Zehra dreaded going home to her beloved parents. She drove her ancient Audi. This old one was all she could afford on her government salary. Her mind swirled with excuses to get out of the meeting she knew her mother had set up—with some nice, boring Indian guy. She wasn’t opposed to Indian or even Hindu. She was upset at the way her mother pushed the issue.
Her parents lived in the western suburb of Minnetonka. Everything in this state carried the names of Native Americans from long ago. At least they were remembered in some fashion. Zehra had come to learn that Minnesota was misunderstood by most of the country. Though it was thought to be populated by either stoic Scandinavians or Mary Tyler Moore wannabes, Zehra had discovered the people surprisingly diverse. Along with a significant Native American population, the state also held the country’s second largest group of Hmong people from Laos and the largest Somali population. The Minneapolis and St. Paul schools reported over one hundred languages spoken in the classrooms. After growing up in the heat and humidity of Texas, Zehra liked the change of seasons and the brittle winters.
She had dated a lot in college and, to some degree, in law school. No one ever seemed to grab her attention, at least enough to get serious. The affair with Paul Schmidt had come close but then dissolved. She couldn’t even remember why. Since they’d made contact about the El-Amin murder case, Zehra had wondered what might happen between them.
She curved into her parents’ drive. They owned a rambler on the edge of a small pond. She shut off the engine and looked over her shoulder at the gold Dodge parked in the street. Must be the dreaded guest.
Mother, she complained to herself. If I didn’t love you so much, I’d never come back. Although Zehra had been raised as a Christian and an American, her mother still retained many of the ethnic practices of her culture, including the value of family above all else. Zehra appreciated that and was thankful for the close family she had.
She climbed out of the car slowly. Normally, she didn’t drink much, but tonight Zehra had brought a large bottle of Chardonnay. She’d probably need it. Before going into the house, she stopped to savor the best part of coming home—her mother’s gardens.
Zehra had inherited this garden obsession, but since she lived in a condo, her garden consisted of potted plants. Considering the short growing season in Minnesota, she indulged in every opportunity to enjoy the colors, textures, and scents of her gardens.
Water splashed across the roses from a sprinkler, and Zehra could smell fragrant, damp black earth and freshly mowed grass. She loved the orderliness of her mother’s plants, even though it appeared as natural as Nature. It was as complicated as law school had been. When her pots weren’t challenging enough, Zehra came home to help her mother.
Unlike her work as a defense lawyer, where it was often difficult to find the truth or to reach a final, successful result, gardening offered both. The truth surfaced in the beauty of Nature’s work—with Zehra’s help.
She walked up the stone path that led to the front door. Wafting out through the screen door was the aroma of the spices her mother used for cooking. Zehra stopped at the door and looked sideways at the garden one last time before going into the torture chamber.
In the back stood the alliums—tall stalks with flower bursts that looked like fuzzy purple tennis balls. In front of those were the bleeding hearts. Beyond them, nodding white flowers hung from arching stems that resembled a row of nuns with white habits leaning forward to give thanks for the rain.
Prisha came out to meet her, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She wrapped Zehra in her small arms and hugged. “My little girl. So wonderful to see you,” Prisha said.
“Killer gardens, Mom.”
“Just trying to keep things alive. If I could get your father to help more—”
Her mother avoided the living room to pull Zehra into the kitchen. Prisha set the pita bread on the counter while Zehra dipped a bread chip into the lemon hummus her mother had been mixing, tasted nothing but garlic, and put the wine bottle next to the bread. Like a lot of older Indian women, Prisha retained her “kingdom” in the kitchen, an entitlement that had been passed down for generations.
“How’s work?” Prisha asked. “I don’t know how you can defend those guilty criminals. Isn’t it dangerous?” She kept the two of them in the kitchen.
“No. But sometimes it’s very difficult.”
“How can you represent this terrorist that killed that poor boy?”
“I don’t want to, believe me.”
The thought of El-Amin caused Zehra’s lower body to tighten. She pushed the thought away and concentrated on the wonderful, comforting smells of her mother’s cooking, something that had always been with Zehra since she could remember.
“Why don’t you go back to medical school?” Prisha pulled a strand of gray hair from her face and tucked it behind her left ear. “How about engineering? There is a great need for engineers. Your uncle was an engineer—”
Zehra stopped her. “Okay, Mom. Let’s go meet him.”
“Huh? Oh, yes. He’s such a nice man. And so handsome. He’s the cousin of a lady I met at the Indian food market.” Prisha’s face glistened. “I just don’t want you to have the difficult life I had—marrying outside my faith. Donald is a good man, but our marriage has been made harder because of the difference in our religions. You must remain Hindi.”
“But I’m a Christian.”
“You can change.”
Pulling Zehra by the hand, she led her back into the living room. As they entered, a tall man stood with his legs together and his arms flat against his sides. He nodded and waited for the introduction.
Oh brother, Zehra thought. Here we go again. It was hard to turn down her parents; they had always been there for her. She returned the favor —even if it was unpleasant. Yesterday, her father had convinced Zehra to attend a company party with him. He’d told her there would be many young, eligible engineers there. Reluctantly, Zehra had agreed. And now she was about to be led to yet another slaughter . . .
In the living room, Prisha said, “Zehra, this is Robert Bandyopadhyay. He’s got a good job at 3M.”
He stuck out his hand to grasp Zehra’s. He nodded again and said, “Hello, Zehra. I do research at 3M in post-post-it notes. You know, the cutting edge of a new generation of post-it notes.”
She waited.
“I’m also interested in theatre.”
“How interesting.” She looked up into a narrow face with a sharp nose and large nostrils. His dark face was surrounded by shiny black hair. He smelled faintly of curry.
“After your mother told me about you, I was anxious to meet you.”
Zehra shot her mother a devastating look. “Oh, I’m sure she told you everything.” She felt like an abandoned dog in a pound that Robert was inspecting for possible purchase.
“I’ve got a role in a play at the White Bear Lake community theatre.”
“How interesting.”
“How do you like your job?”
Zehra said, “Well, with the case I’ve just been assigned, I’d be happier teaching snowboarding.”
“My role is to play Marc Antony in Julius Caesar. That’s by Shakespeare, you know.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Do you like Indian food?”
“I have to. Whenever I come home, that is.”
“The early reviews in the paper said my performance in rehearsals has been outstanding. I think it comes from my outgoing personality and love of fun. You must come to our performance.”
Zehra felt dizzy. “Mom, where’s Dad?”
“He’s still stuck in Arden Hills at the office. He said not to wait. The lamb is almost ready. Lamb is Robert’s favorite meat.” Prisha smiled at him. “Right?”
As they filed into the kitchen to check on the food, Zehra looked at her mother. She was pretty, in an old-world way: long nose; deep, expressive eyes with blue smudges around them; dark skin and hair that grew halfway down her back. The irony struck Zehra
again. All the Americanized habits couldn’t eliminate some of the old ones in her mother.
Her mother had fought her own battles to be accepted as a foreign woman in a country that at the time was mostly white and mostly Christian. Some of the remnants of her mother’s Indian past provided strength for her now—like Hinduism. Zehra was envious of that rock in her mother’s life.
Thank goodness things had progressed for Zehra, who lived in a much different world, though it presented its own new challenges. She had inherited her mother’s drive and was grateful for that. The support of both parents comforted Zehra all the time—except for her mother’s trying to arrange for men to marry her.
Prisha lifted a pot of water onto the stove to boil for rice. The lamb contained some of her early-season herbs from the garden. She spoke without looking at Zehra, which always meant her mother was bothered by something. “I still can’t get over you defending that crazy man. Are you in trouble?”
“He always quotes the Qur’an to me.”
“I have read it,” Robert said. He had followed them into the kitchen. He stood straight with his hands cupped together in front of his waist. “I’m not sure the Qur’an is very relevant for us today in the US. Actually, Hinduism, with its many gods, is more flexible and matches our pluralistic society better.”
He leaned closer to Zehra, and she smelled stale breath. She didn’t want to talk about any of this.
He looked into her eyes with a basset hound’s expression in his own. “You’re so fascinating, Zehra.” He paused for a second. “It reminds me of my passion for the theatre. I hope to have—well, I should have a leading role in a new production. I’ll invite you.”
“Uh, I’ll check my schedule.”
Her mother interrupted them. “You go on about that new stuff, Zehra. All those things you want to change. Don’t you understand that as things change more, you must cling to the principles that have sustained us through so much? Like our religion.”
“Your religion,” Zehra reminded her and instantly regretted the tone of her voice. Her mother dropped her eyes and looked away. Zehra knew that the case, the setbacks in the investigation—they had all upset her. “Look, Mom, I’m sorry. It’s not you.”
Prisha didn’t say anything and opened the lid of the simmering pot on the stove to check it. She stirred and added more spices.
They all moved into the living room, where Prisha had set the table. On the buffet next to the table was a shrine and a large statue of an elephant with four arms snaking out from behind the chubby body. Ganesha, the elephant god—one of thousands that Hindus revered, although he was one of the most important ones.
Zehra joked with her mother. “He reminds me of some of the guys I’ve dated—too many hands in the wrong places on me.”
Prisha smiled, finally, and said, “You should consider asking him for help. He’s the god who can place obstacles before us but also remove obstacles. Maybe you could use some help in removing some obstacles.”
“Good idea. Maybe I’ll give him a call.”
Prisha lit a stick of incense behind the elephant and told everyone to sit at the table. She lit two candles, and they all took their places. In the golden glow, Prisha smiled at Zehra. All was forgiven.
Zehra relaxed, realized she could get rid of Robert easily, and appreciated her mother’s support—even though her machinations drove Zehra nuts at times.
Chapter Nine