LUNCH AT ROTISSERIE'S

by Nidadavolu Malathi

[Published in www.Sulekha.com on the internet on 7/10/01]

I was sitting across from my American colleague. 
We both were taken by the apparent differences in 
our two cultures.
We were sitting across from each other 
On our way to our class on cultural diversity.
We were talking about the family values, cultural differences...
Then we also wondered if we are really different at all?
Occidental - Oriental.
Blue jeans - Red dot.
Fair skin - Perfect tan! 
Shivering cold - Sultry hot
Enjoying authentic American Indian meal
Chicken - Vegetables
Corn muffins - Jalapeno Peppers
There are so many facets to what we know and/or don't know. 
What we want to say and what could follow in spite of ourselves.
I started talking,
And unwittingly slipped into my family history.
What I want to say and what I can say
What I can't or won't say 
But then what would follow in spite of myself...
"You know, Once I was talking to a group about me growing up and 

my religious upbringing. I mentioned that as a child I wasn't involved in 

domestic chores. And immediately one of the women said, 'You're spoiled'." 
"I was surprised at that comment."
"Did you ask her what she meant by that?"
"No. Actually I was offended. Later they invited me again but I refused."

*******

Sitting in my living room, looking out the window, watching the snow flakes, I remembered the conversation at lunch and am beginning to wonder how was I different from that woman who said I was spoiled. I thought that she was quick to judge, jump to conclusions.
What if she wasn't being judgmental, maybe she was being frivolous, teasing, maybe she didn't mean anything, just wanted to say something to keep herself from dozing off. Was I quick to jump to conclusions?
The sky is heavily overcast. It is turning into freezing drizzle. I think freeing drizzle is an oxymoron! This weather is weird!

Again I slipped back into the Rotisserie's. She said, "We are going to visit my mother over the week-end." "Oh!" "My son wants his girl friend to meet his grandmother... My mother doesn't want me to go to India... She is upset...She is upset because they were living together." I sat there listening. She said again, almost as if she was talking to herself, "Well, he is my son. Mom says she doesn't have to change her beliefs. She has been living all these years with the same beliefs. Why change now? ... Probably she is right...Can't say one way or the other."

There was nothing I could say.

After a few minutes she said slowly, "He is my son. I am protecting my
child. And she is protecting hers." I noticed a tiniest smile flash across her face. I was watching her with fascination.

******

 Heavily overcast sky. Freezing drizzle. 
 Again I slipped back into the Rotisserie's.
 Watching the falling snow flakes. 
 "I am protecting my child. She is protecting her child" 
 I tried to imagine the conversation between the mother and daughter,
 Between mother and son,
 And between the grandmother and the child. 
 I even tried to imagine in Telugu, putting the family in my hometown.
 I remembered the conversations back home, the conversations between 
 mother and daughter,
 mother and son, 
 grandmother and child - about the girl from another caste.
 Then a flash, a conversation from a few years back.
 Can't remember his name.
 He came from India for a three-month training program.
 He kept saying that he wanted to talk to me.
 First I ignored him.
 Then I wondered. What was it? What could be so important that he would 
 want to talk to a total stranger about?
 He said he wanted to show me his wedding pictures.
 Ah! Alright!
 Slowly things started unfolding.
 It was a girl from his office back in India.
 Actually she was his supervisor.
 It turned out to be a lot more than supervising his work.
 Then came along his training abroad program.
 She wanted him to marry her before he left.
 He agreed.
 So what was the problem?
 He didn't have the heart to tell his family.
 He was crossing the bounds of his caste!
 He was from the old orthodox brahmin caste, strict followers of the 

rigorous, centuries- old tenets. 
 The family was waiting for him to marry within their caste and follow 


the calling of traditional priesthood.
 How could he tell them? They wouldn't let him marry even from a different 

subsect within the brahmin community. How could he tell them that he 
was going to marry a girl from a lower caste?
 So...
 "I agreed to marry her. Her family made all the arrangements."
 He was showing me the pictures.
 Perfect traditional marriage, with the bride flanked by her parents on 

either side, a priest across from them, the sacred fire in the middle... 


Picture perfect... Complete with honeymoon pictures!
 What was missing? The groom's parents. They should have been sitting on 

either side of the groom. But they were not there. Because...
 "I couldn't tell them, you know. It will break their heart."
 I stared at him.
 "My father will hit the roof. My mother will cry... My grandmother was 
 always telling me that she was living only to see my wedding."
 I was still staring at him. With a little smile...
 The girl had the courage to tell her parents and got them perform the 
 wedding.
 
 Here is a man! Marrying outside his caste! Defying the centuries-old
 traditions! Sitting there alone next to the bride. With no one from his 
 side of the family!
 He had the courage to go through the entire ceremony without mom and dad
 present.
 Was he a social reformer, a supreme example for the rest of India to
follow?
 Or a spineless coward who couldn't invite his own mother to his wedding?
 Then I understood his reasons for wanting to talk to me. 
 He was using me for target practice. He wanted to know how it felt like 


when he was ready to break the news to his mother.
 "I know it breaks her heart," he said with his eyes glued to the floor.
 "You DID break her heart. Except she didn't know it," I said ruthlessly.
 "Yes," he said like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
 The words don't matter really, in any language...
 The plain truths are "I am protecting my child. She is protecting hers" 
 and "I am going to break my mother's heart."
 Here is a family value that cuts through the confines of race and religion.
 A mother struggling to keep the old traditions in tact...
 A son reworking his own values into that very tradition that seem to be 
 falling apart. 
 Or, is it, is the tradition really falling a part? 

***** ***** *****

Author's note: I am always intrigued by the commonalities in different cultures as much as the differences. It seems the difference from culture to culture is less than the difference from generation to generation. When we dig deeper we realize that culture is like a flowing river. There is the old waters. And then the new waters come and integrate with the old. The culture is a constant reworking of the past into the future. The rules are not set in stone but keep revised again and again all the time.