He looked up at me for a moment and started crying. “My stomach hurts, Daddy. My stomach hurts,” he moaned.
By this time, all my family members were watching. Raj sat across the room with Christopher on her lap, an amused look on her face as if to say, “What will you do now?”
I wondered the same thing. Then, an idea hit me.
“Mother, let me have a bucket,” I said.
“What do you need a bucket for?” she asked.
I just looked at her for a moment, and she realized what I meant to do.
“Oh no. I am not having anyone go in my bucket I use in the kitchen. I will never be able to use it again. We will have to throw it away. What a waste of a perfectly good brass bucket!”
“Bibi,” I pleaded. “Right now we need to solve this problem. Subhash is having a stomachache and needs to go. I will buy you a new bucket.”
My mother sighed dramatically and went into the kitchen to fetch the bucket. I filled it a quarter full with water and held Subhash over it, making believe it was a commode.
“Go ahead, Subhash. Do it,” I urged.
Miraculously, my plan worked, and Subhash finally went in the bucket.
A short time later, my brother returned with Christopher’s bottle at 1:00 a.m. Christopher had quieted down from a screaming wail to a sad whimper, and now he accepted the American bottle right away with no fuss.
“These Amrikan kids,” my mother grumbled. “They do not know Indian ways.”
It was a phrase I would hear many times during our stay. Raj and I had no idea our first night in Malaudh would be so rough.
On February 27, we attended a wedding of Raj’s sister in New Delhi where the groom lived. After the wedding, the relatives on Raj’s side returned to Raj’s parents’ rented home in New Delhi to go to sleep after a long ceremony in the early morning hours. My mother-in-law, whom I called “Biji” according to Indian custom, told the kitchen servants to rest for a few hours and to be ready at 11:00 a.m. to prepare lunch for the family members. The bride and groom also would be returning soon after lunch for their first visit as a married couple, and all must be ready to receive them. However, after everyone went to sleep, Biji received a message from the groom’s parents saying the bride and groom would be returning at 9:00 a.m., several hours earlier than expected.
I was awake when the message came, and I observed how tense Biji became.
“Oh, what do I do now?” she moaned. “I have already told the servants to go rest.”
Relatives were already waking up and wanting breakfast, while Biji also must begin lunch preparations on her own.
“Biji, don’t worry,” I said. “I will help with breakfast.”
Still wearing my pajamas, I went into the kitchen and began cooking omelets for all the hungry relatives. At first, they were surprised to see me go into the kitchen and start cooking. It must have been a funny image to see the son-in-law, who is supposed to be treated like a king in his mother-in-law’s house, cooking eggs in the kitchen. Then they were impressed, especially when I flipped the omelets high in the air the way I learned at the Dorsey Hotel. Biji, while happy I was helping her, was also extremely embarrassed. Her son-in-law, on his first return from America since his marriage to her daughter, was now doing servant’s work in the kitchen.
“Biji, it’s okay,” I assured her. “In the USA, we do things on our own.”
My words comforted her, and after a while, Biji seemed pleased. Later, she bragged to her family members, saying, “I have a son-in-law who does not hesitate to work in the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the guests. How lucky can a mother-in-law get?”
For the next four weeks of our stay, we traveled from town to town visiting our parents and siblings as well as other relatives. We also took Christopher to the religious city of Kiratpur for a mundun ceremony, celebrating his first haircut. Afterwards, we visited several shrines in the area. On April 6, our last day in Malaudh, I worshipped with my family in both temples. We had practiced a similar ritual in Nabha several days before, worshipping at Raj’s house, then going to a temple in town where Raj’s mother wanted us to worship and get blessings, as we were traveling so far with our two sons.
After worshipping, Raj and I got into the car with Christopher and Subhash on our laps. A crowd of people surrounded the car to say goodbye. This happened every time we left for a different town or city to visit relatives. It wasn’t often that someone came back from the US to visit. No other person from my village left India like I did.
Today, the crowd increased in number. News traveled fast about our departure for the States, and as the car inched forward, the people moved with it, a colorful array of men, women, and children in front, behind, and on both sides, shouting our names and wishing us blessings in “Amrika.” Raj and I waved at them, and Subhash waved and smiled in his usual friendly manner. Christopher simply watched with big eyes, taking it all in.
When we reached the outskirts of Malaudh, the crowd fell back, still waving and watching until the car disappeared from view. As we rumbled along the busy road to New Delhi, passing corn and wheat fields, bullock-driven carts, and men herding cows out of the way, I thought about my mother. It had been difficult for me to look into her grief-filled eyes and tell her it would only be a few more years.
“I’m trying to save enough money to live off the interest when we move back,” I had explained.
My
