Between my mother as a role model and the teachings of the goddess Sita, I was raised to become a wife and mother. Someone who can cook, clean and keep house. A modern day desi Betty Crocker meets Martha Stewart, able to throw down an elegant tablecloth and prepare a colorful feast for 25 couples who dine on; golden chicken makhani, so tender that chewing would be optional: pale green skinned cardamom seeds slowly cooked into the basmati rice; a gingery-garlicky black sabat ma ki dal; raita, homemade yogurt spiced and then sprinkled with cucumber, tomato and red onion.
Or Husband and I would have a few couples over for Sunday brunch. In which case I would miraculously overcome my fear of pressure cookers and dry frying, and whip up the traditional Punjabi breakfast of chana-butura, spicy garbanzo beans and deep-fried white flatbread.
I never articulated it, but I presumed my days with the fax and copier would be replaced with a Hoover and a stately Weber perfect for grilling. Who has time for staff meetings when I have six loads of laundry to do? I have always loved children, so in addition to matching German imports, I would have perfect, angelic desi babies – a mini-me (world get ready) and a mini-he.
Clearly I was raised to be the marrying kind. So come hell or high water that is what I am doing. Fear and love be damned, Desi Girl has some digits to dial.