(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
On the way to New Hampshire, Gogol and Maxine stopped off at Pemberton Road for lunch, which was what, in the end, he had agreed to. Maxine didn't mind, it was on their way, after all, and she was curios by now to meet his parents. They drove up from New York in a rented car, the trunk packed with more supplies that Gerald and Lydia had asked them for on the back of a postcard : wine, bags of a particular imported pasta, a large tin of olive oil, thick wedges of Parmesan and Asiago cheese. When he asked Maxine why these things were necessary, she explained that they were going to the middle of nowhere, that if they were to depend on general store they would have nothing to live on but potato chips and Wonder bread and Pepsi. On the way to Massachusetts, he told her things he figured she should know in advance - that they would not be able to touch or kiss each other in front of his parents, that there would be no wine with lunch.
"There's plenty of wine in the trunk of the car," Maxine pointed out.
"It doesn't matter," he told her. "My parents don't own a cork screw."
The restrictions amused her, she saw them as a single afternoon's challenge, an anomaly never to be repeated.She didn't associate with him with his parents' habits, she still couldn't believe that she was to be the first girl friend he'd ever brought home. He felt no excitement over this prospect, wanted simply to be done with it. Once they got off at his parents' exit he sensed that the landscape was foreign to her : the shopping plazas, the sprawling brick-faced public high school from which he and Sonia graduated, the shingled houses, uncomfortably close to one another, on their grassy quarter-acre plots. The sign that said CHILDREN AT PLAY.He knew that this sort of life, one which was such a proud accomplishment for his own parents, was of no relevance, no interest, to her, that she loved him in spite of it.
A van from a company that installed security systems blocked his parents' driveway, and so he parked on the street, by the mailbox on the edge of the lawn. He lead Maxine up the flagstone path, ringing the bell because his parents always kept the front door locked. His mother opened the door. He could tell she was nervous, dressed in one of her better saris, wearing lipstick and perfume, in contrast to the khakis and T-shirts and soft leather moccasins Gogol and Maxine both wore.
"Hi, Ma," he said, leaning over, giving his mother a quick kiss. "This is Maxine. Max, this is my mother. Ashima."
"It's so nice to finally to meet you, Ashima," Maxine said leaning over and giving his mother a kiss as well. "These are for you," she said, handing Asima a cellophane-wrapped basket full of tinned pates and jars of cornichons and chutneys that Gogol knew his parents would never open or enjoy. He walked in his shoes on instead of changing into a pair of flip-flops that his parents keep in the hall closet. They followed his mother across the living room and around the corner into the kitchen. His mother returned to the stove, where she was deep frying a batch of samosas, filling the air with a haze of smoke.
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