One Woman's Journey

By Ramah Juta

Follow Oomi on her journey, as she leaves India after an arranged marriage, to a man she has not spoken to or seen before. Only sixteen years old, the feeling of being wrenched from family, community and a land that has nurtured her since birth is unbearable. Her month long journey is to South Africa. She brings up her family under the apartheid

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ramah Juta
• Release date: Apr 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9780648051619

Book preview

Foreword

This book is a work of fiction. The historical background and settings are real. Names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Please forgive any oversights or mistakes.

Prologue

It was a time of turmoil in the ancient country of India. Natural disasters, a series of crop failures and famine caused havoc. Under colonial rule, people were burdened with tax and displaced from their land. Slavery had been abolished and labour was needed on plantations. Indenture was born ‘a binding agreement between worker and master.’ Ruthless recruiters played their role, and employed local people who used deception and directed people to depots from where they were transported to the port of exit. Many were desperate and others had dreams of a better life. They were loaded on to ships given numbers, and that is what they became, numbers to their masters. The ships sailed to about fourteen different countries, and one of them was Natal, now called Kwazulu Natal in South Africa.

These ‘indentured Indians’ were tossed around on the turbulent seas and on reaching their destination were allotted to various plantations. Families and friends were separated in the process. They toiled from sunrise to sunset and did maximum work for minimum pay. Some succumbed to suicide and disease. Others completed five years, formed communities and built temples, mosques and schools.

‘Passenger Indians’ followed. They paid their fare to enter the country. Many were traders. Others saw adventure and visions of money. Amongst them was my father-in-law. He could hardly speak English and had very little money in his pocket. To make up for this, he had drive, ambition, guts and a will to succeed. The struggles were many, the road tortuous, but with steely determination, he settled in the new country. As a result his seeds are scattered all over the world. He kept in touch with his roots by returning to India to seek suitable brides for his sons. I was one of these brides and it was because of him that I have had this amazing journey.

Rauji Family Chart

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Chapter 1

Wrenched from India

The ship slowly glides away from the harbor. Tears trail down my cheeks and I taste them at the corners of my lips. I wave to my family until they are not visible anymore. A heavy weight settles on my chest. I feel as if I am being wrenched from everything familiar, my family, community and a land that has nurtured me since birth. Being married at age sixteen is nothing new in India, but the sensation of being torn from one’s roots is hard to bear. My knuckles become white from clenching the handrails. Soon every vestige of land disappears and the vast expanse of the ocean meets the sky.

I have no concept of the country I am going to. My husband Umesh is kind, but being in a joint family, and preparing for the journey has left little time for conversation. Accompanying me are Bapooji, Bhabhiji, and her children. A new bride has to cover her head with a saree. It is a sign of modesty and respect for elders. I find it cumbersome, but submit to custom and tradition. Looking at the restless motion of the waves, memories of my childhood and village come flooding back.

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Mother Nature can be whimsical. Monsoon was delayed. The land became parched, thirsty and cracked. Most villagers depended on agriculture for their livelihood. People looked to the heavens and prayed fervently. Others took vows and fasted to propitiate the gods. Crowds of people jostled at the temples and placed the few shrivelled flowers that were available at the feet of the deities.

When the skies darkened and thunder roared there was relief. The drenching rains fell in sheets, rivers swelled and streams formed. Joy was mixed with immense gratitude. I arrived with the downpour and my mother thought that I had brought luck. Mother earth rewarded us after sucking up the gushing water. The land became dressed in green, plants sprouted and flowers smiled.

Of six children, I was the lucky last. I was the fourth girl in the family but my mother celebrated the arrival of the monsoon and my birth, by distributing sweets, a ritual usually reserved for the male child. She did not consider girls a burden. Perhaps she was ahead of her time but had to live life according to the rules of the day.

I grew up in the state of Gujarat, which sits on the North West coast of India. It was from here that merchants and traders undertook voyages to the Middle East and East Africa. Perhaps, I was destined to travel as well. We lived a simple, but contented happy life. My father was a hardworking man. Tall and muscular, he was a blacksmith. His skin was dark and always glossy with sweat. I loved having a ride on his shoulders.

Mother was pretty, full of energy, and bounced between the animals, the yard and house. She had thick wavy hair, which she oiled profusely. The long plaited hair reached her hips. I loved playing with her plait and inhaling the scent of coconut oil. The stem of the neem tree served as her disposable toothbrush. Her smile showed up a perfect set of teeth. After her bath she filled a brass container with water and the tulsi plant or holy basil received its morning drink. She joined her hands in prayer and reverently bowed to the sun.

I woke up when the silence of the morning was broken by the sound of her singing, as she milked the cows and buffalo. The cows cocked up their ears and listened. I found it easy to pick up the tunes and learn the lyrics. Mother pressed the teat with efficiency and milk swished its way into the container. I tried to milk a goat once, received a kick and never attempted milking again. Later I asked my mother why she prayed to the sun. She said,

‘Sun is the source of light, energy and warmth. We have rich harvests because of sunlight. There is a Sun Temple at Modhera. Maybe if we are lucky, we can visit the Temple one day. I am told that it was so designed that at dawn, the rays of the rising sun fell on the pure gold idol. Apparently this happened only at certain times of the year. That was years ago and I wonder how much, the glory of those times remains. Our forefathers knew about navgraha or the nine planets and they passed on traditions and epics like Mahabharata and Ramayana orally, and through writing dance and drama.’

The fun part of the day started when neighbour’s children flowed into our yard. The youngest one was Mohan, who was cute, plump and had masses of curly hair. We played under the neem tree as its canopy provided shade. A jamun tree also graced our yard. We shared the plump purple fruit with the neighbours. My mother had made two stuffed dolls, one boy and one girl. We got them married umpteen times. One memory remains vivid in my mind. We were absorbed in our games when I realized that Mohan was missing. I ran and reported to my mother. A frantic search ensued. The biggest fear was, that of children falling into wells. Being the eldest and feeling guilty, I was howling. Mum, visibly upset told me,

‘Go and lie down on the charpoy and stay there.’ What a relief! Mohan was sleeping peacefully on it. The agony vanished from his mother’s face. In gratitude she vowed to fast the full nine days of Navratri for the rest of her life.

My sister Surla told us stories from the Ramayana. Ram was a prince and was banished to the forest for fourteen years. His devoted wife Sita and brother Laksman joined him. We were so moved that tears rolled down our eyes. Sadness turned to smiles as we learnt that his return was celebrated with lighting of lamps and the festival of Diwali. We later re-enacted scenes from the story.

The tales about Krishna who is a Hindu deity were interesting. It was fun listening to the pranks he got up to when he was young. He would steal curd and butter and break clay pots. He was always surrounded by gopis who are girl cowherds. We were transported to another world on hearing about his prowess over demons.

Most of the pictures of Krishna, show him playing a flute while standing next to a cow. Is it any wonder that the cow is venerated in India? It provides a constant supply of milk, which is made into dahi or yoghurt, ghee and paneer. For a predominantly vegetarian population it is a good source of protein. Even its poo is useful as fertilizer. Cow dung cakes supplied fuel. Smeared on floors it had antibacterial properties.

Going to Gujarati school was a pleasure. Morning started off with a devotional song requesting God to care for us, and guide us along the right path. It was natural to pray fervently to Saraswati who is the Goddess of knowledge and music. She wears a white sari, rides a white swan and holds a book and the veena, a musical instrument. The teacher told us that white is a sign of purity.

There were no chairs or desks. We sat on the floor and wrote on a slate. My mother would say,

‘Respect your teachers and treasure your books. Both are a source of knowledge.’ I was enthusiastic about learning but was aware that girls were not afforded the same opportunities as boys. However I did become fluent in reading and writing Gujarati. My mother wanted me to learn English as well but we did not have such facilities.

My sisters had to leave school in second or third class. In no time a proposal and a prospective groom would come to claim them. Girls knew that arranged marriages were the norm and that love developed and lasted after the marriage. The rest depended on fate and luck. In Indian homes, the ‘saasu-bahu’ relationship meaning mother-in-law and daughter-in-law relationship can be fraught with problems. Sometimes it was a vicious cycle, the saasu giving the same dose of harsh treatment to her bahu that she had received from her mother-in-law. From an early age I prayed for a good saasu.

Surla was my favourite sister and her wedding remains fresh in my memory. The neighborhood children and I paraded in new clothes. The food burst with flavour and we gorged on sweets loaded with sugar, milk or ghee. I missed Surla and later learnt that her saasu was cruel. She was widowed, Aroon was an only son and her world rotated around him. It was her prerogative to hold the purse strings, shop and decide on the menu for each day. Surla cooked, cleaned, filled water from the well, and remained subservient.

As I grew up, I used to hear the elders talk about the ‘angrez’ meaning the English. My mother was especially vociferous about the issue. She said,

‘Who needs a white queen? We have enough of our own Prince’s and Maharajah’s. Pity none of them is as brave as Jhansi ki Rani who fought against the ‘angrez’. She is truly my heroine.’ My father reminded her that Mangal Pandey had stood up to the British and lost his life in the process.

My mother’s anger boiled over when she talked about the Amritsar massacre. ‘That man Dyer had no pity or humanity when he ordered his men to fire on helpless men, women and children. Hundreds died and many more were injured and yet he was regarded a hero by his people.’ One day she very proudly announced,

‘Did you know that Gandhi, who has returned from South Africa, is a lawyer? He was born in Porbander. I am so happy that a Gujarati is involved in the fight for independence. He is as simple as us and actually wears a dhoti! Also he is a strict vegetarian and does not smoke or drink alcohol.’ My mother was most impressed. It was the first time I heard of the country called South Africa. At that time, I did not know it would be my future home.

Salt had been an abundant and vital reserve but the British imposed a salt tax in 1882. Gandhi decided to defy this tax. My mother was highly excited as she talked about the ‘salt march.’

‘Gandhi has mobilized the masses. He is walking from Sabarmati Ashram. I wish I could join but who will milk the cows and run the home?’ She didn’t even know whether women were allowed in the march. News filtered through about his progress. Thousands joined him on the two hundred and forty-mile stretch. He reached Dandi on 6th April and picked up salt. Gandhi and innumerable followers were arrested.

My mother fumed and banged the pots in anger. Her hands were trembling and she spilt some milk. My father calmly told her,

‘Anger will not salvage the situation. I am glad you care but you are not Jhansi Ki Rani, who could handle a horse and swing a sword. Besides she was married to King Gangadhar Rao. You are married to an ordinary person like me.’

With a toss of her head my mother replied,

‘It is all very well for you to talk. Our young son now wants to try his luck in East Africa. If people could make a proper living here, they