Every day Mrs. Chakrabarty, my neighbor and principal of United Missionary Girls’ High School, sends over a warm Bengali breakfast or a tea tray in the late afternoon. There are always a tasty variety of spicy dishes that I don’t recognize, but I am learning to savor. Then come the rest of the mamas– Tapashaidi, Anudi, Moitreyi, Rajashree, Lena. Many arrive at school after long commutes on the congested roads, but stop by my room before classes with a book, sweet yogurt, fish curry, or words of advice like, "drink more water," or "you take rest now."

These lovely women nurture naturally. Many of them have large extended families and when they leave school they take care of children, husbands, mothers-in-law, nieces, nephews– so what is one more? They add me to their heap of maternal obligations without complaint telling me, "We will miss you so much when you go," or "We just won’t let you go."

One of the favorite traditions here is adda- defined as a lively mix of heated political debate, highbrow analysis, and lowbrow gossip. This usually happens around tea time. The mamas and I have discussed the role of Indian women in the home, in society, and in the workplace– this is a favorite topic. But we have also talked about Nobel Laureate Poet Rabindraneth Taogore, academic tests, poverty, and the history of Kolkata. It is a relaxing time filled with laughter and sometimes a song from Anudi.

When it came time this week for me to appear in my first sari– the hostel girls put on a teacher appreciation program and saris were required– of course, the mamas came to the rescue. One brought the sari, another brought the jewelry and bendi (spelling?), while yet another bought a petticoat and custom tailored blouse (sewn overnight by a neighborhood tailor). Then came the dressing– they wrapped, pleated, and pinned me– selected my jewelry and shoes! It was a complete Indian make-over! Finally, the mamas sat me in a chair next to the fan and told me, "Don’t move," and I sat there as instructed until the program started.

Hospitality and gracious respect for strangers are part of this culture. In Indian literature, gods often appear on earth disguised as beggars or homely folk to test the generosity and sincerity of individuals. I wish I had the power to secure for my mamas the spiritual rewards they deserve! They have gone far beyond the dictates of culture and have taken me to their hearts. They have showered this mama– so far from home– with loving attention and kindness. In their honor, I amend the Beatles’ refrain, "I get by with a little help from my mamas."