BIRD MILK & MOSQUITO BONES

A Kashmir-born, Los Angeles–based writer, filmmaker, and former talent agent reflects on her upbringing between many worlds.

“I was born a Hindu in the city of Srinagar, as was almost everyone in my family, for probably thousands of years,” writes Mattoo in her debut memoir. She spent idyllic summers and holidays with her extended family there until sectarian violence against Kashmiri Hindus broke out in late 1989. Mattoo’s father was a doctor, and the family lived abroad in Saudi Arabia and England the rest of the year, eventually learning that the house they were building in Srinagar was burned down by militants. (The title of the book alludes to a Kashmiri phrase regarding the precious items the family was collecting for the house.) For the author, this early memory constitutes the lingering wound of her rupture with her ethnic past, and she has lived with the desolate feeling of being adrift in the world. The narrative, some of which is emotionally remote, jumps among time periods in Mattoo’s life as part of the Indian diaspora, reflecting how she was never sure exactly how to write about her fairly privileged past: “Writing wasn’t for people like me, who didn’t want to talk about our cultural burdens.” She fondly describes her Kashmiri grandparents, businesspeople forced to relocate in Delhi, as well as her love of language and traditional music and food. She also examines her parents’ arranged marriage and how she herself had to relinquish an early desire to marry a Kashmiri man because there were so few available in America. Eventually, Mattoo married a Jewish writer. In prose that is warm and sometimes elegant, but not spectacular, the author shares nuggets of hard-won wisdom, but they’re not always easy to discern.

A moving yet occasionally disjointed personal exploration of the Indian diaspora.