In January, a woman I hardly knew, Da, practically demanded that I and my four American houseguests come to her house for dinner with a handful of other Thais and her Canadian husband. At the time I had no idea what prompted her to do that. All I knew about her, come to think of it, was her name and her speedy way of speaking.
The evening had been pleasant enough. Once or twice since then, Da and I have attended the same events and said hello. A mutual friend, Tik, has even suggested a reasonable explanation for why I was summoned back then: Da was considering a business venture that might have benefited from my experience. If Tik’s guess is correct, I must have said the wrong thing early on that night, because Da never raised the subject with me.
In any case, it was a pleasant surprise last week to get another call from Da, asking if I was free to come over again. Unlike the first time, she didn’t insist. Instead, she just explained that she was planning an informal meal on Thai Mother’s Day for a few people who like herself didn’t have kids in town. I already knew most of them.
As before, the food was delicious and the banter casual. The vegetables had been picked that morning. Traditional northern Thai dishes dominated the offerings. We joked in one language about politics, then switched to another to complain about the weather. For me there was none of the mystery and self-consciousness of the evening in January, when I kept expecting every comment to reveal the reason I was there, but none of them ever did.
I had called my mother-in-law earlier in the day. The idea of setting aside a special day to celebrate mothers doesn’t go back too far in this country. I wasn’t sure how many of the others at the table would have made a special effort to talk to their moms or their kids that day.
Da herself hardly ever sat down. Her hostessing style reminded me of a hummingbird: darting, hovering, suddenly buzzing off again to check something on the stove. Somehow she managed to stay part of all the conversations going on at the table, often initiating two or three simultaneously. Finally, as we were enjoying some fruit after the main meal, she took a breather and appeared ready to stay put with us for a while.
That’s when her mobile phone rang. She checked the screen and smiled. Her mom was calling. “Mom is 87 years old—she probably doesn’t remember that we already chatted today,” laughed Da, who remained at the table to take the call.
The rest of us kept talking, though a bit more quietly so Da could hear her mother on the phone. Their exchange had the tone that sometimes arises when the parent-child roles have reversed. We could sense that Mom knew what day it was, but had forgotten receiving Da’s call earlier. Da chose not to remind her, pretending they hadn’t already spoken, and cheerfully asking who else Mom had talked to that day.
As the two of them babbled on, I felt a little surprised that Da didn’t move away from the group. Suddenly she started singing into the phone. It caught me off guard at first, but after a few seconds I realized she was wishing her mom good night with a lullaby.
Then it hit me that the language wasn’t Thai. It had to be a prayer, I thought. Da was probably singing in Pali, the ancient language of the Buddha’s day that nobody uses anymore except when chanting at the temple.
We all stopped to listen. Da’s voice was beautiful. Even the neighborhood dogs quit their barking. I had no idea what the words meant, but it occurred to me that maybe Da had even learned them from her mom, once upon a time. Her eyes were closed. Our own eyes were all a little bit misty. I imagined we were each thinking about our own mom. When she finished singing and signed off, we sat there smiling and feeling grateful for a moment. Then somebody grinned and the evening carried on.
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