I Married a Coconut

By Priti Tanna

As a first-generation Indian
American, Priti Tanna navigated the challenging interplay of traditional Indian
values and the modern American lifestyle, seeking her place of belonging.
Balancing the weight of generational expectations, she pursued the
"trifecta" of a stellar education, an ideal Indian partner, and early
motherhood.

When a supposed astrological
mishap led to Priti symbolically marrying a coconut to remedy her struggles to
find love, she embarked on a journey of self-discovery that launched her from
her comfort zone and revealed her own needs and desires.

I
Married a Coconut intertwines
Priti's transformative quest, resonating with immigrant parents guiding their
children's future, individuals challenging societal norms, and those seeking a
profound understanding of themselves. By recounting her own experiences, Priti
sets ablaze a vivid symphony of motivation and authentic self-revelation, a
poignant reminder that the power to forge an extraordinary path resides within
the core of our being.

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: Jul 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889267089

Book preview

Ebook_I_Married_a_Coconut.jpg

I Married

a Coconut

I Married

a Coconut

Stories of an Indian girl growing up in America

Priti Tanna

New Degree Press

Copyright © 2023 Priti Tanna

All rights reserved.

I Married a Coconut

Stories of an Indian girl growing up in America

ISBN

979-8-88926-707-2 Paperback

979-8-88926-708-9 Ebook

For my family

V+K SPT

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1:

Before I Knew the Color of My Skin

Chapter 2:

I Found All the Brown Kids

Chapter 3:

Seasons of Angst

Chapter 4:

The Sweetest 16

Chapter 5:

Labyrinth of Doubt

Chapter 6:

Not Quite the College Experience

Chapter 7:

Adulthood 101

Chapter 8:

Potential Husbands and Bright Futures

Chapter 9:

The First Family Wedding

Chapter 10:

Children Not Allowed

Chapter 11:

Yoga Has Entered the Chat

Chapter 12:

Mumbai to Bombay, Yoga to Dance

Chapter 13:

Big Things

Chapter 14:

New Places, Old Faces

Chapter 15:

Becoming Mrs. Coconut

Chapter 16:

From Chaos to Clarity

Chapter 17:

Graceful Exits and Glorious Starts

Acknowledgments

"Imperfection inspires invention, imagination, creativity.

It stimulates.

The more I feel imperfect, the more I feel alive."

— Jhumpa Lahiri, In Other Words

Introduction

Priti, come downstairs, fast, and wear the red salwar kameez I gave you last year, my mother yelled.

Her voice abruptly awakened me, and I couldn’t help but wonder what could be so pressing. A surge of annoyance coursed through me as the command, laced with a sense of urgency, seemed unusual for her. Despite being a twenty-seven-year-old who worked in NYC, spending some weekends with my parents at their home in New Jersey occurred often.

I lazily snatched the red salwar kameez from the closet and threw it over my head. The simple garment lacked any striking patterns or bold hues: a subdued crimson with delicate silver threads interwoven throughout, each line culminating in a tiny sequin.

As I entered the living room, I saw my parents standing there dressed in festive clothes from their native country, India. A large white bedsheet scattered with flower petals lay on the floor, and a statue of Ganesh (known as the remover of obstacles) sat on a wood slab near the large window. I noticed an older Indian man standing beside my dad, dressed in a flowy orange tunic and a white dhoti (traditional loose trousers). He had a large red dot adorning his forehead, and he casually cradled a string of three mala beads in his right hand while holding a coconut in his left. I recognized the priest who had performed my sister’s wedding ceremony a few years earlier.

No, no, no, oh my lord, no.

Had my parents really listened to the astrologer they consulted a few weeks back who said I wouldn’t get married anytime soon? I knew they were always looking for a suitable husband for me and were willing to try anything to make it happen. I tried to hold back my reaction, but the anger pulsated up my throat and showed on my face.

What is this drama? I said while holding back the tears.

We are going to do a puja for you with this coconut, the priest said, to rid you of whatever bad luck you have regarding marriage.

My mind struggled to comprehend the absurdity of the situation. The puja, or religious ceremony, usually happened before auspicious occasions such as weddings, housewarmings, the birth of a child, or any milestone considered to be joyous. However, in cases where one deviated from the standard timeline, a priest could perform a ceremony to course correct. Turning twenty-eight in a few months meant coming dangerously close to the Indian marriage expiration date, which had pushed my parents into a panic.

No, I flatly answered. Really? Before breakfast? No.

I begged my parents to reconsider, but my father avoided eye contact while my mother gave me a stern look that suggested I should just give in. Resigned to my fate, I let out a deep sigh and made my way to the spot in front of Ganesh, the fear of not getting married if I refused in the back of my mind. The priest handed me a coconut and instructed me to hold it on my left shoulder. Though the request seemed odd, I didn’t want to question it, unaware of the symbolism that would only become clear to me years later.

An hour and a half dragged by, with the coconut weighing heavily on my left shoulder, making my arm ache. When the puja finally ended, I stood and stormed off to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I could hear my parents downstairs apologizing for my behavior. I then heard the priest’s voice rumbling through the house, Your daughter is not married because she is angry and unpleasant!

His words were a sledgehammer, crushing my spirit with a heavy weight of shame and embarrassment.

Growing up in the US as a first-generation American with immigrant parents, I walked a tightrope between two vastly different worlds. Indian culture infused every aspect of our lives at home, while the foreign American world felt entirely opposite and utterly new to my parents. My mom and dad had high expectations for my future, and they believed that achieving the desi trifecta of a good education, a good husband (by the age of twenty-five), and eventually, children (by the age of thirty) determined happiness. The first two had an extensive checklist before being deemed suitable and the last was, of course, for them—they wanted grandchildren to fulfill their own cultural and familial beliefs.

A good education meant focusing on academics and avoiding distractions. In India, potential partners were chosen based on similar social standing (caste system) and educational background. Did he attend a prestigious institution? Was he pursuing a career in medicine? For women, gaining acceptance within the Indian community, particularly among parents, relied heavily on securing a husband. Grandchildren were the assumed outcome of any marriage—any gender would do, but having a grandson would elevate your status to the top of the favorite child list.

Although the trifecta of a good education, husband, and children had its appeal, I truly craved a life bursting with excitement and adventure that I could navigate on my own terms and timeline. But I had formidable opponents: the outside world, both foreign and perplexing. My skin color and lack of familiarity with India created a barrier to understanding, igniting a clash of cultures that would persist throughout my life.

The journey from childhood until now has been a bittersweet symphony filled with extraordinary tales that have found a home in my collection of journals since the age of fifteen. In those pages, I chronicled my daily struggles with a sprinkle of humor, detailing stories of being bullied, excluded, and overlooked, woven with threads of hope, resilience, and love. Today, my story is vastly different, and I wish my younger self could have foreseen the life of adventure that awaited her. Now, my tales are for you, the immigrant parent raising children in America; for you, the woman grappling with society’s standards of self-worth; and finally, for the person who knows you are already enough.

Chapter 1:

Before I Knew the Color of My Skin

One of my most vivid and cherished memories from my childhood is of watching Speed Racer on TV. The charming character, the vibrant colors, and the captivating music drew me in completely, even at the age of three. With a yellow cape blanket tied around my shoulders, I sat diligently on a little red chair in the basement of our New Jersey home, completely absorbed by the excitement of the show. Among other distinctly American memories were the big backyard, swing set, and golden retriever next door named Prince. Erica, our babysitter with long red hair who let us run through the sprinklers until dark. My older sister’s top bunk falling on me as I slept. Scribbling on the walls of my room with my younger brother and a sharpie.

I have memories from that time that are deeply connected to my Indian heritage as well. My paternal grandparents visiting from India for the birth of my baby brother. The smells of my mom’s aromatic cooking, the taste of her delicious food. Running around wearing beautiful chaniya cholis, Indian garments sent over by my relatives. Gatherings with my dad’s friends, all of whom had migrated from India to the US only six years before as part of the Brain Drain. The sound of Indian music from Bollywood vinyls or the melodic voices of my mother’s friends added to the tantalizing atmosphere of those evenings.

At the time, I was blissfully unaware of the weight of my dual identities—American and Indian; my only struggle was that of a typical child of Indian immigrants. When we moved into our second New Jersey home, it was 1978. I was four, my sister, Sonal, was eight, and my brother, Tej, was two. It was an exciting time for my parents; the house was new construction, and my dad could influence the architecture; it served as a momentous achievement for both he and my mom. They grew up much differently, and now they were embarking on the bona fide American Dream. Here, at the house on 72 Appleby Street, with four bedrooms and two-and-a-half baths, I vaguely began to understand that my world was significantly different from others. It was also in this house on a rainy Saturday afternoon when I was nine that a VHS tape would become a symbol for my future aspirations.

"Priti, I have a Bollywood movie for you to watch. I rented it at the Indian store. It’s called Mahaan," my dad yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

What does mahaan mean? I asked.

"It means great in Hindi," he answered, stoically.

Even before the movie started, my giddiness had begun, heightened by the satisfying click of the tape being inserted the VHS player.

Are we all watching it together? I asked, curious about my siblings and mom. I hadn’t seen them in a few hours.

No, they don’t want to watch. They went to the mall. I’ll watch with you, he said.

I was upset they didn’t ask me to join them until the movie started and I locked eyes with India’s biggest superstar, Amitabh Bachchan. The movie did not have subtitles, so I was reliant on my father to translate, and by the second song I was hooked. The lead actress had long, thick black hair and she was wearing a bright red dress with gold dangling earrings. Surrounding her were hundreds of dancers, moving their bodies in unison to the catchy beat, transporting me to the scene. The movie had ignited such exhilaration that as I climbed into bed that night, I knew I wanted to become a Bollywood actress. I didn’t know Hindi, but I could learn. I didn’t live in Bombay, but I could move.

Becoming a Bollywood actress became my only future vision until a year and several VHS tapes later. My parents assumed I wasn’t being serious and suggested a different, more practical goal. I called it the desi trifecta; study hard to attend an Ivy League school, marry an Indian doctor, and give birth to four boys. I agreed due to social norms, slight insecurities, and practicality. The trifecta appeared more attainable and less far-fetched than striving to become a movie star, and a chubby, darker Indian girl from New Jersey could never make it to the big screen.

Doctors make good money, my mom reminded me as I was helping her in the kitchen after dinner. And everyone will be happy. You will make us proud, and you will be the first to get married out of all our friends’ daughters the same age. It’s very hard to become an actress; becoming a doctor is a better idea, she said as she dropped the last plate in the dishwasher.

The first to get married? Really? What about Dede? I asked. I called Sonal Dede; it meant big sister, and traditionally, if you were lucky enough to have a big sister, she got married first.

In your age group, my mom responded. Unless you meet someone before her. We can work it out then. She winked.

I stood in the kitchen after my mom walked away. Although I had agreed, suddenly the idea of giving up on my desire felt like a punishment. I sat at the kitchen table, unsure of what to do next until curiosity convinced me to broach the subject once again with my father. Maybe he wouldn’t think my idea was imbecilic if I could logically map out achieving both a move to Bollywood and marriage to an Indian doctor? I crossed my fingers as I approached my father in the den. At ten years old, I didn’t have substantial points to win him over aside from my newfound conviction and the idea my father loved me more than my siblings. I had no evidence to support that theory, but more—I believed in its truth.

Dad? I said in my inquisitive voice. He had the New York Times in one hand, folded on his lap as he watched his favorite Sunday night show, 60 Minutes. It was good timing. He loved Andy Rooney, the TV writer who would appear at the end of each hour with a satirical story and deadpan delivery. When he didn’t respond, I sat down on the opposite chair and quietly watched with him. Fifteen minutes later, Andy was done, and my father was still laughing as he picked up the paper once more.

"Dad!" I said once again.

"Yes, yes beta what’s up?" he said. When he threw in beta (the word for child in our native language, Gujarati) it meant he was in a jovial mood.

Remember how I wanted to become a Bollywood actress? I started. I know I decided on a doctor, but now I have a plan. I could start taking Hindi and dance lessons next month. A few friends are part of a group that teaches dance. Maybe someone knows of a Hindi teacher? I think it will take me about two months to perfect both. I have time, eight years maybe, before I move to Bombay and ask someone if I can be in a movie.

He looked at me, still smiling, and said, "Unless