Samira had always assumed it had been about tradition, but by her mom’s downcast expression, there was more to this.
“You’re very culturally aware, Mom. Tradition is important to you, so isn’t that why?”
Kushi shook her head, her mouth downturned in sadness. “I loved your father, I truly did, but I often wonder if I made the right choice in defying my parents by marrying him. If I’d known how cast-off I’d be . . .”
Her mom made an odd garbled sound, halfway between a sob and a choke. “I already told you about the aunties, but back then it felt like the entire Indian community shunned me. They judged my choice and found me lacking. And in those days, locals weren’t so welcoming of foreigners, so being cast out of my social circle left me with no friends, no family apart from Sindhu, and treated like a leper by the people I’d come to depend on.”
“That’s why you invited all our neighbors over for meals.” Samira squeezed her mom’s hands, hating the overt pain evident in every crease of her lined face. “I always wondered why you interacted with virtual strangers more than the aunties. And we didn’t socialize with them much beyond the big functions.” Samira hung on tight to her mom’s hands. “I thought you were introverted. I wish I’d been more observant and less self-absorbed.”
“I didn’t want you to see my pain.” Kushi managed a wan smile. “You were my world, and I didn’t want you to suffer their judgment like I did. Love isn’t enough in the face of ostracism like that, and while I adored your dad, I didn’t want that for you. It is easier, culturally, if marriage partners come from the same background, and that’s why it is preferable you have an Indian husband.”
While she understood her mom’s rationale, she didn’t agree with it, because Samira had felt just as isolated as her mom growing up. She’d watched the aunties dote on one another’s children at functions and always wondered why she’d been on the outside. Her school had been multicultural, and she’d craved friends with a mixed Indian background like her, but the aunties’ daughters had virtually ignored her. It all made sense now, but she needed to couch her objections carefully.
“I understand you’re coming from a position of caring, Mom, but things are different now. Intermarrying is common, especially here in Australia and the US.”
Kushi’s eyebrows rose, and shock made her reel back. “You’re thinking of marrying this Australian man you barely know?”
Samira sighed. “No, but I told you about him so you understand once and for all that I won’t bow to expectations again like I did the first time around.”
Kushi’s expression fell further, if that were possible, as she released her hands. “But I thought you were happy with Avi. You seemed so in love.”
“Honestly? I think I was more in love with the concept of being in love rather than any real, deep-seated emotion for Avi.” Samira shrugged, as if how far she’d fallen for Avi meant little when in fact she’d been gutted when their marriage fell apart. “I wanted the Bollywood fairy tale, and I thought I’d got it. But being pushed toward Avi all the time, having you wax lyrical about his many good traits even before I’d met him, built him up in my head so it almost seemed inevitable I’d fall for him.”
“You are still blaming me.” Tears filled Kushi’s eyes, and Samira’s throat tightened with emotion.
“No, though I have to admit I did for a long time, and that’s a major reason why I stayed away for so long. But I understand now. You did it from a place of genuine caring, not wanting me to go through what you did.”
Ironically, she had anyway, as the Indian community had looked down on her for divorcing Avi almost as if it had been her fault. Her new start in LA had a lot to do with feeling alienated within her community, and she hadn’t looked back. So why did her mom think she’d welcome being dragged back into all that traditional expectation rubbish now?
“I hope you understand, Mom, there’s no future with Manish beyond friendship, and you need to let me live my life the way I want to and with whoever I choose to live it with.”
Kushi visibly deflated, her shoulders slumping, her torso appearing to fold in on itself, as if all hope had been driven from her. “I don’t understand, Samira, but I will respect your wishes.”
“Thanks—”
“But you need to know I wasn’t joking earlier when I said love can grow from friendship, so I will continue to hope you see sense and pursue a relationship with that lovely Manish.”
Samira bit back a laugh. Of course her mom wouldn’t give up. But for now, with their revelations and some kind of acceptance, it would have to do.
Twenty-Four
Rory arrived for the audition thirty minutes early. Interesting that the small, nondescript studio tucked away in the back streets of South Melbourne held the key to his future. More to the point, the future of those poor kids.
But he couldn’t think about that now; it would only add to the pressure already building in his chest. He sat in the car, practicing the breathing techniques Pia had shown him, knowing it would be easier to calm his nerves here, alone, rather than inside the studio. Besides, the last thing he needed was to run into Dixon; that would undermine his meager confidence completely.
He’d been riding high after his final session with Pia, then he’d seen Samira, kissed her, and his concentration had been shot to shit. He’d been right to avoid her the last two weeks; she was a major distraction, wrapped up in one very attractive package.
But after this audition, he had every intention of making up for lost time with her.
With five minutes to spare, he strode into the studio, relieved to see the waiting area empty. Chris had warned him both the producer and the director would be at the audition, and he’d have to read from cues. He’d been relieved to hear that. Reading was much easier for him than ad-libbing. Less chance to stumble and screw up.
He’d done everything Chris had asked of him, down to wearing a more casual outfit of jeans and a chambray shirt rolled up at the cuffs—the perfect Renegades host attire, apparently.
It should’ve given him more confidence. It didn’t, because as the studio door opened and a hipster guy with a too-long beard and shaved head beckoned him inside, every single technique he’d learned from Pia over the last few weeks faded into oblivion, leaving him light-headed and unsure.
However, as he entered a small room, with a stage and a cue machine at the front, and only two men in their forties sitting and facing the stage, an odd thing happened.
He didn’t have to perform in here. He didn’t have to try too hard. He had to channel everything he’d learned and just be himself.
“Thanks for coming in, Rory.” The director, a seasoned veteran of a long-running Aussie soap opera, stood and extended his hand. “I’m Sherman Rix, and this is Allan Stuart.”