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There’s something about a California sky that might just make you stay.
Maybe it’s in the hues—all pinks, blues, and purples, with the occasional rage of orange streaking through like a flame. Maybe it’s the way the afternoon sun dips to meet the moon, impatient and petulant, like star-crossed lovers fated to never quite connect. Or maybe it’s that occasional waft of jasmine, demure and seductive, beckoning with long, nimble fingers.
That is, if you can smell it at all over the stench of garlic.
Because that’s all I can smell, 98 percent of the time. Garlic on my skin. Garlic on my clothes. Garlic in my hair. Living in the heart of Gilroy, the Garlic Capital of the World, I can’t just wash it right out. It is there, ever present. Tragically, perhaps, forever.
It’s not that I don’t like garlic. I mean, I’m brown. Indian. Punjabi, specifically. We put garlic in everything. (Except for our chai.) Also: My parents are pretty much the King and Queen of Garlic, literally, at least in Gilroy, where most of the commercial production and distribution happens these days. Our home sits at the edge of about twenty acres, garlic plants as far as the eye can see. Endless fields of lush green garlic, ripe for the picking. Well, almost ripe. Harvest will be mostly the end of July through August. But there’s a lot to be done before then.
This year, for the first time in my life, I won’t be here for it.
Is it weird that I miss it already? The scent still lingers in the oven-baked June air, the gray faux leather of my mom’s ’98 Toyota Camry, and even in my hair, though I washed it twice this morning with the strawberry shampoo my best friend, Cherry, ordered me from Ulta—which I forgot to pack in my mad dash out the door.
But there’s no time to worry about that now, because I’m decidedly late and Mom is ridiculously slow. She insists on driving—doesn’t trust me, even though I’ve been running the tractor since I was ten—so a forty-minute car ride will take sixty. Which is fine, because I’ve got work to do.
I have to capture this moment, the one when I leave the only world I’ve ever known behind. A car selfie won’t cut it. I stretch out through the sunroof, elbows propped on the edge as I try to get the perfect sunset shot with my phone. I can still see Cherry in front of the house, waving.
I slide back down into my sticky seat and examine my handiwork. Not bad.
There’s something about a California sunset that might just make you stay.
Hmm, too Insta-poet.
Fire in the sky? Time to say goodbye!
Cherry would laugh at that one.
Gonna miss that blazing Cali sky. East Coast bound, baby!
Too humblebraggy.
Maybe another angle? I leap up through the sunroof again, my mom tugging at my jumpsuit, trying to pull me back down to earth. But there’s no stopping me now. Not when I’m so close.
The raging fires in the hills have finally given way to a controlled burn, but the sky is definitely putting on a show today. As it should be.
After all, this is the moment I make my great escape from Gilroy and garlic and Geras. The moment when Maya Gera, California farm girl, books it from here all the way cross-country, to the city that never sleeps, the place dreams are made of. My dreams, at least. In New York. And for once, it’s not just me making up stories. This is real. The moment—
“You almost made me hit that deer!” Ma yells as the car swerves, nearly sending me flying right out the sunroof. I thwack my elbow hard as I slink back into the passenger seat. My mom grips the steering wheel, trying to regain control of the car. I rebuckle my seat belt and rub at the bruises already forming on my thigh.
“They’re quick, the deer,” Ma says, all casual, as if she didn’t practically kill us both. She glares at me as she pulls back onto the road, like I’m to blame or something.
“That could have been bad, Ma,” I say as she picks up speed—which for her means doing thirty—on the empty two-lane highway. Peering out the window, I note a few trampled plants and a dented fence pole on the right side. “The Berrys’ mailbox is a definite goner.”
Ma frowns as she peers over the dash. “Don’t worry. I’ll take them some chutney. Will go well with all their fancy cheese.” Chutney’s her signature solution for every occasion, even when you accidentally kill your neighbors’ fence.
We inch onto the freeway, and—as suspected—traffic has halted. I reshuffle the chaos in my backpack—laptop, tablet, and magazines—checking again for the printout of my itinerary and boarding pass, and instead discover a little toiletry pouch Cherry must have sneaked into it. It holds rose skin mist, extra-moisturizing sunblock, and hair serum, along with a note in her familiar, loopy scrawl. For the frizz. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or anything I would.
Homesickness hits me with a pang. Cherry’s like my sister, my conscience, my voice of reason. And the little devil on my shoulder sometimes. Maybe that’s why I’ve been such a mess this week. We’ve never really been apart, not in seventeen years. Every summer, when we’re not busy with the harvest (which is most of the time), I help her work on a capsule collection for her future fashion line, Suite Cherry Bombe, which she sells at her dad’s Very Cherry fruit stand and through an Etsy shop. It’s a retro mishmash of Bettie Page pinup vibes and old-school ’70s Bollywood à la Zeenat Aman. This year she’ll have to do it without me.
But she insisted on helping me pack, which means my suitcase and carry-on are stuffed with teal silk rompers, bright, poppy-striped scarves, and mod print dresses, all ultraglam gear that’s decidedly not quite ready for Cow Camp. Which is where I’ll be spending the summer.
The Linden Institute Precollege Agriculture Program is a must for any self-respecting farm boy or girl (read: heir or heiress) these days. Housed on the Rutgers University campus, it’s known for giving a broad-scope overview of the agriculture industry as a business, as well as a hands-on education in the down-and-dirty stuff. Like milking cows. What do cows have to do with garlic? Beats me. But off I go, at Papa and Dadoo’s insistence. As the oldest of the three kids—and the next in line to the Gera Garlic throne (sigh)—I am supposed to be the guinea pig and set the example.
This summer’s the first step in the rest of my life, at least how my family has it planned for me. That includes agriculture undergrad at a respectable UC campus and an MBA in management and administration before I settle in and take over the family garlic farm (tiny now, but ideally growing) one day. Along with delivering a suitable husband and two-point-three kids, ideally boys. Dog optional.
Sounds flip, but a lot is riding on this summer. Like everything. This is where we’re shipped off to make critical connections, to find strategic alliances (read: potential parent-approved brides and grooms, preferably Sikh), and to learn how to actually grow our empires.
Is that how I envision my ideal future? Hell no. But I will endure Cow Camp and even aim to thrive. Because that’s what a good Indian kid—especially the oldest—does.
The silver lining? I’ll be an hour away from New York City. And in the center of Manhattan, in the glitter of Times Square, stands the towering McIntyre-Scott Media Inc. building. Home of my bible, my road map, my lifelong guidebook. Fierce magazine. The secret dream. The one that lives in my head—and on my vision board. If I’m lucky, I’ll manage to sneak in a trip or two into the city.
“Make sure you take good notes,” Ma says, tapping the steering wheel, her pace quickening as anxiety arches her brows, thick and unruly. I text Cherry to remind her to wax them. Then Ma’s commands start, firing like garlic pellets shooting out of the dehydrator:
“Call Chacha’s cousin Bhaljinder, too. He lives in Maplewood. Or Montclair. Or Morristown. Or something. Lots of M towns in New Jersey.”“Try not to eat too much junk food. Buy groceries. But don’t put too much on the credit card.”“Papa said Guru Pathak will be there. His parents have a garlic farm in Madera.”“Study hard. Have fun. Maybe you can visit New York. I’ve heard it’s beautiful. But we never stopped. Only saw the airport. LaGuardia?”“If you make a good impression on Dean Maxwell, he’ll write you a college recommendation. Papa will be so happy.”We’re finally moving again, so Ma carefully veers into the carpool lane. She’ll stay there the whole ride, straight shot, because she hates changing lanes. My stomach squeezes as the sign for the airport passes out the window. And there are the rolling hills. Weird. Feels like I might miss them.
I pull out my phone again, indulging the urge to commemorate. Summer means all dry yellow grass and bare trees; random dark, scorched patches; and the occasional horse or cow strolling. Cows. Hmm. That could be perfect. Hashtag #CowCamp or whatever. I wonder if I could get a better shot.
“Don’t you dare,” Ma says, tapping my leg lightly with her right hand to keep my butt firmly planted in my seat. “I put chai stuff in your bag. I don’t know how much Roop cooks, but you know the basics. You can teach her a few things, henna?”
Ugh, Roop. The couch. Family bonding. Not ideal. But worth it, I guess, for the proximity to New York City. I’ll be crashing with my cousin, who used to be my fave but is now a stranger, pretty much. She’s a pediatrics resident at this big hospital in New Brunswick, New Jersey, which is where Rutgers is, too.
“Go see Sukhi Mamiji, acha?” Ma says. “Bring Roop. Mamiji says she hardly sees her.”
Family drama. Not my thing. “Ma, I’m going to be so busy, milking cows, husking corn, and all that,” I say. We don’t really know what went down with Roop and her mom. But I know it’s not my job to fix it.
I look at my phone again, posting the picture and the finalized caption:
To New York, the place dreams are made of. But damn: That fierce Cali sky just might make you stay.
Not bad. Bright smile, right side (best side!) forward, windblown hair, and that show-off sun kissing the rolling hills. Idyllic, even.
Ma’s starting with the orders again, so I click open my music app and load her favorite playlist. Works like a charm. Her rules are replaced with her soft, breathy humming, words that have floated in and out of my head since I was a baby, those classics Ma used to listen to with her mom when she was little. “Yeh raat bheegi bheegi,” she sings, off-key. “You know, maybe it’ll rain there. I miss the rain.”
California’s been burning for as long as I can remember. But she means New Delhi. She hasn’t been back to India in nearly a decade, not since her mother died. “There’s no point,” she always says when I ask why. “Everyone I love is here.”
The words hit me hard. Everyone I love is here.
It’s true. I’ve never been this far away from home before. I’ve barely even left the state.
Maybe the flutters in my stomach are a sign that I’m headed exactly where I’m supposed to go.
“You’ll call me every day?” Ma presses again.
“We can video chat,” I mumble. “Watch Mahi Way.”
“Make sure you eat the paranthas. They’ll be okay, even late.”
I pat my bag, comforted by the carbs that will soon fill my belly. Stuffed with potatoes, love, and high hopes.
Even though my brothers—twins, fourteen now—will be home to keep her busy, Ma’ll miss me. Cherry will help. Her dad is the farm foreman, and she pretty much moves into my room every summer. But she’s not great with house stuff. Her dad just dotes, ever supportive. Even joined the local queer community center with her, and does Suite Cherry shipping runs every week.
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