worn by the others were slipping, too. Maybe by the end of the day I would know the women behind the masks and they would know me.
I tried once again to talk to Ma but she shunned me and I concluded that she didn’t want to look behind the label: DAUGHTER, and didn’t want me to look behind the label: MA. If she wouldn’t show me hers, how could I show her mine?
“We just add these in?” I asked, looking skeptically at the chickpeas soaking in water. Lata pulled a yellow bucket filled with spices close to her and dumped all the chickpeas in. Then, when her arm was up to her elbow she asked me to pour oil and the pieces of mango in for her to mix.
Lata always made the chickpea avakai, Thatha’s favorite. When I was little I used to pick the chickpeas out of Thatha’s plate as my palate was not ready to endure the chili and spice of the avakai . Thatha would wipe away traces of spices and chili from a chickpea and line it up with others for me to nibble on. Ma would tell Thatha he was spoiling me, that I should learn to eat spicy food and not eat out of other people’s plates, but Thatha continued and I continued.
Even as an adult I could never eat food that was too spicy. When Nick and I went out to Indian restaurants he usually handled the hot food better than I did.
“Who’s the Indian here?” Nick would ask, as he wiped moisture from his forehead. He would continue to eat, despite getting soaking wet with sweat, while I would give up on the really hot food.
“My mother would like you . . . well, your eating habits at least,” I told Nick. “She believes that food isn’t real food if your nose and eyes don’t water a little while you eat.”
Ma and Lata ordered us around like slaves to bring the big pickle jars from the kitchen. Sowmya and I demurely went and got six huge glass jars. Neelima started to cut muslin cloth into large squares. The pickle went inside the jars and then the muslin was tied to the mouth of the jar after which the lid was tightly closed.
We all worked as if we were on automatic pilot, abiding orders and following the leaders blindly. The last of the pickle was being put into the jars when Ammamma decided to stir up some conversation. “So tell us, Priya, do you have a lot of Telugu friends in the States?”
“A few.”
“They say the Bay Area has a very big Indian population, especially Telugu,” Lata said, as she used a wooden ladle to fill her jar with her pickle.
“Some,” I said tersely.
“You don’t like Telugu people?” Lata asked, when I seemed reluctant to expound.
“I didn’t say that,” I protested.
Lata shrugged. “My brother who lives in Los Angeles told me that there are some Indians who don’t like other Indians who live in the States. They always stay away from them and only make friends with white people. I think that is a shame.”
“I agree,” I replied with affected sincerity. “The race of a person should be of no importance when you make friends. I have several American and several Indian friends. I also know some people from Turkey.”
Ammamma’s eyes popped out. “What? You have friends who are white? Who are black?”
She could as well have been saying that my friends were little green men from Mars.
“What can you talk to them about?” Ammamma asked. “They are not really friends, are they?”
I gaped at her. Was the woman really stupid, or was she merely pretending?
“What do you mean?” I asked, unsure of her question.
“She means what do you have in common with these white people,” Ma piped in. “You should stay with your own kind. These white people will always swindle you.”
“And how do you know that?” I sighed, first my grandfather and now my mother. It was a family thing, probably embedded in the genes.
“You think I am fifty years old and I know nothing?” Ma demanded harshly. “I know enough and I am telling you that you should only make friends with Indians, preferably our kind. Nice Brahmins . . . they will always be there to help you. You have to work with these other people, why should you spend your spare time with them?”
How was I supposed to argue with that?
“I have friends from different races and different