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Serving.

Another tradition I grew up with.

Take, for example…family gatherings.

My mother took great pride in serving people. She would go around to everyone’s plate and add an extra bit of shaak, sweet or roti.

Whether they wanted it or not.

She loved it.

Me not so much. The being served and serving.

In my family it seemed to be a ritual.

After dinner, I was expected to serve everyone chai or water. Sometimes it was as late as 11 p.m. Sometimes I was already asleep.

Regardless, I was expected to get up, serve everyone and do it with a smile.

I did it.

But somewhere along the way, serving stopped feeling like a gesture of hospitality to me.

It felt like a duty.

Something I was expected to do because I was the daughter. Because I was a girl. Because that was my role.

And apparently, that stuck.

Because even now, when serving is expected of me rather than something I choose to do, I feel that little twinge.

Take a family gathering at my uncle’s house with my Gujju husband.

Snacks and appetizers are out. I’m hanging with the aunties. My husband is sitting nearby and hasn’t made himself a plate yet.

Out of nowhere, my uncle says to me:

“You need to serve him the apps. He’s not eating.”

Umm.

I waited.

Surely my husband would say, “I’m good,” get up and make himself a plate.

Nope.

Awkward.

I took a moment.

Part of me knew it would be easier to just make his plate.

But suddenly I wasn’t just standing in my uncle’s house. I was that girl again being told it was my job to serve.

And I couldn’t do it.

Not this time.

So I simply said, “He can serve himself.”

And left it at that.

I’m not quite sure where this serving tradition began. Most likely among royalty.

To Desi or Not to Desi.