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December 2006

Since we live so close to Washington, D.C., we often have visitors from India. Most of the time, it’s family, but sometimes it’s friends or friends of friends. Members of the family stay longer, for up to a month or more. Friends not that long, maybe a few weeks or less.

This year it’s family. More precisely, Uncle Mayur, Dad’s younger brother, and his wife, Sheela. It’s late December, and the houses in our neighborhood are lit up with Christmas lights.

To start the festivities, we started going to fancy restaurants on Christmas Eve. We try to select a restaurant that offers vegetarian dishes to accommodate Dad. Mom selected the Nostos Greek restaurant in Tysons Corner and made reservations for all of us. They had several vegetarian small plates and excellent desserts.

As we are seated and the waiter distributes the menu Dad says that he has received an email from Uncle Mayur.

“Look here,” Dad says, addressing Mom. “Mayur just sent an e-mail. He and Sheela want to visit us in January. They want to see the snow this time.”

Mom first doesn’t pay attention to him.

“Did you hear me?” he asks.

“I hear you; I hear you. How long are they staying?”

Mom doesn’t want to spoil her Christmas spirit by talking of visitors coming, especially those she doesn’t appreciate.

“I don’t know. But they are family.”

“But Daddy,” Mom says sounding irritated. “We just hosted a Diwali party. You know how much work it was. Now to entertain these people? For a month? Or more? And that Sheela. She doesn’t lift a finger to help like she is a royalty or something.” 

I noticed Mom had emphasized the words these people. I’m interested to see Dad’s reaction.

Uncle Mayur owns a business in Mumbai — something to do with commercial air-conditioning. They have five servants to serve them in their house, is what I hear. There is one to sweep the floor, one to cut vegetables, one to cook food, one to wash their clothes, one to iron their clothes, etc. No wonder Auntie Sheela acts like a manager without doing anything herself. Labor is cheap in India, but it’s also a question of one’s social status. If you have achieved a certain status in society, you don’t do manual labor. Auntie Sheela doesn’t realize life in America is different.

“I can’t say no. We’ll manage,” Dad says after a pause.

“Okay. But don’t expect me to cook for them morning, afternoon, and evening. They are very picky eaters.”

I have heard Mom say this before, but ultimately, she accommodates Dad’s wishes.

“Okay, okay. We have to plan something else. There’s always Bombay Cafe. We can take out sometimes.” Dad tries to make a compromise.

Mom doesn’t argue. She knows Dad is not going to budge.

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