11 | Jaya

July 2009

Jaya knew she only had to hold on until her mother arrived. She had called her parents, now retired to India, the night Prem died and her mother said she would come as soon as possible. With American expediency, Keith’s family had all flown in from Pennsylvania for the memorial service and left a few days later. Jaya’s mother hadn’t rushed to be at the service—women in India usually didn’t attend death rituals—but she wrapped up her affairs so she could stay with them for several weeks or even months, knowing that was when the real need would be, once the doorbell stopped ringing, the flowers stopped arriving and bags of food stopped appearing on the porch. When Keith brought her mother home from the airport, Jaya fell into her arms and felt herself revert to the child who could cry freely, her body shaking, tears and mucus running down her face. In the following days, she felt a deep comfort in the presence of her mother, who silently stepped into the role Jaya had vacated, caring for her and nurturing her family.

One morning, Jaya came downstairs after waking late and found her mother sitting cross-legged on the dining room floor in front of a small temple erected on an ottoman draped with a silk shawl. Her mother was chanting and counting on her prayer beads. Jaya moved closer and took in the scene. There was a small hand-carved sandalwood temple, four solid silver figurines of gods and goddesses, a stand for burning incense sticks, a silver dish holding a ghee-soaked cotton ball lit into a small flame, and a small silver bell—all of which her mother must have brought from India. Into this mix, her mother had placed a small orchid with bright purple blooms, which had appeared in the house along with so many other flowers over the past month.

“Ma?” Jaya said.

“Ah.” Her mother sprang up quickly, still possessing in her sixties the grace of a dancer. “You slept?” She touched a strand of Jaya’s hair, from the scalp down to the ends, then lightly circled her face with two fingers.

Jaya nodded slightly. “Do . . .” She looked at the improvised temple and the floor. “Do you want to sit on a chair or couch? Would you be more comfortable?”

Her mother’s face flickered with confusion, then she smiled. “Hmph. You’ve become so American. Come join me—just take your bath first.”

Jaya washed her hair and dressed in fresh clothes for the first time in days. When she returned downstairs, the scent of incense drew her in. She sat cross-legged on the floor next to her mother, facing the shrine. Without opening her eyes, her mother began singing a prayer song in low, even tones. The melody was familiar, one Jaya had learned as a child, and like a moving sidewalk, it pulled her along with its rhythm until she caught on to the words and began to sing. As her mother rang the small silver bell to keep rhythm, their voices harmonized perfectly and their two sounds became one.