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!