lucky ones are able to change the way they look at the world and grow to become emotionally self-sufficient, others may spend the rest of their lives examining what they did wrong and continue with other rituals, maybe a chain of fasts to absolve themselves of bad karma.

All of this re-enforced by Bollywood and television where there are countless tales of women building relationships on drama, manipulation, jealousy and greed. We became outwardly demure, gentle, self effacing and perfect the art of passive aggressive behavior. We learnt to be accepting of all things by our husbands, to take the back seat in all decision making, to never never ask for anything directly but manipulate to get what we want. We don't know how to trust and to love or understand the concept of mutual commitment and we perpetuate the cycle in our unhealthy adult relationships. We believe that we need a man in our life to feel complete and to validate us as women. We consider possessiveness or controlling behavior as evidence of love. And our relationships reflect all our learning's.

So what do we teach our own children, our sons and daughters? Can our girls grow up in a secure environment where they hear us tell them that they are smart, pretty and capable of amazing things, can we teach our sons to treat women as equals, can we teach both the sons and daughters to be complete in themselves and not seek each other through neediness or control?

I have been fortunate enough to raise two wonderful girls away from the influence of the fasts and the rituals in an environment of trust and achievement. They continue to amaze me with the maturity they show in their friendships and relationships and I frequently find myself learning from them. I believe that there is hope that children of this generation will continue to spread the power of healthy relationships to their peers and will pass on the wisdom to their children.

Over watered kids

I was helping a friend setup for a musical performance at her house this weekend. The performers were mostly children under who take singing lessons from a music teacher who is very popular among the affluent desis in northern Virginia . They sang a range of popular Bollywood songs and a some bhajans accompanied with a karaoke machine. I was there the day before the big day to assist my friend in the setup of the sound system which had to be immaculate as the teacher expects perfection in the setup and the hosting of the show.


One of the parents called and asked if her daughter could come and practice her number prior to the show as the teacher had changed the pitch that the child was to sing in. Mom and daughter arrived and immediately began practicing. The girl's voice was not that of a singer, and the child clearly was not destined to be a singer. She began practicing in earnest trying her best to sing in the correct pitch, with the mother calling the teacher a few times for additional advice and hints. I was in the next room listening to this old Bollywood number that spoke about love and longing being torn apart in a little girl's high pitched anxious voice, over and over. It seemed that both mother and daughter were torturing me in their relentless chase for the elusive perfect pitch. Rescue from the onslaught to the senses came from a piano lesson time slot, for which the young girl simply could not be late as it would throw off the pick-up time for her younger brother from soccer practice. We bid the mom and little girl good bye, whose mind seemed to be on her piano lessons already. Blessed quiet returned to the house just as suddenly as it had started, but the shadow of a little girl who reminded me of a droopy plant, one that had been watered a bit too much lingered.


The next day the performers along with their parents arrived and the performances started where poise and decorum made up for the lack of talent. They had their music sheets ready, would walk up to the mike as they were called and with a calmness of seasoned performers they sang their numbers. After the performances were over, the parents socialized and the children sat down to see the videos of the singing. I listened to the chatter and soon realized that almost all the children had multiple activities they were involved in and the parents seemed to take a great deal of pride in the juggling of schedules and the costs of the music lessons - both desi and western, tutoring, various sports and religious classes.


The young performers also shared another bond, these kids with their numerous best of everything all looked a bit over-nourished? The green house library says that an over watered plant will be droopy, wilty looking, with leaves hanging as if weighed down.


These desi kids and over watered plants were in the same boat, both have loving caretakers, who want the best for them. The parents were making sure that the children were not deprived of any kind if learning opportunity in their young lives, nourishment of body and soul was being taken care of at any cost. Any burden of cost was associated with the activity fees and the investment of their own time, and not the toll it was taking on the children's spirit. On the contrary, this over nourishment is perceived as necessary to thrive in today's world. I guess the question that only time will answer is what kind of adults these children will grow into? Will they be bored easily, need constant mental stimulation and the art of not doing anything an alien concept?

The desi mother steps off the conveyor belt

A young Indian girl is married to an Indian man who is settled in the US. After moving to the US and leaving her family and the life she has known, she faces her first big challenge. It's not how to speak in English but how to live with a man who has no intention or desire to fall into "arranged love".

We saw one such story in the tale of the Ganguli's in Jhumpa Lahiri's Namesake. Ashima and Ashoke Ganguli live their American dream in the suburb's of Boston, growing to love each other and raising their two children in a constant balancing act between their Bengali roots and American culture. Although the story revolves around Gogol their son, we see him in the backdrop of his parents growing into their US lives as they hang on to their Indian roots. The pattern of their life mirrors the life of many Indian emigrants to the US during the 70's and the 80's. Celebrating holidays and religious ceremonies with the other Indian immigrants, month long family trips to India, potlucks, picnics with other desis, and the first car, then the first house and so on. It's a conveyor belt life that carries the young immigrants as they grow into adults and raise children that grow up to go to the top schools and good careers amid a constant struggle to find their own balance between the two worlds. It's the feel good story about young educated desis living their American dream.

However, not much is heard about the lives that did not fit this pattern, about the Indian girl that finds herself living a very different life than those of her fellow desis on the Ganguli style conveyor belt. In her tale, the couple stays on this conveyor belt for a while, keeping up the public persona and walking in lock step with the other local desis. However their private life unlike the Ganguli's follows a different pattern. A lack of respect and affection from the husband ensures that love stays away. The cultural stigma associated with a troubled marriage contributes to the couple keeping up the falsehood of a perfect desi couple. The couple continues to keep up their dutiful participation at potlucks, picnics, Diwali and karwa chauth festivals and the pretence continues. At some point the girl reaches a point of no return, she can no longer carry the weight of the falsehoods, bear the contempt from the man she married and who fathered her children, so she leaves the marriage. And she steps off the conveyor belt, which trudges on carrying her desi friends into a future of potlucks, picnics, and a series of firsts - houses cars etc.

Her liberation from the marriage leads her to a life of hardships but at the same time liberates her from the conveyor belt and sets her adrift in the anonymity of US life. She feels strange at first as she is used to having someone control the direction of her life. Making the simple every day decisions makes her uneasy, what to wear, what kind of food to purchase but are soon forgotten in the rigors of being a single mom where other types of decisions have to be made constantly. What to pack in her children's lunch boxes;  which route to take so she can shave off ten minutes off her commute; how many exemptions she needs to claim on her w2;  wait what's a w2?;  permissions for field trips and sleep overs. All these among echos from her past life of desi children who get corrupted by the Americans when they are permitted to go for sleep-overs and faint unease on missing the monthly puja at the temple as she was too tired to pull out her sari.

Soon she finds herself slipping into the every day life of a mainstream American single mom. The unease at missed religious functions and permitting her children to act as other American children fades away. The other desi mothers make feeble attempt to pull the newly minted desi single mom back into their lives but there is a growing chasm between them. There seems to be less and less in common between them and the differences in the two worlds becomes a barrier so there is a slow parting of ways. The desi mom flourishes in her new found freedom, she finds herself performing better in her career. It's as if standing up for herself and walking out on her marriage has given her the freedom to do the same at work or at the corner shop where the desi check out person tries to short change her. Much to the delight of her children her cooking repertoire now includes spaghetti, pita bread pizza's with the added bonus of the house gradually loosing the smell of desi spices and fried food.

There are many desi families whose live an American dream but follow a path unlike that of the Ganguli's. In this case, a single desi mom broke the pattern, discovered her own life path which allowed her to break away from the American-desi norm and find her own desi-single-mom American dream.