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Ode to a Broom: The Magic Whisk Whirls me Back to the Bountiful Bowers of Childhood

Ode to a Broom: The Magic Whisk Whirls me Back to the Bountiful Bowers of Childhood

  • As I sweep, I become my mother’s maid. Wise, foolish, weak and strong all at once.

We lived in Chembur, a suburb of Bombay, the financial and Bollywood capital of India. I studied at St.Anthony’s high school. On weekends we took a trip to buy groceries at the amazing Chandan stores. There were so many mouth-watering delicacies in glass jars on the counter but my mom bought me the same treat every week. The smallest bar of Cadbury Milk Chocolate, locally made from the Chocolate factory Bombay. It was a five minutes drive but we walked back home. Mom held two bags and I held the one with the two chocolate bars wrapped in purple and silver. One for me and one for my sister. I waited patiently for this long walk every week because the reward was sweet. One day mom bought a broom. She asked me to carry it. I was mortified! I might run into some of the mean boys from the adjacent boys’ school. They were notorious! Those boys from OLPS. They would tease me forever! I can’t do that, I told her. Alright, her tone was sedate and blithe. If you are embarrassed by carrying the jhadoo, we can walk apart. So, I did. But the sight of her elegantly draped in a pink Bombay Dyeing saree with a vintage broom tucked in her grocery bag has stayed with me.

My mother is a regal being. An incarnation of Annapurna, the Goddess of Perpetual Nourishment. Her home, hearth and purse are ever abundant. Mother always had help with domestic chores, but she valued the dignity of labor. She swept with Emily Dickinson’s many-colored brooms, keeping her home, garden and mind free of dust and prejudice. Purple, amber brooms swept up radiant sunsets. She conjured magic to pluck twinkling stars from the sky. Cleanliness is akin to Godliness is her motto.

On that jhadoo-day, no one witnessed my predicament, especially those mean boys! This memory was tucked away in the recesses of consciousness. When I moved to America, like many others, I bought a broom and a vacuum cleaner. Cleaning does not come naturally to me, but I manage. Last year before COVID, I hired a lady who worked part-time at the Phuket restaurant, to clean my house. She brought a broom identical to the one we had procured from the Chandan Stores in Bombay. Within minutes she had cleaned my apartment with that single broom. I was overcome with joy to find the same “Indian” broom at Patel Brothers, an Indian grocery store in Atlanta. This time without hesitation and to my daughter’s chagrin, I carried the broom with alacrity! Now, “jhadoo” is an important member of my broom closet. Slender, straight and light, she does not doze off but prattles away to dusters, Swiffers and mops.

Every morning when I sweep my kitchen, I hold the broom in my hand. It is so easy now to clean the corners and crevices of my home. Her flexible grassy reeds gently lift molecules of dust, lurking insects, snippets of poems and worrywarts. When I survey my clean floors, walls and ceilings, my heart swells with pride. Not due to my education or vocation but despite it. As I sweep, I become my mother’s maid. Wise, foolish, weak and strong all at once. This humble broom, like many murmuring memories: flickering candles, songbirds, scented kerchiefs, embroidered frocks, handmade dolls, spices, warm porridge and the swing on her yellow rain tree has magic. The magic whisk whirls me back to the bountiful bowers of childhood.

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With one foot in Huntsville, Alabama, the other in her birth home India and a heart steeped in humanity, writing is a contemplative practice for Monita Soni. Monita has published many poems, movie reviews, book critiques, essays and two books, My Light Reflections and Flow through My Heart. You can hear her commentaries on Sundial Writers Corner WLRH 89.3FM.

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