I've spent most of my
twenties working, working and working for something—towards
something (What was it again?). Just like so many educated young women
in America, my career was a priority. Focus on your career and all
the other stuff falls into place, my parents told me. (Where did that
get me? Certainly in the middle of a hurricane on my 29th birthday).
We've heard it before. We 20-something ladies have
many more opportunities than our mothers did at our age. For them,
it was about marriage, having us and giving us the best life possible.
They reared and nurtured us well, instilled in us good values and
the core belief that we really could be anything we desired.
All of a sudden, we were in our twenties. In fact,
our twenties were half over. We were finished with college and many
of us were forging ahead into post-graduate degrees or, in my case,
into an intense and fulfilling career. It was all about goals. Where
will I be five years from now? What will I have to show for my hard
work? Will my resume finally depict how capable I really am? How many
high-profile assignments can I conquer?
My cousin's boyfriend told her after he met me that he wasn't used
to seeing Desi women so career-driven. He said most of the South Asian
women he knew just wanted to marry well.
Now, I am 29. I own property, have a great career,
a German car and a few too many designer handbags. Is this what everyone
was talking about? Is this "success” (a word I’m
beginning to hate)?
Enter the pickle: The "Desi Factor," we'll
call it. Not only are we young American women with a leg up over mom,
but we are our mummy's gudiyas (dolls) with something to
prove. Our success is tangible evidence that there was real purpose
in that one-way transoceanic flight.
Another pickle: Our circumstances today are so different that there
really never was a chance that we would carve out a path like our
revered mothers. For many of us today, it is not all about marriage.
The careers we create for ourselves are not bulk for our biodatas,
they actually mean something to us. Today we need to be heard and,
thanks to our mothers' perseverance, we are. We want to see material
change and need to see value in our life's work. We are educated not
for marriage potential, but for better human potential.
Did our bright-eyed parents foresee this new world
order? And did they know that it would mean so much us—that
sleeping well at night was going to be about so much more than waking
up refreshed enough to make morning chai before our husbands left
for work?
Still, there is that stuff. And it's not like we don't want that,
too.
Ok, I do make a solid cup of masala chai,
and my baingan bharta (Punjabi eggplant) is to be envied.
I'm a gracious party host, a loyal friend and can bhangra with the
best of the Punjabi village people. I can even do 50 (boy!) push-ups
in one stretch
But wait, there is still more. It was all supposed to fall into place,
right?
All of a sudden, you start getting reminders. I called my 84-year
old Dadi-ma (grandmother) in New Delhi the other day and
she told me she was waiting for me to get married so she could die
in peace. She reminded me that I was turning 29. I reminded her that
I remembered.
In my broken Hindi, I tried to explain to her that I was working
so much that I didn't have a lot of time to focus on my personal life.
She then asked me a complicated question "Beti, do you
have a boyfriend?" There was no way I was going to explain that
one in Hindi.
Last year all she could talk about my career. Now,
all of a sudden, not only am I supposed to have an amazing job that
proves how intelligent I am, but I am supposed to have a nice Punjabi
boy lined up ready to father my children? I don't work that fast and
I am not nearly that organized.
Dear Dadi, I love you, but you have no clue. How do you
say that in Hindi? Funny thing is, I really think it is funny. And,
I am bothered that I am not more bothered that she is bothered that
I'm not married.
I have one friend who is sinking into the quick sands
of depression because of pressure from her parents to get married.
Her parents, as I see it, are mentally abusing her. They make her
feel, at a young 31, that there is something wrong with her because
she isn't married, yet. She tells me, I have tried everything. I tell
her, that's the problem.
So, I tried to tell my friend about my 43-year-old
hairdresser who just had a healthy baby girl. It didn't help. The
worst part is, I realize there are many more nameless friends out
there.
But, I also realize that we young Desi women in America
are writing new code. Nobody before us has experienced this. We are
crafting a new rulebook, now, for ourselves and our daughters' and
granddaughters' generations. Because while we may not have those daughters
yet, we just might one day.
I'm newly moved by the realization that we don't have to be so perfect.
Perfection is boring. We can be a mess every once in a while and feel
good about it, even. We are not supposed to have it all figured out.
What would be the fun of that?
I know I still have many tunnels to dig and gardens to grow. I can't
wait. Good thing I can do all those push-ups.
So now, at the chipper age of 29, I've just decided
to stop planning so much. I've just decided to stop doing what society
tries to dictate and start going only where my dil (heart)
leads me. I've decided that there doesn't have to be a conclusion.
And certifiably, I've just decided to live with the realization that
I just don’t have to know everything right now.
I've also just decided that I feel like having a
steaming cup of masala chai, with fresh ground eliachi
(cardamom). Anybody else want some?
Gitika Ahuja is a television news producer currently posted in Boston,
MA. When she is not chasing hurricanes or managing her hotel and airline
mileage accounts, she enjoys singing loudly in that new car and plotting
how she and her Desi sistas can conquer the world. You can reach her
at gitika@gmail.com.
The views expressed in this section are those
of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of ABCDlady.
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