Every morning, on the way to work, Mother Ammi recites to us sayings from Gandhi’s works and tales from Hindu myths—passed down to her from generation to generation, which she always has at hand, something which would tickle our fancy, and something which would inspire us all in pursuing our survival convictions.
If only Bio-Dad were around—life would be perfect—but life rarely is. Nor can it be, unless I can make it so. So I make a start, by distracting the thought, with happy thoughts. Life can still be wonderful.
Keeping her dignity and sobriety throughout, Ammi always holds her head up high for us, even when troubled, coping with numerous legal problems thrown at her—social issues—as a single mother and racism—all by herself. She even barters her cleaning services for English classes and takes distant learning courses in English Literature and Social Studies.
She is keen on bringing us up like English gentlemen, seamlessly weaving us into British Society—assuming they allow us entry. She is keeping busy but is lonely and has not heard a word from Bio-Dad despite her countless attempts in contacting him; even via third parties. There is no financial or even moral support for that matter forthcoming from him, not even any promise of hope which we can latch onto for a brief stretch.But then again, why would we. He doesn’t have the time, does he.
As a family, we feel superfluous to requirements—his.
