Collecting thoughts in a collectivist society

The door creaks. There is a gentle patter followed by a ‘swoosh.’ I open my tired eyes to the sight of the maid dusting the headboard as we sleep. She looks beautiful in her bright-pink-and-yellow saree. Still I am thoroughly annoyed for her disturbing us. How can you be cleaning while we are sleeping? Is there no privacy in this house? My friend is sick, exhausted and tired from the previous six days of nonstop events surrounding her brothers’ wedding and she will not recover if she cannot sleep! The maid continues to putz around the room; opening the door that accesses the balcony to hang the laundry, sweeping with a broom made of coconut fibers and haphazardly cleaning the bathroom. I look over at my dear friend who seems to sleep undisturbed, her thick black Indian hair falls over her face. I am jealous of her capability to sleep through this somewhat chaotic morning. And I find myself thinking again, how is she supposed to get better when she has no space, no peace?
Delving deeper into my thoughts, I realize that this small glimpse inside the Indian home stands for something much bigger than I had ever understood. Those in the East bring to life this notion that people are bothered about other people. My culture is full of “closed doors,” privacy, and space…Space is not a concept here, how can it be when you have a country of over 1.5 billion people? The maid is just doing her duties. There is a cocktail party this evening and things have to get done. Saroni is used to all this commotion. Her being sick is only a small part of a larger picture. And, why would you not go out of your way to make sure a visiting relative or friend feels comfortable in your home? To go above and beyond for a brother’s wedding? Why would you not shower a houseguest with excessive food and love? Is it not the better quality to show people that you care, rather than having people wonder if they are even cared about?
Eventually my friend is awake. We do not speak much, but I can tell she is not feeling well underneath her seemingly content smile. Still she rises, puts on a tan and green kurta-suit and heads out the bedroom door. She carries on chatting to her parents over a breakfast of Nescafe and two slices of toast. She is the dutiful sister. It is her brother’s wedding after all. And despite her own discomfort she has to be bothered. We all should be bothered at some point, for bothering is just a different way to say: Come, let us join together and love each other.