with a side of desi

okay, listen. desi kids, we fucking love our mothers, especially our immigrant mothers who were torn from their homes with husbands they hardly knew, who sacrificed careers and education and their own mothers. they are the strongest people we know. we would die for them and kill for them. i can’t think of a single person who matters more to me than my mother. 

but the thing is, sometimes they themselves don’t know what’s right for their children. we know our mothers are caught between their husbands (whom they have been dependent on for the last few decades of their life) and their children (whom they only want the best for). 

in desi households, the kids don’t give a fuck about their fathers, they would sooner leave them than listen to a single word they say (and a lot of this has to do with the way men in south asia are raised – conversation for another time). but it’s the mother that really controls the household in the sense that she will take the angry words of her husband and tell them softly to her kids… who will listen to even the worst command if it’s coming from her. she doesn’t realize it, your father doesn’t realize it, and you don’t realize it, but this is still emotional manipulation and it is abusive as fuck.

you love your mother, and i love my mother. but sooner or later we really will have to come to terms with the fact that when we give in to her soft pleading requests despite rejecting it when it came as an order from our father’s harsh screaming, we’re perpetuating the same cycle we are trying to escape. it’s gonna make you feel guilty and craven and frustrated, you do so many things you don’t want to, but it’s the truth.

there’s no escape. we’re trapped for life with our mother’s love.

you’re either selfish and you leave your mother, or you’re a coward and you listen to your father. you’re never free. 

So sick of the older generation of upper-middle/upper class Desi Americans that constantly try to side with their Trump-voting white friends and forget how this country and these people treated them when they first moved here with little money. If you get deported, Cindy and Karen won’t give two shits about ya’ll, I can guarantee that

Don’t get me wrong, I love my meat dishes, opting for a vegetarian restaurant got me feeling some type of way at first but omg I kid you not; this was soooo delicious! 😋 Eating using your hands & not using any cutlery always makes food taste so much better for some reason!

South Asian food >>>>> !!

(Vijay’s Chawalla in Greenstreet, yes this is the desi side of me coming out lol)

An hour later, we have eaten a light dinner that Desi cooked, and sipped the wine that Desi brought. He has given me one bite of cheese and split a truffle with me. He has given me exactly ten Fritos and then secreted away the
bag. He doesn’t like the smell; it offends him, he says, but what he really doesn’t like is my weight. Now we are side by side on the sofa, a spun-soft blanket over us, because Desi has cranked up the air-conditioning so that it is
autumn in July. I think he has done it so he can crackle a fire and force us together under the blankets; he seems to have an October vision of the two of us. He even brought me a gift – a heathery violet turtleneck sweater to wear – and I notice it complements both the blanket and Desi’s deep green sweater.
‘You know, all through the centuries, pathetic men have abused strong women who threaten their masculinity,’ Desi is saying. ‘They have such fragile psyches, they need that control …’ I am thinking of a different kind of control. I am thinking about control in the guise of caring: Here is a sweater for the cold, my sweet, now wear it and match my vision. Nick, at least, didn’t do this. Nick let me do what I wanted.

coffee and cute girls

summary:  Nyma is a complete and absolute dork when it comes to cute girls. Especially when they’re amazing baristas that know exactly what type of drink she likes and goes by the name Shay.

a/n: you: you said you were gonna finish the wlw month prompts
me: so i did! hahaha!
you: it’s been two weeks since wlw month ended.
me, sweating: look, school’s really been kicking my ass, i’ve had some really bad writer’s block, and who am i even talking to, barely anybody reads this.

(some side notes: shay here is desi, specifically indian, and her full name is shreya aggarwal. nyma here is arab and her full name is nyma malik. just some of my personal hcs that i wanted to insert in the story :D)

reviews and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!

ao3 & ffn

Nyma swears her world stops when she see the cute barista that gives her the espresso she ordered.

“Uh, thank you,” says Nyma, scanning the barista’s name tag, “…Shreya.”

The barista - Shreya - laughs and Nyma thinks she might just swoon. “You can just call me Shay. Enjoy your drink!”

Nyma gives a little wave and walks back to where Allura is sitting in a daze.

“You seem very happy.” teases Allura.

Nyma takes a tiny sip from her cup, careful not to scald her tongue.

“I just saw an angel.” she says dreamily, setting the cup down and leaning back in her chair.

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