Gita Desai is not here to shut up

Sonia Patel

Book - 2024

As memories of childhood sexual assault resurface in her first year of college, eighteen-year-old East Indian American Gita struggles to maintain her model student persona.

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YOUNG ADULT FICTION/Patel Sonia
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Young Adult New Shelf YOUNG ADULT FICTION/Patel Sonia (NEW SHELF) Due Dec 28, 2024
Subjects
Genres
Realistic fiction
Campus fiction
Novels
Published
New York : Dial Books 2024.
Language
English
Main Author
Sonia Patel (author)
Physical Description
393 pages ; 22 cm
Audience
Ages 14 years and up.
HL700L
ISBN
9780593463185
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

For freshmen Gita Desai, Stanford isn't just fulfilling her premed dreams; it's also postponing the arranged marriage expected by her Gujarati parents. But like her inquiries about why her aunt Pinky and uncle Neil disappeared from her life when she was nine, Gita is told to "chup-re," or shut up, about her feelings about arranged marriage. At Stanford, Gita is welcomed into the carefree fold of the 1990s by "it girls" Jane and Marisol. Envious but equally unnerved by the attention both attract, Gita's yearning sweeps her into many firsts and a drunken night that ends with her sexual assault. Afterward, self-blaming and shame-filled, Gita begins having flashbacks of disturbing dormant childhood memories. The fragility of Gita's encounters with men grows, to the point where tamping down her feelings is no longer an option. Although she sounds quite young at times, Gita's naivete and repressed sexual desires match an upbringing devoid of trust and open dialogue. Autobiographical in part to Patel's own story, many passages can be uncomfortable, but Gita reclaiming her voice is worth the journey.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Informed by personal experience, as addressed in an endnote, this searing 1992-set novel by Patel (Bloody Seoul) explores the ways that prolonged abuse can shape behavior. Though her Gujarati-Indian immigrant parents would rather she get married than attend university, premed student Gita Desai is excited to start her freshman year at Stanford, where she plans to keep her head down and her grades up. But Gita doesn't expect to befriend and attend frat parties with her across-the-hall neighbor Jane or beautiful model Marisol. Yet even as she immerses herself in college life, she's distracted by memories of her and her beloved auntie, and of the man who abused them both. Gita's family has always said "chup-re" (Gujarati for "be quiet") when she tried to talk about difficult topics; now, she lacks the tools to make sense of her desires and struggles to speak up for herself in intimate situations. While Gita's journey toward finding her own voice is plagued by male characters who--both intentionally and unconsciously--cause her physical and mental harm, bright spots in the form of her kindhearted older brother and supportive gay peer help to carry the burden. Ages 14--up. Agent: Victoria Wells Arms, HG Literary. (Sept.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Kirkus Book Review

In 1992, Stanford freshman Gita Desai dreams of becoming a doctor. Gita is motivated in part by the encouragement of Pinky Auntie, her father's sister who lived with Gita's family for a few years before abruptly returning to India when Gita was 9. Pinky's disappearance haunts Gita, as do unsettling memories involving Neil, Pinky's husband, and Neil's friend Bhavin. At college, Gita meets fellow freshmen Jane West and Marisol Walter, and they immediately form a trio. Gita, whose family is Gujarati, cherishes these new friendships but is exasperated by the endless attention that her two charming, beautiful friends receive from men--attention that never extends to her. Gita's realization that she longs to be desirable coincides with her first sexual encounter, which turns into assault. She blames herself and tells herself she must "work hard and fix it," but subsequent sexual encounters end similarly, with Gita unable to vocalize her refusal and dissociating. As Gita's self-shaming intensifies, so does the return of disjointed childhood memories--until she arrives at an awful truth. The sense of dread builds until an explosive, cathartic confrontation occurs. Patel, whose own experiences inform this story, infuses Gita's first-person narration with thoughtfulness and humor that make her growing confusion and self-loathing cut deeply. Thankfully, Gita's friends are there to support her when she finally finds her voice. Funny, messy, gut-wrenching; a tough read that's worth the discomfort. (author's note, resources) (Fiction. 15-18) Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Prologue Let's set the scene: Move-in day at Stanford, fall of 1992, and I've just found out that I'm one of the few freshmen to score big-time with a dorm room all to myself! Does the English language even have a word to describe this feeling of beyond ecstatic? (Answer: Probably not--not that I know of, anyway.) Hauling the black garbage bags and cardboard boxes of my stuff from our car to my single doesn't take long with my parents and older brother, Sai, helping me. We finish lickety-split, and then my family starts unpacking. "Don't worry about that," I say, gently tugging my medical dictionary and human anatomy book out of Sai's hands and setting them on the desk. "I'll finish putting everything away--I know the donuts aren't going to sell themselves." Back in 1980, my Gujarati-Indian immigrant parents opened a Donutburg--just one of many Donutburgs dotting the California coastline--in Union City. They kept costs down by operating the entire business themselves, and to this day, it's still all in the family. Dad immediately lets go of the flaps on the box with my bedding and towels and nods. In a thick Gujju accent, he says, "Unfortunately, that is true, Gita beta. We should be going." Behind Dad's back, Sai rolls his eyes, then smiles and sticks out his arms. "Bring it in, sis." I wrap my arms around him and hold on tightly as he gives me a giant bear hug. Meanwhile, Mom squeezes my shoulder, and Dad lays his hand on my back. When we release, I give them each a grateful half smile. "Thanks for everything," I tell them, fully intending to be upbeat, then horrified that I can feel tears in my eyes. "Oh--one more thing, beta!" Mom says suddenly, and bile rises in my throat. The excitement in her voice shatters the sweet familial moment between us, because I'm certain that she's about to remind me--for the third time since we drove away from our Union City apartment at sunrise--that my arranged marriage dharma isn't expunged, only delayed until I graduate from Stanford. As the daughter of strict Gujarati parents, it's my duty to accept an arranged marriage to a suitable Chha-Gaam--six village--Gujju guy they select for me . Chee. Chee : To get the full experience of this Gujarati word that literally means "shit" but colloquially means "gross," say it while drawing your face back in disgust and curling your upper lip, then after, poke your tongue out a little. Chee, chee, chee. To both the arranged marriage and the hairy dude who'll probably want me barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, making him dal-bhaat-shaak-rotli. Did I mention I can't cook? Much to my relief, though, Mom doesn't bring it up again. Instead, she holds out a plastic grocery bag with India Spice Bazaar printed on one side. Swallowing, I take the bag and check out the contents. My mouth starts watering at the sweet and savory packages of Gujarati love--burfi, magas, methi khakhra, and chevdo. I look at Mom, eyes wide. "Thanks." "Welcome," she says, then grins. "Share it with the friends you make," Dad chimes in. Then he smiles too. I stand there, tugging my ear and staring at them as if they've suddenly opened their third eyes all Shiva-like. My parents never smile. Well, hardly ever that I can remember. Sure, Sai's told me stories otherwise--like the time he and Dad shared laughs after my bhai's first botched attempt at parallel parking. Or when Mom used to grin and stroke Sai's hair while he sipped on the mug of cha she'd make for him every day after school. Or their proud parental smiles when he won the national science fair at age fourteen. Back in the homeland, Mom and Dad gave away smiles like kaju katri on Diwali. I know because a year ago, I found a box of my parents' old Polaroids in the hall closet. I sat there, clutching the photos against my heart, overcome, as if I'd discovered an ancient, illustrated Hindu book entitled Raj and Tanu Desai Left Their Best Smiles and Extended Family Behind in India . I felt my smile bloom as I studied the photos the way I studied flashcards. . . . A sweaty Dad and his friends taking a break from cricket, sharing grins and beers. A beaming Mom decked out in a silver, gold, and black channia chori, in full dandiya raas ecstasy with her cousins. Mom flashing a toothy smile as she and my grandma pick tiny pebbles and other debris out of large stainless steel thalis of split mung beans. Giddy-faced Dad taking Mom for a ride on the back of his scooter through the crowded, littered streets of Gujarat. But I didn't get those parents. I got the work-is-always-busy-therefore-no-time-for-smiles parents whose primary form of communication with their two children--mostly me, though--involved muttering, growling, or yelling, "chup-re!" Chup-re : The Gujarati expression for "be quiet." But depending on the tone, volume, and coinciding facial expression with which it's delivered, it can also sound more like, "SHUT UP!" Growing up, Sai occasionally tossed a chup-re my way. But when he said it, it wasn't layered in disgust. Quite the opposite--it was playful. Or protective. Come to think of it, the same was true when Pinky Auntie or Neil Uncle said it to me. Pinky Auntie and Neil Uncle left Gujarat and moved in with us for a couple of years when I was six. Like my parents, their plan was to try to make it in America. But even more than the opportunity to work better jobs, save up enough to afford living on their own in the Bay Area, and eventually thrive, the essence of their coming-to-America story was necessity: They'd eloped. When Sai--who was twelve at the time--told me that, I'd scratched my head. "Sai bhai, what kind of bad crime is 'eloped'?" "Chup-re." The corners of Sai's lips ticked up and he flicked my arm, a little harder than intended. "It isn't bad or a crime. It means they ran off to get married in secret." I pouted at Sai and rubbed my arm. Why wasn't Mom and Dad's marriage a secret but Pinky Auntie and Neil Uncle's was? Only later, when I learned that Pinky Auntie and Neil Uncle had met and fallen in love in school, but their families had forbidden them from marrying, did I understand why their "love marriage" had been secret. Mom and Dad, on the other hand, hadn't even known each other before their marriage, because it had been arranged in Gujarati-Chha-Gaam tradition by their parents, and was therefore highly approved of. None of that mattered though. I loved Pinky Auntie and Neil Uncle: Especially Pinky Auntie, who I thought was the most beautiful, kind, smart woman in the world. With her broad, closed-mouth smile, affectionate gaze, and lovely nose adorned with a small gold nath, she was even more beautiful than that Bollywood star Sai was gaga over--Rekha. And in my eyes, Pinky Auntie was smarter and kinder than any of the characters Rekha played on the big screen. Put simply--I worshipped my dear Pinky Auntie. This one time, after she and I finished playing Candy Land, I tapped her glinting nose ring and asked if I could get one. I'll never forget what she said: "Of course! Only, wait a little. My nose ring honors Parvati, the goddess of marriage, and she wouldn't want you to get married so young." I sat up in excitement. "Yes! I'm going to become a doctor first, right, Pinky Auntie?" Back then, Pinky Auntie was the only one I'd revealed my future career plan to. It surprised me when she had paused to check over her shoulder before pressing her index finger to her maroon-painted lips. "Shhhh," she whispered. "Don't let your parents find out about that." My eyes widened. "Why not?" "Because they want you to marry a doctor, not become one. So chup-re, Gita beta." I hesitated. An unusual, uncomfortable silence descended around us. Finally, after a beat: "Okay, Pinky Auntie," I said slowly, nodding. And with that, I sealed my lips, locking away my secret. Excerpted from Gita Desai Is Not Here to Shut Up by Sonia Patel All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.