My Last Love Story. Falguni Kothari
wore Western clothes, even shorts on occasion, though never for community or religious functions or in India. She was a workingwoman, had been for most of her life. My in-laws had come to America, leaving their six-year-old daughter and two-year-old son with their parents, to build a better life for their family than the one they’d had in India. They’d come in search of the American Dream and found it.
Kamlesh Desai had worked at gas stations and grocery stores while Kiran Desai had cleaned houses and cooked for people until, between them, they’d saved enough money to invest in a California highway motel. Still, they’d worked three jobs each, pouring their savings into their first motel and then another and another. Eventually, they’d quit the other jobs and focused their energies on expanding their motel business. Once their green cards had come through, they’d brought their teenage children to LA and settled down there.
My in-laws were self-made, hardworking people, even now.
So it baffled me that my mother-in-law still held on to an antiquated custom in a country she, too, refused to call home. My own parents had addressed each other by name and a whole slew of endearments, including bawaji and bawiji, which most simplistically translated to “Parsi man” and “Parsi woman.”
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