It’s almost Christmas and the New Year’s a few days away. High hopes all around; people are beyond nervous anticipation— 2017 should be better.
I’m no different. It hasn’t been the best year. But it hasn’t been the worst year either. It’s been stormy, wet, and dull. But I’m expecting the sun to rise up and the flowers to bloom.
For Lisa, Richard’s homecoming was the biggest present. He had been abroad for four years, visiting only for his father’s funeral.
She examined his round shoulders, muscled biceps, and pruned beard. Her son had grown up. She welled up remembering the day he left home; a lanky lad going far away. But he had come back for her sixtieth birthday.
He pulled back the strings of his backpack, pulling out a tiny box. “Happy Birthday, Mom.” He smiled as Lisa’s eyes lit up at the chocolate cake. She hadn’t touched cake since her husband died of diabetes two years ago.
It’s my mother’s birthday. For weeks leading to today, I wondered what present I should get her. It wasn’t easy figuring it out.
My dad’s birthday falls at the end of the week and I know he’d appreciate the book I got him. He’s always said he wanted it.
My mother, on the other hand, never says what she wants. And so I had no idea. I wanted to gift her with a surprise, but I didn’t want to stick to age-old conventions of wall hangers, posters, or ornaments that collect more dust than memories. I wanted to give her something that she’d use every day, something that would make her smile when she looked at it, and something she’d cherish on a day-to-day basis.
It was a nice thought, but I couldn’t think of any such thing.
I don’t know what my mother likes because she’s never told us what she likes. Even in my earliest memories, my mother’s always been the kitchen figure, with a floured nightgown and butter-covered fingers. Thanks to her I grew up knowing I needed baking powder for baking. Because of her, I developed a passion for artisanal cooking. And she who taught me to treat the kitchen as a place of worship. But everything she ever made in her kitchen was for us. Sure, she’d have a couple pastries, but even when she’s unwell, she’d push her boundaries to make our favourite food.
I didn’t think there ever was anything that’d justify my reverence.
So I asked her, instead. From past experience, I knew she’d only want something for the kitchen or our home. She’s never once wanted anything just for herself.
This year was no different. She asked for a lunch box to pack meals for my dad. I got her that lunch box, chiding her all the way. But then I also got her a pair of soul-comforting soft-soled slippers. Her feet has seen so many bad days, and no one deserves pampering more than mom.
If you look up “caste” in Wikipedia, the first thing you’d see is a detailed explanation of India’s caste system. We pioneered the art of classifying people according to their birth. We mark and judge others by something they have no control over themselves. We are the vile people who shun our fellows because they’re different. Oh, and we’re also the first ones to name America a racist country.
We, Indians, are a fake society. Here’s how our system works: We live inside a cocoon of a society pretending we’re all-inclusive forward-thinkers. However, every day, every meaningless conversation at home or at familial gatherings would revolve around caste.
Shocking? Wait till you hear the rest.
If I announce to my family, at dinner, that a friend is getting married the following month, their first question would be if the couple is from the same caste. The second question, whether they belong to our caste.
And if I even dare to tell my family that I’m considering working abroad, their biggest worry would be to find a groom (in our caste) who wouldn’t be threatened by such a wife. My, it’s an abomination to want to live in a foreign country alone.
Even though plenty of men (in our caste) nowadays live in first-world countries, they’re nevertheless reluctant to marry a girl who’d talk about something more than what’s for dinner. It hurt a lot to hear it from my mother herself because I only see absurdity sprawled all over such a situation.
I had thought no one would be so silly now, but when I look around, all my married cousins went through the same excruciating filter. Pity some of them didn’t even recognize it. Some, of course, just didn’t care because they could immigrate to a country that sees snow. I know a friend whose parents had her blood group matched with her husband’s; she didn’t care a bit. It’s a little unrelated, but you get the idea.
It’s one thing to live amidst a limiting society, but another thing altogether to live in a closed caste system. There are plenty of tribes and societies across the world imposing unthinkable restrictions on women and children. But the difference is that they don’t hide it. They declare it as their tradition and take pride in it. (Whether it’s right or not is a debate for another time.)
The beloved caste system I’m in, however, hides in plain sight. It isn’t uncommon for a bunch of men at a family wedding, to brag about how shaving twice a day, every day would uphold their caste pride — because some castes ban men from growing facial hair. Amidst a larger crowd, though, they’d pretend as if caste is the last thing in their mind. Sad story: Until a few weeks ago, their pretense had me fooled too. It’s little things like these that make the biggest mark and hurt the most. And it’s shenanigans like these that degrade and warp the minds of every youngster in our society.
It had been a rough day. Judge Marsh had sentenced a teenager for pursuing his high school crush. She, the mayor’s daughter, had complained of his misbehaviour. The judge understood only too well.
“Darkness is in his blood,” the judge shook his head as his apprentice gathered his things. Eager to please, “Oh, yes sir!” echoed the disagreeing lad.
They left, fastening their coats against the snowy breeze. Looking at the team of horses outside, the apprentice couldn’t help but smile.
“Beautiful,” he remarked turning to his boss. “Horses don’t recognize colours do they, sir? Perhaps that’s why they’re inclusive.”
A work of fiction for Friday Fictioneers.
The Chaos Within 