One
The baggage carousel at Toronto’s Pearson International Airport clunked to life, and Priya Solanki stood back, watching suitcase after suitcase glide past until hers came into view. Two bags were all it took to hold ten years of her life—a failed marriage, a business she had walked away from, and the freedom she had built for herself. All now completely gone. She’d promised herself she’d never return, yet here she was, out of options.
After dragging her luggage through the terminal, she stepped outside and slid into the back of a waiting cab.
“Where to?” The driver met her eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Moksha Funeral Home,” Priya replied. “In Ajax.”
“Lucky you’re not heading downtown today,” he said as they merged into traffic. “I just returned from a drop-off there, and it was brutal. Bumper to bumper the whole way.”
“Construction?” Priya asked, peering out the window. It was late April, which in Toronto translated to the start of roadwork season.
“Not this time,” he replied. “There was a celebrity sighting at the Hazelton. Some big star from out of town. Turned the whole area into a total gridlock. Traffic was backed up all the way to the highway, nobody moving an inch.”
Priya leaned back, only half listening. A traffic jam over a celebrity sipping an overpriced latte was both absurd and entirely expected. She’d spent the last ten years in Calgary, where the rhythm of life was slower. Here, even at a standstill, the city buzzed with urgency.
The drive to Ajax, a suburb east of Toronto, took a little under an hour. Clusters of daffodils and crocuses bloomed along the edges of the roadside. As they approached her old neighborhood, familiar sights greeted Priya like pages from an old diary: the community center where she first learned to swim, the No Frills grocery store where her family did their weekly shopping, the library where she met up with her friend Brooke, though they usually ended up at the McDonald’s across the street. Every place was exactly as she remembered, yet within Priya, everything had shifted.
When the cab finally turned into the parking lot of the funeral home, Priya straightened, her eyes locking on the building. The weight of what lay ahead twisted in her chest.
“Go around the back, please.” Priya gestured toward the rear lot.
She winced at the fare on the meter, mindful of her dwindling savings. Then she spotted a photo of the cabbie’s children smiling from the dashboard and gave him a generous tip anyway.
Sucker, her thrifty Gujarati ancestors scolded from beyond the grave.
The driver heaved her suitcases out of the trunk, chuckling as he read the tag on one: “You can’t handle my baggage.”
Priya felt a pang of guilt as he set the bag down with a huff. The joke was a little too on the nose. Her baggage, literal and otherwise, was ridiculously heavy.
As the cab drove away, Priya turned toward the building, standing in the very spot where bodies were delivered from the morgue. A shiver ran down her spine. Death was inevitable, and for her, so was this place. She thought she had escaped it, but as she stared at the side door to her
parents’ second-floor apartment, her certainty crumbled.
She lugged her suitcases up the narrow stairs, each step groaning under her weight. The wood was worn and uneven, some planks smoothed by years of use, others jagged with splinters, the paint peeling on every one. She hesitated at the top step, the duct tape still holding it together after all these years. Despite herself, she smiled. Her father’s handiwork had somehow stubbornly stood the test of time.
Standing by the door, Priya took a deep breath, and almost immediately the rich, smoky scent of rotlis transported her back in time. Over the years, her annual visits had been brief and dutiful, but some things never changed, like the way her mother’s cooking clung to the walls, familiar and comforting. She could almost taste the soft, warm flatbreads, and she hadn’t even stepped inside. As she lifted her hand to knock, the door burst open, and her mother stood there, arms outstretched.
“I knew it!” Her mother beamed, eyes shining. “I can recognize your footsteps anywhere. My Priya baby is home!”
“Mumma.” As Priya stepped into her mother’s embrace, her body relaxed. Ever since her divorce, she had carried the weight of letting them down, of returning as someone who hadn’t made it, but that feeling lifted, replaced by the quiet comfort of home.
“What Mumma-Mumma?” Her mother pulled back with a pout. “You forgot Mumma. You don’t call Mumma, don’t ask Mumma, don’t love Mumma.”
Priya chuckled at her mother’s lightning-fast transition from a warm welcome to a full-on guilt trip. Mumma had mastered the art of emotional drama, keeping the whole family on their toes.
“Enough, Seema,” her father intervened, appearing behind his wife. “She’s only just arrived, and you’ve already started. Let her relax and eat something. Then we’ll both gang up on her.”
Priya laughed, but tears stung the corners of her eyes as she hugged him. She hadn’t known what kind of welcome to expect, but this
warmth, this lightness, filled her with relief and gratitude. Pulling both her parents close, she buried her face between them.
“I love you very much,” she said.
For a moment, the three of them remained locked together. Then, as if realizing they’d lingered too long, her parents pulled away. Seema and Rakesh Solanki dispensed affection in appropriate doses, but verbal declarations of love to each other or the kids? Na, baba, na.
Mumma smoothed her nightgown to dispel the awkwardness. Priya couldn’t remember her wearing anything other than button-down nightgowns around the house. When they grew flimsy, Mumma tore them into scraps and used them as a potu to mop the floor.
“Is this everything?” Puppa asked, reaching for Priya’s suitcases.
“This is it.” Priya forced a cheerful smile, hoping it would hide the ache beneath it. Coming home after years of trying to build a life of her own felt like proof that she had failed. She trailed behind her parents, stepping into the familiar living room of their modest apartment.
“So, tell me…” Puppa settled into his usual spot at the dining table and motioned Priya to join him.
But Priya wasn’t ready. Not yet. She slipped into the kitchen instead, where her mother was already busy making chai.
“Let me help.” She opened the cupboard next to the sink and reached for the cups, hoping to stall the conversation that lay ahead—and her parents’ inevitable autopsy of her marriage.
“Priya,” her father called her back, firm and steady.
Priya sighed and carried the cups and sugar bowl over to the table, bracing herself as she sat beside him. Even though she was twenty-eight, her heart still raced whenever her father wanted to “talk,” and a familiar fight-or-flight
response took over her body. In the past, she had fled, because fighting was disrespectful, but now she had nowhere to run. Her parents held all the power.
Puppa leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table, and fixed his gaze on Priya. “How much did you pay for the taxi?”
Priya’s shoulders relaxed. This she could handle. Rakesh Solanki was a frugal man who took great pride in imparting his money-saving habits. Priya divided the fare in half and gave him the number.
“Hey Bhagwan.” Dear Lord. “Seema, did you hear?”
“I heard. I heard,” Mumma replied from the kitchen. “Priya, you know Ramila ben no jamai no kaka no nano babu?”
“Do I know your friend’s son-in-law’s dad’s brother’s younger son? I don’t think so.”
“Yes, you do. Jignesh. You know. Jignesh.”
“Ah, Jignesh.” Priya had no idea who Jignesh was, but it was easier to let Mumma assume she knew every Gujarati person in the Greater Toronto Area than to suffer a long-winded explanation.
“He gives people a ride to the airport for only ten dollars.” Mumma added ginger and cardamom to the tea before glancing at Priya through the archway that joined the kitchen to the dining area.
“Ten dollars doesn’t even cover the gas, Mumma,” Priya muttered, shaking her head.
“He doesn’t do it for the money. It’s seva for our community. He’s creating good karma. He will reap the rewards one day.”
“So, Jignesh is currying favor with Bhagwanji. Good business strategy. Investing now in the hopes of future gains.”
“Don’t be cheeky.” Mumma stepped out of the kitchen and plopped a plate of hot rotlis on the table. “Why didn’t you come home sooner? A whole year in Calgary, living on your own after you separated from Manoj.
What were you thinking?”
Priya smiled faintly, tearing off a piece of rotli and dusting it with sugar. “It’s not like I was the only woman in Calgary living on my own. A lot of my girlfriends live alone too.”
“That’s different.” Mumma poured chai into three cups and took her seat. “You’re our daughter. You don’t need to struggle by yourself when you have a family right here.”
“I know. But I put so much work into building the company Manoj and I started,” Priya said, her voice softening as she looked at Mumma. “I thought we could still work together, but we didn’t see eye to eye on the business either, so I decided to leave.” She lifted her cup and took a slow sip. None of this was a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either. The truth was that Calgary had given her the kind of independence she could never have here, the freedom to live life away from her parents’ well-meaning but constant interference—even if it came with loneliness. Losing her marriage had been painful, but losing her career had shattered what was left of her life out west. Without a partner or a paycheck, coming home had been her only option.
“You did the right thing.” Puppa tipped his tea into a saucer, blew on it, and took a loud, slurping sip. “A daughter’s place is with her parents until she marries or…” He hesitated, his voice trailing off.
“Or what, Puppa?” Priya placed her cup down and met his gaze. “Go on, say it.” When he remained silent, she sighed. “Divorce. It’s not a bad word, you know.”
“Of course not, beta.” Puppa patted her hand. “When we came to Canada thirty years ago, no one spoke about these things openly, especially not in our community. But times have changed. This isn’t the future we wanted for you, but your happiness is all that matters. So, tell us…” He leaned back in his chair. “After five years together, what really happened between you and Manoj? You’ve said so little.”
The lights suddenly flickered overhead, throwing brief shadows around them, but Priya barely reacted. Growing up at Moksha, she
was used to its oddities—the strange groans of the pipes, the unexplained drafts, the way certain rooms always felt colder than the rest.
“There’s not much to tell,” she said before popping the last piece of her rotli in her mouth. She gave herself a moment to swallow before answering. “We just wanted different things in life.”
“But you had so much in common.” Puppa’s voice tinged with disbelief. “Same caste, same background, same profession. He didn’t drink, didn’t gamble. A good boy from a good family. You know we would never have approved otherwise.”
And that’s exactly why I married him, Priya thought. Not because I loved him, but because it made sense. Marrying a man who checked all your boxes was the only way to claim my freedom. It was my permission slip to stay in Calgary after university and build a life of my own. But these were words she’d never say aloud to her parents.
“Did he mistreat you?” Mumma asked. “Did you
fight? Argue?”
“No, and we didn’t really fight. Just the normal ups and downs.”
Mumma flung her hands up. “Then what?”
Priya sighed. “Not fighting doesn’t mean a marriage is happy.”
“But it’s a start.” Mumma placed another rotli on her daughter’s plate. “A peaceful home is a good home.”
Priya nodded, tracing the edge of the rotli with her fingers. If her parents knew the truth of their “good home,” the gossip would spread like wildfire, and she didn’t want Manoj to shoulder all the blame. His affair had ended the marriage, yes, but it wasn’t the cause of their problems. It was a symptom of what had been missing all along.
“Well, everything happens for a good reason,” Puppa declared, clapping his hands together as though closing the matter.
Once again, the lights flickered overhead.
“It’s getting worse,” Mumma said, turning to Puppa. “You still haven’t heard from the bank?”
“They called yesterday.”
“And?” Mumma pressed.
“We can talk about it later,” he said, patting her hand. “Let’s not ruin Priya’s homecoming.”
“What’s going on?” Priya glanced between her parents.
“We live in an old building,” Puppa explained. “It’s always one thing or another. Nothing to worry yourself about.”
“Then why is the bank involved?”
Puppa looked away, and Mumma fidgeted in her seat.
“Well?” Priya prompted.
“The wiring is outdated,” her father finally said with a sigh. “The fuse boxes keep shorting. We have to replace everything to bring Moksha up to code—new wiring, outlets, circuit breakers…The entire electrical system. It’s a big job, so I applied for a loan.”
Priya’s stomach dropped. The look on Puppa’s face said it all. The loan hadn’t been approved. He took a deep breath before speaking. “If we don’t make these upgrades, we won’t be able to keep the business running.”
“You’ll lose the funeral home?” Priya felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her. As much as she’d always wanted to escape Moksha, she knew the significance it held for her parents. It wasn’t just their home—it was the heart of who they were and what they stood for.
“We have three months to make the repairs,” Puppa said. “We’ll find a way.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
she asked.
“We were hoping the loan would come through,” Mumma said quietly. “We didn’t want to worry you or your sisters for no reason.”
A pang of regret twisted in Priya’s stomach. She’d been so caught up in her own problems that she hadn’t known what her parents were going through.
“I have some savings,” she said. “It’s not much, but Manoj is buying me out of the company, so I’ll have more once that’s finalized. I’ve also picked up some freelance work. I can help you bridge the financing—”
“Out of the question,” Puppa interrupted, placing his hand over Priya’s. “Thank you, but we don’t need your money, beta. You have come home for a bigger purpose. Don’t you see? The timing is no coincidence. Moksha has a way of calling those it needs. This is your time to step in, to start taking over some of the responsibilities, so you can take over one day.”
Priya stared at her parents, her hand frozen beneath Puppa’s. “Are you serious? You think I’ve come home just to drop everything and step into this…role you’ve carved out for me?”
“We’re not asking you to drop anything, Priya,” Mumma said gently. “But you have nothing tying you down right now. This is your chance to start over, to find purpose and do something meaningful.”
“Meaningful to who?” Priya pulled her hand out from under her father’s. “Just because I’m divorced, between jobs, and don’t have any kids doesn’t mean my life is without meaning.” Her words tumbled out, faster and sharper. “I haven’t even unpacked, and you’re already dragging me into the business. I didn’t come home to be a cog in a wheel that’s been turning in our family for generations—the same damn wheel that’s been grinding me down my whole life. I’m not going to let it crush me too!”
“Ey!” Puppa wagged his finger in warning.
screeching halt.
“We are Dalit, Priya. The funeral home is not just our generational occupation. It is our karmic undertaking and duty.”
“Those are your beliefs, Puppa. You and Mumma have built your entire lives around them, and I respect that, but you can’t force them on me.” Priya tried to control the volume of her voice. “To me, Moksha is a business, not a divine mission. It needs money, resources, time, attention. Even if I agree to take over, what happens when we can’t pay for the repairs it so obviously needs?”
Her parents shared a glance across the table before Puppa pushed his chair back and stood. Retrieving his address book from the drawer next to the sofa, he pulled out an envelope from its pages and handed her the papers inside.
Priya’s eyes widened as she scanned the document. “An offer from a land developer to buy the funeral home?” She glanced at her parents. “This is a lot of money. You wouldn’t need a loan to keep Moksha running.” Her heart began to race. “You could sell, retire, and never have to worry about finances again,” she said, her voice bright with excitement.
“Read it properly,” Puppa urged. “They want to build condominiums here.”
“So?” Priya’s brows furrowed. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
Puppa shook his head. “Moksha is the only funeral home in the area run by a Hindu family, Priya. We welcome people of all faiths, but it’s our duty to provide the last rites and rituals for our community. When I was a boy in Gujarat, my father upheld that responsibility, and my grandfather did the same before him. Your mother and I may have moved to another country, but we can’t shed our caste or the responsibility that goes with it.”
Priya drew in a measured breath. “It always comes down to that. Tradition, duty, obligation…” Her gaze shot to her father, eyebrows raised. “Don’t tell me you rejected it?” She nodded toward the offer.
“Not yet, but I will do whatever I can to keep Moksha going.”
“And you’re okay with this?” Priya turned to her mother.
“Of course. Your father is right. It’s one thing if we had no other option, but we still have time to find a solution. We can’t just run from our karma. And neither can you. You’re part of the same lineage, Priya, and no matter how far you run, fate will always pull you back.”
“And Meghna and Deepa?” Priya countered. “Are you saying they’re going to end up here too?”
“Your sisters will always be tied to this place. It’s in their blood, same as you.” Mumma’s words carried a quiet certainty.
A heavy sigh built in Priya’s chest. Her parents still saw the world through the lens of a caste system that had been abolished over seventy-five years ago. To them, caste dictated everything from what kind of work you were expected to do to who you could marry to your place in the world. And because their family was Dalit—considered so low they weren’t even counted within the hierarchy—Priya’s parents made sure their daughters understood it from an early age.
Don’t reach too high.
Don’t think too big.
Don’t dream beyond your station.
But Priya had always wanted more. More than quiet obedience. More than a future shaped by the past. She wanted to break the cycle—for herself and for her sisters. A life beyond inherited limits. A life where they weren’t just surviving but growing, flourishing, thriving. But now, sitting around the table with her
parents, she held her tongue. This was not a war of words; it was a clash of perspectives, both sides digging in with no intention of waving a white flag.
As she sipped her tea, a notification flashed on her phone. “It’s Brooke,” she announced, ...
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