Bonds that Question

Bonds that Question
- by Meenakshi Bhat

Jet lag and complete disorientation initially eclipsed the much-anticipated exhilaration of finally being home. Since this was my third visit home, I was not as shocked to realize and admit to myself that I would have to re-orient myself in my own home where I lived for so many years.

My mother too acquiesced into not going overboard in spending countless hours making delicacies. I could not acclimatize to the sumptuous four-course meals as opposed to quick one course or one-item meals so much a hallmark of the graduate student lifestyle. Looking back, it is hard for me to decide did I have less time or less money or both?

I also knew that I could not have too many social engagements as my mother guarded my time with her as possessively as the lions in Africa guard their watering holes. If I could not chow down the countless dishes, I could at least give in by blocking out any commitments for the first week of my vacation.

As before, as I had used to many years ago, I sat in the kitchen with my mother. She warmly regaled over the little tidbits of information as she chopped vegetables and went over the intricate process of cooking. I got the latest news on all my miscellaneous relatives. Once again to my mother's frustration, I could never place them. I could not help thinking 'here is a part of my life on replay'.

My long-overdue presence brought a smile to her face and a renewed energy and precise economy to her movements. I took all this in, never realizing how much I missed these perceived silly passages of time in the kitchen with her. For the umpteenth time, there went the doorbell. I raced to get the door.

The doorbell constantly rang, a ritual that began with the milkman, then the newspaper vendor, the vegetable vendor, the old newspapers collector, and usually ended with the inquisitive neighbor. Amazingly, the old newspaper collector expected us to have a stash of old newspapers and other throwaway articles each day. I mused that this was exactly how Aladdin's wife gave away the magic lamp to the evil wizard.

My apartment doorbell (did it even have a doorbell?) never went off in contrast. This time around it was my maidservant. She smiled warmly at me and enquired after me. She marched into the kitchen and jubilantly accosted my mother. She teased my mother about her beaming looks and happiness at the prospect of having the daughter home. She then turned me and said with certain authority ' you need to write more often. I can tell when your mother encounters an aerogramme in the mail; this is exactly how she lights up'. Her advice and her concern for my mother's happiness touched me. She too after all was a mother.

I then thought wryly about the classic stereotyping that I come across too often about India's poor. Every report on third world countries will contain that anticipated grim statistic of the number of people living below the poverty level. She certainly belonged to the bracket that was summarily dismissed and classified as one that earned a few dollars a month. The paltry sum she earns in Indian rupees is made an even more ridiculous figure depending on the existing foreign exchange rate of the day.

Does earning a few dollars a month detract and deny human beings the experience of the human condition? Should it stop her from feeling and from voicing her thoughts? Does it erase the bond of concern existed between my mother and my servant? Does it discredit her as a source of information that would not be provided by my immediate family?

To the contrary should her perception of the US being the land of wonders stop her or intimidate her from advising me? I am glad that she spoke up and did not feel that she lost that authority over me! I hope it reflected on her self-esteem and my refusal to accept superficial attributes of a foreign culture, as one is in the danger of in trying to merge with the mainstream.

Ignorance is indeed bliss. I hope she will never, realize how the more developed nations perceive her lot and are as cruel as history will be to her lot. More than all the harsh realities she has borne with the grace a human being should have, this knowledge will certainly break her. Maybe that is why lions guard watering holes.