The Subservient Self
Last night I had a surprising dream. It was me, quite clearly, living with an Indian family, a large family. With my Indian husband and our newborn. There were new parents, new brothers and sisters, their partners and children. All living under one roof.
It sounds like a nightmare, to me.
But I loved it. I loved being surrounded by all the people, I loved helping my mother-in-law cook dinner, seeing my daughter’s cousins take care of her .. I loved caring for so many people and not just myself. Privacy was not an issue - I didn’t need it. I had everything I desired, and I was entirely content.
My first thought when I woke up was that the wretched Devdas had jumped from my computer screen during the course of the night and that his not-quite-that-handsome black-and-white-and-very-thickbrowed features had somehow poisened the mind of this individual-centred feminist, that he had triggered in me some need to be subservient, to wish for a place at his feet. But while Paro is an idiot, I am not.
Instead, I return, as usual, to the so often recurring question; what would my therapist friend say? (I’ve never asked her any of my question, but I clearly hear her responding to them). She would say that "You dont believe that you, as an individual, is deserving of specific attention". She would say that "Your family never expected anything from you, they never demanded everything, they let you go your own ways. This is your way of showing your gratefulness or perhaps even your guilt for not giving anything back". I take great pleasure in these quasi-psychological artificial dialogues. But maybe I am just realising that its time that I become part of something greater than myself. Or simply that the country that broke me and then re-made me still has its hold on me, its still pulling on me, nudging me, trying to tell me something. Simply. Maybe.
