একজন মা তার ছেলেকে জন্ম দেন নাড়ী থেকে,
একজন স্ত্রী সেই ছেলেকেই স্বামী হিসেবে জন্ম দেন হৃদয় থেকে।

একজন মা তার অদেখা ছেলেকে অনুভব করেন পেটে হাত রেখে দশ মাস,
একজন স্ত্রী সেই অচেনা ছেলেকেই অনুভব করেন বুকে হাত রেখে সারা টা জীবন।

একজন মা জন্ম দেন একজন শিশু পুত্রকে,
একজন স্ত্রী জন্ম দেন একজন পরিণত পুরুষকে।

একজন মা তার সন্তানকে হাত ধরে হাঁটতে শেখান,
একজন স্ত্রী সেই সন্তানের হাত ধরেই জীবনের সমস্ত পথটা হাঁটেন।

একজন মা তার সন্তানকে কথা বলতে শেখান,
একজন স্ত্রী প্রিয় বন্ধু হয়ে সারাজীবন তার কথা বলার সঙ্গী হয়ে ওঠেন।

সন্তানের দায়িত্ব কাঁধে আসতেই মা তার সমস্ত পৃথিবী ভুলে যান,
আবার স্ত্রী সেই সন্তানের দায়িত্ব নেবেন বলেই তার সমস্ত পৃথিবীটা ছেড়ে একদিন চলে আসেন।

সন্তান না খেতে পারলে পাতের সেই উচ্ছিষ্ট খাবার মা এবং স্ত্রী উভয়েই খান, আবার সন্তান এবং স্বামীর মঙ্গল কামনা মা এবং স্ত্রী দুজনেই করে থাকেন।

সন্তানকে বড় করেও সন্তানের থেকে প্রতিটা মাকেই আঘাত পেতে হয়।
আবার স্বামীকে বিয়ে করেও প্রত্যেকটি স্ত্রীকে একদিন না একদিন কষ্ট পেতেই হয়।

মায়ের কাছে সন্তানের জীবনে দায়িত্ব নেওয়ার শুরু প্রায় কুড়ি বছর।
স্ত্রীর কাছে স্বামীর জীবনের দায়িত্ব নেভানোর শেষ বাকি ষাটটি বছর(কখনো কখনো সেটি আশি বছরেও যেতে পারে যদি আয়ু একশো বছর হয়)।

মায়ের কোল হল সেই কোল যেখানে সন্তানের জন্ম হয় অর্থাৎ প্রথম বিছানা।
স্ত্রীর কোল হল সেই কোল যেখানে স্বামীর মৃত্যু হয় অর্থাৎ শেষ বিছানা (যদি স্বামী আগে মারা যান)

কিন্তু সমাজ এবং পরিস্থিতি আজ এমনই যে ছেলেটির বিয়ের পর মায়ের সাথে স্ত্রীর তুলনা করে প্রতিটা মুহূর্তে মাকেই শীর্ষস্থানে রাখেন, যেখানে দুজনের ভূমিকাই সমান, সেখানে সামাজিক নজরে কেন মা আর স্ত্রীর মাঝে তুলনামূলক দ্বন্দ্বে বারবার পাঁচিল উঠবে বলতে পারেন?

গর্ভ থেকে জন্ম নেওয়াটাই মা ও স্ত্রীর মধ্যে যদি সবচেয়ে বড় পার্থক্য হয়ে থাকে তাহলে শেষ কথা একটাই বলব-

"একজন আপনাকে গর্ভে ধারণ করেছেন,
অন্যজন আপনার জন্য গর্ভধারণ করবেন।"
"একজন আপনাকে জন্ম দিয়ে মা হয়েছেন,
অন্যজন আপনার জন্য আরেক জনকে জন্ম দিয়ে মা হবেন।"

Faniry followed two weeks later. Pierre was grief-stricken, but with Faniry he settled down to running the vineyard. His family, and the lazy, idyllic days under a tropical sun, were gone forever. But he was very happily married, and he was very well-off. Perhaps, he reasoned, life in Bordeaux would not be so bad.

But he was wrong. It soon became obvious that Faniry was jealous. In Madagascar she had no match. In France she was jealous of everyone. Of the maids. Of the secretary. Even of the peasant girls who picked the grapes and giggled at her funny accent. She convinced herself that Pierre made love to each of them in turn.

She started with insinuations, simple, artless ones that Pierre hardly even recognized. Then she tried blunt accusation in the privacy of their bedroom. When he denied that, she resorted to violent, humiliating denouncements in the kitchens, the winery, the plantations. The angel that Pierre had married in Madagascar had become a termagant, blinded by jealousy. Nothing he did or said could help. Often, she would refuse to speak for a week or more, and when at last she spoke it would only be to scream yet more abuse or swear again her intention to leave him. By the third vine-harvest it was obvious to everyone that they loathed each other.

A short story by Josef Essberger

grapes"You don't have to be French to enjoy a decent red wine," Charles Jousselin de Gruse used to tell his foreign guests whenever he entertained them in Paris. "But you do have to be French to recognize one," he would add with a laugh.

After a lifetime in the French diplomatic corps, the Count de Gruse lived with his wife in an elegant townhouse on Quai Voltaire. He was a likeable man, cultivated of course, with a well-deserved reputation as a generous host and an amusing raconteur.

This evening's guests were all European and all equally convinced that immigration was at the root of Europe's problems. Charles de Gruse said nothing. He had always concealed his contempt for such ideas. And, in any case, he had never much cared for these particular guests.

The first of the red Bordeaux was being served with the veal, and one of the guests turned to de Gruse.

"Come on, Charles, it's simple arithmetic. Nothing to do with race or colour. You must've had bags of experience of this sort of thing. What d'you say?"

"Yes, General. Bags!"

Without another word, de Gruse picked up his glass and introduced his bulbous, winey nose. After a moment he looked up with watery eyes.

"A truly full-bodied Bordeaux," he said warmly, "a wine among wines."

The four guests held their glasses to the light and studied their blood-red contents. They all agreed that it was the best wine they had ever tasted.

One by one the little white lights along the Seine were coming on, and from the first-floor windows you could see the brightly lit bateaux-mouches passing through the arches of the Pont du Carrousel. The party moved on to a dish of game served with a more vigorous claret.

"Can you imagine," asked de Gruse, as the claret was poured, "that there are people who actually serve wines they know nothing about?"

"Really?" said one of the guests, a German politician.

"Personally, before I uncork a bottle I like to know what's in it."

"But how? How can anyone be sure?"

"I like to hunt around the vineyards. Take this place I used to visit in Bordeaux. I got to know the winegrower there personally. That's the way to know what you're drinking."

"A matter of pedigree, Charles," said the other politician.

"This fellow," continued de Gruse as though the Dutchman had not spoken, "always gave you the story behind his wines. One of them was the most extraordinary story I ever heard. We were tasting, in his winery, and we came to a cask that made him frown. He asked if I agreed with him that red Bordeaux was the best wine in the world. Of course, I agreed. Then he made the strangest statement.

"'The wine in this cask,' he said, and there were tears in his eyes, 'is the best vintage in the world. But it started its life far from the country where it was grown.'"

De Gruse paused to check that his guests were being served.

"Well?" said the Dutchman.

De Gruse and his wife exchanged glances.

"Do tell them, mon chéri," she said.

De Gruse leaned forwards, took another sip of wine, and dabbed his lips with the corner of his napkin. This is the story he told them.

At the age of twenty-one, Pierre - that was the name he gave the winegrower - had been sent by his father to spend some time with his uncle in Madagascar. Within two weeks he had fallen for a local girl called Faniry, or "Desire" in Malagasy. You could not blame him. At seventeen she was ravishing. In the Malagasy sunlight her skin was golden. Her black, waist-length hair, which hung straight beside her cheeks, framed large, fathomless eyes. It was a genuine coup de foudre, for both of them. Within five months they were married. Faniry had no family, but Pierre's parents came out from France for the wedding, even though they did not strictly approve of it, and for three years the young couple lived very happily on the island of Madagascar. Then, one day, a telegram came from France. Pierre's parents and his only brother had been killed in a car crash. Pierre took the next flight home to attend the funeral and manage the vineyard left by his father.

From lively festivals and unique holidays to regional practices and everyday etiquette, understanding these cultural elements offers a window into the values and lifestyle of people across the United States. Whether you’re preparing to visit or simply curious about American culture, this guide will help you navigate and appreciate the various traditions that make America distinctive and vibrant

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