I am in a hotel room outside of Houston. Tomorrow I'll attend my cousin's wedding.
It occurred to me on the drive here that I spent my youth getting as far away from Indian/Sikh men as I could. I didn't want to end up like my aunts, and admittedly, at points, like my mother. Suffering through a drunk husband's immature machismo over a lifetime. And if I found the nice Sikh man my parents hoped for, one who happened to not drink, I feared I'd find myself moving through a lifetime of rules, restrictions, repression. I didn't want either extreme. So I chose American.
Earlier tonight at my aunt's house, men mingled and women painted henna onto each others' hands. I watched my cousins, some married with children, some single still, I thought again of all these women. My aunties. How they have bore the brunt of this tragedy. To stand by their husbands, to play the right kind of Indian wife, to instill their Indian/Sikh heritage into their American-born or raised children. They've instilled that culture, and it comes with a scotch and soda. Preferably Johnnie Walker Black Label.
SONGS: Oh Sister, Andrew Bird and Oh Sister, Bob Dylan
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