Guest China

The real difference is that Mother’s first was a wedding gift. There was a 16-piece silver set. She came to my father’s home with daily-use Borosil glassware and stainless steel collections fit for a family of five. Four, if she really wanted a career. There were some passed-down antique prayer plates and brassware. She served rose milk and gulab-jamun in them.

My first was a haul of polypropylene plastic divider plates and sippy cups from IKEA. I later got some plastic spoons and sporks from FairPrice. I even took some of her Borosil glassware with me to college. I nuked garlic bread and experimented with instant noodles in these.

If anything is everything, then with no subtlety I submit that this is who we are. In our relationship with cutlery and china we forged our distinct womanhoods. How she imagines people and placement around tables when she looks at a tea set. How she shelves guest china, how she has assigned meaning and purpose to all vessels, how her heart breaks when crockery does.

How I have no concept of guest plates, how I would drink water from a bowl and eat soup from a larger bowl if I were left to my own devices. How I have begun to steal forks and coasters and chutney bowls from bars I like. How the only crockery I couldn’t bear to watch break is all that I have inherited from her.

How hers seem to say, “You can depend on me.” And mine seem to say, “I don’t depend on anybody.”