Motherland Read Free

me ahead. There was a sign that said LADIES LOUNGE—WAITING AREA and then in smaller print below, it repeated, “ ONLY FOR LADIES .” I opened the door, and felt a welcome breeze from the weak, but noisy, air conditioning.
    Then I saw my grandmother walk toward me. Ammamma was all in white, as she had been since my grandfather died twenty years ago, though I have seen photos of her wearing a purple-flowered sari at my parents’ wedding. She shuffled slowly in my direction, her chappals scraping against the rough stone floor, smiling. She looked older. Her face looked more tired, more sagging, and her glasses were thicker in their black square frames. Her gray hair was knotted in a smooth bun at her neck. I knew from memory that there would be a few extra hairpins stuck in the seam of her blouse, for any necessary replacement or repair.
    This was the longest I’d gone without seeing my grandmother. When I was born, I stayed with her for four years until my parents sent for me to come to New York. I used to call her Amma, at first because I couldn’t manage to enunciate the whole word Ammamma, and then because I really thought she was my mother. It took a long time in New York to figure out the difference, to understand the hurt look in my mother’s eyes. Until three years ago, I’d returned every summer for the whole summer, usually with my parents flying over for two weeks at the beginning or the end. But then there had been summer programs, our swim club in town, sleep-away camp with my friends. And now I was embarrassed by the neediness I’d shown all those summers, rushing back here to Ammamma. I didn’t want them feeling sorry for me the way they had, sensing how motherless I was even though I lived with my mother.
    I bent to touch Ammamma’s feet in the gesture of respect Mother insisted I use for old people. Ammamma pulled me into a hug, and kept me awkwardly pressed against her in a long embrace. I could smell her distinctive combination of rosewater (which she used in prayer every morning) and Vicks VapoRub. She clutched her Vicks the way asthma patients clutch their inhaler. She had one with her on walks, in the car, in bed. Even in this premonsoon heat, she kept a shawl with her, a light wool one from her years in the north.
    I walked with her out of the ladies’ lounge back to my uncle. I asked her, “Wasn’t it a long trip? Why did you come?”
    Sanjay uncle said, “Maya, don’t sound so ungrateful. It’s been a very long day for Amma. We told her not to come, but she wanted to greet you.”
    â€œIt’s nice of you, but you shouldn’t have, Ammamma.”
    â€œI just wanted so much to see you.” Ammamma caressed my cheek with her hand. Water trembled in her eyes.
    I felt embarrassed by how emotional she was. I remembered how when we were in this very airport three years ago, we all cried saying good-bye, including me. It seemed a long time ago. “There’ll be plenty of time, I’m here all summer, Ammamma.”
    â€œI know, I know, I’m just being silly.” She closed her eyes for a minute, and when she opened them, she’d made the tears go away. “We’ll have a wonderful summer, all of us.”
    â€œWould you like a cola or anything before we start back?” Sanjay uncle asked.
    â€œNo, I’m fine. Except I want to go to the ladies’ room.”
    My uncle and grandmother looked concerned. “It won’t be Western-style here at the airport. Shall I take you into town to Supriya’s house or to the Taj hotel?” he said.
    â€œNo, no, it’ll be fine. I’ve gone camping, I’ll be okay,” I said firmly.
    My grandmother said, “I’ll come with you then.”
    â€œNo. Really.” But I let her walk with me into the ladies’ room, and speak Malayalam to the attendant to purchase some toilet paper for some coins, and then I went into a stall.