“Ah, darn.” 

I shot straight up. I rubbed my eyes with the left hand, reaching my right hand behind my back in search of my phone. Finding it, I brought it to my eyes. 

8:15 a.m.

“Ugh,” I thought to myself, “I can probably lie down for another three minutes.”

With that thought, I cascaded back down to my bed, catching a glimpse of the heavy snowfall outside my bedroom window. 

It was January and in my hometown of Buffalo, NY, that meant that it was the coldest and one of the most unpleasant months of the year. On this snowy Saturday, my dream for the day was the same as every day until summer: to stay in bed as long as possible.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t happening. 

I looked at my phone again: 8:25 a.m. NO!

I threw off my blanket, sprung out of my bed, sprinted my way to the closet, and flipped through my steadily expanding collection of cable-knit sweaters. After throwing at least 12 items of clothing over my shoulders due to my conditioning from too many ’90s comedies, I found the most “it’s-Saturday-but-I’m-also-working” outfit I could. 

I grabbed my keys, wallet, jacket, and phone and ran out to the car, very displeased at the three feet of snow that had accumulated on the driveway. Ah, of course. After 16 years of living in Buffalo, I somehow still managed to forget that things, like shoveling your driveway and deicing your car, are part of everyday life, and take extra time. 

I started my car, quickly shoveled around my four tires, threw some lukewarm water on my windshield and made peace with the weird looks I was about to receive from fellow drivers for having three feet of snow on the roof of my car. 

With that, I (literally) skidded off. 

Driving on unpaved snowy roads meant that I would have a lot of time to think during my early morning Saturday journey. I traveled down the NY 33 – a local highway that was expanded in the 1960s to create easier access to the city from the suburbs and cuts straight through an African-American neighborhood. In the process of constructing the 33, an Olmstead-designed, tree-lined parkway that connected all the surrounding neighborhoods was wiped, creating problems for the predominantly African-American community to create convenience for their more affluent white suburban neighbors. 

Unfortunately, this sort of redlining is not the only discriminatory housing policy. Buffalo remains one of the most segregated cities in all of America. These ethnic and racial divides are apparent as you walk through the city: South Buffalo is predominantly Irish; the East side is predominantly African-American, and so on. 

Despite these deep racial divides, Buffalo—the Rust Belt city once known for its manufacturing and trade—has managed to maintain its charm. In recent years, an insurgence of startups and nonprofits founded by millennials looking to contribute to the city’s renewal and change the narrative. 

Buffalonians take deep pride in their city. Tailgating the NFL Buffalo Bills team, driving in three feet of snow with ease, and having the number of your chicken wing place on speed dial are all Buffalo staples. Growing up, it always seemed these shared experiences harbored a sense of belonging and a feeling of home for all Buffalo natives. 

I spent my college years getting involved in the Buffalo community and was happy to continue that pursuit with a position in Buffalo City Hall’s Office of Citizen Services as a full-time AmeriCorps VISTA. A bulk of my work revolved around facilitating and serving the community organizations in the city. I realized that it was not the wings, nor the snow and certainly was not the Buffalo Bills that fostered this pride. It was community. 

As that Saturday morning confirmed, the sense of community in Buffalo was palpable. When I finally made my way to the East Delvan community center, I was greeted by Ms. Ada, who had been in the kitchen for at least three hours already. Ms. Ada was a lifelong community advocate who had organized hundreds of neighborhood cleanups, breakfasts, and activist-led initiatives. Though she stood at roughly four and a half feet, with long waist-length braids, an unforgettable collection of cable-knit sweaters and a dangerous combination of sassy and sweet, I was both mesmerized and terrified by Ms. Ada. As she made her famous grits, occasionally shouting back orders on how to cut the fruit in front of me, I yawned, thinking about cold it was and how that would affect the attendance at the Masten District Community Breakfast that morning. 

Turns out, it would not. One by one, seats filled the community hall and people lined up for grits, bacon, and home fries. More than 80 people trekked across the city in three feet of snow to spend the morning with each other. After breakfast, the room heard from elected officials and community leaders. Masten district residents engaged with a delicate balance of curiosity and skepticism, aware of their responsibility to hold leaders accountable to the community. It was this engaged sense of citizenship that connected me to Buffalo. 

Although I proudly ascribe to the title of Buffalonian, it was the same sense of community I was drawn to that became a source of frustration for me. I truly enjoyed facilitating neighborhood interactions and citizen activism, but I never felt like I belonged in it. Most Buffalonians are generationally positioned in the city. I heard my friends’ parents talk about how much the local high school had changed since they were students, or community members talk about a time where Grand Central station was fully functional. These conversations made me acutely aware that I was not from Buffalo. I would always be the Pakistani immigrant that moved to the area roughly a decade ago. It didn’t matter how much I knew about the culture and history of the city. Not participating in or knowing the Easter tradition of visiting the Broadway Market left me feeling that I could never fully be a part of the Buffalo community. 

The realization especially pained me because it was already familiar. Growing up as an immigrant, there was always a sense of confusion about my identity. Was I American first or Pakistani first? Do I owe an obligation to America? What aspects of being Pakistani do I keep in my values or in my day-to-day life? Does it matter? Over time, I realized this was an internal debate I would never win. I had to learn that my passport did not define me. 

Although I made peace with my identity as an American, I still questioned my identity as a Buffalonian. Over time, it felt like being in a community as deeply rooted in its traditions as Buffalo, this lack of a sense of belonging would be a constant cloud of fear and worry over my head. So, when the first non-Buffalo job opportunity came, I was eager to take it and get some separation from the only place I had known since childhood.

As I navigated the historic, bricked alleyway puzzles in central Delhi, 7,256 miles away, I almost instantly found myself in the same situation: craving community but unsure if it was accessible to me. 

The Nizamuddin Basti is an 800-year-old historic settlement in the middle of Delhi, famous for the historic sites – most notably Nizamuddin Dargah, a Sufi shrine. The neighborhood has maintained its rich Islamic history over the years. During the 1947 partition, Nizamuddin Basti served as a safe place for Muslim families to seek. Since then, the settlement has continued to grow as a predominantly Muslim area with most of its residents working in the informal sector. 

Casually walking by the final resting place of poets like Mirza Ghalib whom I had heard my parents talk about my whole life, and hearing the smooth Arabic recitation of azaan (the call to prayer) made me feel an instant connection to the Basti. Yet, constantly losing my way through the narrow gallis with my dupatta flopping around my shoulders as I asked for directions in my Americanized Hindi, I couldn’t have felt more like a fraud. 

It was the exact opposite of Buffalo. I looked like I could belong but upon further examination, it was clear that I didn’t. 

As frustrating as it felt to be the obvious answer to “which one of these things doesn’t belong” again, I did not pay much attention to it. I had accepted that moving across the world at a young age barred me from ever belonging to a community. I thought of my time in the Basti as a really valuable fieldwork experience that would help me understand the challenges faced by low-income urban residents. 

Under the premise of work experience, I slowly found myself becoming closer with the women I worked alongside. I silently listened to their stories about a conflict between a difficult sister-in-law over the household cooking schedule, or a nosy neighbor who expressed disapproval of their parenting style. Some conversations were much more difficult to hear: mothers-in-law who were verbally abusive, husbands who were unfaithful, siblings who had become vulnerable to substance abuse. 

These conversations—both the fun and the difficult—developed trust and dependence between us. In early spring, I was invited to an anniversary party for one of the members of the group. I eagerly accepted the invitation. I had heard so much about everyone’s homes and families but had never seen them.

A few hours before the party, I paced back and forth in the living room of my flat. 

Was my outfit okay? Was I underdressed? Should I wear earrings? Do I even own earrings? What if there is some etiquette that I do not know about? Is this too much? Should I not be going? They are my colleagues, not my family… What if this is too much?

As my mind spiraled out of control about the significance (or lack thereof?) of my first personal visit to the Basti, hours had passed and it was now time for me to leave. I walked in from the Bawli gate entrance. From this entrance, the Basti’s characterization as an urban village was most apparent: Several floors of concrete houses were stacked upon each other with jutting more than others. The smells of freshly grilled kebabs and the shouts of fruit and vegetable sellers drowned out my own thoughts. 

I walked through the frenzy of Noor Jahan’s house, the gathering place for all the co-workers before we would make our way to the party. There, I hung out waiting for the rest of the women. All the women who lived in the alleyway were rushing to get ready, yells about borrowing lipsticks, jewelry being pulled from stored boxes, last-minute hair adjustments. Eventually, everyone came and we made our way to the party.

We walked through the Basti and crossed the famous Dargah to get to Shehenaz’s house – the party host. First, we stepped up a narrow windy set of cement stairs, then walked on a steel guided plank to her alleyway, made a right in and stopped at the second house. Next, we climbed three sets of ladders to greet a lovely dressed Shehenaz. 

She rushed to serve us some homemade biryani out of a traditional degh (a large steel pot used to cook biryani). We all sat and ate, I occasionally glanced over to make sure I was correctly eating with my hands. After we ate, Fatima—another co-worker—asked me to come to her nephew’s birthday party that evening. Her face lit up with excitement as she talked about the event and I knew I could not say no.

So it was decided, I could stay for the party that would start in four hours and in the meantime I would visit the houses of different co-workers. The hours flowed by as I went from house to house in the Basti, sharing chai at each one. I finally met their in-laws and children I had heard so much about. 

As evening approached, I geared up for another small get-together dinner. Much to my surprise, the party was anything but small. Neighbors from all over the Basti lent their talents for a full-on extravaganza. Some came with deghs ready to cook 12 (yes, 12!) kilos of biryani, others brought dessert, one neighbor brought a speaker system and disco balls. The party was set in the central space of a larger alleyway in the Basti. Neighbors joined in from all four corners, the elders sat in plastic chairs, the little ones ran around occasionally getting yelled at for running too fast. I watched in amazement and pure wonder as three teenagers danced to “Despacito” by Luis Fonsi and Justin Bieber on top of a 14th-century tomb. 

It was incredible to see community members coming together, sharing the limited resources they had to celebrate one of their own in a way that was inclusive of everyone in the community. I felt thankful to be there. 

As the gratitude overtook me, another feeling crept it. One that was vaguely familiar and unpleasant. One that made me both nostalgic for early-morning community breakfasts in snowy Buffalo and served as a reminder that I was leaving India in a little over three months at that time. 

The Basti was just going to be another Buffalo – a place where I will only be temporary, I thought. I was spiraling again. Ah man, how I do manage to do this? I feel so connected to a place and crave to be a part of the community and then I just leave? I’m never going to find a place that my family has been settled in – does that mean I’ll never find a community? Does it have to be that way? 

My brain froze there. Perhaps due to the silence caused by a change in DJ or more likely because my brain might have exploded if I kept on that line of thought. 

I eventually got my answer, though. The next three months flew by and it seemed like I became closer with the community every day. I went to more parties, shared more laughs, and received more cleaning and cooking tips. In all this, I realized that I had an opportunity to change my perception about community. It was an opportunity to not make the same mistake as I did in Buffalo.

I could continue torturing myself by questioning my place and fixating on the fact that I was not born close by, or I could accept that those factors do not stop me from feeling connected to a community. 

I wholeheartedly chose the latter and have not looked back. Allowing myself to not be so guarded, to share, to be vulnerable, to celebrate, to support those around me has been the most relieving experience of my life. If my passport does not define me, then neither does my current address. Community is transcendent. It is perhaps the only privilege that we have access to that is not defined by a border, ID, fees, membership limits, eligibility requirements. There are no limits to how many communities you can belong to. Community is with you long after you have left a physical location. 

Some snowy Buffalo Saturday, I hope to devour Ms. Ada’s grits, and on some crisp Delhi afternoon, I hope to lick my fingers clean after eating Basti biryani. Until then, I plan to shower everyone around me with the love that my communities have shown me. 

A previous version of this article was originally published on 7/26/2018 on American India Foundation. AIF’s William J. Clinton Fellowship for Service in India builds the next generation of leaders committed to lasting change for underprivileged communities across India while strengthening the civil sector.

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By Minahil Khan

Minahil earned her BA in Advocacy and Argumentation from the University at Buffalo where she was a Prentice Family Foundation … Read more ›

In honor of women’s history month and Ramadan, we are publishing this short story by award-winning author Adiba Jaigirdar. We had the pleasure of interviewing and connecting with Adiba in the midst of the pandemic, and she has remained a supporter and a friend of the literary vertical and Brown Girl Magazine. This short story by Adiba encapsulates the spirit of friendship and community in a time of celebration. Adiba’s next book ‘Do and Donuts of Love’ will be out on June 6, 2023. 

 

[Read Related: Author Interview: Adiba Jaigirdar of ‘The Henna Wars’]

 

It’s not Ammu yelling my name over and over that wakes me up on Eid morning, it’s the sweet aroma of payesh, floating up from the kitchen, through the floorboards, and making my mouth water.

It only takes me a few minutes to roll out of bed and down the stairs, peering at the massive dish of payesh right in the middle of the kitchen table. It’s what I’ve been looking forward to for all of Ramadan — Ammu’s famous payesh recipe.

“Safa, don’t you dare touch that,” Ammu calls from where she’s standing, by the stove, making a fresh batch of porotas for our Eid breakfast.

“But it’s been so long since…” I start to plead, but Ammu cuts me off.

“Get dressed, get ready, and after Eid prayer, we can have some payesh,” she says, though her voice has already lost some of its fervour. When I glance at Ammu, she has that familiar look of nostalgia. Unfortunately, I know exactly what she’s remembering.  “If only it was the payesh that your Nanu used to make…” she says softly.

I heave a sigh, and say, “okay, I’m going to get dressed,” before slipping out of the kitchen as fast as I can. In our house, you can’t really talk about payesh without Ammu’s long-winded story. It always starts with how she wishes we had the ‘real’ payesh recipe that our family — the Jahangirs — have been known for around Bangladesh, since the Mughal era. It’s the recipe that’s been passed down for generations in our family. That is until, after our Nanu unexpectedly passed away two years ago, the recipe seemed to disappear.

This is where Ammu’s long-winded story ends: her bitterness that her older sister has the recipe but refuses to share it with Ammu.

Now, we can only have Ammu’s payesh. Even though she has spent the past two years trying to recreate our family recipe, she insists that there’s something missing. A key ingredient that made our Mughal-descended recipe famous around all of Bangladesh. So, Ammu’s payesh comes with a bitter footnote — a strange kind of loss that people outside of our family would probably never understand.

Back in my room, I shut the door and take a deep breath. Because today isn’t just any ordinary Eid. Today is the day that I reunite my family.

But Ammu doesn’t know that yet.

I fling open my wardrobe and pull out the dress that I had bought online weeks ago. It’s a long violet kameez with floral stitching running down its length. Silver embroidery lines the cuffs of the sleeves, and the ends of the dress; making it sparkle when it catches the light. It’s perfect.

Better yet, it’s part of a matching set.

My phone pings just at that moment. As if, my partner in crime can read my mind.

“Ready for today?” Marwa’s text reads.

My hands hover over the keyboard for a moment. And even though my heart is beating a little too fast in my chest, I type back “totally ready,” and put the phone back on my bedside table. I’m hoping that acting like I’m totally confident in our plan will actually make our plan 100% successful. But truthfully, I’m not sure how Ammu will react once everything is in motion. And I’m not sure if I’m a good enough liar to convince her.

But if all goes to plan, by the end of this Eid day, Ammu’s payesh story is going to get a lot shorter. And Marwa and I won’t have to hide our friendship any longer.

With that thought in mind, I change into my Eid dress.

#

“I don’t understand this Eid party business,” Ammu complains during the drive from the mosque to the community center, where the bi-annual Bangladeshi Eid party always takes place. “In Bangladesh, there aren’t any Eid parties. It’s just visiting your family and friends; not this ‘party purty’ with virtual strangers.”

“Yes, Ammu, I know,” I groan, glancing out the window and trying not to roll my eyes. I know that will lead to an entire lecture about not being respectful to my parents. “If you made up with Khala then we could…”

Ammu cuts me off by glancing back at me with a stone-cold glare that I’m pretty sure has the ability to kill. It’s the same glare she sends my way every time I even mention that she has a sister. That I have a khala. That these people exist and live in the same city as us. That we could be celebrating together, but the years-long feud between our families has kept us apart.

“No more talking,” Ammu declares, staring straight ahead. She’s clutching the dish of payesh to her chest now as if it’s her lifeline. Considering how much she has sacrificed for her payesh, I guess it kind of is her lifeline.

But, as I glance out the window at the rush of trees and cars and buildings zooming by, I can’t help but think about what our Eid celebrations used to be like. And wonder how Ammu is so okay with letting all of that slip through her fingers.

The buzz of my phone distracts me from my thoughts.

“We’re here!” The text from Marwa reads.

“We’re five mins away,” I text back quickly, before glancing at Ammu. She has her lips pursed — obviously still annoyed that I dared to bring up Khala on a day as special as this. My heart beats a little faster at the thought of what she’ll say when she spots Khala at the party. She hasn’t come to one of these parties in the two years since their fall out, and it’s thanks to Marwa’s spectacular lies that she’s there now. Not knowing exactly what’s waiting for her.

I can tell the party is already in full bloom as soon as we pull into the parking lot. There are barely any spaces left. And the inside of the community centre is like a burst of colour. Whoever decorated the place for our Eid party did a marvelous job. There are multicoloured balloons and streamers hung up around the room. A giant banner on one wall reads ‘EID MUBARAK!’ and the other side of the room is filled up with kids’ drawings from the annual Eid art competition.

“Too many balloons,” is Ammu’s only observation as she shoves one of them aside in order to place her payesh on the large table, in the middle of the room. It’s already filled with different dishes — but I know everyone’s dying for Ammu’s payesh specifically.

I heave a sigh and glance around the party. Through the throngs of people hugging and cheering and laughing, it’s not easy to spot two people. But I do. In one corner, closed off from everyone else, stand Marwa and her mom. Khala doesn’t look happy at all, though she’s wearing an expensive-looking sari and a full face of makeup. And Marwa is looking around impatiently. She’s wearing a salwar kameez that matches mine perfectly — except instead of violet and silver, her outfit is blue and gold, perfectly complementing her bronze skin.

When Ammu’s back is turned, I wave to Marwa. Her face breaks out into a grin as soon as she sees me. She waves back, before motioning to her phone. My own phone vibrates with a text.

Marwa: “Meet me by the bathrooms in two minutes.”

“Ammu, I…have to pee,” I say.

“You couldn’t have gone before we came here?” Ammu says with a sigh. “Okay, go.” She waves me off. But just as I’m leaving, I notice that she’s already trying to push her bowl of payesh on our Bangladeshi neighbours. Not that the payesh needs much pushing. It may not be the recipe descended from the Mughals — but it’s still pretty damn good.

“You’re late!” Marwa says as soon as I’m in her earshot. She pulls me to the little corner just by the bathrooms — almost completely out of sight.

“Ammu wanted to talk to way too many people after the Eid prayers,” I say. “I tried to stop her, but you know what she’s like.”

“Stubborn,” Marwa mumbles under her breath. We both know all too well about that. “Did she bring the payesh?”

“Would it be an Eid party without it?”

She smiles, even though I can tell her heart’s not quite in it. Just like me, she’s nervous about the plan. About how both our mothers will react — after declaring each other enemies years ago and refusing to even be in the same room together. All because of a dessert recipe.

“What if this doesn’t work?” Marwa asks the question that we’re both thinking about. After all, convincing both of our moms to bring their payesh to the same Eid party so that people can taste them both and show our mothers how it doesn’t matter who has the family recipe or not, seems like a good idea — in concept. In execution, it has way too many chances of falling apart. There are so many factors that Marwa and I just can’t control.

But after months and months of trying to come up with some way to get our moms to reconcile, this was all we came up with. Once upon a time, our moms were so close that they named their two daughters — born within months of each other — after the two hills in Mecca. For years, we grew up side-by-side, like sisters more than cousins. Until our parents decided they would ruin all that. Over a dessert that non-Bengalis think is as simple as rice pudding.

“It has to work,” I say, with more conviction than I’m feeling. Marwa nods in agreement.

“Was she suspicious?” I ask.

“Not even a little bit. Once I convinced her that Khala had gone back to Bangladesh to celebrate Eid and that she had the chance to showcase her payesh recipe, it was easy. She wanted to get here early to scope out the best spot for her payesh,” Marwa says, rolling her eyes, but I smile. Because that’s exactly the kind of thing Ammu would do too. The two of them are so alike — and that’s exactly why this feud has kept up for so long.

“Even if this doesn’t work,” I say slowly after a moment. “We’re not going back to being friends in secret.” It’s been too many months of secret phone conversations and text messages. Too many days where I’ve lied to Ammu about meeting a friend from school, just so I can see my cousin. When before, it was sleepovers every week and seeing each other every day. A friendship that seemed boundless.

“We’re old enough to fight them back on it,” Marwa says, not sounding convinced at all. Bangladeshis don’t talk back to their parents…but ours are being ridiculous. They have been for too long now.

So, I gave a determined nod, and the two of us step away from our corner, and back to the main room in the community centre. Where all hell broke loose.

In the middle of the room stand our two mothers — both wearing their new Eid sarees that are now in disarray. They’re in the middle of a screaming match, either unaware — or uncaring — that everybody in the room, around them, is watching them with wide eyes. This is definitely going to be the gossip topic of the year, doing the rounds on all the ‘Auntie/Uncle’ WhatsApp and Facebook groups.

“Ammu!” Marwa calls rushing up to her mom, while I make my way over to mine. “Stop! Everybody’s watching!”

“You told me that she wasn’t going to be here. You lied!” Khala says, sending such a powerful glare toward Ammu that I’m surprised she doesn’t wither away.

“Yes,” Marwa says, even though I’m shaking my head at her vigorously. “Safa and I planned to bring you both here, so you could see how ridiculous you’re being. Right, Safa?”

Everybody’s staring at me now. Except for Ammu, who has taken all the power of Khala’s glare and turned it towards me.

I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot for a second before slowly nodding my head. “Yes…Marwa and I planned it. You both brought your payesh, you can see how it doesn’t matter. People are going to love both of them. They’re…”

“You brought payesh?” Ammu’s voice is a whisper, but somehow it seems to envelop the whole room.

“Of course, I brought my payesh,” Khala says, propping her chin up defiantly.

Ammu turns to the table where all the snacks and desserts brought in by various people are laid out. There’s a bowl of chotpoti, plates of shingara and shomucha, boxes of roshogolla and kalojam. But right on the edge is a dish filled with payesh that is definitely not ours.

“Ammu, no…” but I’m too late. Before I know it, Ammu is striding towards the payesh faster than she’s ever walked before. She grabs hold of the dish, and it’s almost like the entire room is collectively holding its breath.

She glances over at Khala, but there’s no wicked grin on her lips, no evil glint in her eyes. She almost looks…sad.

“You should have given me the recipe,” she says, her voice so low it’s a surprise we hear her. “I deserved it as much as you did.”

Khala frowns, stepping a little closer to Ammu. “I should have given it to you?” she asks. “You’re the one who kept it from me.”

“What are you talking about?” Ammu asks. “Ma told me that she gave you the recipe years ago. And after she passed, I asked you for it. You said you wouldn’t give it to me.”

“I said I couldn’t give it to you!” Khala cries. “Because you were rubbing it in my face. You were the one Ma gave it to. She told me so.”

“Ma said…”

“Wait!” I exclaimed, stepping forward. Normally, I would never raise my voice like that to Ammu, but this definitely doesn’t count as a normal situation. “You mean neither of you ever had the recipe?”

“She did!” Ammu and Khala say at the same time.

“Nanu lied to you both!” Marwa chimes in.

“Why would she lie?” Ammu asks.

“Why would I lie?” Khala asks. “And why would I keep the recipe from you?”

Marwa and I exchange a glance. All of these years, our moms had been fighting a feud that they shouldn’t have been. But Ammu is right. What reason would my grandmother have for lying to them both? For pitting them against each other?

“Do you think Nanu lost it?” Marwa asks. “Or…maybe that the payesh recipe descended from the Mughals is just a story.”

“It’s not just a story,” Ammu protests, shaking her head stubbornly. “The Jahangirs are descended from the Mughals.”

“But did the Mughals make payesh, or even eat payesh?” I ask.

“I don’t remember seeing any payesh in Jodha Akbar,” says Marwa, like a Bollywood movie is the best factual reference for our family history.

“If you never had the payesh recipe…what is this?” Ammu asks, glancing down at the bowl she’s holding.

“It’s my own payesh recipe…I made it in memory of the one that Ma made.”

“I made mine in memory of the one that Ma made too,” Ammu says softly. “But…I don’t understand.” She shakes her head, glancing down at the ground like that will have all her answers. “Why did Ma lie to us? Why would she lie to us?”

Khala’s eyebrows scrunch up like she’s deep in thought. But for just a moment. “Do you remember when we were kids?” she asked slowly. “And our Nanu used to make the payesh, before Ma ever did?”

“I remember,” Ammu says with a nod.

“When I used to think of Nanu, I used to think of the smell of cinnamon,” Khala says. “Because…”

“That’s what her payesh used to smell like,” Ammu finishes off, glancing up to meet Khala’s eyes. “But Ma never put cinnamon in her recipe.”

I’m not sure what transpires between them in that moment, but it’s like all the years of enmity that didn’t need to exist vanishes just like that.

“So there was no payesh recipe?” Marwa asks, glancing between our two moms, looking a little distraught. I can’t blame her. To think that we’ve built our entire family identity around this and our pride for this famous payesh recipe that goes back generations.

“Maybe once upon a time,” Khala says. “But…I don’t know when it got lost. Maybe it was our Nanu who lost the original recipe.”

“Or…maybe it was Ma,” Ammu says. “And that’s why she lied to us.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure,” Khala says.

“But…now we have these two payesh recipes,” Ammu glances down at the dish still in her hands. But instead of looking sad or even angry, she looks happy. Happier than I’d seen her in a long time. “Do you want to trade our recipes?”

“Yes!” Khala exclaims excitedly.

And I watch as Ammu and Khala saunter off arm-in-arm to celebrate Eid, catch up on their lost years and — most importantly — trade their payesh recipes.

“I can’t believe our plan worked!” Marwa says, coming up to me with a glint in her eyes.

“Our plan didn’t work,” I point out. “Our plan didn’t even start before Ammu and Khala started going at each other’s throats.”

“Yeah, but…they would have never had that conversation if we hadn’t tricked them into the same room, right?” Marwa shrugs her shoulder.

“I guess. I think we can take credit for this. We’ve earned it.” It definitely feels like our victory watching Ammu and Khala talk and laughs, as if those two years of separation never even existed.

Marwa grins and loops her arms through mine. “Shall we try some of the famous non-Mughal payesh?” she asks.

“We should, especially now that we have two recipes in the family.” And as we wander off to fill up on the tastiest dessert in the world, I think about how Ammu’s payesh story is definitely going to be a lot longer next year.

Artwork by Aisha Shahid

By Adiba Jaigirdar

Adiba Jaigirdar is an award-winning author. Some of her titles include The Henna Wars, A Million to One and The … Read more ›

Tina Singh, formerly known as Mombossof3 online, understands how to make her presence known in the parenting space. Seven years ago, she set out to create and share content related to motherhood, and there’s been no looking back since. Singh has mastered the idea of evolving with the times and the needs of her audience while staying true to her number one role in life — mom!

As she navigated her personal and professional life through the lens of a parent, she came across a void that just wasn’t being filled. So, in typical Singh style, this mom of three put her entrepreneurial hat on and got down to creating a solution for Sikh kids who struggled to find a helmet that fits over their patkas (a small cloth head covering).

The problem was personal — all three of Singh’s sons wear patkas and just couldn’t find the right helmet for their safety — and so the solution had to be homegrown. Enter, the Bold Helmets.

Singh gave Brown Girl Magazine an exclusive interview in which she talked about the Bold Helmets, the change in her journey since she’s become a public figure, and what it was like to innovate her very first product!

Here’s how it went:

Let’s start from the beginning. How did this idea come to mind?

This idea has been in my head for many, many years — over five years. I had issues with my kids and having helmets fit them after they turned age four or five.

I worked as an Occupational Therapist, in the head injury space, so I was always the one saying, ‘Okay kids, you’re gonna have to tie your hair in the back, do braids, or something in order to put on a helmet properly because I’m not gonna let you go down these bike ramps without a helmet!’ That’s just not okay for me.

So I talked to my husband and said, ‘there’s gotta be another way this works.’ So we did all the things that parents in situations like these do — they hollow out the helmets, some people go as far as cutting holes at the top of the helmet — you do what works. But I had in my mind an idea of what I think the helmet should look like based on what a patka looks like, and what my kids look like. I then found an engineer to draw it out for me to bring [my idea] to a place where I can actually take it somewhere and say, ‘Okay, how do I make this?’

But, yes, it started mainly with my kids and facing that struggle myself.

You mention that this idea had been brewing in your mind for over five years. How long did it take you to actually bring it to life?

To this point, it’s been about two and a half to three years. I let it sit in my mind for a while. Winters come here in Canada and then we forget about it again until we have to go skiing, and then there’s another problem, right?! I did let it lay dormant for a bit for sure, but once I made the commitment to do it, I made up my mind to see it all the way through.

You recently pivoted and changed the name of the product to the Bold Helmets. Can you talk me through how you came up with the new name?

Bold Helmets became the name because they’re designed to be bold, to be different and who you are. I also think that the way the helmet is made, even though it’s made with Sikh kids in mind, there are other applications to it. I do think that taking the Bold Helmets approach embodies its [the product’s] uniqueness and really focuses on being bold and who you are.

And the Bold Helmet is multi-sport, correct?

This helmet is certified for bicycles, kick scooters, skateboards, and inline skating. It is not a ski helmet. So every helmet you use for a different sport has a different safety certification or testing that it has to go through. So, this helmet is called ‘multi-sport’ because it covers those four sports but I wouldn’t take this helmet and use it for skiing. I’d have to make sure that this helmet, or a helmet like this, gets certified for various other standards for other sports.

Makes sense! I want to change the course of the conversation here a bit and talk more about how you pivoted from Mombossof3 to innovating your very first product. How was that experience?

So what I did throughout this journey was that I went from marketing myself as ‘mombossof3’ to ‘Tina Singh’ because I was sharing more of my life’s journey as my kids were getting older and in an effort to respect my children’s space as well, and letting them decide how much — or how little — they want to be involved with what I was doing online. And part of that was about the journey of what I was doing next, and the transition came naturally to me.

I think right now, truthfully, I’m struggling in the space where I kind of have a shift in audience and so my usual, everyday self that I share on social seems like it doesn’t work. I feel like I need to find a new balance; I will always be true to who I am, and I will never present myself as something that I’m not. But, just finding a space for me to continue creating content while also taking on this new endeavor with Bold Helmets, is important right now.

Aside from this struggle of finding that new balance, what is that one challenge that really sticks out to you from this journey?

I think my biggest challenge being an entrepreneur is finding that balance between my responsibilities as a parent, which is my number one role in my life and there’s no one that can take that role for me — my husband and I are the only parents — and passions outside of that.

Do you think it helped that you were creating a helmet for Sikh children so it allowed you to pursue your passion but also work with your kids in some capacity since they inspired the whole idea?

I never thought of it that way, but yes actually, it did! So all my entrepreneurial projects have involved my kids. Even now they were involved in picking the colors, all the sample tests we did they tried the helmets on! They’re probably sick of it since they’re constantly trying on helmets, but I get their opinion on them. Even as we pivoted with the name, we involved them and got their feedback on it also. So, they were involved in very large parts of this project.

And my husband is also a huge part of this project. He’s been heavily involved in this process, too!

You have a huge online presence, and I know that you’re probably not new to trolling and bullying that comes with being on social media. More recently, Bold Helmets was subject to a lot of backlashes. Is there something that you took away from this recent experience? Was it different this time around?

The extent to which things got was different this time around and that’s not something I have faced in the past. But I have been in the online space for about seven years now, and I’m accustomed to it. I think what I learned this time around is that sometimes silence and reflection is the best thing you can do. Sometimes reflecting and not being defensive on feedback that you get — and this may be something that comes with age as well as experience — is best.

But, I’m happy with the pivots we made, the feedback we’ve gotten, and the way we’re moving forward.

You mentioned that this isn’t your first entrepreneurial venture. But each experience teaches you something different. What did you learn while working on Bold Helmets?

I learned to be okay with taking things slow. I’ve never been that person; I’ve always jumped the gun on lots of things. It’s understanding that it’s ok to slow down and recognize that things have to just run their course.

And while the interview wraps up there, there is more to come with Singh on her journey! Catch Lifestyle Editor Sandeep on Instagram LIVE this Saturday, January 28, at 10 a.m. EST, as she has a more in-depth conversation with Singh on Bold Helmets and more!

In the meantime, Bold Helmets are available for pre-order now, and as a small token of appreciation, Canadian pre-orders will get $10 off their purchase until the end of January 2023!

By Sandeep Panesar

Sandeep Panesar is an editor, and freelance writer, based out of Toronto. She enjoys everything from the holiday season to … Read more ›

I’m going to be a sex therapist. 

I was taken aback when my late cousin shared this with me on the cusp of our twenties. 

As a fairly modest Indo Guyanese girl raised in the Connecticut suburbs, the thought of discussing a stranger’s love life seemed not only foreign but shocking to me. Nevertheless, my cousin was always bold in this way. She took pride in the more daring aspects of our Caribbean culture with natural confidence. It was one of the things I loved and now miss most about her. 

Admittedly however, it was over a decade before I started to understand some of her deeper curiosity in love, sexuality and mental health. This awakening was thanks greatly to Dr. Samosa. 

[Read Related: 3 Indo-Caribbean Mental Health Counselors Talk About Community’s Stigma]

In early 2020, Dr. Sarika Persaud, a New-York based, Indo Guyanese psychologist specializing in relationships, sexuality and complex trauma, took to Instagram as “Dr. Samosa,” an alias inspired by her favorite South Asian snack — and one she feels is a common thread for brown girls. 

 

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A post shared by Dr. Samosa (@doctor.samosa)

The platform became a safe space for brown girls to connect on topics like mental health, psychoanalysis, sexuality and relationships. From discussing sexual empowerment to building a strong sense of self, Dr. Persaud quietly became a confidant for those craving practical and candid insights the community shied away from. 

Dr. Persaud and I sat down to talk about her journey and breaking these taboos in the South Asian society.

Her interest in psychology started as a journey of self-discovery as a pre-teen.

“I think I experienced myself as different from my peers,” she explained during our interview.

She didn’t get caught up in teenage drama and avoided certain types of relationships and people. Meanwhile, the friends she did make saw her in “this sort of teacher role.”

“I became curious about that about myself — how, in some ways, I found it beneficial to feel my feelings and have a depth people were drawn to, but also use it in ways to isolate myself,” Dr. Persaud said.

She was also beginning to identify as bisexual.

She shared, “I think I was avoiding my sexuality in some ways and psychology became a way for me to understand myself more. It’s always been this confluence of philosophy and science and even art for me.”

Growing up in Queens, New York, Dr. Persaud saw fellow Indo Caribbean women at a “very specific intersection of religion and culture.” It was the nexus of Caribbean values which welcomed sexuality and more modest Indian traditions. Caribbean influence seemed to “remove a boundary” on how Indo Caribbean women felt permitted to present themselves sexually, she explained. On one hand, after her Bharatanatyam dance classes, she saw her didis (the older girls) leave their classical moves behind for sexy Bollywood choreography and dancehall songs. 

“It was exciting, like they were just beginning to find ways to express their sexuality,” she reflected. Then, around the same time, Dr. Persaud discovered a copy of the “Kama Sutra” at home and her mother was appalled. “What’s wrong with your daughter?” aunties asked.

Confused, Dr. Persaud thought “You own this. This is from our culture and it’s a Sanskrit text. It’s literally a religious text. It all seemed so powerful — and yet so many people were afraid of it.”

Something didn’t add up.

In 2013, she started a blog to bring a voice to topics like these. As word of her content spread, Dr. Persaud was met with backlash from her temple. Leaders said her blog was inappropriate and dishonorable to her community, but she stuck with it and her family stuck by her.  

A few years later, when she launched Dr. Samosa to share her research and insights with a wider audience, sexuality came front and center.

“Sexuality — how you understand and honor what you want and like, and the ways you let yourself experience that pleasure — is intrinsically connected to how deserving you feel in the world,” she explained.  

 

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A post shared by Dr. Samosa (@doctor.samosa)

For example, if you think you’re worthy of a raise at work, a partner who desires you, or a family that listens to you — all can be linked back to a block in your relationship with yourself as a sexual being. 

However, if you can feel confident in something as “primal, instinctual, and personal” as your sexuality, Dr. Persaud argues you lay the foundation for confidence in these other areas of your life.

Dr. Persaud says the fear of sexuality comes into play for South Asians.

“Being comfortable with your sexuality means being comfortable with your power,” she explained. “If everyone felt empowered and had a healthy relationship with themselves sexually, a lot of our relationships and hierarchies in society would change. And there are just so many people who benefit from women and marginalized communities (like LGBTQ+ and those with chronic illnesses) being disempowered,” Dr. Persaud said.

Throughout her work, Dr. Persaud has found it’s especially difficult for South Asian women to feel pride in themselves as sexual beings.

“There’s so much shame about the self and the body. Women especially are held to a double standard and it’s so confusing. If you look one way, you won’t get a husband. If you look sexual, no one will want to hire you for a job. Regardless of the South Asian ethnic group, there’s the same shame and belief that your body has to look a certain way, and if it doesn’t, you’re not desirable. Everything gets tied up in sexual shame.”

It’s undeniable that Bollywood movies have also heavily impacted many of our views on love and sex, but Dr. Persaud didn’t condemn this.

She says, “People need to realize Bollywood started from a tradition of classical drama and dance from ancient India. Those dances were meant to be explorations of dreams and mythical and philosophical ideas. Bollywood is just a continuation of that. It’s meant to be a break from reality.” 

Real relationships are much more fraught and complicated than in films, but that doesn’t mean you should be ashamed of looking to Bollywood as a way to be in touch with romance and love in your life.

“They’re a fantasy,” Dr. Persaud added.  

She also argued Bollywood isn’t necessarily as “censored” as many claim.

“People don’t have to watch others physically have sex or kiss to be in touch with their sensuality,” she noted. “It can be much more nuanced to see two people just embracing in a way that stirs up feelings. Like, how does it feel to have your lover’s head against your chest? Culturally, we just explore and express sexuality differently than the West.”

 

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A post shared by Broome Street Ganesh Temple (@broomestreetganesh)

When it comes to becoming more comfortable with our bodies and sexual health, Dr. Persaud says it starts with self-reflection.

“Ask yourself why you’re afraid of being sexy or seen as sexual. Are you afraid your family will reject you? That you’ll be thrown out of your home? We all have different triggers, and once you identify yours, you can get to the issue underneath it all.” 

[Read Related: What South Asian Parents Won’t Tell You About the “Birds and the Bees” and… Vaginismus]?

Dr. Persaud encourages women to ask themselves important questions.

“If you’re afraid that if you assert your sexuality, your family will reject or not support you, how can you be more financially independent? How can you find pride in being able to take care of yourself?” She urges women to take inventory of what they like. “Look at books and movies and what you see in the world and consciously take note of what you react to. This puts you more in touch with yourself.”

When it comes to fostering open conversations with others, Dr. Persaud says to lead with vulnerability and clarity.

“If you wonder whether your friends have had sex yet and are embarrassed to ask, voice that concern. Share how you’re feeling or ask yourself why. Leading conversations with vulnerability allows people to connect a little bit more; to feel safer to share.” 

 

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A post shared by Dr. Samosa (@doctor.samosa)

“If you’re uncomfortable with something your partner does or want more of something else, talk about what you want to change and why it’s important to you. It’s not a shortcoming on their part, but rather you saying ‘this is what I need for myself. Is this something we can talk about and work on together?’” 

With South Asian families, especially older relatives, things can get a bit more complex. Boundary setting is important as the family can bring out your biggest triggers. 

“You need to be at a point where you own yourself,” Dr. Persaud explained. For example, if your mom finds out you were out with someone and questions you about it — “A bai? A boy?!” — you should be able to say confidently, ‘Yeah I was on a date,’ and also not feel obligated to give more details. Of course, that may not always be safe for someone younger, but at a certain age, it is OK to be private, to have that shield to protect and develop yourself and your confidence,” Dr. Persaud says. 

Dr. Persaud also reinforces the importance of knowing your boundaries when reflecting on “coming out” to parents. She wanted to be open about her bi-sexuality with her parents; that she was dating — but not just men. She stresses however, one does not need to be excessively open.

“Not everyone has to come out and not everyone has to come out to everyone. You’re likely not facing anything new from your parents when coming out. If they are critical and judgmental generally in life, they’re probably going to be like that again. South Asian dads can really just be like, ‘Okay, don’t tell me you’re a sexual being,’” she laughed. 

While Dr. Persaud is thankful for her parents’ acceptance, there are members of her family who’ve been less than supportive. She credits her confidence and sense of self for drowning them out. 

“I’ve found the more I become comfortable with myself, the more I have this sexual energy that I can use creatively and in other good ways. If my dad rejects me, it doesn’t change that I am bisexual. Or if my mom rejects me, it’s not going to change this thing I know so deeply about myself. I’m just sharing something true. I can’t change it.”

Toward the end of our conversation, I shared with Dr. Persaud that I wondered how my own family would react to this article. I felt a bit of shame.

But she reminded me, “You can also find pride in it — ‘Yeah, I’m really proud of the fact that I’m one of the people breaking the stigma. I’m talking about something important to people’s health.’” 

And she’s right, as was my dear cousin in her early ambitions. These conversations are never easy, but walking in curiosity, confidence and pride can help us find our power as South Asian women. It can help break the stigma surrounding love, sexuality and relationships in our community and their roles in our greater health. 

 

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A post shared by Broome Street Ganesh Temple (@broomestreetganesh)

In so many ways, sexual health and mental health are not only connected but interdependent. In fact, Dr. Persaud believes the more confident people are in their bodies and identities, the more confident they are as a whole — and the more attractive they are.

“Sexual attraction and energy comes from people being competent and peaceful and calm with themselves; knowing who they are,” she said, and the more we learn to embrace this and speak about it openly, the more we can not only grow but thrive.

For more on Dr. Sarika Persaud’s (aka Dr. Samosa) doctoral work and writing, visit her website or Instagram @doctor.samosa. For more on how to talk to your family or children about sexual health, visit sexpositivefamilies.com.

By Ramona Sukhraj

With a B.S. in Marketing from the UCONN School of Business, Ramona has made a name for herself publishing over … Read more ›