You Bring the Distant Near: Part 3: Settlers

"Kareena wants to see you, Chantal," Grandma tells me, sounding nonchalant as she looks over the cards.

"No, Chantal, I didn't," Grandma Rose says haughtily. "You know that for the student-run productions, I just show up for performances."

"Those two. Still carrying on like they're a match made in heaven,” she says, unfurling the words one by one in her slow, French-tinged Louisiana accent.

My grandmother's feet are apart, both fists are on her hips, and her stance makes her look like a burly wrestler in spite of the white sari.

She sounded ecstatic, like she was telling me hunger had been eliminated from the planet.

Oh, how I protested. I deployed all of my well-honed forensic skills. I didn't win the hard-earned title of number-one debater in Mumbai's school tournaments by accepting defeat easily.

"Oh, that's right, it is, isn't it? We don't offer those here, unfortunately, but I'm sure you'll find your niche. Your cousin's quite the athlete."

"And do you have a Fashion-Design Club? Anna is quite a skilled seamstress. She designed and sewed what she's wearing right now. But that's not all—she makes Western clothes as well, and they are originals, not copies."

Shanti's a little taken aback, I can tell.

Plain and unflattering, if you ask me, hiding curves and figures even more than a salwar or sari.

Maybe there's one silver lining to my parents' decision?

This woman's entire body is a museum of classic rock. When she crosses her arms, Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones gyrates on one muscle.

Our teammates on the bench jump to their feet, cheering as my cousin lopes easily around the bases.

My popularity there is based on more substantive qualities than physical maturity.

Shanti's on a full scholarship, and she has a lot of clout around here.

The two of us stroll through the small garden beside the pool, enjoying the balmy air.

The flower's soft, pungent scent reminds me of home.

I stretch out on a chaise longue near the bamboo grove and take a few deep breaths.

The inaugural meeting of the Carver Fashion-Design Club takes place in the theater office after school.

"It's kind of demeaning—for her, to ask, and for him, to be exploited like that just because he loves her."

(Mrs. Johnson ransacked the faculty lounge and even the admissions office over the weekend.)

Dad's a sculptor and mom's a freelance journalist; the Johnsons are about thrift stores, grocery store coupons, public transportation, and the old, black Catholic church full of people who put food stamps in the offering plate.

"Martin's got no guile," she says. "I like that. And his mom never misses a Tuesday at that soup kitchen our churches run together. She's the real deal."

The perfect boyfriend, right?
Except for how he coddles that Porsche.

Ten-year-old Martin spent hours beside his father, ready to hand over a needed tool, studying the correct way to wax, and discovering the well-crafted intricacies of a Porsche engine.

But thanks to rush-hour congestion, I'm late for my appointment.

As it was hit, the Porsche must have lurched forward and rammed into the sign.

Upstairs, the minimalist, modern penthouse smells like sweet-and-sour soup.

But her fight against child marriage and her advocacy to end human trafficking are changing the world.

"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen...and that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."

"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen...and that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."

"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen...and that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."

"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen...and that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."

The red lipstick and purple eye shadow that matches her muumuu somehow make her look regal, dazzling, eye-catching.

"Yes, the attacks were terrible and heartbreaking. But this country still has problems. Like being an imperialistic superpower that supports repressive governments, for instance? Or the fact that American corporations destroy rain forests and exploit cheap labor in poor countries?"

A slumber party? That's "becoming American"? But maybe it is a rite of passage around here. What do I know?

Maybe taking care of the elderly is ingrained in my Indian genes.

On the night of the sleepover, she and Shanti regress easily to twelve-year-old behavior.

Suddenly, she bursts into a full-fledged rendition of "Amazing Grace," one of the only hymns I recognize.

"Think of how the Church supported colonialism. And the Crusades. Even the Nazis said they were Christians."

Citizenship and Didu's other weird choices about becoming American seem mundane now, compared to this one: leaving our Bengali Hinduism behind.

I'm hoping for hours of uninterrupted romantic political discussion, but Didu thwarts that plan.

I can hear her crooning a country church song called "Long Black Train" as I slump onto the couch in defeat.

Darnell follows her into the kitchen, sniffing the savory smells.

Her bare feet arch elegantly, and the ankle bracelets she wears accentuate her graceful movements.