Hard Choices: Three Short Stories

By Lakshmi Karra

My Story:
Gauri, the daughter of immigrants from the Southern state of Andhra Pradesh, India, is raised in the United States. Her marriage to an engineer from India falls apart as she struggles to balance the lifestyle of East and West. Frequent arguments and misunderstandings regarding traditional values, take its toll resulting in the collapse of their union.

Maya and her Grandmother:
Mayas relationship with a man much older than her, sends her disapproving parents on a pilgrimage to India. His behavior makes her rethink their relationship, but she seeks his company following the accidental demise of her parents and aunt. She goes to India for their last rites and feeling alone and adrift, she convinces her grandmother to come to the US to stay with her. Mayas conversation with her grandmother about her troubled relationship with her boyfriend, Nick, reveals a side of her grandmothers life similar to her own. It gives her the strength and confidence to make a firm decision and move on.

The Will:
The life of Rishi, a young doctor from NC, USA, is dramatically altered when he is requested to go to Mumbai, India, to claim a large amount of money. This bequest to him by the elderly Indian visitor who befriended him on the trail where he frequently jogs, leaves him confused and perplexed. He struggles between acceptance and rejection of the inheritance, but an unexpected chain of events during his Mumbai visit and thereafter in the US, help him in his decision.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524674335

Lakshmi Karra

Lakshmi Karra lives in Florida. Her books are centered around people from Andhra Pradesh, India. She is also the author of a novel titled “The Ganesha Pendant.” She is an avid reader, enjoys writing, traveling, and Indian classical music.

Book preview

My Story

Irreconcilable Differences: East-West Vs East

Chapter 1

I t was May 28, 2003, and a glorious spring day, the temperature around 70F.

I walked out of the lawyer’s office and headed towards the small parking lot at the back of the building. The sun was shining in a beautiful blue sky, with huge cotton candy clouds lazily floating around. A gentle breeze stirred the air, and a few birds were circling high above.

I walked briskly, my mind preoccupied with a million thoughts. I paused to look at a couple of trees laden with pure white flowers; there was barely a trace of leaves. I indifferently noted the crab apple trees lining the driveway were in full bloom, with bursts of lavender, magenta, and pink flowers. New leaves in various shades of green topped some other trees. In just a few weeks they would be quite dense, it was hard to believe.

The picture-perfect day should have made me feel light-hearted, in keeping with the promise of new beginnings; after all, it was spring. Instead, it made me feel morose and sad, though in a sense it was a new beginning for me; the end of one chapter in my life and the beginning of another. I experienced this with mixed feelings.

You see that day I joined the ranks of millions of divorced women, simultaneously adding to the list of single ones. My life officially changed, and I naively thought that the new- found independence and freedom accompanying it would place me on top of the world. I convinced myself that this was the best solution and stupidly believed that I could be happy once my marriage was behind me and I could move on.

I could not have been more wrong. Guilt consumed me, and there was a tight knot in the pit of my stomach. I felt a complete failure; my self-esteem sank, and I was not proud of myself. I guess all divorced people feel this way. I certainly was no exception. Up until then, I had a detached compassion for people in similar situations, especially celebrities on TV discussing their single and multiple marriage failures. I was indifferent since it never really affected me personally. It was a very different feeling, though, being on the other side. Disillusionment had set in, and my faith in the institution of marriage was totally shattered, to say the least. At that moment, I hated myself, all men and to be perfectly honest everything and everyone around me.

I got into my car, and before I started the engine, I leaned back and wearily closed my eyes.

I took a deep breath and reflected on my life.

The decision to go our separate ways was mutual but on my part the most difficult one I ever made, although I do believe it was just as hard for my husband. Probably it was worse for him. Who knows?

We both had a little child to think of; she was so dependent on us. I thought of all the occasions she would be a part of with only one parent present. How could one person take the role of two? Being both a father and mother would take its toll and leave an indelible impression on her. I, however, had to consider the alternative.

Would she still not be scared being a silent witness to heated arguments, clenched jaws, slapping the forehead in frustration, and silent treatments? There was no winning in this situation. I strongly believed the lesser of the two evils was for her to grow up in a peaceful environment. At least then we would maintain our civility, dignity, and self-respect and not lower ourselves in her eyes. I wonder, though if she would ever forgive us.

Somewhere over the years our marriage fell through the cracks and was impossible to retrieve. It started unraveling slowly, and my husband fell off the pedestal I put him on. Fed up with constant tension, frequent arguments, dreading coming home, I could not wait for this day. We clashed over petty, insignificant things. I cannot pinpoint exactly when and how my marriage started declining. I think it went steadily downhill and came to a head during one of my in-law’s extended visits. The socio-cultural pressures became too overbearing, and I crumbled under its weight.

I was tired of hearing, Gauri, you have to follow our traditions, it is part of our culture, Gauri, you are too independent. Gauri, why did you say that? You should show more respect. You are not like other wives. You are always going off on your own, and why are you so late? on those Fridays when I went out with my friends, and worst of all, Gauri you are spoiling her. My husband firmly believed I was spoiling my daughter. Perhaps it was true; I could not say no to her. Every day I brought home some small gift or the other. It became such a habit that she often threw a fit if I forgot or gave her something she didn’t like.

I believe that most marriages fail because of infidelity, financial mismanagement, excessive habits and sometimes a combination of all three. Ours did not fall into any of these categories. We respected our marriage vows; infidelity never occurred to either of us. We were careful with our money, to be honest, my husband was. Sometimes I gave in to my feelings, shopped impulsively and bought more than I ever needed. We never smoked and only occasionally had wine or drinks. So, what went wrong?

On reflection, I think our problems were very basic. Day to day frustrations snowballed out of proportion. I’m now totally convinced that it was also my tendency to overreact, my inability to blend into a culture I did not understand completely despite the influence of parents, grandparents, relatives, and friends. I am aware that though I’m largely responsible for the demise of my marriage, I’m not singularly accountable. Society, friends, and family with all their expectations and trappings like, what will people say certainly made their contributions.

I belonged to an independent and self-reliant genre and suddenly found myself having to explain myself to another individual. I let my resentment show. The face is the index of the mind very aptly describes me. I could never mask my feelings. People tell me that I am a very impetuous person; that I always speak first and regret afterward. I guess it is true; I do not believe in sugar coating anything. Also, my bluntness and lack of tact have created a lot of unpleasantness in my life. It probably cost me my marriage and was also the reason why I was so inept at the dating game. I did not know how to be coy or flirt like my friends; had no clue about coming on to people.

Living together brought out different aspects of our personality. A total contradiction to my husband’s work ethics and otherwise impeccable habits, domestically speaking he was a klutz, which made matters worse. It never bothered him to have clutter around. He was meticulous in other areas. He insisted on paying bills on time, going over our accounts periodically with a fine tooth- comb. He disapproved of my impulsive shopping expeditions, believing I possessed too many clothes and shoes.

Why do you need so many shoes Gauri? This closet looks like a shoe shop. And what about all these clothes? When will you ever were them? he would say as he sighed.

How could he not understand that they were necessary? I certainly did not want my friends and colleagues to think I was shabby. I did everything the way I wanted on my terms, and no one ever questioned me, not even my parents. Suddenly, I was accountable for every action, and this micromanagement irked me to no end. I believed that my husband changed completely and sometimes felt I did not know him at all. I could not acknowledge that courtship and marriage are two very different things. Instead of being kind and attentive as he used to be, he turned into an extremely critical and judgmental person.

Never in my wildest moments did I think it would become such a big issue. It became a focal point of disintegration. I felt as if the multiple layers of our marriage peeled off one by one exposing the naked differences that were truly irreconcilable. Now that I have told you about the most important change in my life, I feel it is about time I told you all about myself. First, let me begin by introducing myself to you. Ladies and gentlemen my name is Gauri Rao, and this is my story.

Chapter 2

I am the only child of immigrants from India. The promise of better educational opportunities and superior living conditions lured my father to the US of A. In the late sixties, he came to pursue his graduate studies at Stanford University in California. He came alone, leaving behind his young wife and yours truly just an infant at the time. We joined him about a year later and lived in a shabby one bed- room apartment near the campus. My father could not afford anything bigger on his meager scholarship.

It took a while for my mother to adjust to a new country and its surroundings. She told me later that she often cried herself to sleep in those early days. She could not speak English very well and had a hard time making herself understood. However, she was a quick learner, and within a few months, she began to fit in. She was also a very social being, had a leadership kind of personality, and it was not long before she gathered a group around her. She started babysitting and soon afterward began to organize social gatherings. She often lamented the lack of affordable and almost non-existent maid service in the US. In India, practically everybody had somebody to do basic household chores like laundry and cleaning. She learned all this very quickly and became quite efficient.

My parents struggled to fit into a society where the culture was sharply different, almost alien to them. In a sense, my life was an extension of theirs. I too struggled to fit in. My Southern Indian upbringing in a western world added to my problems. My father’s very strong Indian accent along with my mother’s broken English embarrassed me. I concealed it quite badly. I often corrected her, felt terrible on seeing the hurt look in her eyes.

"It is not vaat Mom; it is what. And why can’t you say onions instead of awnions."

I understood her better as I grew older and accepted her for who she was. I became close to her and became her friend. I loved listening to her stories about her childhood and her life in India. I realized she was sensitive and generous. I am grateful for the time we now share together.

Two of my mother’s sisters and a brother moved to the US a few years after my parents did. Unlike her siblings, my mother was denied a college education but was not resentful. She accepted it quite philosophically. She grew up in the village till she was about sixteen when her parents decided to move to the city so that my uncle could go to college. It was vital for them to secure his future with a college degree. They banked on him to take care of them in their old age. By default, my aunts also benefited. They also went to college, and one of them even became a doctor. My mother was the oldest and was quite maternal towards her sisters and younger brother. They, in turn, were fiercely protective of her though they often teased her, especially when she wore all the jewelry she possessed for every occasion.

"Anni vesukunava? Inkevyina miggilinda? (did you wear everything? Is there anything remaining?) her sisters asked in Telugu.

They taught her how to mix and match and helped her try to conform. They did not spare me if I was disrespectful to her.

Gauri, behave yourself. She is your Mother. Admonished one aunt, while another went on, You cannot talk to her like that. Kids don’t have any respect these days. She grumbled.

It was not until she came to the US that my Mother went back to school. My father encouraged her to get her High school diploma, but she convinced herself that she was too old for that and instead took classes in data entry and came out with flying colors.

Ours was quite a close- knit family. Uncles, aunts, and their children frequently visited us. I had a good rapport with all my cousins but was closer to those on my mother’s side. We were carted off to India once every two or three years to learn, preserve and maintain Indian culture. I enjoyed these trips immensely. My first visit was when I was about five years old. The whole trip is just a hazy blur. However, I remember my second visit quite vividly. I was about nine years old and quite indifferent to this impending visit. All I cared was meeting my cousins and having a good time. I was too young to remember details and had no idea what to expect. I was in for a massive culture shock.

An unidentified mechanical problem of some kind delayed our arrival in Bombay. The tired passengers by then were restless, and I was cranky and sleepy. I leaned on my mother, unhappy and longed for my comfortable bed.

Mom, how long do we have to stay on this airplane? I hate these long journeys.

It was around 9 am when we finally landed. We joined the long line of passengers for customs inspection. I idly watched a heated altercation between one passenger and the officer in charge. Both were waving their arms wildly and snarling at each other. They reminded me of a pair of dogs. I noted the passenger angrily walked off to pay a fine of some sort, I think. Anyway, we went through without any problems. I clung to my mother as she and my dad each wheeled a cart loaded with our baggage. People greeting family members and talking loudly and all at once crammed the waiting area. The floor smelled of some disinfectant making my stomach churn. By then I was almost dying of thirst.

My parents gave each other knowing looks as my uncle came to receive us. They enthusiastically greeted him and started laughing and talking. His eyes shifted to me, and I heard him say incredulously,

Is this Gauri? How big she has become!

He led us out into the bright sunlight towards what looked like a parking lot. Expectant relatives and friends were jostling each other trying to find their way. Impatient cab drivers were honking at people walking past. Men were squatting on the pavement, and I noticed some were spitting some red liquid. I learned later it was betel juice.

The whole thing was quite overwhelming; I suddenly got scared, ran to my father and held on to him. I think he understood my feelings as he glanced down. He immediately put his free arm around me silently reassuring me. All I remember about that trip was how different everything was.

I sat with my mother in the back seat during the drive to my uncle’s house and looked out the window wide-eyed and stared curiously at the mostly dark sweaty bodies walking by. I looked upwards at the tall buildings housing flats. Clothes draped the balconies and some were hung out to dry on long ropes that were tied to the window bars and railings. Most of them had a lot of potted plants with bright flowers. My uncle wove through traffic swearing and honking at others in his way.

Damn, bloody fools. They don’t know how to drive.

They did the same to him. Hawkers seated with their wares on display filled the sidewalks. My uncle ignored their calls with a wave of his hand. We left the noisy city and drove through quieter suburbs with beautiful houses on either side of the road. Nearly all of them had huge trees and compound walls.

We spent a few days with my uncle and family before flying to Hyderabad, for the rest of our vacation. We joined our other cousins who were already there. I loved spending time with my cousins though we all got sick from the heat and water.

We all regarded these visits quite differently when we grew older. Every trip meant nostalgia and excitement for my parents. My mother checked off her long list of shopping periodically and discussed the latest requests with all her friends. My father reacted quite differently; he quietly paid the bills. For us, India meant heat, diarrhea, people, people and more people with congestion and sounds of horns blaring and people talking too loudly. Our clothes were washed on a stone in the backyard and always hung outside on a rope to dry. They became stiff, and the harsh sunlight faded them. I hated it! We were not allowed to drink tap water; it had to be boiled and strained. It gave it a listless taste; we ended up drinking soda all the time.

Only two bedrooms in my grandparent’s house were air-conditioned. One was off limits to us because my mother and her sisters took their afternoon siesta and gossiped there. We spent most of our time in the other one playing cards, watching TV and horsing around. Sometimes though when my grandfather wanted to take a nap my mother and aunts unceremoniously kicked us all out.

"Andaru bytiki pondi. Tatagaru padukovali." We retreated to the cluttered living room and fought for the only firm seat on the sagging sofa.

We enjoyed hot "pakodas" and other savories on those days when the rain came down in sheets and lashed against the window frames. When it let up, we ran outside and floated paper boats in the huge puddles. The rain also stirred the earth bringing with it different scents. I loudly protested when someone opened the windows.

Hey, close those windows, you guys. It stinks in here. Eeeow.

Hot air gushed in bringing with it different scents. I loved the intoxicating fragrance of the jasmine vine on the compound wall but felt nauseous because it mingled with the stench of animal and human feces from the other side.

Our limited Telugu vocabulary expanded with words we picked up from the servants and gardeners. My youngest cousin tried to impress everyone by repeating some of the words but ended up being grounded. When one of my aunts roughly shoved him away from the hot stove while she was rolling chappatis, he called her a rude name.

Obviously, this must have been a very bad one because we heard the ladies in the kitchen gasp and instantly we saw my aunt leap with the rolling pin. She shook it at him yelling and chased him with it as he ran away. She went after him all the way into the yard, but he managed to take refuge in the neighbor’s house. The sight of the elder lady with the rolling pin and the teenager trying to escape cracked us all up. We clutched each other laughing, tears streaming down our faces. Even my aunt who came in panting and red-faced joined. My cousins gaped at me when I told them that he had stated that my aunt was a woman of loose morals by calling her that name.

How do you know Gauri? they asked skeptically. I just ignored them with a smug look and shook my head airily.

We went sightseeing to different places by train, bus, and cars. We gorged ourselves on mangos, guavas and tried food from roadside vendors though we were forbidden to do so. Of course, we got sick!!

I detested the frequent shopping expeditions with my mother, her sisters and whoever was with her at the time. I still firmly believe the main reason she visited India was to buy stuff to show off to all her friends. I was a silent onlooker when my mother and her sisters haggled to get better prices. To my western thinking, this was embarrassing and undignified. It did not bother them at all. I also felt humiliated when I was asked to ride with six or seven people in an auto rickshaw meant only for three. The smell of the kerosene always gave me a headache.

Chapter 3

W hen we did not go to India, to maintain unity my mother and her siblings took turns to host a family gathering during summer. The first day or two they all bonded and spent their time reminiscing, chatting over old times and updating themselves about various relatives and friends.

One summer afternoon, everyone was engrossed in an awful movie where the skimpily clad heroine with heavy makeup and jewelry was throwing a fit at her sixteenth birthday party.

Daddy, why are having my birthday at the house and not in a star hotel?

She was questioning her dad pouting, jutting out her plump lower lip and went on.

Why did you invite all these middle-class people?

Before we heard Daddy’s reply, my uncle suddenly interrupted.

Do you know who I met last week? Asked my uncle, as if we all possessed extrasensory powers.

Who? chimed in my mother and her sisters.

Aruna he replied and went on,

I saw her at Ramu’s house last week. Did you know her son got married? Again, he presumed all had extra powers of perception.

When he got the appropriate response of heads shaking negatively, he continued.

Apparently, her son the doctor got married last month and is now in the US for his residency. She is here visiting him.

Who is the bride? questioned somebody.

She is the granddaughter of, here he named someone they all knew.

She is also a doctor. His wife who was heating milk on the stove for her coffee (she hated microwaves) rudely corrected him.

She is not a doctor; she is a PA.

P A or whatever, it is the same thing.

It is not, PAs are no doctors, she displayed her extensive knowledge.

This discussion led