A woman’s ambitions clash with familial expectations in a captivating novel about generational secrets and self-discovery by the bestselling author of The Candid Life of Meena Dave.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Namrata Patel’s The Curious Secrets of Yesterday, which is out now.
Raised by her mother and grandmother and tutored in the healing wonders of spices, Tulsi Gupta is expected to carry on the ancestral tradition from her family’s Salem spice shop. Restless and reluctant, Tulsi yearns to follow her own path—destiny has other plans.
When Tulsi finds a letter written by her grandmother, addressed and never sent, that speaks of a long-ago betrayal, she decides to unravel the mystery as a distraction. But Tulsi stumbles into much more than she bargained for. With each new discovery, she learns there’s much more to her mother and grandmother than their expertise in the remedial aromas of coriander and cloves. When an attractive neighbor begins renovating the shuttered deli next door, Tulsi finds the courage to break her routine and chase the unexpected.
As Tulsi digs into the past and secrets come to light, she’s determined to heal old family wounds and find her true purpose—and maybe even love—every step of the way.
EXCERPT
It was the tattoo of a Buddha wrapped in barbed wire that caused Tulsi Gupta to have an identity crisis right in the middle of the pedestrian-only cobblestoned street in the sea-adjacent town of Salem, Massachusetts. The black ink on the brown-skinned forearm of a stranger caught her notice, and in less than a minute her whole existence distilled down to one fact. She didn’t live a life with pieces that could be permanently etched on her body. No great adventures, no fantastical experiences, no traditional milestones. No outsize success or devastating loss. Her life was as unadorned as her ordinary brown skin. Her time wasted in a mundane routine of living the same day, week, month. For the whole of her thirty years.
The brush of a passerby prodded Tulsi to move. Her feet knew the way, the route memorized from decades of taking the same path. There was privilege in having an average life, she rationalized. Not needing to process extreme highs or lows meant security. She stopped and leaned one hand against the brick wall of a familiar shop to steady herself. She’d done what was required from her, prescribed. Tulsi had ceded to the responsibility of a path passed down to her by three-thousand-year-old ancestors.
Tulsi turned the corner and went down a narrow lane dotted with dumpsters. The alley was reserved for the various shops’ staff, so they could enter through the back of their storefronts. The muggy early-morning air heightened the odor of discarded garbage as she turned the key in the big metal door. As soon as she entered, the smell changed. Familiar aromas of coriander, asafetida, and cloves punched her, as if to say, “This is your world.” She scrunched her nose against its pungency. She’d lived with it for so long that most days she never noticed. Now it overwhelmed her, heavy with the knowledge that today would be the same as yesterday.
The back office of Rasa, her family’s spice shop, held odors from its opening day, on Tulsi’s second birthday. Wedged between a café that had gone out of business and a trinket store for tourists, this was a place her grandmother built. Not to sell their wares, but to serve as spice healers for their small community.
The shop was her second home, the first being the house she shared with her mother and grandmother. With these homes ten minutes apart, her geographical footprint was contained within a few miles. From Cambridge Street to Hawthorne Boulevard, from Church Street to Peabody Street. Her whole life was here in the smallness of this large town less than an hour’s drive from Boston, in the northeast corner of America. It was rare to venture out, her friends too spread apart to meet up for dinner. Not that she had time or healthy disposable income for such luxuries. Saving for dreams she’d never attempted to make real was the only way for her to believe in someday.
Tulsi scanned the scuffed beige walls of the back office, the weathered furniture, and the tiled floor with thin cracks. She was as frayed as the building. The years had taken a toll, the ups and downs of retail, the cycles, and seasons. Somehow she’d given in to the permanence of existing solely in this space even as the earth moved, shifted, and evolved.
It was barely eight in the morning, but like a programmed robot, she performed her routine to get Rasa ready for the day. The lights on, the register computer ready for their first customer, the water feature whirring to life for a calm client experience. Rasa was designed as an invitation to discover, learn, and share what ailed people and offer a recipe for relief. Her mother and grandmother were well regarded in their community for their abilities. Locals and tourists appreciated their skills derived from ancient Vedic history—there was lore around them. And it constricted Tulsi’s life. She was the future, the one who would carry on, produce the next generation. It was all to ensure that the Guptas would not be the last of their line of spice healers.
“Good morning.”
Tulsi glanced up as her mother came through the back door. “Hi.” The mere presence of Devi centered her. Her mother was peace and serenity. Of the three Gupta women, Devi served as the primary spice healer, while her grandmother, Aruna, had shifted to adviser. Tulsi had yet to take that final step to replace Devi. One more test. The one that she’d put off for the last five years.
Devi placed a travel mug on the metal desk behind which Tulsi sat in a dilapidated swivel chair, sorting through invoices. Tulsi eyed the blue mug. It would have cha, with ginger and black pepper, and one teaspoon of sugar. Made specifically for Tulsi’s dosha, or composition of energies. She didn’t have to sip it to know the taste. As with everything else in her life, the routine was imprinted. Six days per week. On Mondays they rested.
“I’ll go check the health of kokum,” Devi said. “I picked out a few weak flowers yesterday, and I’m worried it’s the whole batch. Ma has a feeling that it’s going to be a big day.”
“Ba and her sixth sense.”
“I know you don’t believe in it, but she’s tuned to the energy of her chakras. You have to acknowledge that she is often right in her interpretations.” Devi pulled her long, thick black hair up in a knot at the nape of her neck.
The gray was more obvious now, and Tulsi noticed the faint lines on her mother’s forehead. Devi was strikingly beautiful, and not because Tulsi was biased by love. It was an objective truth, and one of the many things that Tulsi hadn’t genetically inherited. They had resemblance in that people could see their relationship, but where Devi was soft, Tulsi was angular. Her mom had curves and natural grace, while Tulsi could stand behind a light pole and no one would notice her. It was Aruna ba who had passed down Tulsi’s bony fingers, raspy voice, and frizzy hair. Tulsi, to establish some semblance of control, wore hers in a pixie cut. It was a small way to stand apart from Aruna and Devi.
