A View on: The Management of Grief

After reading The Management of Grief by Bharati Mukherjee, it is interesting to explore the thoughts and perspectives of characters other than the main protagonist Shaila. The following presents a scene from the view of Judith Templeton, as she comes to speak to Shaila for the first time.

Nervously, my fingers massage the keypad of my cell-phone, my thumb rolling over the gently protruding bumps of various digits as I prepare myself to dial. What will she say when she answers me? She’ll answer in Hindi, won’t she?

As my thumb stamps the third digit in the daunting telephone number scribbled on the back of my notebook, I hear a voice. Back when I was in your position my boss would say “Don’t mess this up!” In this ‘correct’ world I’m not sure what they’d say. Then a low, rolling chuckle, followed by a stern grunt. I hear my boss’ voice continue inside me, This may be the only way and I’m sure you are aware.

“Namaste?” My heart begins to beat faster as I am attacked with questions. Do I answer in Hindi? I can say hello in Hindi too. But then- I would make a fool of myself. No- shouldn’t I demonstrate cultural awareness? As I hear her prepare to ask again, I nervously respond “Hello. I’m- I’m Judith Templeton. And- um and… I will be coming by your home shortly.”

“Multiculturalism?” she asks in a thick Indian accent.
“Um.. well” I begin, confused. “Are you representing multiculturalism for Canada?”
“Partially,” I respond. I didn’t want to lie or, alternatively, insult her. What do I know about India? What do I know about her? Why am I even being sent to talk to her? “My mandate includes other factors as well. You see, I was wondering if there was anything you needed.” Almost rudely, she fires an abrupt no and hangs up. Lost, I wonder if her mannerism is a part of her culture.

Adjusting my hair, I realize that I am not nervous- but angry. Angry at them. My colleagues constantly blaming every smallest grunt, gesture and tear on culture, I begin to explore the possibility that these people are unsupportable or impolite. A culture doesn’t impose on old couples to grieve or cry without end, or on women to be stubborn and refuse our aid. As expected, I begin to feel an overwhelming guilt. Again- What do I know about India?

The taxi driver stops the car gently and dictates “20 dollar please, you here.” Paying the long bearded Sikh man, my heart begins to pound again. Knocking on the front door, I discovered it is unlocked- as it creeks open, screeching loudly. I hear her say “Come in please, I will make tea.”

I am impressed by her calmness, her maturity and knowledge. Soon, she will serve me tea and ineptly, I will explain to her why we need her assistance. I take a look back at the departing taxi, and remember my conversation with her. If she refuses to assist, is this yet another element of their culture? Returning to my surroundings, I adjust my blouse and step inside.

-D. Mitropolsky