A Woman of Two Countries, Belonging to None
Ah, to be a young woman in love,
seeing your future in the eyes of your lover.
Love conquers all! I am glad she
didn’t know the things she would have to leave behind, the things that would be
lost. She only saw the adventure on the
horizon.
Neither of our families had much
money, just typical middle class families.
We had enough and a bit more. My
parents gave us some money for the Christian wedding in the US and we added to
it so that we had the wedding we wanted.
Hubby’s parents paid for the entire Jain ceremony, in India, three
months later. We considered ourselves,
very married.
A year later, we told my family we
were moving to India for a year maybe three.
My husband is an only child and he wanted to make sure his parents were
OK. Did
he know that it would be longer than three years? I choose to believe that he
lied to himself as well as me.
We arrived in Delhi just before
Christmas, I’ve never understood why I agreed to leave the week before
Christmas, it makes no sense to the woman I am today, but that young woman just
followed the plan the man made. I was scared yet hopeful.
By the time Hubby and I arrived in
India we had been together for 7 years, married for 16 months and I was 4
months pregnant. We were so
excited. We planned and purchased things
we thought we would need, yet later barely used and 20 boxes of books. I entered my marital home, a joint family
consisting of my husband’s parents, his maternal grandmother (nani) and his
maternal aunt (mausi). The house had
three bedrooms each with an attached bath.
Oh the luxury, as a child my home
had one bathroom for 5 people. I couldn’t believe I lived in a house with 4
bathrooms.
We arrived on December 18, 1989, tired
and jet lagged. I began the adjustment phase and so did my new family. None of us knew what to expect, we were just
living on hope that we could live together in harmony.
My in-laws are Jains, although they
knew something about Christmas it was not much more than I knew about Holi or
Diwali. To make me feel welcome they
invited some of their closest friends and family for Christmas Eve dinner. At that time in Northern India Christmas
decorations were not as readily available as they are today, no Christmas trees
were to be found. So they purchased a
small evergreen bush and decorated it with colorful lights and tinsel. While I don’t remember everything from that
evening, I remember that Charlie Brown Christmas bush that was prepared to make
me happy. There was conversation, and
snacks on the coffee table, deviled eggs and Indian namkeens. There was singing-old Hindi songs and
Christmas carols. It was a joyous night,
before a difficult first Christmas away from my family.
Immediately adjustments began, on both
sides, I didn’t want to embarrass my new family. I had told them when I moved here that where
ever I could bend I would, where I couldn’t bend, we would deal with that as it
came up. I was lucky, Hubby and I had
been together for long enough to become a unit. They also adjusted. Since I was expecting, I
needed protein, problem was I am a nonvegetarian that moved into a vegetarian
household. Before I came they didn’t
even allow eggs into the house. Normally, a vegetarian diet can give a person
all the protein a pregnant woman needs, however, while I was pregnant I
couldn’t eat anything “rassa” or wet/gravy like. Even the milk was unpalatable
to me, as in those days the local milk tasted gamey. Considering
I grew up drinking milk with breakfast, lunch, and dinner this was a major change.
So the elders of the house got
together even before I arrived and decided to get me a separate pan and
spatula, so I could eat eggs. The closest analogy I have is pork being served
in either a Jewish or Muslim household. Because eggs were allowed in the house nani took
flack from her many siblings, but she told them that I wasn’t used to Indian
food and I needed the eggs to be healthy.
Initially, I was taken to various
friends’ and relatives’ houses to be introduced. There I was in my casual western dresses
trying not to embarrass my in-laws.
However, the same phrase kept being repeated, “Don’t you think Indians are
more loving and affectionate?” Logically
I know they were trying to welcome me, but they didn’t understand that they
were insulting my family- my culture. I
would respond with “No, we just show it differently”. Discussions on why we put elders in nursing
homes would frustrate me. People who had
always had domestic staff available 24/7 could not understand that in the US most
households all adults would work outside the home. A nursing home is a safe place that provided the
elderly company, nutritious meals and required medication, as well as provide
stimulating activities to keep their minds and bodies active.
The different ways we looked at things
was often difficult, but sometimes I would bump up against something I couldn’t
accept. While some things I adjusted to.
Hubby and I shared a room with an
attached bath. We were able to fit a King
Sized bed, a baby bed, a desk, we had just enough space to walk around the bed.
We shared a single 3 feet wide
closet. I remember not allowing anyone
in to clean the room or bathroom. The
sweepress complained that I did not allow her in to clean. Me, as someone who had never had domestic
staff, let alone one person who cooked and cleaned the kitchen, one who cleaned
the rest of the house and one who just did bathrooms, and someone who did just
the outside. Why would I ever need
someone to clean my bedroom and a small bathroom or do my laundry. Later when our first child was born I didn’t
want or keep an ayah (nanny)- my mother-in-law was in charge of the kitchen,
staff took care of cleaning the house- all
I had to do was look after one little baby.
Those first few months were a strange
mix of homesickness and excitement of starting a new life. The change in living style was quite
extreme. Hubby and I went from haphazard
meals to set meal times with the entire family sitting together. I went from a certain mind set and I had to
learn how to do things in a different way.
In the US, I was used to washing clothes in a fully automatic washer and
then putting them in a clothes dryer. In
India, washing machines were still fairly new.
Most houses still hired a dhobi/dhoban (clothes washer/presser). Our house had a twin tub machine, one side
for washing and rinsing and the second side for spinning. By reusing the rinse water for the following
wash water, it saved a lot of water, which was in limited supply. After the spinning cycle I would carry the
clothes up to the roof and hang them on a line.
One day I decided to wash my canvas sneakers in the washing machine,
something I had done before in the US.
What I did not understand is that is that I basically contaminated the
washing machine for other people in the house.
I was told much later that Nani refused to allow her saris be washed in
the machine for six months. The dhoban
washed all of her saris by hand, because I put shoes in the washing machine. Even today, I can accept the fact that I
shouldn’t do it, but I still don’t get it. Yet it is these type of things, that
each side took as a given that the other side never gave a thought to, that
caused the most hiccups.
In the US I had the freedom to travel when and
where I wished. In India, I became home
bound. I didn’t speak Hindi, so I
couldn’t take public transportation alone, the traffic in India petrified me
and it took 4 years before I built up courage to drive in India. I couldn’t even go to my doctor’s
appointments by myself.
My younger sister was pregnant at the
same time as I was. She delivered her
child by caesarian. The day after her
delivery she was told to get up and get a shower. By the next day she was home,
responsible for this new baby and also taking care of her home. Two months later, I also gave birth by caesarian,
but I had private day and night nursing.
I was able to stay in a private room for a week. Once I got home I didn’t have to do anything
except recover and look after the baby.
In the US it was unheard of to have a private room, let alone private
nursing. But she got disposable diapers and I had cloth diapers. She fed formula and I nursed. Initially, I
thought that I would use a formula feed occasionally. However, the only breast milk substitute was
a powder that needed added water. The problem is getting safe water was a long
process. In the end I decided I would
only breastfeed to keep my baby healthy.
While our mom moved in with my sister to help after the baby was born, I
had my mother-in-law and her staff. She
even hired a dhoban to wash all of the cloth diapers, because poopy diapers
couldn’t be put in the washing machine.
Due to my caesarian I was not allowed to carry anything heavy or climb
the stairs to the roof to hang the clothes/diapers so I gave up my laundry
duties to the maid.
Once home from the hospital, life
revolved around our new addition. May in
New Delhi meant soaring temperatures. In
the 90s there was a lot of load shedding, planned blackouts. The supply of electricity was unable to keep
up with the new demand as air conditioners became more common. Hubby
and I had the only air conditioner in the house. The first night back, with the temperature
hovering around 100, the electricity went out for two hours. No light, no fan,
mosquitos buzzing, my stitches from the caesarian itching from the sweat. Even
the baby became uncomfortable. The next night the electricity went off
again. This time Hubby drove baby and me
around the neighborhood with the a/c on so that the baby could sleep. The third day my father-in-law bought a small
generator, so when the lights went off for the third day in a row, we at least
had lights and fan.
Post my parents’ divorce, my family
lived in government subsidized housing. We never had an air conditioner. We owned one box fan that was put in the
living room window. Often my mom would
sleep on the couch and we would sleep on the floor in the hope of getting a bit
of breeze from the fan during the height of summer. Hubby actually had a harder time dealing with
the 40C+ (100F) Delhi temperatures. I
could deal with the excruciating heat as long as I had a fan, but some days all
I could do was just lie under the fan and concentrate on the air movement.
I thought it would be harder to be a
nonvegetarian in a vegetarian house. As I said before, the taste of Indian milk
made me nauseous. Since I was used to drinking milk with breakfast, lunch, dinner
and as a snack in between, this caused a major change in my diet. In the US, hubby and I loved eating out. We loved Chinese, Thai, Ponderosa and pizza. Dinners at home would be simple easy to
prepare items. Once we arrived in India,
eating out was a rarity. Initially,
there were no restaurants near the colony (neighborhood) we lived. For special occasions we would go to
Connaught Place, Dasprakash for dosas, Alka for Jain thalis, Bengali market for
chaat. Instead of cereal and donuts for
breakfast I began having poora and paranthas.
Lunch consisted of a dal, rice, dry potato dish, a vegetable, and
paranthas, not to mention the chutneys and achaars. Where once our diet was highly processed and
synthetic, it became homemade food, made from fresh vegetables and whole
grains. Since nonveg wasn’t cooked in
the house, every week or so my MIL would send me to Connaught place where I
would eat half a tandoori chicken and a butter naan. In those days many of the restaurants were
self-serve. The ground floor had high
tables where you would stand and eat. If
you wanted to sit, you would have to collect your food from downstairs and
carry it upstairs. There I was 26 years
old, unable to speak Hindi, 6 months pregnant, an obviously foreign woman,
climbing the stairs holding a tray, trying to balance everything, fearful of
dropping my food or falling. I always
felt like I was on display. What was
weirder was when men would try and pick me up. For some unknown reason the
Janpath Romeos all believed that foreign women were easy. Once when I was round 8 months pregnant a
young man tried his lines on me. I took
one look at him, stuck my stomach out a little further as if it wasn’t obvious
enough, and asked him, “What the hell are you thinking?”
Initially,
we had no friends of our own, we socialized with my in-laws’ friends and their
children. As my husband reconnected with
cousins and old classmates from his school and college days - our social circle
slowly expanded. It was wonderful to
discover that our next door neighbors consisted of a young couple, their two
small daughters, and the wife’s college going brother. Since they had young children they didn’t
like going out as there wasn’t anyone reliable to watch their daughters. After my son was born, most mornings I would
go over to her house, her girls would play with my son. We would drink cold coffee, something I experienced for the first time
in India. We talked about normal
things that young mother’s do. She told
me about the neighborhood and we became friends. On the weekends they would invite all their
friends over including Hubby and I, and they would turn the lights low, the
music high and all of us would talk, drink, dance and eat, just like so many
young friends around the world.
Sometimes the music would be so loud my father-in-law would call over
and request the music be turned down so he could sleep. One weekend our friends had another one of
their get-togethers. I can’t remember
why we didn’t attend that evening, but sometime that night the police came,
lined the men up, manhandled them, called their wives horrible names, accused
them of doing illicit activities. My
friends’ daughters saw this… heard this.
They threatened to take the men to jail.
For what reason no one knows. The
couple was frightened after this. One of
their daughters was so traumatized that whenever she saw a man in uniform she
would wet her pants. Shortly afterwards,
the husband took a job in a foreign country.
They sold the house that the husband’s parents had built and which had
been filled with so much love and laughter.
And my burgeoning friendship was pricked like an overfilled
balloon. Once again I was left without a
laughing companion.
I’m not the kind to make friends easily. My father’s side of the family is full of
charmers who’ve never met a stranger, I somehow missed that gene. Throughout my life I’ve had few close
friends. I preferred being with
family. Luckily, there was family our
age in Delhi. For the next couple of
years, we would visit, attend weddings, and celebrate births. From Dusserha to Diwali we would take turns
hosting flash (three card poker), in our homes.
As our children began growing up and going to different schools and as
careers took others to different cities lives began changing, some for the
better, some not. For some our lives
just took different paths that rarely crossed.
I chose to be a homemaker. My mother had to work in order to feed,
clothe and house us. So, I told Hubby
that if we chose to have kids, I wanted to be a stay at home mom. That is what
I did - except when I had to be corporate wife.
The next decade was bizarre. My days were filled with PTA, soccer, play
dates, scouts and family events. I only wanted
to concentrate on my children and extended family, yet due to Hubby’s job often
in the evening I would have to go to large corporate/client events and try and
speak with people I had never met before.
For a wallflower like me, this was torture.
Delhi for all its millions of people
is actually quite intimate, just by asking a couple of questions connections
are made. “What school did you go
to?” “What college did you go to?” “What company are you with?” There was only one problem, my answers
offered up no connection, no commonalities.
In combination with my shyness conversation became stilted. I dreaded these events. Occasionally, the events were interesting,
especially the ones which had special performances. I saw Zubin Mehta conduct. I saw Shahrukh Khan perform on stage. I was able to see so many plays that were
sponsored by various corporations. However, more often than not the events were
just large rooms with endless alcohol, boring food, and a couple of hundred
people I didn’t know and had nothing in common.
In
the early years we could only afford to go back to the US every two years, then
it became every summer. Every time my
mom would ask when we were coming back, as we had told her it would be 1 year 3
at most. As time passed, once a trip, it
almost became a taunt. Once she got in
her zinger, we would just have fun. After a while our trips began to follow a pattern. Once my sister was able to take care of her
house and baby by herself, Mom moved in my Grandma’s 900 sq ft 3 bedroom 1
bathroom ranch house in the middle class neighborhood that I had spent my first
18 years. My Dad would visit the day
after I arrived and the day before I left. When I arrived there would be
four-ways and cheese coneys for my first dinner home. The table would have Bonnie Lynne long john
donuts. In the fridge would be paper
thin sliced chicken and honey baked ham and Dean’s French Onion Dip to go with
the Mike Sell’s potato chips. My Grandma
would cut the kernals off the silver queen white corn for my children and the
freezer would be stocked with dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets, which was one of
the few American foods my kids would eat.
Three weeks before going home for the 3rd time, my grandma
passed, we arrived just in time for Mom and my Aunt to divide everything. Mom ended up with the house that became my de
facto US home.
Mom
was a jealous and greedy woman when it came to time with the kids and me. Sometimes I would have to be a bit blunt when
I wanted to spend time with other family or old friends. My older sister would take me and mine for
two nights and tell Mom she wasn’t invited, that this was sister bonding time. My
nephew would give up his room and share the living room floor with my
kids. As an only child two years older than
my oldest he was really nice to put up with all the bouncing my kids did on
him. My younger sister was married with
a daughter the same age as mine. They would come to mom’s place and hang out. Before
I would arrive my Bestie would call up Mom and they would spar and negotiate
for my time. As Bestie is a teacher she
had summers off; Mom had weekends off.
So Bestie was allowed to have me for any two nights between Monday and
Friday. Usually Mom drove me around and
initially it was too expensive to rent a car so Bestie’s one of a kind husband
would take off work, drive two hours, pick us up and drive another two hours
back to their place and then repeat this two days later. While we were at their house we would have a
meal at the local airport restaurant. My
kids would play with her son. She and I
would hold down the couches in her living room talk about old times, present
times and what we hoped to do. Her husband would gather his gaming friends and
set up a network for them to all play 1st person shooter games.
Delhi
had more than 17 million people in the early 90s. Just as in the US there isn’t supposed to be
any social hierarchy, but as everyone knows what the constitution says and what
happens in reality are two different things.
In the US status could come from sports, beauty, money or just fame, but
everyone ends up being “you”. In India,
status is reinforced by the culture and language.
My
in-laws had a cook that had worked for them for them for over 15 years. When my oldest was around 2, he kept
referring to him as “tu”, which was not acceptable to him. I had no clue initially what he did wrong,
but one day we were talking about the difference between tu, tum and aap. Basically, tu is very very informal. Tum is
used for most friends, colleagues and relations. Aap is used for elders and formal
relationships. I told my children to
only use aap for anyone older than them.
Another issue came back due to the fact that we had domestic help. In many houses kids would call the help by
first name or a family relation i.e. didi (sister), bhai (brother), chacha
(uncle). Neither Hubby nor I wanted
that, I normally would have my kids call any adult Mr. X or Mrs. Y, but this
was not a cultural norm or even something the staff would have understood. We were in the middle of a cultural
conundrum. Eventually, I came up with
first name and ji. Ji in Hindi is a
suffix that can be added to a name or title to show respect.
I
only found out the importance of this small addition when the kids were in
senior school. I have always told my
children “there is no one better than you at the same time no one is below
you”. I also told them “there is no
shame in any legal job, even if you have to dig ditches to feed your family
then you dig a ditch”. Another important
I told them “our staff are my employees not yours”. These statements were important because of
what I had seen. Several times I saw
toddlers order their ayahs (nannies) around, the ayahs were powerless to
reprimand or control their wards. The
habit of requesting, not ordering, our staff to do things and saying please and
thank-you, the addition of ji to their names,
became so ingrained that even their closest friends did the same in our
house. One day my children were going on a group lunch after school. On that particular day I sent Hubby’s driver
to pick up them and their friends from school.
As they were settling in the car, my son asked “Sushil ji can we put on
our music”, one of the boys in the car said “why are you being polite, you just
need to say driver turn on the music and he has to”. One of my kids’ oldest friends told that boy
to get out of the car until he apologized and showed Sushil some respect. To this day, as grown adults, my children
still add ji to the elder staff, they make sure that when they go to my in-laws
house that they greet them with a Namaste and ask if they are well.
In
the US I had similar problems. My family
is very informal. I would call my aunts
and uncles and even my parents’ friends by their first names. When we would go back to the US, I knew Hubby
would not be comfortable with such informality and to be honest my personality
had come to appreciate the subtle signs of respect. So as my children grew they would hear their cousins
call me by my first name while they had to say Aunt, Uncle, Mr. Mrs.. My sisters would try and get them to call
them only by their first name, my children would turn their heads, take one
look at my face and just shake their heads.
These
little differences in culture began to slip into my children’s lives. I would tell them that they needed to be
capable of moving in both societies with ease.
In India they had to greet all guests with folded hands and say Namaste,
they would also have to do it to Indians they met in the US. However, when with my family a hello would
do. In neither country did they ever
have to allow anyone to touch them. In
the US this was taken as a given, in India they had to learn polite ways of
backing up. In India, Hubby and FIL were
very modest, always wearing either pants and shirt or kurta pajama. In the US during the summer most of the men
in my family would be shirtless outside, which shocked my kids initially. Later they loved going shirtless, in the
US. When we were at my Mom’s house they
would have to help clean and straighten up.
In India, even though I made them responsible for their rooms and later
their laundry, the staff would often go behind my back and clean for them.
During
this time of teaching my children how to live in two worlds, I also had to
learn how to be a woman of many worlds.
When the kids were young I began wearing salwar kameezes. I found that even though I was obviously a foreigner,
I was treated with more respect when I wore Indian clothing. There was also an economic reason as a large
American woman it was difficult to find any western clothes my size in India
and when I did go to the US it was very expensive. Days of being a soccer mom, nights being
corporate wife, life in India, life in the US.
In India I was the Jain’s bahu, in the US I was the visiting
daughter/sister/friend who lives in India.
Living in a joint family I learned to adjust. Being in a Jain household I learned how to
make different kinds of menus, American, Indian, nonvegetarian, vegetarian, and
vegan. In the US the only events we
hosted were for close family and friends, usually no larger than 10 people. In India I had to learn how to host events
for hundreds. Where once family
gatherings were casual get-togethers, in India when different generations of a
family get together there are formalities to observe. In the US if someone declined food or drink,
I would accept their refusal. In India I
had to learn to offer again. My MIL
would offer/force or at least ask four times if someone wanted something. I just couldn’t do it. I would offer, if they declined I would say
“are you sure?” If they still refused I
took them at their word. So as I
adjusted, our family and friends adjusted as well.
I
had to learn not to miss. When in India
I didn’t allow myself to miss my family or things in the US. I put those emotions in a strongbox in my
mind. When I was in the US I refused to
think about anything in India, any issues would go in a strongbox until I
returned.
I
had to learn how to dress… appropriately.
Even though my mother was in retail and my sister dressed to kill, I
lived for comfort. I remember the first
time I had to attend a corporate event in the US, I had my mom dress me. I stood there like a mannequin as she picked
out the forest green velvet tea length dress and the multicolored metallic high
heeled shoes and the costume jewelry. I got my hair done professionally for the
first time. I felt like a princess.
When
we moved to India I was expecting and so initially I wore only jumpers and
dresses. Later, I began wearing casual
salwar suits. For weddings I wore
saris. As Hubby’s career progressed we
began attending more corporate events, then we began attending what can only be
called high society events. I went from
wearing cotton and lizzy busy fabric to chiffons, georgettes and silks. I went from wash and dry to dry cleaning. My wardrobe which originally fit in a small 3
foot closet that I shared with Hubby, now needed 3 times the amount of
space. I needed outfits for dinners,
weddings, luncheons. Delhi is a city
where people track what you wear. For a
close family wedding, I had purchased a sea foam green gold tissue sari. Oh the look that came into Hubby’s eyes when
I wore it. So I wore it for every
wedding I could. Then one of the family
friends asked me “Don’t you have any other sari?” I was a bit rude as I replied,
“I love the look in Hubby’s eyes when I wear this, as long as he looks at me
like that, I’ll keep wearing it”. To
this day I believe she stepped on and tore the hem of that sari on purpose.
Then
there is the jewelry. Growing up I rarely saw anyone wear more than a simple
pair of earrings, a filigree chain with a small pendant and maybe
engagement/wedding rings. I rarely wore
anything other than a pair of earrings or maybe the locket Hubby gave me for
our 5th anniversary, and my wedding band, a simple band of tri
colored gold, until I got married in India. India, where women never left the
house without wearing a complete set, earrings, necklace, rings and
bracelets. For my wedding, my in-laws
had already given me a sapphire set. For
my first birthday I was given a golden daisy chain necklace. For events, MIL would go to the locker and
take out heirloom sets. Later, she and FIL gave some of the sets to me for
birthday or anniversary. Hubby also
loved giving me jewelry, birthdays, anniversaries, even for no occasion. He once gave me a pearl set because he went
to Hyderabad which was known for its pearls.
I once got emerald and diamond earrings because he saw them and thought
they would be perfect for me, I call them my “just because he loves me
earrings”. In one evening I could be
wearing more than my mom made in one month and I had several such sets in the
locker.
Then
the guilt set in. The first few times I
went home, my budget was tight. The
Rupee was not exchanged on the open market.
We were only allowed, if I remember correctly, $ 500 /person/trip. Other than the first two trips, the kids and
I would travel and stay alone and Hubby would come the last week. We would stay at Mom’s house and she provided
all of our food. She rarely allowed me
to pay for necessities. I could tell you
on any given day to the penny what I spent. Initially, Hubby’s Indian salary
while good in India didn’t stretch well in America. It was hard to explain that in India, Hubby’s
salary was entering the upper middle class level, it was just the rules were so
strict on taking money out. Hubby and I
followed the rules. In India, I had
staff, people to drive, cook, clean, and do my laundry. I wore bespoke clothing, tailored, often made
of silk and georgette with hand embroidery or painting. Yet in the US, I had to count each and every
penny. Then the Indian economy opened
up, allowances were increased. When the
economy opened the rules allowed us to take more money for travel expenses I
could afford to pay for a dinner or buy my sister an outfit.
Eventually,
I could go out and purchase whatever I wanted.
The thing is I didn’t want much, mainly good food and good
experiences. On one trip we took my mom
and the kids to Gatlinburg, a favorite place for Hubby and me. We took the kids to all of the tourist traps
that we had been unable to afford on our earlier trips. We took them to “Burning Bush” for breakfast
and steak dinners. We went to Fanny Farkles for corndogs and the French Fry
place. We went to the Christmas Shop in
Pigeon Forge and bought boxes of ornaments.
By this time Mom was retired and her income severely decreased. Luckily, while she couldn’t allow me to pay
for dinners, she knew that Hubby would never allow her to pay for her dinner
when she was with us. Sometimes that
male protector thing came in handy.
I
talked with my older sister and my bestie about my guilt. Both told me that I shouldn’t feel guilty,
Hubby and I worked hard for the money and we should enjoy it. They helped and while the guilt never fully
went away, I learned how to deal with it.
While
my kids were in grade school, my soccer mom experiences were very similar to those
that I would have had if we had lived in the US. Take the kids to school, after school play
dates, birthday parties, PTA and football (soccer) games. When they entered senior school (sixth
grade), things began to change. They
didn’t need me present all the time. By
the time they were in the 8th and 9th grade we had hired
a second driver because of the difference in activities. I began to find that I had more free
time. A relative asked me to volunteer
at an NGO where she volunteered.
I
am grateful for that volunteer work. It
allowed me to decrease my dependence on my children’s time. I didn’t want my
children to become my entertainment. Initially, I organized the NGOs library,
eventually I became their IT consultant.
Meanwhile, I was still volunteering at the AWA library. I used to dream
about going back and getting my Masters Degree.
I think I would have gone back for a degree in computer science. Problem is, India’s education system is not
designed for adult learning. All of my volunteer work forced me to learn new
skills and how to think out of the box.
Then
my oldest decided to go to college in the US.
The box in my brain where I had put years of homesickness, sprung a
leak. My desire to move back to the US
at times was overwhelming, but it was impossible. Hubby’s job was here and he was reaching the
pinnacle. There were also emotional
issues, I couldn’t take Hubby and our children away from my in-laws. I didn’t want to leave them and yet whenever
I went home I could see how my parents were aging. Once again I was torn. I was angry at Hubby for putting me in this
position. I was angry at myself for
allowing me to be in this position. I
knew I couldn’t change anything. So I
began sealing the box and just hoped I could deal with the slow leak in a
healthy manner. I think overall, I dealt
well, but then I was lucky, Hubby made sure I went to the US at least once a
year, eventually, when my mom developed cancer he made sure I went home twice a
year. I think that is when the wealth
guilt really decreased, because that is what allowed me to spend so much time
with my mom and dad.
In
India, we have staff. Even a lower
middle class family would at least have a part time person to mop the floors
daily. In my marital home we had a
couple who did the cleaning, cooking and babysat as needed. There was also a woman who came to clean the
bathrooms, a sweeper who cleaned the driveway, a gardener, and a driver. I can still remember asking Mom as a young
girl “why she didn’t hire a maid?” Her
response was “I already have three”. It
was my sisters and my responsibility to keep the house clean, wash dishes,
laundry, and sometimes cook as my mother went out and worked up to 60 hours a
week in retail. Living in India I don’t have to do any housework unless I want
to and the only thing I do regularly is my laundry. When I go home, my family
makes sure I have to do the dishes at the big family meals to keep me humble,
not to mention a bit of dusting and laundry. Unfortunately, I could never get
my children to really enjoy cleaning. So
while they can clean and do laundry they would rather pay someone to do it
whether in India or elsewhere.
As
my children became adults they started following their own paths. At various
times they moved out. Sometimes they
moved back in. Their jobs took them to
different cities and even different countries.
I loved watching them spread their wings, confident that they knew where
their roots were. When in the US they
had no problems showing up at their grandma’s or aunt’s or even cousins’ homes
to stay for the holidays. In India they
always knew they had free room and board in my home. I have been blessed. My children have become responsible independent
adults who call me when they are away and hug me when they are with me. I have no fear should they live with me in a
joint family or away from me in a different country. I am comfortable with both.
I
grew up with the idea that we could live with Mom until we got married, but
after the age of 18 we would be responsible for our own living expenses. I came to a country where finances were often
controlled by the eldest member of the household, (not mine, but I know of many houses). I come from a household where I could
disagree with my mom as long as I did it at home, knowing she still had final
say. We were not to embarrass mom in
public as a sign of respect. I moved
into a house where elders’ rules were law and children did not argue with their
parents. I taught my children that they
needed to listen to their elders always, they didn’t have to agree, but they
did have to listen. If they were going
to disagree they needed to be able to support their position. My children were allowed to disagree with me
in the house, not in public. They also
knew I had final say.
I
had to teach my children about dating and intimate relationships. At the same time they needed to understand
some limitations. When they were in
their teens the rule was they could date as long as I didn’t get a phone call
from the girl’s parents saying they didn’t approve. If she was under 18 she was a minor and had
to follow her parents’ rules. Luckily, I
never got a phone call. I assumed my
adult children were sexually active, I didn’t want to know details, but I made
sure they had all the information they needed to practice safer sex. I also told them it was better to wait, but
then so did my mother. In the US rarely has a child greeted me when I
visited. I taught my children how to
welcome guests to our home and later how to work a party, whether it was 5
people, 50 people or even 500. Growing
up in Delhi they learned things as children that I didn’t learn until I was 30,
how to dress, how to work a room, how to negotiate. I had to learn things so that I could teach
my children how to maneuver in Delhi society. My sister came to India for one
of my children’s wedding. When she left
she said, “Now I know why you do some of the things you do”.
I
have lived a privileged life. I had a
mother who gave unconditional love. What
we didn’t have in things she made up in acceptance and encouragement and a
shakedown as needed. In India I have a
family that has come to accept and appreciate me. I have a Hubby that loves me
just the way I am. I have come to accept
the duality of my nature. The framework
I started with as well as the additions that I needed to make in order to
function in two nations. I am an
American at heart, the red, white and blue fill me with pride. Even when I
don’t like or disagree with other people’s choices or opinions, but that is
what is great about being American, I can agree to disagree and yell it from
the roof tops. But I also know that
India has seeped into my bones with its bold colors and formalities. I have become used to celebrating all
religious holidays whether Christian, Jain, Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Buddhist or
Parsi. I have come to crave chicken
tikka and dal makhni when I need comfort food, just as I would crave tomato
noodles when I first came here. The
older I get I find I want to be in both places more and more. My American homesick box now has a matching
Indian homesick box. I wish to be with
my dad. I wish to be with Papa. I want to go to cookouts at my sisters’. I want to go to Chacha’s house for Rakhi. Perhaps my original perception was wrong,
perhaps I’ve changed enough that I am a woman of two countries, belonging to
both.
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