Vessels and Things...

Aaaaaargh! Waterlogged, wet dishes...yet again my dishwasher proves that it has a will of its own. Either the soap stays safely tucked in its compartment while the washer runs its whole cycle, or the the "Air Dry" does not kick in and I have sloppy dishes to dry with a towel.  Hmmmmnn, I resign myself to a half hour spent toweling dishes and clench my teeth against just another minor irritation (for that's all it is.) I look out the window and envy the kids Ripstiking and biking around in our communtiy. It is a glorious Sunday afternoon after all, an unseasonably warm one at that...and suddenly I know what to do.  Grabbing the entire spoons and ladle rack, I rush to my little back yard and triumphantly dump all the spoons on the wide-enough step. Now on a roll, I bring back all the wet dishes by the arms full and set them out on the hot brick tiles, and then, why not? I grab the entire counter-top dish rack of just washed dishes and hurry it to the backyard too. There! My heart is thumping painfully and I DO NOT wonder at what it is about shiny wet vessels facing the hot sun that makes me go all smiley inside.

I know exactly why my heart is doing this sappy dance, 'tis because I re-created a scene from my own childhood. What seems like an extraordinary deed today, was a ritual that played out every day during the twenty three years I lived in India. Our maid Reddamma would wash our (mostly stainless steel) dishes every morning and evening in the backyard of our home in Hyderabad. Reddamma would sit in the backyard on a little stool, with all our dirty dishes arrayed in front of her...big cooking pots, pans, our dinner and breakfast plates, tumblers, spoons...and scour away speedily for the better part of an hour. Next to this washing area was another work area that she would also wash and keep ready. She would then lift buckets of water from our cement water tank and proceed to rinse them all out and then she would spread them out to dry on the nearby work area. In a little while, the Sun would unerringly reach out and lovingly touch all those cleaned dishes with his hot fingers. Within an hour, all those pots and pans would be bright and shiny, and depending on how long they had been out dallying with the sun, they would come back in warm or burning hot!

Thanks to Reddamma's labor and the loving embrace of the sun, our dishes would get cleaned and sanitized with almost no effort on our part. Except on those days that Reddamma could not do her job (and I would take over the job), or when it rained of course! Day after day, after day, I took those clean, dry dishes for granted. My labor consisted mostly of running bare foot on scorching afternoons to the work area in our backyard, to fetch the dishes and arrange them on our kitchen shelves. My feet stinging as I hotfooted it to and from the backyard, my hands smarting from holding hot vessels, I would grumble at the unfairness of it all!


As the vessels are drying up in my backyard today, I reflect on how the metaphors for my life transformed dramatically upon my move to the U.S, as it has done for most people who migrate to this land of plenty and convenience. Overnight, a whole way of life changed, and among the lost metaphors, is the backyard as a true work space, where we spent time washing and cleaning dishes and clothes, sifting and sorting grains and other supplies, where the Sun played such an important role in keeping our lives warm, clean and sanitized. Coming to the Bay Area as a new bride, confident in my abilities and in my intelligence, I quickly turned into an awkward, Americanized Reddamma, insufficient and unsure at first, slowly losing touch with all the mores that I was so comfortable with. Over the past sixteen years, I have assumed many more roles and have learned to like those roles, and metaphors, albiet reluctantly sometimes. What has kept me somewhat anchored,  is a compulsion almost, to infuse my life here in the Bay Area with things from my life in India, customs, rituals and foods, stories...some of them may not be relevant anymore to the life we lead here. But they bring a warmth and a comfort, much like the old, beige, worn blanket my father favored over all others. Appa always claimed it was more comfortable and warmed him much better than any of the more plush blankets we purchased over the years. I understand that warmth now, the warmth of familiarity and memories, as I smile at the almost parched dishes before me.

My mother, folding line dried clothes in my backyard while listening to Carnatic music on her iPad!

For a few years now, I have hung wet clothes on lines in my backyard, a puny effort at being "green", although in my heart, I know that I do it to relive bygone days. I felt no ambiguity though, when on  my recent trip to India, I decided to bring back with me the little stone pestle and mortar that my mother used to dry grind her spices in for more than thirty five years. The now defunct pestle, which must weigh at least 10 lbs, had served over the years, as a versatile blender, door stopper and our Cornerstone. This little pestle embodies to me, years of memories, the fragrance of the past and forgotten vignettes of a lifestyle that has gone for ever! The pestle now sits proudly on my kitchen counter, in all its ugly glory, occupying a place of honor in my heart and yes, now grinding spices, ginger, garlic and other fragrant herbs for me, just as it did for my mother for all those years. What a treasure I have, and what a heritage to inherit from my mother!

My mother visits me but for a few months every year, certainly no Reddamma here to wash and clean after me, but my glorious sun did follow me here,  to this land where he shines so gloriously most days. And today, when I look at these vessels and things drying in my backyard, the saris on the clothes line, the pestle on my counter...a peculiar warmth invades my being. My heart is thumping painfully, and I DO NOT WONDER at what it is about shiny wet vessels facing the hot sun that makes me go all smiley inside!

Holding hands

Today, while I was driving down Blaney Avenue to pick up my son at close-to-noon time, I saw the usual sights, many automatically overlooked due to the monotony of seeing them many times, every single day. As I drove past the beautiful Calabazas park, I saw the regular groups and pairs of people walking and running, getting fit despite the cold and dreary spring day! I looked wistfully at them, wishing I had their commitment to keeping themselves healthy. And then, there were the Indian parents, who venture out at this time because it usually warms up around noon. They are easy to pick out, (Indians of our parent's generation) because of their clothes: the gentlemen dressed, well, like gentlemen. Neatly pressed, tight polyester shirts tucked into neatly creased dress pants, topped off by a sweater and new walking shoes. The ladies, in their starched saris or salwar-kurtas, woefully inadequate sweaters, shawl/muffler covering their heads and upper bodies...and yes, the new walking shoes! I look at them wistfully too....

So, it was the usual sights I saw today on my way to school, except for one. My breath caught as I saw them; an elderly gentleman, slightly bald, and wearing a familiar, brown, oversize sweater. Walking with him was a young lady, her palm tucked into the gentleman's elbow. I couldn't resist swiveling quickly to look at their faces, I shouldn't have. A father and daughter it seemed. My heart squeezed painfully, my throat choked up with hot and angry tears...why Appa, why did you have to go away?

As far back as I can remember, I have always walked with my fingers curled into the inside of my dad's elbow. My father liked to walk, a lot. He would make us walk to the cinemas, to the circus, to restaurants, to the bazaars...it was a given, if we went out with Appa, we walked. And I always walked holding on to his elbow, my little fingers bypassing his proffered index finger, for the warm crook of his elbow. Through my growing up years, it did not matter where we went, I just automatically latched onto my father's hand. As I grew taller, and as he slowly lost vision in one eye to Diabetes, my grip on his elbow strengthened. When his feet started getting frequently infected, I held on to him wherever we walked, slowly, quietly lending him support. Or so I thought, until one day, he only half-jestingly asked me whether I was helping him or dragging him down, a gentle reminder of my support becoming burdensome. I didn't care, I needed to hold his hand, I realized.

My Appa and his grandson (my older son) holding hands!

Over the years, my father's hand became to me, a metaphor for gentle, strong and reassuring support. My father was an unassuming man; gentle, compassionate, and just a fantastic dad to my brother and I. Whenever the bottom fell out from under my feet (which happened quite often) my father was my knight in shining armor, he was always there to pick me up, his gentle, reassuring hands letting me know that all will be okay. When Appa visited us here in the U.S for the last time, in the Fall of 2005, we went on many walks together. He in the oversize brown sweater I had given him long ago, and a gray muffler surrounding a balding head, my hand tucked securely in his elbow, guiding, stopping, and pulling him along. One day, we had returned home from shopping and I was dropping him off at home before rushing away to pick up my son from school. He had just gotten out of the car and closed the door, and I quickly pressed the button to close the windows, not noticing that my dad's fingers were trapped between the glass and the window. He yelled for me to lower the window and I just froze, only noticing my dad's beautiful finger nails turning an angry red and then blue. Only then did reaction kick in and I lowered my window just in time to hear my dad exclaim angrily "Thank goodness! Or you would not have had a hand to hold in the future!"

Appa had beautiful hands and feet, my own look ungainly and klutzy in comparison. He had elegant fingers, long, tapered and slightly bent, his fingernails perfectly carved by nature...I always thought they were wasted in a man. As his cold body lay on the living room floor I wanted to touch no part of him, except for his hands, his fingers, especially his extended index finger which I so callously rejected in favor of his elbow. I kept whispering to his lifeless form, "What a waste Appa, what a waste!"

I miss going on those walks with you Appa, I miss holding your hand.