Is there a ‘Normal’ Family?

A window into a Punjabi household, questioning 'normality' and a poem.

Dearest,

Last new year’s, I had booked two rooms at an up-market hotel in Delhi. I had dunked into my savings, anticipating a jolly time with my family. As jolly as it can possibly be with mum and dad constantly bickering about trite stuff like teenagers.

My best bet, though, was the hotel's white linen, and squishy mattress. I imagined a day of respite from the bustling (and raucous) mornings of our Punjabi household. Away from mom’s shrieks to B Didi demanding her to chop onions (fine) and puree exactly two tomatoes (These instructions are usually blurted from a bedroom, and are supposed to travel till the kitchen slab.) Away from B Didi replying to mom that preparing chai is an extra chore according to her job description. Away from papa’s Sai Baba ringtone waking up the still snoring temple gods. Away from questions asked of me mid-sleep, “Aaj meeting kitne baje hai?” For once, things would be on auto-pilot. God, please let them be on auto-pilot.

Our Adorable Family Painting, Nayanaa Kanodia, India, Painting, Oil on Canvas, Source: Saatchi Art

I wished (even if for a single day)— let everything for the four of us (my sister, mum, dad and I) play out like a normal family. “What’s a normal family, though?” an internal voice clawed. I had no benchmark or a North Star Metric. All that I had ever known, intricately, was my own family. And this felt far from normal.

At the hotel, our day dilly-dallied like a drunk man. We started off on a high note with a lavish butter chicken-garlic naan spread for lunch, and a few laughs sprinkled here and there. Many photographs were clicked. Delhi’s winter sun splayed our faces with an otherwise unrecognised beauty. In the pictures, mum and dad made the usual pose of one hand on the waist, and other on the shoulder. Smiles in the camera were ablaze but outside I saw them looking at other couples—old and young, well-dressed and under-dressed. Some were without children while others were accompanied by a gang of 14-year-olds. I asked intentionally, “What are you staring at?” Mum shuddered, and dad did not respond (as usual). For them, the question was not plausible.

(What would they have said, anyway? I wondered. We miss our youth. We didn’t even want to get married, and here we are two kids later. Lost our time. Are we as happy as that family with no kids, with a single kid and so on? That man looks rich and young. His wife so…)

But the big question (for me, anyway) was—did my parents know that we are not a normal regular family?

Nancy Noel May Fine Art, Provence Rouge, Acrylic, Canvas, Source: Artist’s Website

In the 24 hours at the hotel, we talked about: our new year outfits, where to eat dinner (at the hotel or a fine dining outside), when does work start for me, when will my sister resume her next semester, and how fantastic/inedible the buffet spread is. You can guess, but the conversations in my house were (are) at best—surface level. Just like how our domestic worker sweeps the house—she brooms where there is gigantic and visible grime, lets go of the corners, under the couch, behind the glassware cupboard and everywhere else that truly demands cleaning.

The logic for most of our families is—the closer we stay on the rims (as a family), the safer we are. But that seems antithetical. Not dealing with the ‘uncomfortable’ and ‘unknown’ has never made anyone feel protected or safe or loved. And it never will.

On our ride back home, I played ‘Aap ki Nazron ne Samjha Pyaar ke Kabil Hume’ on the car speaker. Mum and dad hummed along (and squabbled a little). My sister stuck her face to the window, ignored the commotion and slurped her lemonade. By the end of our one-day outing, I garnered 0.5% acceptance that—‘normality’ seems like a myth. I might not have a ‘normal’ family ever. And this is who they are. I cannot change them, unless they wish for change themselves.

I am still learning the nuances of that. Every now and then, though, I pick up the ‘hard’ stuff and lay it on our dinner table (alongside an ensemble of nut jars). The other day, I asked mum, “Aap sirf apne lia kya karte ho?”

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Recommendation

Now that we are on the theme of family, may I offer you a poem I re-visit often. It knits the yarn of queer love, with family, and of course, with food.

The poem is I Invite My Parents to a Dinner Party by Chen Chen.

See you next Saturday!

’Over’ Sensitively,
Aakanksha