Dear readers,
Happy Women’s History Month!
South Asian women continue to push the boundaries of literature; and, we’re celebrating the magic of their storytelling in this edition of “On Our Bookshelf.”
To get you started, we’ve rounded up a mix of new memoirs, essays, and fiction—from romance to magical realism to historical fiction—all by South Asian women authors that make perfect additions to any Women’s History Month reading list. May they move your hearts and minds, just as they did for us.
Until next time,
Mishika and Sri
The Demise of the Girl Boss
by Samhita Mukhopadhyay
An opinion piece discussing the “Girl Boss,” a trope for empowerment which perhaps overcorrected for the lack of mobility for women in the workplace. Mukhopadhyay revisits the societal impact of the catchphrase over the last few several decades and the too-high expectation placed on women to have—or even want—it all.
Love Is Blind's Deepti demonstrates the radical rebellion of saying “no” to a man
by Arushi Sinha
‘Love Is Blind’ season 2 fan-favorite Deepti Vempati turned her fiancé down at the altar, saying, "...no, I cannot marry you. I deserve somebody who knows, for sure. So I'm choosing myself. And I'm going to say no.” Her staunch refusal to settle for a man who disrespected her repeatedly has sparked conversations among South Asian viewers on dating and marriage within our culture.
This chart-topping South Asian duo is inspiring women to take charge of their finances
by Arushi Sinha
Millennial investors and co-hosts of the podcast Girls That Invest, Simran Kaur and Sonya Gupthan, aim to make investing more approachable for its young, largely female audience.
For more recommendations, peruse our archives:
Another Appalachia by Neema Avashia
"There is no word for nostalgia in Gujarati. The closest concept I can find is that of vatan, or homeland," mulls author Neema Avashia in “Another Appalachia.” "As in: many of the Gujarati immigrants of my parents' generation operated under a narrative that someday, they would return to their vatan."
“But for Avashia, as well as myself and many brown children of immigrants in the West, what is our vatan?” asks guest reviewer Alisha Sahay.
The Boston educator and author is astutely aware that her identity, one that is queer and Indian, is not typical of her vatan, West Virginia — a state whose total non-white population has never exceeded 5 percent, the lowest in the nation, and whose Indian population has made up less than 0.5 percent of the population.
When I first picked up this book, I wasn't sure how much Avashia and I would have in common. But in every essay of “Another Appalachia,” you, the reader, are not a distanced observer merely viewing portraits of the people and places involved in Avashia's "Indolachian'' upbringing. Rather, it's the first night of Navratri in 1982, and you are wearing your finest silk sari, dancing in a garba ring alongside Avashia and the eight desi women who have raised her in someone's basement. You are flying down the winding roads of Goff Mountain in your neighbor-turned-stand-in-grandparent Mr. Bradford's red Jeep Cherokee after basketball practice, eyes squeezed shut and screaming in delight when he slams his foot on the gas. But, you are also scrolling through Mr. B's Facebook page years later, after the 2016 election, confused and queasy by his erratic 3 a.m. anti-woman, anti-immigrant, and anti-Black Lives Matter posts. You are toasting to your finished thesis in your undergraduate advisor Janey's office in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. You are falling in love with someone your culture — or rather, both your cultures — say you shouldn't. You are befriending neighbors in your home on Boylston Street in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts. You are not merely watching the action; you are in on it.
This is the power and incredible feat of Avashia's writing. Sharp, intimate, and provocative, “Another Appalachia” is written as if you're simultaneously having a conversation with a close friend and learning a lesson from a gentle but firm educator, painting a nuanced picture of the West Virginia that raised her.
There were so many moments while reading where I frantically highlighted and scribbled "yes!" in the margins, particularly affirmed by Avashia's questions on traditions rooted in patriarchy, her quips on her parents' distinctly immigrant habits, and her reflections on what it means to belong to someone or some place. She explains culture and customs with a level of rich detail that's sufficiently explanatory for those who aren't familiar with them, but in a way that doesn't feel redundant for readers who do know them; and, in fact, Avashia humbly admits from time to time that there's much she had to learn as she wrote.
Though each essay centers around a motif or theme and has a tendency to come full circle (a trope I am usually skeptical of), "Happily Ever Afters" are scarce; it's clear that tensions among the characters of her life persist and resolutions aren't perfect. It is through remembering and writing that Avashia makes peace with these hard truths — and that's what makes her stories, taking place a few hundred miles away from where I am, so universal and poignant.
“Another Appalachia” is the diaspora story that I have craved for years. Avashia’s and my relationship to our homes (West Virginia for the author, Georgia for me) is complicated, confusing, sometimes fraught. But, like our parents, we too dream of coming back home.
Get your copy of “Another Appalachia.”
Lifepass by Payal Kadakia
“As I graduate college in a few short months, Payal’s ‘LifePass’ – especially her four-step tool to goal-setting – entered my life at the most apt time,” shares guest reviewer Namrita Narula.
As an aspiring entrepreneur, I have watched the founder of ClassPass’ interviews for years, and I am in awe of her dance performances as the Artistic Director of The Sa Dance Company. “LifePass” provided me with an intimate view of her upbringing, which shaped her leadership, the risks she took early in her career, and her daily priorities.
Payal Kadakia and I both grew up in predominantly white neighborhoods, and for much of our lives, we assimilated. It wasn’t until college that we embraced the duality of our Indian and American identities, learning how to walk into a room wearing our differences with pride. For Payal, this translated to inviting her Bain & Company colleagues to her Sa Dance showcase. For me, this means walking into interviews with my knee-length braid. For both of us, this includes mentoring women who share our identity, allowing us to help young people develop a strong sense of purpose and power.
Kadakia’s paramount advice is that we are sometimes too busy chasing what we should be doing, instead of pausing to listen closely. Inspired by Kadakia’s words, I am determined to identify the moments when I feel most confident, curious, and alive and capitalize on those as I consider the next decade of my professional journey. Kadakia also introduces actionable tips for saving and how to achieve an effective 24-hour routine (this means not checking my text messages during my spin class!).
Transparently, “LifePass” is the first book I’ve read for pleasure in about six months. But, I am starting 2022 inspired to read again and to continue working towards discovering my calling.
Where ClassPass ensures that the fitness and wellness world is at your fingertips, “LifePass” provides readers with a brief and easy-to-access guide to living a holistic life.
Get your copy of “Lifepass.”
Brown Girl Like Me by Jaspreet Kaur
“As a very awkward brown girl attending high school in a very white town, I longed for a cool older sister to help me navigate coming-of-age milestones. My parents, who immigrated to the United States from India in the 80’s, were ill-equipped to have these discussions with me,” shares guest reviewer Surbhi Sarang.
Jaspreet Kaur has been there, too. In “Brown Girl Like Me,” Kaur has written the “essential guidebook for South Asian women and girls” that she wishes she could have had as a child. Here, she speaks openly and passionately about everything from menstruation and body hair acceptance to dealing with micro-aggressions and recognizing real love. Each chapter focuses on one major topic, which Kaur dissects through a variety of angles. Kaur explains how parents, teachers, South Asian women, and allies can help brown women and girls avoid dealing with these issues in isolation by creating safe spaces and spreading a message of empowerment.
“Brown Girl Like Me” whizzes through a multitude of important conversations that could each merit their own book-length discussion. As such, rather than being an in-depth primer on any one topic, it is best used an introduction to intersectional feminism for someone new to the field. Throughout, Kaur highlights activists and doers who are leading initiatives to uplift brown women and girls, and thus the book is also a great directory to other inspirational voices in the field. As a former teacher, Kaur is strongest when she is speaking on education policy discussing how schools and teachers can allow brown girls to thrive in the classroom. She offers powerful advice and recommendations geared to readers who are not of South Asian descent but who work with kids and teens who are.
However, as Kaur whiplashes between sharing personal anecdotes and messages of validation to young girls and prescribing advice to their caregivers, she loses some of the power of her message. South Asian girls and women who are dealing with the issues Kaur speaks about do not need to be told what the systemic problems are—we know them well. Action items for white educators also seem ill-placed in a book that purports to be a guidebook for brown girls. The result is confusion about who this book is meant to serve.
Nevertheless, it was gratifying to see my experiences reflected by someone who has such a wide-reaching platform. I am hopeful that, through the efforts of Kaur and others, we can create a world where no South Asian child feels alone or inferior because of who they are.
📚 To view all of the books featured on our page and/or purchase them from independent booksellers: