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.Easy for him to say that my mother’s wishes kept him away from me.She isn’t exactly here to deny it, is she?“It is too late,” I say.“And you’re making me more late right now.So if you’ll excuse me—”I’m at the door when he says, “Rakhi, what’s more important? Proving that you don’t need me or not losing what you’ve worked so hard for all this time, your business—and maybe your daughter?”I turn, stunned.How did he know my fears about Jona? And what else does he know?“I can’t guarantee that I’ll be of any help, but at least let me try,” he says.I swallow what I’d been about to say—If you really want to help, just take care of yourself so I don’t have to be here—and let him follow me into the car.What he said has hit me hard.Do I really have my priorities wrong, as he claims?If my mother were alive, I would have consulted her, and she—always honest in such matters—would have told me.Now I must figure it out for myself.I chew on the inside of my cheek, thinking, as we drive to Berkeley in silence.Belle is already at the store, dressed for hard labor in overalls and a sleeveless T-shirt, her hair bundled into a bandanna.But she isn’t alone.Across the counter from her is a tall young Sikh, dressed in blue jeans and a traditional turban.At first I think he is a customer (an irony—we no longer have anything to offer customers), but then I see that they are arguing.Or, more accurately, Belle is holding forth while the young man listens.She gives my father and me a distracted wave as we enter but doesn’t stop talking.“I told you I don’t want any of it.What am I going to do with it? What on earth were they thinking of, sending me this stuff! It’ll all spoil.You’ll just have to take it back.”Between them on the countertop there’s a large box filled with packets and jars.I can also see produce: mustard greens, mulee, lauki squash.Her parents must have sent a care package.“I told you,” the young man says, “I’ve just come from Turlock, from visiting my folks.I’m not going there again until the end of the month.” His accent, distinctly American, isn’t what I’d expected.He must have been born here, like Belle and myself.I wonder at the turban—so many young Sikhs have chosen to dispense with it.It suits him, though, gives him a rugged, adventurous look.“I don’t care.Just take it away.” Belle pushes the box at him.“I can’t handle vegetable guilt on top of everything else today.”He raises a polite, inquiring eyebrow.“Vegetable guilt?”“That’s right.I don’t know how to cook any of this—and my mom knows it.I can’t figure out why she sent them—and right now, too, when I’m drowning in stress.Look at all these spices: cumin, red chilies, bay leaves.A whole bottle of chickpea flour.I’ve never used chickpea flour in my life.” She pokes at a packet.“And this—I don’t even know what this is.”“It’s saunf,” the young man says.“Foreigners call it fennel.Very good for digestion.People with bad tempers usually have digestive problems.Maybe that ’s why your biji sent it.”“Thanks for the lesson,” Belle snaps.“Now if you would please remove the box and yourself from here—some of us have to work for a living, you know.”The man picks up the box.“I’ll be happy to leave, believe me! I’ll take the produce and use it myself.It’s obviously wasted on you! It’s a good thing your parents won’t know how you treated their gift.They packed that box with a lot of love.But that probably doesn’t mean much to you—you’re far too cool to care about old-fashioned concepts like respect for your elders.”I brace myself for an outburst, but Belle looks taken aback.Only for a moment, though.Then she snatches the box from him.“You think wearing that turban makes you better than other people and gives you the right to judge them?” she says.“You think you know all about me? Well, you’d better leave before I contaminate you with my coolness.” She turns to me.“We need to start with the inventory.We’re already late
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