No Small Potatoes

Chapter 1

Does it ever get any easier, I asked my wise 22 year old sister. No, she quickly responded. Not the wisdom I was expecting. We were laying on the floor of our family room, mesmerized by the ceiling fan, trying to get a cool breeze in our otherwise un-air conditioned house.

You're supposed to give me hope, I said. Just being honest, she countered. I tilted my head in her direction, to see she was a bit sullen. What's wrong, I asked. You know what, she said sighing.

I did know what. Her wedding. While most American brides had been dreaming of their wedding day since they were a little kid, my sister and I had been dreading it. Because when we got married we weren't doing it for us, we were doing it for our parents.

In other words, an arranged marriage. Even though we'd lived in America our entire lives our parents were still firmly Indian and expected us to follow the old ways.

He's nice, I said not sure what else to say. He is, she said agreeing. Then what's the problem, I asked. I don't know him, she said. Can you ever really know someone, I asked. My sister turned her head to look at me. That sounds like something Appa would say, she said. I giggled at her correct assessment of our father.

Like an alarm going off, we heard the garage door opening and the sound startled us to quickly sit up. We ran to the kitchen and feverishly opened the dishwasher to finish what we had been tasked with before our parents left to run errands.

You're not done yet, my mother said bewildered as she walked in with a bag of groceries. Basically done, my sister said as we put away the last few dishes. Good, because we're doing Sambar today, my mom said. I rolled my eyes at the mention of a cooking class. What, my mom asked seeing my reaction.

Why does Rani have to learn to make this stuff, I asked annoyed. This stuff, is Indian food, my mom said angrily. Already fighting, my dad asked after he walked in with the last grocery bag.

He lives in America, he probably likes non-Indian food, I asked. His mother said he prefers Indian, my mom said. Rani should marry an American then it would be easier, I said. My mom gasped at the word American. She means someone who grew up in America, not someone White, my sister elaborated.

My mom subdued at the explanation. Just the thought of my sister being with a non-Indian sent my mom into a temporary spiral.

It's not just for him, it's for his parents also, my mom then said as she put things away in the fridge. But, I started when my sister looked at me and shook her head. Rani often interjected during the fights between me and the parents, and would advise when I should just secede.

So I did just that. At first. But I just couldn't help myself and had to win. When I get married my husband can cook for himself, I said. No one will want you if you think like that, my dad said in Tamil as he and my mom laughed.

I stomped up the stairs and slammed the door to my 12 x 12 foot bedroom. My room was small, and quite unremarkable in decor, but it was my sanctuary. The place where I could get away and forget about what life had in store for me.

That was the thing about having an older sibling, especially an older sister. Sometimes I felt like I was watching what my life was going to be like, 6 years in the future. And I was scared.

Rani was the perfect child who always listened to our parents and did what they asked. When she wanted to go to a top-tier college in the east coast my parents said no, despite the fact that she got a full-ride. Instead she went to the average school that was commuting distance from our house so she could live at home.

I had to work twice as hard to be at half the level my sister operated at, but the difference was when I got into that top tier school on the east coast, I was going to go. I probably wouldn't be able to get a full-ride like Rani did, but I'd just graduate with student debt like everyone else.