The open-plan dining room and front room in my Southern California home resemble a darzi’s1 workspace: rectangles of heavyweight fabric―yellow like split moong dhal2―wait patiently on the floor, pinned and ready to be stitched; my mother-in-law’s heavy, black-handled scissors rest for a while, next to the black -and-white flexible measuring tape and the flat triangular seamstress’ chalk; the small lightweight plastic Singer sewing machine sits on my wooden dining table. I hadn’t planned on sewing curtains for the family room, but the estimates I’d obtained for this work were ridiculously high and the companies I’d consulted were going to take too long. My older daughter was getting married in a few weeks and this was one of the very few home improvement projects we had embarked upon that I was equipped to tackle myself.
* * *
I’d learned sewing skills at a young age from both my mum and the classes at secondary school in provincial England. Mum had marveled at the painstaking process of pinning and basting I’d been taught in class, before I was allowed in the vicinity of a sewing machine. Although Mum had no time for all this preparation, her work was always meticulous; the men’s jackets she created out of differently-shaped pieces of fabric on her large, heavy, loud industrial sewing machine were so flawless, she was often asked to stitch the sample pieces for other sweat shop machinists to reproduce. My motivation to learn the skills of my Indian caste was pragmatic; it was a way to increase the amount of clothing I could call my own.
* * *
It seems like I have to press the foot pedal closer and closer to the ground in order to keep the needle moving up and down. I’m hoping it’s just my imagination. I’m on my sixth panel of fabric; two more to go. I think about the antique black- and-gold Pfaff machine my mother-in-law gave me, for safe keeping, when we moved to the U.S. in 1999. She’d had the foresight to replace the hand crank with a motor before she parted with it. I haven’t used it for many years. I wonder if it still works. My mother-in-law had sewn women’s traditional Indian clothing with this machine in Nairobi, Kenya, where my husband, Joti, was born. Her reputation for being a skilled seamstress allowed her to set her own prices, which her clients were happy to pay. The same was true when the family moved to West London, when Joti was sixteen years old.
“Oh fuck!” I say out loud to no one, as the needle stubbornly refuses to move, while my foot is pressed as close to the ground as the pedal will allow. The light is on and I can hear the motor engaging, but the machinery is motionless. I know the motor hasn’t overheated, because I haven’t been sewing for very long today. I unplug it anyway, and enjoy the cooling breeze of the electric fan in the roasting heat of fall.
* * *
When my husband and I had said our goodbyes to my mother-in-law and father- in-law at London’s Heathrow Airport, I was exhilarated about the new adventure we were embarking upon with our two young children. I had been thrilled about my arranged marriage at twenty-three years of age, because it was my ticket out of my father’s house. I had said yes to my mother-in-law-to-be when she had explained that I would be marrying her youngest son, whom she would keep with her―’til death do us part―because I was certain that life in my in-laws’ house in London would be an improvement. Theirs was an educated Indian family, and East African Indians had a reputation for being modern, open-minded, more Western in their outlook. My father-in-law was kind, charming, easygoing, and generous. I didn’t know any men like him. Between them, the women in this family were bold, confident, assertive, sociable, and fun. I didn’t know any women like them.
The morning after my first night in my new house I tied up my hair, buttoned my long maroon velvet nightgown over my nightie, for modesty, then descended the stairs and entered the long kitchen. My mother-in-law got up from the dining room table to hug me, then she cupped my face in her hands as we came out of the hug. She suddenly removed her hands and peered more closely at my face, before declaring gleefully to Joti that his new wife had a moustache and beard! I lowered my eyes in embarrassment; my hirsutism was no longer a secret. I had been conscious that everyone was waiting downstairs for me so I didn’t have time to pluck the hairs from my upper lip and chin this morning. I was also disappointed at the delight my mother-in-law seemed to take in her discovery. In the coming years she would often lift up her clothing to reveal arms and legs that were hair free. She also showed me her armpits, exclaiming that even they were “clean,” as though it were some accomplishment as opposed to a matter of genetic good fortune. I hurriedly looked around and asked if anyone else wanted tea.
“Don’t worry about that now. There’ll be plenty of time for sehva3 later,” my mother-in-law chuckled. “Hurry and get dressed. People are coming over to see you.”
In my new house I could drink alcohol with everyone else, wear my skirts and dresses short, and my hair even shorter. But I was still expected to be obedient, respectful, acquiescent, and welcoming to everyone who entered the house, regardless of the hour, or whatever I was doing. Having strong personal opinions was not in the job description of a daughter-in-law, especially if they were contrary to those of others. I wanted to please my mother-in-law, who occupied the seat of power in my new life. I wanted to have a good relationship with her. It would be many years before I understood that the cost of her approval of me would be a price I wasn’t willing to pay.
My husband has two brothers and one sister, all of whom were married before him. All the adults had their own keys to their parents’ home. One of the brothers lived too far away to stop by every day, but the other siblings dropped off their children daily so they and their spouses could go to work. My mother-in-law usually cooked very early each day, with the help of my father-in-law, who was the shopper and chopper and washer-upper. It was made very clear to me that it was my role to earn a second income, so when I returned from work I cooked the rotis4 and served the food, before eating myself. If my eldest brother-in- law’s wife, Nin, was around, she’d help with these tasks and with the washing up afterwards. I cleaned the house every Saturday. My mother-in-law was really pleased with these particular skills I had learned, along with my three sisters, in my father’s house.
* * *
My to-do lists are long and numerous so I turn to them for a while. When I get back to the sewing machine, it still doesn’t work. I go upstairs to uncover the Pfaff machine. I carry it downstairs slowly, carefully, because of the weight of the cast iron. I set it down on my dining room table in the space previously occupied by the Singer machine. Unlike the new machine, when I hold on to the top of this antique and tilt it back, the underbelly is revealed. It’s a little dusty inside the hollow wooden base. I return the machine to its upright position and notice the manual tension adjuster close to the needle; it was always tricky to get this just right. I slide the small metal plate beneath the needle to the left so that the bobbin cover is revealed. It takes me a few seconds to remember how it lifts out so I can remove the bobbin. I place the bobbin in my left hand and secure the end of the thread between the thumb and first finger of my right hand, and pull to empty the bobbin of this color. When I get to the end of this color my eyebrows rise in amazement because the thread underneath is the exact color I’ve been using to sew the curtains. What are the chances? Once I’ve threaded the machine, I secure some scrap fabric beneath the needle, ready to test it out. I wonder whose machine I can borrow if it doesn’t work. When I press the foot pedal I hear the hum of the motor and the needle thuds slowly up and down. It doesn’t sound healthy. The thread breaks. I reduce the tension, rethread, and try again. The thread breaks for a second time so I adjust the tension yet again. It sounds better. I check the line of stitching underneath the fabric too. It’s a little loose, so I make another adjustment. The machine runs more smoothly now and I can hear the intermittent shhh of the belt against the rotating wheel on the right. The seam is perfect. Just as I remember my mother-in-law’s sewing to have been. I smile to myself as I think of all the beautiful Indian outfits she had stitched for me. And continue. After all these years, it was easy, at times, to forget that my mother-in-law’s insistence on the importance of having a son had created a deep, wide, fast-flowing river between me and Joti. And I was not a strong swimmer.
* * *
I was pregnant before our second anniversary, because my mother-in-law had conveyed that this was what was expected of me. In hindsight, it was a good concession, because if I had waited to have a child until I felt equipped for the responsibility to love unconditionally and provide guidance in life, it would have been too late biologically. I continued with everything as though nothing had changed: going to work, ironing, asking whoever else was in the house if they also wanted tea, coffee, or whatever else I wanted to make for myself, and bending over the bathtub to clean it up, until the time I gave birth. My mother-in-law explained that she had made the mistake of allowing her second daughter-in-law to take it easy during and after pregnancy, but it had encouraged laziness.
When I produced a baby girl, I was told it was okay; I could try again. Secretly, I was relieved I hadn’t given birth to a boy because I still found boys and men to be a mystery at best, and intimidating at worst; they were entitled unknowns. With the exception of Joti, who shared some of his dad’s traits.
A few days after giving birth I could feel the stitches in my perineum tugging on my skin as I squatted on the kitchen floor putting laundry into the front- loading washing machine. My mum and dad were visiting at the time and I was taken aback when Mum whispered I should be taking it easy, that I needed to rest. Mum, like us, had also been silenced by Dad, and she knew better than to challenge my mother-in-law directly; as the parents of the daughter in the union, their status was beneath that of Joti’s parents. According to our traditions, girls are a burden upon their parents because a dowry had to be provided to the groom’s family at the time of marriage, in exchange for acceptance of the burden of the now daughter-in-law; girls and women are the vessels of honor and their behavior reflects upon their own parents as well as their in-laws after marriage. Boys, on the other hand, can do as they please before marriage, but they are expected to remain with their parents and take care of them in their old age. My mother-in-law had made no demands for money or gifts. She had even agreed to the teetotal vegetarian lunch my parents had wanted to provide after the marriage ceremony. She had come from a wealthy family in India, and had never forgiven her in-laws in Kenya for the huge dowry they had insisted upon. They had even taken possession of the gold jewelry her mother had gifted her when she married.
My mother-in-law gave me gifts of gold jewelry when I married her son, including a heavy set comprising a necklace, earrings, and a ring, made with King George V gold coins from Kenya. She insisted I wear it at our reception, along with another gold set she had given to me, along with gold bangles. One of the few things I was sure about when I married was that I didn’t like yellow gold. My white school friends had often referred to Indian women as Christmas trees because of the brightly colored clothing they wore along with traditional gold jewelry. I wanted the freedoms they enjoyed, like socializing after school―even with boys. Perhaps subconsciously I associated yellow gold with Indian women who were oppressed by the males in our communities, as well as each other. I hadn’t yet found anything in my culture I could take pride in.
When we had shopped for my wedding rings in Birmingham’s Jewelry District, about twenty miles from where I had grown up, Nin, came with us; she was garrulous and cheerful, always making me laugh. But she left us alone while she visited her family in the same city. We found a small diamond solitaire engagement ring and a wedding band with a bark design. At that time I knew nothing about clarity or color of diamonds, let alone the existence of blood diamonds. I was just happy to have found white gold rings. And I loved all the time I spent with my fiancé.
I returned the King George V gold set to my mother-in-law soon after our reception, afraid that she’d make me wear it again and I’d resemble Mr. T from the A-Team. Or even worse, a “fucking Paki Christmas tree.” At some point she gifted it to Nin. Many years later I told Nin, half in jest, that I realized how much that gold set was worth, and I was ready to have it back now. She still has it.
By the time I was pregnant for the second time I was living in my own house. My mother-in-law had suggested I return to university to become a teacher, so that she would have summers off from her self-appointed child-rearing duties. Ironically, it was at university that I was taught by two strong women professors, who centered the experiences of girls in the mathematics classroom. Over time, I began to ask myself what it was that I wanted from my life. I knew the request for my own home, where I could have autonomy for the first time in my life, would be better received if it came from Joti. It was difficult to see my mother- in-law’s tears, knowing I was the cause of her sadness. And that I had reneged on my agreement to live with her forever. She busied herself gathering stainless steel containers and trays, telling me she had bought them for this occasion. She had wanted to model the perfect mother-in-law. For her, this meant giving gifts of gold, cooking, and providing childcare. Living separately from her was not on her list. It could have been perceived as an indictment of her performance as a mother-in-law. So she needed the Indian community to know that we were leaving with her blessing.
Joti and I had mentioned that we only wanted two children, so when I gave birth to another daughter, my mother-in-law greeted her as though she was in mourning for her dream that had now died. Still, she wouldn’t give up so easily. Her fundamentalist obsession that I produce a son became the main reason Joti and I fought with each other. I didn’t understand then that he was caught in the borderland between me and his mum. When he was offered the chance to work in the US, he asked me what I thought of the opportunity. I was stunned that he was even considering it, because he was so close to his family. He told me many years later that he knew our marriage could not survive if we remained geographically close to his family.
* * *
My yellow gold bangles sing their song, moving up and down my arm as I bring the last panel to the sewing machine. As I’m sewing, the machine begins to slow down and the thudding returns. “Oh no!” I continue with trepidation. On the final seam I’m concerned the needle is close to stalling. The foot pedal is becoming less and less responsive. Close to the end of the fabric I wonder whether I should reverse the stitching, as I always do, to prevent the seam from coming undone, but I do it as a reflex anyway. The machine comes to a standstill after the last stitch. I sigh, and smile with relief and gratitude. I feel as though my mother-in- law has participated in the preparations for her granddaughter’s wedding, even though she was not the grandson she had prayed so hard for. Even though she had died many years ago.
1 tailor
2 a type of lentil
3 service
4 flat round bread cooked on a griddle
Sarita Sidhu is a writer and activist in Irvine, California. She was born in India, raised in working-class England, and moved to the US in 1999. Her work has appeared in the Sun (Readers Write), 100 Word Story, Emerge Literary Journal, Riverside Art Museum’s Online Exhibition, Lunch Ticket, and elsewhere. She can be found on Instagram @saritaksid.