By Mary Grace Otis | Instagram: @theglobalmomshow

Piping hot pooris, puffed up perfectly—waiting for us. Crisp masala dosa, coconut chutney, sambar, idly. South Indian breakfast was fresh, hot, and free at Aunty’s house. We would hop in a rickshaw some mornings at 7 a.m. and head to her house in order to eat breakfast there and be back in time for work at 8:30. We usually didn’t call ahead. We just showed up—two single girls in their twenties, hungry for hot food and a home.

Robin and I had been college roomates, then spent several years working various jobs, she in China and North Carolina, me in Germany and Alabama. Both of us were ready for a new adventure, so when I called her up and asked her to go to India with me for a year, she immediately said yes. Now that we were here, we were grateful for every glimpse of kindness and welcome shown to us by new acquaintances who would soon become friends.

India was wrapping us up in its cacophony of sounds, scents, and symbols, and we were loving it. But all the unfamiliarity would often lead to sensory overload, and we found refuge in the home of Aunty and Uncle Sundararajan. The two had an arranged marriage—he a Christian, she a Hindu. His evangelicalism led him to leave his caste and convert –something that lost him dear family relationships and reputation. She married him anyway, finding him kind and trustworthy. As he traveled, sharing his faith, he asked his wife, a multi-linguist, to work with a Bible translation society translating scriptures. When she translated the book of John, she came to believe in the man called Jesus. Since then, the two had lived a dedicated life of ministry together.

Their home was always open—a steady stream of guests coming from all over India to record gospel messages and readings in different tongues to reach those who did not have scripture yet in their language. With two boys in their twenties also living at home, their house was a natural gathering spot for young people working at Google, Dell, and Seimens who were far away from their own families.

On Sunday afternoons, we would often show up at lunch time, knowing that if we did, we would be naturally included at the table. In India, the guest is never turned away. Guests are sacred. Guests are honored. Guests are always welcomed.

What a blessing it was to be received with a seat pulled up to the table and the table filled with people willing to share their portions so that we could partake.

I didn’t realize until I became a wife and a mom just how much work this constant meal-making was. How Aunty rose early every day to roll the chapati, stir the sambar, boil the dahl, puree the chutneys, and fry the vegetables. She cooked for hours, preparing food to be available for whoever might arrive. She was willing to cook more when more people came.

Aunty and Uncle’s house was better than any restaurant. Not only was the food fantastic, but the company was as well. Sometimes I just sat in the kitchen on a stool and talked to Aunty while she worked. Other days I chopped the carrots and bell peppers or flipped the breaded eggplant sizzling in a cast iron pan. Some days I walked with Uncle to the Richmond Town market to pick out the best tomatoes or curry leaves.

Several nights I slept there in a simple guest room, with mismatched batik bed covers and a foam pillow. But in that bed was the sweetest sleep. There were no matching sheets, no fluffed pillows, no flowers on the end table—no end table. But for me and Robin, the welcome was not in fancy things or perfectly decorated rooms, the welcome was found in the food, the fellowship, and the simple feeling of belonging. The attitude was: “There’s always a place for you at our table. No matter when you come, you are always welcome.” For two girls alone in India, that was the best hospitality we could have asked for.

Living in the U.S., my hospitality muscles have atrophied. I’ve been exhausted from work and child rearing, and my home seems to be an ever-evolving mess. I’m reticent to invite people over because my life often feels chaotic. Then there’s the space issue–our dining room table doesn’t fit more than six easily, and the rest of the house is crowded with five bodies living in a “small” (by American standards) home. And I don’t have the cooking chops of Aunty–my meals are often assembled from pre-cooked ingredients or are simple staples like spaghetti, stir fry, or tacos.

But these are all excuses. Excuses that my Indian friends did not make. They had people over anyway. Even if everything was not perfect. I was invited into homes where newspaper was the tablecloth and the “sofa” was a hard wooden board on legs. I’ve been squeezed into a kitchen the size of a closet (and not an American walk-in closet!), and I’ve sat on plastic stools pulled up to a coffee table for dinner. And all of it was wonderful because the hosts made me feel welcome. The expectations were different. The food was important, yes, but more than that, the joy of welcoming someone into a home was the most important part. Of course, there are perfectly large banquet halls in India that are filled with absolute elegance and luxury. There are homes that are magically decorated and opulent in their beauty. But the ones I felt the most welcome in were those where the host simply said “pull up a chair, you are most welcome.”

About Mary Grace:

Mary Grace Otis is a writer, editor, and podcaster who lives with her husband and three boys in northern Michigan. You can find her podcast and posts at theglobalmom.com, join the Global Moms Network on FB, or follow her on IG @theglobalmomshow.

 

 

 

 

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