Bathed and refreshed, she laid the table, expecting my husband to return soon. My father, himself an epicure, happily talked about the Jamaishashthi meals he had eaten in the early years of their marriage. I peeked at all the dishes and repeatedly inhaled the fragrance of each, as I had done in childhood. But there was no sign of the guest of honor. When he did return, around two-thirty, he said he had eaten some snacks with his coffee and was not hungry. He would skip lunch. We should go ahead and eat, he said.
I am sure he had no idea of the magnitude of the affront. Of how unthinkable it was for a mother-in-law to eat on Jamaishashthi while her son-in-law remained unfed. But even I was taken aback at the intensity of my mother's reaction. She shut herself in her bedroom, sobbed loudly, and launched into a monologue that was part tirade, part dirge. Never had she been so humiliated. For what sins were the gods punishing her? And how could her only beloved daughter have married a man so utterly disrespectful to her?
For an eternity, no one tried to stop her. My father, my husband, and I—each in a different room—listened in stricken silence. Eventually, my father intervened. Though he had a sneaking sympathy for my husband, he persuaded him to offer an apology, however much it went against the grain. My husband, too, had begun to realize how deep was the hurt. Sadly, he knocked on her door to express penitence.
Much later that day, my father and I ate a little bit of the glorious meal my mother had prepared. Afterward, I convinced her to have a tiny mouthful and drink some water, using the argument that her anger, sorrow, and fasting would simply bring bad luck to my husband, which was sure to affect me. This was an argument she couldn't resist.
In the evening, she finally served the Jamaishashthi feast to the intended recipient. My father and I sat and watched anxiously. The meal began in a constrained silence. But with every mouthful the magic of her cooking worked wonders. My husband's compliments were effusive and completely spontaneous. When he was finally served the chitol, he looked up at her and smiled with delight. She smiled back. At last, my father and I could relax.
At the end of July, my husband received a fellowship that enabled us to return to the U.S. When they said good-bye, I was astonished by the frankness with which they asked each other to pardon their mutual lack of understanding. During future visits, the two of them always treated each other with deep affection and respect—feelings that remained unchanged even after my divorce.
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