Lakshmi’s Maa Character Analysis

Our father was fervent in his beliefs; I admired him for that. He was committed to his ideals. Unfortunately, high ideals came with a price.

Once he had depleted his savings, he sold the remainder of Maa’s only possessions, the gold that could have saved us from poverty, that was supposed to keep Maa secure in widowhood, that might have kept me from having to marry at fifteen. In a country where a woman's gold was her security against the unforeseen, Maa’s naked earlobes and bare wrists were a constant reminder that my father had put politics before his family.

And so, we were forced to move to Ajar, where my mother buried her disappointment and my father buried his pride. Independence wouldn’t come for another twelve years, but by then, he was already broken.

In India, individual shame did not exist. Humiliation spread, as easily as oil on wax paper, to the entire family, even to distant cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews. The rumor mongers made sure of that. Blame lay heavily in my chest. Had I not deserted my marriage, Radha would not have suffered so much, and Maa and Pitaji would not have been so powerless against an entire village. Today, when she saw how unfairly Malik was being cast off, she reacted as she always had—like a defenseless animal. She knew no better because no one had taught her any better.

She dropped to her knees in front of me. “Jiji. Please don't send me back. I have no one else. I won't do it again. I won't. I promise.” Her thin body was shaking.

Embarrassed and ashamed, I helped her to standing and wiped her tears. I wanted to say, Why do you think I would send you back? You're my sister. My responsibility. But all that came out was, “I promise I'll do better, too.”

“You're my sister, Radha, but I don't know you that well—”

“Ask me anything! I'll tell you. Anything! You've never asked me the month I was born. October. What's my favorite food? Gajar ka halwa. I love sari that have mirrors sewn into them. And I love kajal on babies. My favorite color is the green of mango leaves. And I like the taste of guavas just before they're ripe, when the flesh is hard enough to make my mouth water.”

She was right, and it stung. I hadn't tried to get to know her. Not really. To be close to her made me feel my guilt more acutely, and I hadn't wanted that. I didn't want to be reminded of the terror she must have felt with a father who was defeated—or worse, a drunk—and a mother who seemed either resentful or indifferent. My sister had grown up alone in Ajar because of my transgression. Since her arrival in Jaipur, I'd buried myself in work, my steadfast companion. I was good at my work; it welcomed me, and I shined in its embrace. Radha, who was smart but naive, courageous but foolhardy, helpful but thoughtless, was far less manageable.

Our father was fervent in his beliefs; I admired him for that. He was committed to his ideals. Unfortunately, high ideals came with a price.

Once he had depleted his savings, he sold the remainder of Maa’s only possessions, the gold that could have saved us from poverty, that was supposed to keep Maa secure in widowhood, that might have kept me from having to marry at fifteen. In a country where a woman's gold was her security against the unforeseen, Maa’s naked earlobes and bare wrists were a constant reminder that my father had put politics before his family.

And so, we were forced to move to Ajar, where my mother buried her disappointment and my father buried his pride. Independence wouldn’t come for another twelve years, but by then, he was already broken.

In India, individual shame did not exist. Humiliation spread, as easily as oil on wax paper, to the entire family, even to distant cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews. The rumor mongers made sure of that. Blame lay heavily in my chest. Had I not deserted my marriage, Radha would not have suffered so much, and Maa and Pitaji would not have been so powerless against an entire village. Today, when she saw how unfairly Malik was being cast off, she reacted as she always had—like a defenseless animal. She knew no better because no one had taught her any better.

She dropped to her knees in front of me. “Jiji. Please don't send me back. I have no one else. I won't do it again. I won't. I promise.” Her thin body was shaking.

Embarrassed and ashamed, I helped her to standing and wiped her tears. I wanted to say, Why do you think I would send you back? You're my sister. My responsibility. But all that came out was, “I promise I'll do better, too.”

“You're my sister, Radha, but I don't know you that well—”

“Ask me anything! I'll tell you. Anything! You've never asked me the month I was born. October. What's my favorite food? Gajar ka halwa. I love sari that have mirrors sewn into them. And I love kajal on babies. My favorite color is the green of mango leaves. And I like the taste of guavas just before they're ripe, when the flesh is hard enough to make my mouth water.”

She was right, and it stung. I hadn't tried to get to know her. Not really. To be close to her made me feel my guilt more acutely, and I hadn't wanted that. I didn't want to be reminded of the terror she must have felt with a father who was defeated—or worse, a drunk—and a mother who seemed either resentful or indifferent. My sister had grown up alone in Ajar because of my transgression. Since her arrival in Jaipur, I'd buried myself in work, my steadfast companion. I was good at my work; it welcomed me, and I shined in its embrace. Radha, who was smart but naive, courageous but foolhardy, helpful but thoughtless, was far less manageable.