-
Even after I was too grown-up to play that
game and too grown-up to tell my mother that I
loved her, I still believed I was the
best daughter. Didn’t I run all the way up to the
terrace to check on the drying mango
pickles whenever she asked?
As I entered my teens, it
seemed that I was becoming an even better, more
loving
daughter. Didn’t I drop whatever
I was doing each afternoon to go to the corner
grocery to
pick up any spices my mother
had run out of?
My mother, on the other hand, seemed
more and more unloving to me. Some days she
positively resembled a witch as she
threatened to pack me off to my second uncle’s
home in
provincial Barddhaman
—
a fate worse than death to
a cool Calcutta girl like me
—
if my
grades
didn’t improve. Other days she would sit me down
and tell me about “Girls Who
Brought
Shame to Their Families”. There were apparently, a
million ways in which one could
do
this, and my mother was determined that I should
be cautioned against every one of them.
On principle, she disapproved of
everything I wanted to do, from going to study in
America
to perming my hair, and her
favorite phrase was “over my dead body.” It was
clear that I
loved her far more than
she loved me
—
that is, if
she loved me at all.
After I finished graduate school in
America and got married, my relationship with my
mother improved a great deal. Though
occasionally dubious about my choice of a writing
career, overall she thought I’d shaped
up nicely. I thought the same about her. We
established a rhythm: She’d write
f
rom India and give me all the gossip
and send care
packages with my favorite
kind of mango pickle; I’d call her from the United
States and
tell her all the things I’d
been up to and send care packages with instant
vanilla pudding,
for which she’d
developed
a great fondness. We loved
each other equally
—
or so I
believed until my first son, Anand, was
born.
My son’s
birth shook up my neat, organized,
in
-control adult existence in ways I
hadn’t imagined. I went through six
weeks of being shrouded in an exha
usted
fog of
postpartum depression. As my
husband and I walked our wailing baby up and down
through the
night, and I seriously
contemplated going AWOL, I wondered if I was cut
out to be a mother
at all. And mother
love
—
what was that all
about?
Then one
morning, as I was changing yet another diaper,
Anand grinned up at me with his
toothless gums. Hmm, I thought. This
little brown scrawny thing is kind of cute after
all.
Things progressed rapidly from
there. Before I knew it, I’d moved the extra bed
into
the
baby’s room and was
spending many nights on it, bonding with my
son.
参考答案:
即使我
长
大
些〃不再适合做
这样
的游
戏
〃不再
对
母
亲说
我
爱
她〃我仍然相信自己是世上最好的女
儿。
难
道不是
吗
p>
?
每当母
亲
吩咐〃
我不是
总
一路跑着到阳台去
查
看晒在那儿的腌芒果
?
当我步入少年〃我好像
变
成了一个更乖更可
爱
的女儿。
难
道不是
吗
?
每天下午〃当
妈妈
需要新的
调
p>
料〃我不是
总
放下手
头
的工作去街角的
杂货
店帮她
买
?
另一方面〃我的母
亲对
我的
爱
却好像越来越少。有
时
她活像个
巫婆〃因
为
她威
胁
如果我的学
习
成
绩
还
没有起色〃就要把我送到
远
在巴哈
马乡
下的二叔家
——这对
于像我
这样
心高气奥德加尔各答女孩而
言〃将是比死亡更悲惨的命运。有
时
她又会<
/p>
让
我坐着听她
讲
有关
“带给
家庭耻辱的女孩
”
的故事。
显
然
一个人会
面
对许
多
变
坏
的可能〃因此母
亲
决心
让
我
对
每个可能都保持警惕。基本上〃她
对
我想做的每一
件事都持反
对
意
见
〃从去美国学
< br>习
到
烫头发
。她的口
头
禅是
“
除非我死了
p>
”
。很明
显
〃我<
/p>
对
母
亲
的
爱远
远
超
过
了她
对
我的
爱——
p>
如果她
爱
我的
话<
/p>
。
当我
结
束了在美国的研究生学
习
并
结
了婚〃我和母
亲
的关系改善了
许
多。
虽然偶尔她
还对
我的当作
家的
选择
表示
怀
疑〃但
p>
总
的来
说
她
认为
我做的事情
还
算
不
错
。
对
于她
我也
这样认为
。我
们
< br>之
间
建立起一
种循
环
:她从印度写信
给
我〃告
诉
我各种趣
闻
〃并寄来我最喜
欢
的腌芒果
;
我从美国打
电话给
她〃告
诉
她
我都忙了些什么事情〃并寄去她最喜
欢
的香草布丁。我
们
的
爱
是
对
等的
——
至少在我的儿子阿南德出生
前〃我是
这样认为
的。
儿子的降生一下子打乱了我的平静、
规
律、有秩序的生活〃使我措手不及。出院后的六周里〃我一
直
被
产
后抑郁症的阴影包
围
着。
当夜里我和我的丈夫抱着哭
< br>闹
不止的儿子〃走来走去哄他睡
觉
〃我开始
认
真考
虑
< br>是否要
“
撤退
”
。我
怀
疑自己是否适合做母
亲
。母
爱——
究竟是什么
?
It’s not that we are
afraid of seeing him stumble, of scribbling a
mustache over his
career. Sure, the
nice part of us wants Mike to know we appreciate
him, that he still
reigns, at least in
our memory. The truth, though, is t
hat
we don’t want him to come back
because
even for Michael Jordan, this would be an act of
hubris so monumental as to make
his
trademark confidence twist into conceit. We don’t
want him back on the court because
no
one likes a show-off. The stumbling? That will be
fun.
But we are
nice people, we Americans, with 225 years of
optimism at our backs. Days ago
when
M.J. said he had made a decision about returning
to the NBA in September, we got
excited. He had said the day before, “I
look forward to playing,
and hopefully
I can get
to that point where I can
make that decision. It’s O.K., to have some doubt,
and it’s O.K.
to have some
nervousness.” A Time/CNN poll last week has
Americans, 2 to 1, saying they
would
like him on the court ASAP. And only 21 percent
thought that if he came back and just
completely bombed, it would damage his
legend. In fact only 28 percent think athletes
should retire at their peak.
Sources close
to him tell Time that when Jordan first talked
about a comeback with the
Washington
Wizards, the team Jordan co-owns and would play
for, some of his trusted
advisers
privately tried to discourage him. “But they say
if they try to stop him, it will
onlyfirm up his resolve,” says an NBA
source.
The problem with Jordan’s return is not
only that he can’t possibly live up to the
storybook ending he gave up in 1998
—
earning his sixth ring
with a last-second
championship-winning
shot. The problem is that the motives for coming
back
—
needing the
attention, needing to play even when
his 38-year-old body does not
—
violate the verymyth
of Jordan, the myth of absolute
control. Babe Ruth, the 20th century’s first star,
was a
gust of fat bravado and drunken
talent, while Jordan ended the century by proving
the
elegance of resolve; Babe’s
pointing to t
he bleachers replaced by
the charm of a
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