The silver rattle

Nobody remembered who had brought the rattle home. They all came with platters of sweets and fruits, a tradition in their Indian hometown, to welcome the new arrival. A chubby face they said. A good sign for the family.

They only remembered that it was unusual, a gift for a baby wrapped in shining blue paper. Who brought gifts for a baby? What did a baby need? When they had opened the gift, the children had run around with the blue paper that sparkled in the sun. The rattle was silver with three bells, set in a triangle. Made by someone who didn’t know what it was to have a young baby. The edges were razor sharp, great care had been taken to make sure it was all symmetrical.

It lay on the floor next to the baby on the rubber sheet, a cloth diaper fastened with a large safety pin around her belly. They shook the rattle in front of her when she cried, when she fussed for milk. There was always someone around her in the large house. With twenty people living together, aunts and uncles and cousins, of course there was always someone. Someone entered the room to hand a piping cup of coffee to someone else. Someone shouted a warning to make sure no one left the baby completely alone. Someone was always around, keeping a lazy eye on her just to make sure she didn’t roll under a cupboard.

Her older sisters milled around, busy in their own affairs. The visitors came and went, cooing over her politely. A good baby, they said, nice and quiet. Even when they shook the rattle in front of her, she smiled shyly. Just as a baby should be. Seen and not heard.

They jingled the rattle for a few minutes. How sweet, she looks at the bells. Good good. The rattle lay next to her. Someone would be around to make sure she didn’t get too close to the sharp edges. Pretty baby. Oh she’s making a face. She must have her father’s temper eh. Look at how angry she gets. Yes, it’s going to be tricky for you when she grows up. Need to be strict to keep her in line.

Then her mother would come to whisk her away so that the men could have a proper chat. The men would sit in the receiving room for hours, as cup after cup of coffee was brought for them. She’d be laid down in the kitchen, on a red and white checked cloth next to the women who chopped vegetables on the floor. Twenty people in the house, there was always something that needed to be chopped. Someone in the kitchen would keep an eye on her, making sure she didn’t roll too close to the knives, didn’t roll under the cupboard.

The rattle only came to her when her own child was grown. The sisters had come together fifteen days after her mother’s funeral. They’d opened the cupboard to examine their mother’s things, to decide who would get what.

By then it had become an heirloom, as all things do when their core memory is wiped away. Aunts and uncles had moved out into their own houses, each taking their paintings and silver and utensils with them. Her mother had taken her own silver and gold, to be given to her children one day.

Now the sisters sat on the red tiled floor, emptying zip lock bags filled with gold jewelry, unwrapping silver trinkets wrapped in newspaper. Her mother’s nose ring, the large diamond stud that would weigh her down but that she’d insist on wearing for a family wedding. The thin gold chain her father wore for every day of his life, given to him for the pride of being the first born. They put everything in neat piles, gold and silver. Her niece sat with her laptop open, adding everything to a spreadsheet.

They held each item in their hands, passing it to each other. Did she remember when her father bought her mother the coral necklace? The only gift he’d ever given her, after her youngest sister’s wedding. It matches the earrings my husband gave me, a sister said. That’s how they chose what went to whom. Finding different reasons to lay claim to the trinkets on the floor. Then they subtracted and added based on value. Her niece was newly returned from business school. She sat there with a laptop in her hand. They had to say whether they thought something was worth a hundred, a thousand or ten thousand. And then make sure each person had an even share. They all groaned that it was too complicated. But in their minds, each of them was quickly tallying the numbers, deciding what to lay claim to in the pile. Was she close to her sisters? Of course, she would say, if anyone asked. They would make sure no one's child rolled under a cupboard. That counted for something, did it not?

She had fought for the rattle. The story had been told enough times. How strange in that age for someone to bring a present for a baby. Not earrings or something that could be used through her life, but a rattle wrapped in shining blue paper. They remembered who it had been brought for. The sisters remembered her lying there, the rattle next to her for visitors to jingle. But you already have a silver plate, they'd said. It’s a ten thousand item, they’d said. In the end she’d traded the plate for the rattle.

She’d brought the rattle to her daughter’s house now, for her new granddaughter. She was to be at her daughter's house for several months. A chubby face is good fortune, she'd told her daughter. She had arrived laden with presents. . Tucked away in a blue jewelry box, she’d brought the rattle as well. Its corners were much too sharp to be kept next to a baby, she said decidedly. But every day, she’d carefully take the rattle out of the box and jingle it a few meters above her granddaughter’s face, watching with eagerness for the loud chuckle that would erupt. Just as a baby should be.