Mother

September 3, 2007 at 8:31 pm (Uncategorized)

When I met her, it had been 10 years since she’d seen her son—and then, only for a moment. This, I knew, was partly my fault, and so I had no idea how she would receive me.

Upon arriving at her home in India, I saw her sitting in the family courtyard next to her husband of 45 years; a dark blue sari fashioned of georgette and sprinkled with an intricate motif was wrapped around her tiny frame. Her eyes spoke of a fulfilled, yet hard life. It was as if she held all the answers to earth’s secrets and those secrets saddened her. That first night, tears swelled in her eyes and flowed down the valleys of her face.

Her body tells the story of her life, not in whispers, but in outbursts. Her skin is now dry and thick and heavily lined—ashy, rough, hard. Each sun-induced wrinkle, every callus tells of long hours spent prodding thin, bony, undernourished oxen through fields. Bloated, leather-like feet hint at standing barefoot year after year in dirty, brown water while harvesting rice. Sagging skin around her midsection gives away the fact that she’s given birth to six children. The nuances of her body reveal the moments of her life. Looking at her is like looking at a collection of memories.

Her name is Bhuri Bai. Her children call her “maji,” which means “respected mother” in Hindi. She is the matriarch of a large family in Semara, a small village in India’s Chattisgargh State. She belongs to the Sutnami caste and is a descendent of Saint Guru Ghasidas, a great fighter against social injustice. She usually is quiet and reserved, but when she does speak, her voice is like a thousand little bells being tickled by the wind.

When I arrived at her home in India, I followed the lead of my husband—her son—and knelt at her feet, reaching down to lightly touch her bare, leathery toes before bringing my hand back to my forehead. I performed this act of respect twice before she laid her hand on my head, lifted my face so that my eyes met hers, and kissed each of my cheeks. This is how she accepted me as her daughter.

Seeing me for the first time may have reminded her of when she met her mother-in-law. She had traveled several miles from her village to Semara to marry a man she did not know, to join a family she had never met. Her marriage was arranged like most were then and as many are today.

On the day of her wedding, she was dressed in a silk sari, her shiny black hair braided with gold pins and flowers. Elaborate, henna-stained designs were drawn on her hands, and bangles clattered at her wrists. She wore ornate gold jewelry around her neck, in her nose, on her fingers. She was veiled and led by family members to the village monument—a 20-foot log painted white and cemented into the ground—where she and the groom were blessed with incense. They walked seven times around the monument, stopping each round to pour water on the ground from a small metal cup. After the seventh round, the groom cracked open a coconut and offered it to the memory of Saint Guru Ghasidas before he and Bhuri Bai fed pieces of it to each other. This is how her new life began.

Kneeling before her the night we met, I believe she looked into my eyes and saw the same fear she felt on her wedding day. I believe she understood my disorientation. I was so far from home. But I knew she was happy that I loved her son and had joined his journey. I believe she looked past her expectations of who her son would marry, past my skin color and my culture because she is a mother.

Today, I still feel Maji’s unconditional love. Sometimes I look at the jewelry she gave me or the sari I wore during my Indian wedding and wonder if someone will look at me 40 years from now and see the story she’s written on my life. I hope so.