East West - The Asian American Lifestyle Magazine

By Richa Gulati

A lengthy list of achievements is by no means a guarantee of winning a mother's heart. With all of the accolades I have received over the years, my community's admiration feels greater than the attention I get from my own mother. With seemingly little in common, we never seem to meet each other's expectations. Our conversations are routine, focusing on mundane aspects of daily life: did I eat today? Am I properly dressed for the cold?

The arrival of my cousin from India to my adopted home of New York City gave our languid relationship an unfamiliar jolt of jealousy. One of my favorite cousins came alone to America at 24, seeking a career in IT. Two years my junior and an hour train ride away, I envisioned guiding her like the sister I never had. Instead, her first calls with an American cell phone were to my mother.

I suddenly perceived in her a rival. She was the embodiment of qualities I felt my mother wished I had. My cousin's sweet disposition never questioned parental authority. I always needed the last word. She knew the words to all of the latest Bollywood hits. I danced flamenco. She rolled perfectly round chapatis with ease. I bake out of a box. Daily phone calls between them became routine.

In contrast to myself, my cousin sought advice from my mother, who was all too happy to share. My mother had never worked outside of the home or studied outside of India. When I was young, she hesitated to guide me on school and career, deferring the questions I considered most important at the time to my father. By the time I became a lawyer, and work consumed my days, we had little to talk about.

But navigating the culture shock of immigration from India was a subject my mother knew well. The questions my cousin asked echoed those my mother asked herself when she emigrated more than 30 years ago. My mother shared not only advice during their talks, but also personal stories I had never heard.

Phone calls home confirmed my cousin's newfound status. After perfunctory greetings, but before I could recount the week's events, my mother immediately began to summarize my cousin's week, sharing her latest exploits. With detectable excitement in her voice, every new trip my cousin took was described to me as if my mother were seeing this country, too, for the very first time.

My parents' recent visit to New York City seemed to confirm my worst fears. Shortly after they arrived, mom invited my cousin to join us; she came within the hour. Despite the cramped quarters of my apartment, her presence made me feel miles away from their cozy relationship. Their emotional closeness hurt the most. Whether cooking together in the kitchen or strolling through Central Park, there seemed just enough room for two, but never three.

By the trip's end, I was mad, not only at their relationship but also at the hostility I felt inside for my cousin, an innocent party. Feeling shunned, I became irritable. Intuitively, my mother put her arm around me after my cousin left. “Your cousin asks so many questions,” she said, “she's not like you.” I enviously replied that it looked like they had shared the perfect mother-daughter weekend. “It's my duty to take care of my sister's daughter, and I know how she feels,” my mother said, “but you are different. You try things on your own and I get to share those new experiences with you.”

Her words comforted me. I had always imagined that if we shared backgrounds and interests, we would be closer. But as the child of immigrants, I would never believe movies needed dance sequences any more than she understood why I had to attend school dances. My cousin's arrival in the United States allowed my mother to re-live the experience of moving abroad and, perhaps, the chance to correct mistakes she feels she made along the way.

With me, however, she got the unexpected: a Spanish dance show or a book she would have never picked on her own. My cousin provided a lens for my mother to view her past. I would always, however, be her future, someone she could count on to include her in activities she never considered.

My mother's arms felt good around me. For the first time that weekend, I gave her a fierce hug back.

Richa Gulati is a practicing attorney and freelance writer based in New York City. She has studied flamenco for the past eight years in New York, Boston and Madrid, Spain. She hopes to continue writing on her twin loves of India and flamenco dance. Her work can be found at www.richagulati.com.