Of Kismet and Karma: A Cross-Cultural Journey in Self-Discovery

By Pam Handa Nee Kochhar

Of Kismet and Karma, a semiautobiographical, cross-cultural goulash, is the realization of a dream the author had nurtured since she was a young woman. It is the first book ever written by a female Indian author about three colonial cousinsIndia, Ghana, and the United Kingdom. This cross-cultural voyage of self-discovery, the reflection of a color-blind mind, spans over three decades spent among diverse cultures. The two Indian words in the title of the book are found in every English dictionarykismet means destiny, and karma refers to the duties we are born to perform in this world.
Of Kismet and Karma is the tale of a lifetime spent amid peoples of three worldsthe black, the brown, and the white. Through this semiautobiographical account, Pam tries to give her readers interesting glimpses and explanations of diverse cultural beliefs and colorful customs. It focuses on the diversity of our world. The Ghanaian word sankofa (meaning the past can become a learning experience) so impresses her that through nostalgic anecdotes collected from a multicultural world, she celebrates their past glory and wisdom. Though names of people and places have been changed, this book is about real people and real places. In the pages of this book, the author expresses the view that though oceans apart and in spite of the color of their skins, all peoples of the world share a common destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jan 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466967977

Pam Handa Nee Kochhar

Pam Handa née Kochhar, the author of Of Kismet and Karma, was born of a Punjabi family in India. A graduate of the Sacred Heart Convent, Dalhousie, India, she completed her BA degree in 1964 with English, French, and philosophy as her majors. Two years later, she received her master’s degree from Punjab University, Chandigarh. She was awarded a gold medal for her achievements as an outstanding student. She began her teaching career in 1966 at the Punjab University in Chandigarh, where she served on the faculty of the English Department from 1966 to 1972. While her husband was practicing in the United Kingdom, Pam Handa completed a couple of courses on the teaching of English as a foreign language from the Manchester and Cambridge Universities. In 1972, the Handas immigrated to Ghana, where she taught in various training colleges and secondary schools in the country as well as in the Ghana International and French schools in Accra, where she is living at present with her husband, Dr. P. K. Handa, a practicing physician. Among her hobbies are listening to all sorts of music, playing a good game of bridge, ballroom dancing, globe-trotting, and of course, writing. In the late eighties, Mrs. Handa became the pioneer newsletter editor of the Ghana International Women’s Club, a charitable organization. Her first book, The Wild Gecko, a collection of poems, was published in Accra, Ghana, in April 2003. The Handas have a daughter happily married in the United Kingdom and two grandsons, Samir and Sahir.

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Copyright 2012 Pam Handa Nee Kochhar.

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

isbn: 978-1-4669-6795-3 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-6796-0 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-6797-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921270

Trafford rev. 11/27/2012

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To Minnie, who instead of letting me drown in the waters of Lethe, guided and inspired me to reach my goal

And

To Mum and Dad, who’ve loved me dearly

And

To Samir and Sahir, in whose abilities

I have complete faith.

Contents

Thank You!

Preface

Nostalgia

Prologue

Grandma Bayjee

Two Little Dickybirds

The Boy Child

The Family Fortune

The City of Love

All Things Right and Religious

The Sands of Time

Love at First Sight

Banished!

Campbells

Bulbul Brandy

The Oracle

No Woman is an Island unto Herself

Chandy

No. 101

The Yogi

Guide, Philosopher and Friend

First Impressions

The Breakthrough

An Affair to Remember

The Day After

Dharma and Karma

The Day of the Husband

Roshni

The Householder

With Love and Herbs

The Months of Plenty

Chatty Mood

The Edelweiss

The New Horizon

Wait Small!

What a Strange World!

Close Encounters of a New Kind

Ashanti

The Stars of Africa

Diamonds are Forever

The Remains of those Days

Abena

Gye Nyame

The Island of Mists

A Matter of the Head

A Unique Way of Life

The Exotic Land of Extremes

Our Great Expectations

A World of Golden Daffodils

The Quest for Mr Right

The Unsuitable Boys

The Winter of our Discontent

Mission Accomplished!

From the Unreal to the Real

Sense and Sentimentality

The Crustaceans

The Inevitable

The Aftermath

Brave Heart

Unforgettable

Distant Colonial Cousins

Sankofa

Epilogue

Endnotes

Thank You!

I would like to extend a big thank you to the numerous people who have made it possible for me to reach the end of a difficult road. Though it is not possible to include each name on my list, I’m deeply indebted to all my Indian, Ghanaian, as well as multi-cultural friends for the valued friendship and good will they’ve offered me in the last three decades that I’ve spent in Ghana. Thank you all, firstly for making my mortal journey so interesting; secondly for wielding such a positive influence on me, in my home away from home; thirdly, for helping in diverse ways to make my stay in Ghana happy and content; and finally, for helping me gain a new perspective on life.

I feel a great sense of gratitude towards my parents, Mr. and Mrs. D.N. Kochhar, for bringing me into this big and beautiful world and enriching my life with a sound education. Without them even the first step in the writing process would have been difficult to take.

I am deeply indebted to my husband Prem, for his constant love and support, without which, each achievement of life would have been meaningless. Thank you P.K. for offering me your never-ending optimism during my periods of self-doubt and frustration; each time my work ground to a halt because of the writer’s block I was facing, you managed to uplift my spirits.

I am thankful to our children Sheil and Shibani, for accompanying me most enthusiastically, all the way, on my mission impossible. Thank you both for the invaluable suggestions and help you offered in the final editing of ‘Of Kismet* and Karma**’

Among the host of other relatives, friends and acquaintances I’d like to thank very much are the following: My brothers Parveen Kochhar, Pradeep Kochhar and their families, my sister-in-law Renu Kochhar and family, the late Mr and Mrs. S.N.Handa and the entire Handa, Challana, Chaudhry, Midha and Laul families for a lifetime’s unconditional love and support.

Paul and Kanta Handa for bringing us to the golden shores of Ghana and so enthusiastically guiding our first steps here.

My aunt, Mrs. Saroj Sehgal and my cousin Mrs. Tara Anand for their never-ending love, enthusiasm as well as for all the fruitful discussions I’ve always had with them.

The poet, writer and former Ambassador of Switzerland to Ghana, Dr Peter A. Schweizer for spending his invaluable time on giving me precious second opinions as well as helping me edit my thoughts and words.

Rajiv Uppal, J. K. Ramesh, Giri and Shanti for helping out with my emergency e-mails!

Mr Lalit of Super Drycleaners at Manimajra for helping me type my first draft so efficiently.

Preface

A mong the veritable cornucopia of childhood fads and fancies, there are some notions which become a force of habit, simply because we want to hold on to them forever. While these remain entrenched to acquire a more permanent dwelling place in our minds, others fade away into insignificance with the passage of time. The two rituals I remember performing zealously in the privacy of my young world were of a completely diverse kind. The first was the peculiar habit of concealing chopped, raw onions (well seasoned with salt and pepper and tucked away in fancy little containers) to be secretly nibbled at during leisure. The second was the more rewarding practice of jotting detailed impressions of interesting observations, which impressed me in one way or the other. While I gradually developed a great aversion to the first, the second matured into a burning desire to distil my experiences into an account featuring a retrospective of those prominent milestones, which the Karma *** of my past life have enabled me cross successfully in this Janam ****.

As a child, the flair for writing I thought I possessed, encouraged me not only to jot down short accounts of important daily events but also to write imaginary tales with myself as their only reading audience. As an adult however, one recurring thought which like the North Star constantly showed me the way, was my keen desire to recover the past by recording in black and white all those colourful images that are transfixed on my mental screen and refuse to go away.

Since my older brother had such an old head on his young shoulders, it seemed right for everyone to turn to him for advice in time of need. When it came to eloquence and self-expression, his command of the English language was so perfect that the entire clan looked up to him with deep admiration. No one knew better than I that, if at any time in life I was ever able to muster enough strength and courage to consider a literary venture of any proportions, big or small, he’d decidedly have to become not only my editor and critic but also my co-author. With his great sense of humour, his natural instinct for story telling—that he’d surely inherited from our grandmother—and his great skill in the art of witty dialogue delivery, who could be a more appropriate partner? Besides, big brother always played a most active and benevolent role in our family matters so, I secretly decided to divulge this idea to him when the time was right.

People say procrastination is the thief of time. I realised a little too late that putting off until tomorrow, what one can do today, isn’t such a good idea after all. I never did succeed in letting my dear brother know about my reflections; neither was I lucky enough to get his advice or help in what could have been one of the most daring and exciting of my proposed achievements. In fact it was too late to plan anything with him: We’d never go on vacation together; never spend our retirement in the same town or even play a family Bridge game again. He would never send me any more long lists with which I would run around at summer sales in London, because though I’m still enjoying the beauties of the world, mighty providence has ordered him to disappear into the land of no return.

After Teenu’s passing away, there came a sudden change in my thinking. It was quite natural that my thoughts returned to him again and again. The more I pondered on his sudden departure from the physical world he’d adorned with his friendly grin, the more convinced I became that I could never let the wind of forgetfulness erase his footprints from the sands of time. I know it is never plausible to reverse the hands of the clock to undo what has already been destined, but the sheer idea of crossing the line between imagination and reality now seemed more appealing than ever before. A new enthusiasm suddenly filled my being. The avalanche of old memories that came and went descended upon my mind so heavily and frequently that I sincerely longed to share it with someone. I knew if I didn’t, some day I’d surely find myself buried under its weight. I was now convinced that a written account would enable me make the much-longed sentimental return journey into the past to meet my favourite faces and visit my favourite places. It would certainly enable me rewind the time machine to recapture the long ago times indelibly printed on my heart. Above all, it would help me perpetuate my brother’s memory.

This book, the fulfilment of several hopes and dreams I’ve cherished over the years, is a tribute to my late brother Lieutenant Colonel. Rajesh Kochhar, who would have undoubtedly been my co-author, as well as editor, had he been alive today.

Pam Handa

Nostalgia

W e’re in a new millennium and time is rolling by;

It is CRAZY living in the past but it’s still worth a try.

I’ll surely SAY YEA, if you ask me to recall

That WONDERFUL WORLD when every night was a ball.

When bottoms had bells and bouffants were tall;

When you and I came waltzing through the hall.

My LIPSTICK ON YOUR COLLAR was pale and pink;

Eye shadows were blue and eyeliners could wink.

When Hippie gurus slyly twirled the misty smoke

Of marijuana in the eyes of long-haired folk,

Who migrating to the snowy Eastern peaks of Nepal,

For a SUMMER HOLIDAY took along their LIVING DOLLS.

That’s when ELVIS and CLIFF and THE BEATLES sang

STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT rocked and rolled with a bang.

Do come on a HARD DAY’S NIGHT we’ll both celebrate

A return to the sixties, from eight till late.

We’ll jive; we’ll shake; we’ll do the JAILHOUSE ROCK.

We’ll quickly TWIST AGAIN the hands of the clock

To become the YOUNG ONES of those CRAZY DAYS,

When as DEVILS IN DISGUISE we had our own little ways.

When ROSES were RED and VIOLETS were Blue;

When I SAVED THE LAST DANCE for you, who are so true!*****

Prologue

T he place was the jazzy land of mind-boggling cults, where in the past, great empires rose and fell, leaving behind their rich and colourful customs and traditions. A young man and his wife, descendants of the proud warrior clan of Punjab—India’s green and fertile land of five rivers—were sitting in a small hospital room in Daryaganj, a popular part of Delhi. They had just witnessed the beginning of one of the most interesting experiences of their married life: the birth of their twins.

On a chair near the woman’s bedside sat a cute-looking boy of about four, looking rather tall for his age. His dark brown hair was neatly combed in a side parting, his hands were in his pockets and on his thick lips was an endearing smile. The little boy was wearing a pair of silver grey shorts and a hand-knitted matching woollen pullover that his mother had completed knitting just a few days before her delivery. In this were designed tiny red and blue diamonds which were his mother’s favourites.

Dearest, when you bring Teenu to the hospital to see me, please let him wear this outfit, were the special instructions she had given her husband before her labour pains had started.

For a while, Master Mehra sat quietly, as if waiting for some explanation from his mother. Then, without further ado, he got up from the chair and walked boldly towards her bed. He couldn’t understand what was happening. His mother had a baby tucked in each arm and was calling him to come towards her. With a look of evident bafflement in his big bright eyes, he approached her bedside.

"Beta ****** come and say hello to your new companions," his mother was now saying persuasively with a smile.

Suddenly, the perplexed four-year-old started clapping his tiny hands. Then, the still-dazed kid took the little baby girl’s chubby finger in one hand. With the other he tried to make her laugh by tickling her. After this, he kissed his little brother’s hand. There was a brief silence in the hospital room. Then, to everyone’s amazement, the wide-eyed boy’s loud voice came out with the spontaneous reaction,

"Mummy jee ******* from where did you get two babies? Who gave them to you?"

Though jubilant, the young child was still pretty intrigued at the prospect of having two little ones to look after. Since her first-born was finding it difficult to take in the strangeness of the entire affair, the mother gently explained to him as best as she could,

God didn’t want you to be lonely; He’s sent you a brother and sister to play with. Now you take care of your new playmates and give them all your love.

In his brave attempt to take full charge, the youngster cuddled the two newborns warmly. It must have been years later that he would have eventually understood the amazing phenomenon of twins. What his parents must have realised even then was that their first-born son’s moving spirit would forever reach out to his siblings with unflinching love and devotion.

Grandma Bayjee

B ayjee, w-why do we c-call the m-moon C-Chanda M-Mama? the eight-year-old Randhir stammered.

Because Chanda means moon and Mama means maternal uncle. The moon is like your maternal uncle that has to be loved and respected. Besides, it’s very powerful.

C-Can it fall d-down on t-t-the earth one day? the young boy asked sounding very worried.

No my dear, it can’t, the old lady assured him.

What if it did and broke into a million shining pieces? Could it be put together again? I now added my worry.

Don’t let these unimportant things worry your pretty little heads, because Chanda Mama lives far away in the sky. He sits there on his throne and watches over us. He can never fall down. Now dears, you must both go to sleep, the old lady said firmly.

But Bayjee, you promised to tell us another story tonight, I pleaded.

Just five minutes more then.

Both Randhir and I started clapping our hands gleefully at the prospect of listening to another tale.

When you grow up, you’ll surely study Indian history. Then you’ll understand everything. Today I’ll just tell you one more thing. Hundreds of years ago our country was called Indu land.

Bayjee, is Indu just a name or does it mean something? I asked politely.

In India, most names have a meaning. Indu means the moon. She answered.

W-why did th-they call it b-by this name? Randhir stammered again.

Because the piece of land on which our great-grandfathers first settled was in the shape of a half-moon. The hundreds of stars you see around the moon are its friends, Grandma said wisely.

Do they play together nicely, Bayjee? I asked timidly.

Yes, they do.

What do they play? I asked again.

Hide and seek. Now no more questions. Chanda Mama is watching us; he’s listening to all that we’re saying. Besides, he also knows what’s in your heart. Randhir, go to your room.

Bayjee, it’s s-so d-d-dark in there. I c-can’t see a-anything. The b-b-bogey man is hiding there. He’ll c-catch me. P-Please come and s-switch on the l-light, Randhir stammered again with trembling lips.

The dark-skinned woman with lacy green tattoos on her plain face adjusted the pure white veil that covered her head as she switched on the light. Then, she replied,

"There’s no one here, child. Besides, like your bold and brave great-grandfather, you’re the brave lion of Punjab. You must never ever be afraid of anything or anyone."

This time, planting a victorious smile on her protruding lips Bayjee reminded us,

Your great-grandfather, Sardar Avatar Singh, was a fearless man whose ancestors were baptised into the brotherhood of the Sikhs.

She touched the long, luminous plait intricately woven on her old head and paused to collect her thoughts. Then she announced proudly,

"He wasn’t a Sikh just in name. He was truly a Singh, a brave lion of Punjab. He didn’t live long enough to meet me but I can tell you he’s smiling from the heavens above and giving us all his sincere blessings."

Before sleep finally came I thought hard about the explanation my grandmother had given about Chanda Mama.

‘Bayjee never lies; she loves me so much that she always tries to answer all my questions,’ I pondered and yet something wasn’t right. How could Chanda Mama know what is in my heart from such a vast distance? This question sparked a keen desire in me to find out more about the extra-curricular activities of the celestial powers from which comes the expression ‘starry-eyed’. That night, it seemed ages before I was finally able to get the much desired shuteye.

Bayjee, the endearing figure with a strong personality, was born of a Hindu mother and a Sikh father whom she lost a few days before her birth. She wasn’t a good-looking woman in any manner of speaking, especially since in those days, a fair complexion was the major sign of beauty. She was, however, forever bursting with vibrant energy, her greatest asset. As an only child in a fatherless home, she never had the opportunity to live in a protective household controlled or dominated by one of the stronger sex. Consequently, she grew up not as a traditional Indian female, a weakling of her times, but a strong woman capable of taking on huge responsibilities.

My grandmother came to her Hindu husband’s home as a child bride. She bore Chunni Lal Chopra four boys and three girls in quick succession. Since my banker grandfather was forever on the move, she wisely decided to shoulder the responsibility of her young brood all by herself. When my grandfather also died a premature death at the age of forty-something, Bayjee became the man of the house assuming a dominant role in her household.

Most grandmothers are kind and loving women. They pamper and spoil their grandchildren often to the annoyance of the parents. Mine was no different, but she was special. For a good number of years during our childhood, Bayjee’s grandmotherly duty included not only coaxing us into our nocturnal slumber but also providing a vast repertoire of eye-popping stories that made my child’s jaw drop in amazement. The super-orator, whose eyes and ears worked as a snow leopard’s even in her declining years, told us such interesting tales that we listened enthralled. I certainly looked forward to those wonder nights when she enabled me to see my young world anew. Besides, the manner in which she entertained us, her dramatic tone of voice, her funny facial expressions and elaborate hand gestures created a magic effect of credibility.

Whenever I think back to the days of my childhood, I remember also how excited I became during the special festivals Bayjee celebrated with us. One of the earliest memories cluttered in my mind is of the day she took my baby brother Pradhan out for the first time on the fortieth day of his arrival in this beautiful, wonderful world. As a special treat, all the cousins in the family were given extra pocket money. This provided ample excitement for months.

Another of my favourites was the Punjabi festival of Lohri, the Bonfire Night that celebrates the fast approach of spring. What I enjoyed most was the Kanjkaas, the celebration reserved for us little women who were treated like Devis, literally female deities. On this special day Bayjee always prepared a lavish feast of Halva Puri and boiled chickpeas. As part of the ritual, first a sacred red thread was tied on our tiny wrists. Then, our tiny feet were bathed in clean water, before we, the little ladies, were fed.

My eternal favourite, however, has remained the story that revolves around the life and sacrifices of Lord Rama, the hero of the epic Ramayana and heir apparent to the kingdom of Ayodhya. It’s as vivid in my mind today, as it was when my grandmother was alive:

"Lord Rama was the favourite son of King Dushereth. His step mother was inflamed with envy when she realised that her ageing husband was going to bequeath his throne to his most obedient and beloved son Rama, instead of to her own son Bharat. The wicked woman that she was, she craftily manipulated the weak king forcing him to banish Rama for fourteen long years of exile in the deep and dangerous forests. The ideal son that he was, he immediately set off to carry out his father’s instructions. He returned home safely only after he’d done his time."

At this point, my brother Randhir could never resist interrupting Bayjee with,

Nani, d-did Bharat h-happily a-agree to b-become k-king?

No child, how could he, when he so dearly loved his older brother? was the spontaneous reply with the wave of her hand. Then, my grandmother declared, "The wicked hydra-headed monster Ravana, the king of demons, dared to abduct Lord Rama’s faithful consort Sita to his palace of evil. He had to be punished. Every year, since his first incineration centuries ago, an effigy of the multi-headed monster is burnt in full public view."

Randhir, his face beaming with smiles, always seemed pretty pleased with himself when he threw another question at her,

N-nani, is th-that his p-punishment?

Yes my child, Bayjee ran her strong fingers through his hair. Nodding her assent vigorously she announced, Millions of devoted Hindus go to see the ugly monster falling amidst the deafening sound of firecrackers. Having destroyed him hundreds of times, they return home to prepare for the triumphant and grand arrival of Lord Rama from his long banishment.

Finally, she made the happy pronouncement:

"Diwali, the festival of lights, is an expression of joy at Lord Rama’s safe return from banishment and the end of the evil-minded Ravana. It also signifies the triumph of good over evil."

Two Little Dickybirds

I n the century in which my father was born, due to the high infant mortality rate of the times, it was not only fashionable but also imperative to have large families as a hedge against old age. Consequently, my grandfather, Mr Jagan Nath Mehra, (named after the Hindu Lord of the world that gave the English language the word juggernaut) fathered a total of ten children. In those days, most Indians had two names and most names had specific meanings. Kumar, meaning prince and Kumari meaning princess, were very common middle names. My imperious father’s first name, Amar, however, literally means ‘eternal.’ His middle name Nath that appropriately describes him is a popular Hindu name meaning Lord.

When my good-looking father first set out in life, he was an extremely fair, dashingly handsome man known within the Mehra clan for his agile, intelligent mind and craze for discipline. In the days of his youth, the fair-complexioned, snappy-suited man who wore pastel-coloured shirts, wire-rimmed glasses and fashionable ties, thought himself a highborn gentleman of a class apart. Since my childhood, two pictures of him have remained distinctly clear in my mind. In the first, I see him charging in and out of the house in his crash helmet, muddy Wellingtons, khaki shorts and sola hat; in the other, I see him immaculately dressed in shirt and tie comfortably seated in his living room. I can also quite clearly picture him quaffing his generous tots of Scotch every evening or hurriedly stubbing out cigarette after cigarette with his long fingers stained yellow from smoking.

As a student, my father a sports enthusiast and hockey fanatic, lived on a twelve-eggs-a-week high-cholesterol diet. By the time I approached my teens and saw him in action, I discovered in him a mathematics wizard that could solve any and every problem in his head without the help of pen and paper. No wonder then that in the small world of my adolescence, my father was the most intelligent man I knew.

My mother Ambika is Bayjee’s second daughter. She was named after the Indian Goddess Shakti, meaning power. For her gorgeous eyes, long black hair fanning across her shoulders, dark complexion and heart studded with the brilliant stars of kindness, she might just as well have been named Laila (literally meaning night) had she been a Muslim. In any case, what’s there in a name? I’m sure Mum would have remained a strong woman immaterial of whatever she was named.

It was during a chance meeting at a friend’s house in 1934 that Ambika met the fiery man she remained madly and badly in love with for the rest of her life.

Do you know how to play Bridge? was the first question Amar Nath Mehra, the ace Bridge player, put to her the first time they met.

No, she replied looking directly into his eyes.

Don’t worry, I’ll teach you, he assured her.

In a country and society in which distinction of caste, colour and creed have top priority, the only flaw in Mum’s make-up was her dark complexion. When she was introduced to the Mehra family as Dad’s prospective bride, there was uproar among its members. The majority of the fierce clan was opposed to the idea of bringing this love affair to its rightful conclusion. The reason though trite for my father, was obvious enough to them.

He’s the most eligible bachelor of his times; he’s fair and handsome. The girl he wants to marry is dark and plain-looking. How will this work? they declared.

Mum often spoke to me about those difficult days. Whenever she did so, she carefully explained,

Ours were very old-fashioned times. Young couples didn’t flaunt their secret ambitions and opposition to family values. Neither did they go for counselling.

Grandma Bayjee was a hardworking woman, but as stubborn as a mule. I wonder if she could have ever imagined that her strong genes would automatically be transferred to the next four generations of women in her family. My mother was the first one who took after Bayjee in many ways. She was hardly a woman to be coerced into marrying any other than the love of her life. Neither was she a weakling, so she quickly pulled herself together to make a most sensible and successful move.

Obviously I can’t declare open war. But I won’t cave in to family pressure either, she told my father.

I think it’ll be best to maintain extreme secrecy about our unswerving stance, she added in a determined voice.

That’s a sensible thought, my father agreed.

In the meantime, I’ll gradually try to win over the family with my love. When the time comes, they’ll all have no alternative but to agree to our union, my mother disclosed her wise plan to the man she’d sworn to live with for better or for worse!

For almost half a dozen years the lovebirds fought against all obstacles with determination. Eventually, when my father started earning a decent living, they were able to transcend all barriers to settle the myriad issues that had upset the family, including the dusky colour of Mum’s skin. They finally became man and wife in 1940. In later years, however, Mum’s love and sacrificial nature elicited so much admiration that kudos kept flowing in from all quarters, especially the opposition camp in the family.

Where did you and Dad meet? I couldn’t resist asking my mother one day when I was old enough.

The wonderful seashore of Bombay where I spent my interesting adolescence. This meeting point of the East and West was in those days, a magical place where fortunes were made and lost, she immediately replied.

Who would have ever imagined that an ancient fishing village would some day come to be known as Bollywood, the home of the world’s largest and most active film industry, I remarked.

What you’re saying is so true.

"Mum dearest, today your favourite city is called the New York of India. Can you believe that over twenty five thousand people arrive there daily looking for jobs? Though one may be lucky to bump into a film star or famous fashion model in one of the classy discotheques, there’s also every possibility of getting caught in a street brawl or gang war if you’re filthy rich or careless. It’s not such a serene place anymore," I explained to her.

Anyway, back to Mum’s early life.

We lived in a three-storied building near the Meriwether Clock tower in Karachi. The bank was on the ground floor; your grandfather, the bank manager, had his residence on the first floor. Next door to us was the office of Shaw Wallis, Mum had already told us a number of times. Unfortunately, when my grandfather died prematurely, the family had to move permanently to the orthodox city of Rawalpindi. For Mum and her siblings this proved a drastic change from the more open environment of the bigger cities they was accustomed to living in. My mother was, however, delighted that at least she was allowed to complete her education.

Having travelled all over India with your grandparents, I managed to learn six regional Indian languages. After your grandfather’s death, however, it became very difficult for us all, especially the girls in the family. To Bayjee alone goes all the credit of seeing us through those difficult times. Her hard work and prayers bore fruit the day I successfully completed my Bachelor of Arts degree from Garden College. My joy knew no bounds. The day, however, when I was invited to receive my Graduation Certificate from the white Deputy Commissioner himself, I felt on top of the world, my mother confesses.

Though my grandmother remained the family storyteller, filling the children in on stories about Indian mythology, it was her intense daughter Ambika who was forever trying to inculcate feelings of deep love for our motherland in our hearts. As a young woman, my mother not only imagined herself as a pioneer in the emancipation of Indian women but also wanted to play an active role in India’s Freedom struggle. In 1947, during the latter days of the Raj, the tidal wave of patriotism and nationalistic fervour was sweeping through the country with a fury. My mother too, got so carried away that one day, in a frenzy of nationalism, she set ablaze all her expensive French Chiffon saris. I suppose the keen desire to see the sun set on the British Empire was so intense that the family readily accepted this impulsive act.

Gandhijee was the father of our nation, so we called him ‘Bapu.’ He advocated that we burn everything foreign and wear only homespun cotton. My friends and I burnt all our imported clothes without a second thought. Rash, you can’t imagine how patriotic people were in those days. When they were collecting gold for the country, it was my father who encouraged me to give up four of my gold bangles, Mum still announces proudly in her nostalgic moments.

Whenever she talks about the partition of India that tore families asunder, my mother’s deep eyes well up with tears. Her narration often includes frightening details of important episodes of her own life. The most oft-repeated ones are about the time when she bravely fled from Pakistan. Till today, in a shivering voice, she throws light on the Hindu-Muslim riots and the communal violence that forced well-to-do thriving families to leave the land they were comfortably settled in.

I can’t tell you all how people were packed like sardines into moving trains. We were lucky not to be among the trainloads of innocent human beings that were slaughtered like cattle, are words that still have a profound effect on me.

Can you imagine how difficult it must have been with three children and virtually no clothes or material belongings of any kind? Your grandma was so heavy that I had a tough time pushing her through the window onto the train, Mum declares in her relief at having escaped the ruthless fate that many others met.

How did you ever have the strength to bring us to safety single-handedly? I ask her.

There was no choice. The freight train, in which we escaped, was the last to leave Pakistan.

My father couldn’t accompany us but was left behind in Lahore. For months, the family wondered if they’d ever set eyes on him again. Though my mother feared for him, I think she was the only one who never really lost hope. A year later when a bedraggled, unkempt, bare-footed man knocked at our door in Ambala, though thrilled that he’d returned safely, except for her none of us recognised our father.

As the only sister of doting brothers, I’ve received endless love and attention from all my brothers, but the great concern my parents have shown me surely went a long way in making them the most important inmates of my little world. Like most children, I’ve idolised my parents; they’ve in turn, lavished their sincere blessings on me. I didn’t become a trained teacher like my mother, but I did follow in her footsteps by falling in love. I also majored in Psychology, the revealing science that deals with the various, complicated twists and turns of the mind. Modern psychologists are forever emphasising the importance of having a happy atmosphere in the home during the formative years of a child’s life; I can’t agree with them more. There’s no greater influence in a person’s life than that of parents. There’s also no doubt in my mind that by their selfless love and care or by the lack of it, they contribute immensely towards the shaping of character as well as the success or failure of their children.

The Boy Child

T he Midhas, an old-fashioned, Punjabi couple, became our neighbours, when my father’s job took us all to Amritsar in the mid-fifties. The well-thought-of Midha was a lanky man with a gruff voice. He loved to exercise his vocal chords endlessly. When as a little girl I first got to know him, his erect posture, his unusual height and his funny shoulders reminded me of an ostrich ready for take-off in some crucial marathon. Unlike the zoo oddity however, Uncle Sahdev jee could never bring himself to bury his head in the sand when caught in a difficult situation. Instead, like a true Punjabi, he valiantly and ceaselessly fought on till the end. No wonder in his desire to father a son, he kept trying till he’d fathered six daughters!

Sahdev Kumar jee’s obedient wife was a mousy and frail-looking creature who often confided her innermost secrets quite readily to my discreet mother. Just a few weeks after they’d met, Mrs. Midha narrated all about the trouble she’d had with her husband’s family since the birth of their first child.

I had a tough time with my in-laws when our daughter Maya was born. I was inundated with a large dose of pretty sarcastic remarks from everyone, she complained.

Pushpa’s case was typical of many other Indian women in her predicament. She was born in a culture in which a son has a special place. In the land of her birth, since the day a boy child is born, his parents treat him as if he were God Almighty himself. When it is time for him to get married, his parents drum into his big head that he must be in complete control of the woman he marries. When he finally assumes the responsibilities of his family, our traditional society expects his wife to wear blinkers so that she can unquestioningly accepts his intentions, bonafide or otherwise.

In her desperation to bear a son, Pushpa had already followed the advice given by friends and family: she’d performed the symbolic act of touching a calf that was believed to hasten the birth of a male child. Each time she became pregnant, she not only parted her hair in the centre with the hope that the baby that she was expecting would be a well-proportioned child but also prayed fervently to the full moon that it would be a boy. Yet, to her dismay, each baby turned out to be a girl.

Several other related issues, indicative of the times she was living in, now worried Mrs. Midha even further. In her vacant moments she thought of the two most important of the million thoughts that ran through her head each day: for an Indian woman to die without a son is the worst crime. No one will ever forgive her for depriving her man of his rightful legacy: a male offspring. Besides, who will light his funeral pyre at