Bells

[Repurposed Text]

My mother was a funny sort of woman, you must understand.

She loved the company of people, and once, she had invited to the Westwood Club a guest she held in high regard. All present at the table began to make good and pleasant conversation, the subject of which shifted soon to the food to be ordered.

“I hear the salad is nice here,” somebody said.

“Maybe some cutlets, for the table?” said another.

“Oh, I could use a cold, fresh lime soda.”

And so, the list of preferences was prepared, and ready to be conveyed to one of the waiters. My father raised his hand, knowing well that he would be catered to within the next few seconds – only, before that could happen, we all heard a bell ring.

Now, in the dining room of the club, there was one service bell on every table. The diners were expected to ring these bells and the waiters were expected to answer to them. The system was simple and it was belittling.    

My mother hated the bells. I had never known anyone in our company to ring them until now – we all turned to source of the sound, and found, holding between his fingers the wretched service bell, the esteemed guest she had insisted upon calling.

My mother pursed her lips. My father watched her amusedly. The guest, oblivious to everything, smiled. I simply wondered what my mother would do. She was a woman of principle, but also a stickler for social propriety.

“My son needs to use the washroom,” she announced to the table. “Please excuse us.”

I was a boy of six, and very capable of going to the washroom myself. Even so, I could not object when my mother grabbed my hand and walked me out of the room. She was up to something.

We returned five minutes later.

“I want apple juice,” I said once I sat down. Then, I reached for the service

bell. I rang it.

My mother put on the sternest, angriest expression she could muster. I was scolded for a long time, reproached for my disgusting behaviour, and told that what I had just done was brutal, dehumanising, and reflective of a mindset that was better left in the nineteenth century.

The point was made. The bell was not heard again for the rest of the dinner.

Later, when the guest was put in a taxi and sent home, my mother looked at me proudly.

“You did well, my jaan,” she said. “You’re getting an extra slice of cake when we get home.”

And my father laughed heartily.