While rummaging through memorabilia from the early years of my life, I stumbled upon a collection of letters from my mother that had somehow been preserved. We were not accustomed to saving letters. When I migrated to Australia, I diligently wrote a letter each week to both sides of our families. Despite being told repeatedly by family members about the value of those letters and how much they learned about Australia from my descriptions, none of those letters were retained.
When we moved to our current house, in 2002, for some reason, I started saving the letters my mother wrote to me in a dedicated folder. I had forgotten about this folder until now.
It turned out to be a fortunate discovery. I spent the entire afternoon today immersed in the content of these letters, uncovering numerous details that my memory had overlooked as trivial. However, today, those seemingly trivial details hold significant meaning.
In one of the letters my mother wrote: “… your suggestion about writing events as biography; your papaji (father) says that with speedily changing time, coming generations will not bother about this ancestral history. But it is good for us to indulge in the past, and express our feelings and desires. It’s a better way to make one happy - just like doing a painting or another artistic work. It’s the best consolation.”
I believe my father was mistaken; in the rapidly changing times, there is a growing desire to cling to the old things. My mother's perspective was more insightful—documenting our past, emotions, and aspirations is a profound way to find happiness. Writing, undoubtedly, is a form of artistic expression.
In the previous weeks, I delved into the stories of my ancestors, grandparents, and parents. Today, I am commencing the narrative from the point when we moved into our first home.
22. Our First Home
In 1963, my grandfather concluded his thirty-three years of service at Khalsa College, Amritsar, marking his retirement. However, he wasn't ready to hang up his boots just yet. He took on the position of Assistant Professor of Botany at the Government Agriculture College in Jammu & Kashmir and moved to Ranbir Singh Pura along with my grandmother. My aunt was pursuing her studies in Delhi in those years. My parents rented a two-room house near Khalsa College, opting to live in proximity to the area where my father had spent most of his life.
The house comprised two duplexes and an additional pair of detached rooms, all of which were rented. The landlord, an elderly man who had spent much of his working life in Kenya, now relied on the rental income from this property. He and his wife lived separately; he occupied a single room upstairs, while his wife resided in a room downstairs. I recall him as a kind-hearted person, a beloved figure among the neighborhood kids because he would distribute coins to them whenever he met any. On one occasion, my father inquired why he did that to which he replied that bringing joy to the children was the sole remaining source of happiness in his life.
The house was charming, boasting a drawing room, a spacious bedroom, a private veranda, a kitchen, and a shared courtyard. On our side of the courtyard, a small patch of soil bore witness to my mother's green thumb. She cultivated seasonal vegetables, flowers, and even a pomegranate tree, all of which thrived under her care. Numerous memories of my upbringing are intertwined with this house, most of them involving our next-door neighbors, where my brother and I spent a significant amount of time.
Our neighbors were an elderly couple. The husband, a retired police constable, was prone to reprimanding his wife, indulging in frequent smoking, and enduring bouts of coughing. His wife on the other hand was an exceptionally compassionate individual who possessed a heart as vast as her physical presence. Everyone called her Maaji, akin to Big Mama. The couple had five children, the older three were married and lived elsewhere, while the younger son and daughter resided with them. My brother and I were particularly fond of their son, who, despite being twenty years older than us, generously shared his time and attention, and enjoyed playing with us."
My mother was pregnant when we moved into the house. My brother arrived soon after.
We had only been in this house for 18 months when the war broke out with Pakistan.
23. The Train Window
When the war erupted in September 1965, my grandparents decided to send my brother and me, along with our mother, to Jabalpur, her hometown—a location far removed from the impending conflict. The journey spanned a one-and-a-half-day train ride, marked by blackouts and the chaotic exodus of people fleeing cities bordering Pakistan.
The challenges of this expedition aren’t particularly vivid for me, a four-year-old at the time, and my two-and-a-half-year-old brother, while much of the journey has faded from memory, one incident remains etched in my mind.
We found ourselves in the last, completely vacant compartment of a stationary train, awaiting a signal or some other indication to proceed. As my mother poured milk into a bottle for my brother, I peered out of the window almost half leaning out. This was the era when train windows were devoid of protective bars. With a sudden jerk of the train, I tumbled out onto the tracks below.
I recall my mother's panicked cries and the sight of blood flowing from a cut on my forehead, just above the left eye. Despite the chaos, I stood up and looked toward where my mother anxiously called for me to raise my arms so she could lift me back inside. However, the distance between us proved too great for her to reach.
Unfazed by the situation, I suggested to my mother that, since we were in the last compartment, I could around and re-enter through the door. She adamantly refused, “I don’t want to loose sight of you. Stand on your toes and extent your arms.” Leaning out of the window as far as she could, she lifted me and safely brought me back inside.
I remained certain of this incident throughout my life, never seeking verification from my mother while she was alive. It wasn't until last year, during a visit from my aunt, that I remebered the incident asked her whether she knew about it. To my surprise, she claimed no knowledge of the event and suggested I might have dreamt it, reasoning that if it had, it would have come up in family conversations.
I don’t agree. I believe my mother chose to keep this episode private, perhaps attributing my fall to her negligence and preferring that others remain unaware. Regardless of its verification, I cherish this memory for a distinct reason—it shows me that even when I was very young, I didn't get scared and could think of another way – to go around the train compartment and come inside through the door.
24. Primary School Group Photo
When I turned five, my mother enrolled me in a local primary school meticulously chosen for its academic excellence, modest size, and accessibility for the middle class. Despite being accepted into an English medium convent school, my parents opted against it, fearing that the presence of upper-class students might instill an inferiority complex in me.
The school I joined was under the governance of a formidable lady who could be exceedingly pleasant or stern as the situation demanded. Before admitting me, she conducted a brief test. Aware that my mother had been teaching me the alphabet and numbers at home, she asked me to write down letters as she called them. I vividly recall sitting in her office, adorned with a large table and heavy curtains to keep the room cool. I successfully wrote almost all the letters, except for the elusive 'Q.'
The school was conveniently located within walking distance from home. Initially, my mother escorted me, particularly because we had to cross a main road. Eventually, I joined a group of kids and their parents in crossing the road independently.
A year later, my younger brother (who was two and a half years my junior) joined the same school. Without someone to play with, it had been challenging for him to pass the time at home. While I excelled in my studies, he detested them. Whereas he was good at sports, I hated them. At school, I assumed a quasi-motherly role for him. Any teacher with a complaint against him would summon me. I would attentively listen to their concerns, shield him, and then guide him on what he needed to improve.
The school laid a solid foundation for us. Although the curriculum primarily focused on academics, daily drawing classes were mandatory for all students. We were also taught to sing in groups, but sports activities were limited. I didn't mind, as I wasn't particularly adept at them.
25. The Missing Brother
My brother pulled off plenty of stunts during his childhood. On one occasion, at age three or four, he grabbed a kitchen knife with the intention of killing a neighborhood girl with whom he had a fight. Fortunately, the knife couldn’t cut anything other than vegetables. But, while waiting for the girl to appear, he got distracted playing in the sand and ended up losing the knife somewhere in the sand. Our mother wasn’t very happy losing her only kitchen knife.
Another incident is truly classic. One afternoon, my mother and I woke from our afternoon nap to find him nowhere in sight. We searched around the house, checked our neighbors' homes, and scoured the street, but he was nowhere to be found. Barely three years old, he couldn't have wandered far on his own. At this point, my mother became convinced that someone had kidnapped him. She started crying. Neighbors gathered, and men rode around on their bikes searching for him. When they all returned empty-handed, a decision was made to report to the police.
It was at that moment I noticed someone standing next to me—it was my brother. "Where were you?" my mother and I cried almost in unison.
"I was under the cover of our scooter," he responded, seemingly surprised by all the commotion.
We used to keep our scooter covered with a sheet to protect it from dust, providing the perfect hiding spot for a three-year-old. As it turned out, my brother had gone there to hide and ended up falling asleep.
No big deal.
26. Enacting the Monkey God
I was around six, and my brother was four, and we desperately wanted to see Ramleela. Ramleela is the dramatic re-enactment of the life of Rama from the ancient Hindu epic Ramayana. These performances take place in street theaters all across India preceding the major festival of Dusshera.
The Ramleela shows typically started after dinner and lasted until midnight. Since our father preferred sleep over theater, our neighbor's son took us with him one night. The episode being staged that day depicted Rama's messenger Hanuman (the monkey god) approaching Ravana to request the liberation of Rama's wife, warning there would be a war if he doesn’t agree. And since Hanuman was the son of the Goddess Wind, he flies into the court.
To bring this sequence to life, the organizers had set up two rope Flying Fox (Zip Line), extending from the roof of an adjacent building to the stage. The actor portraying Hanuman sat on a wooden board and gracefully descended along the slanting rope.
What an ingenious way of depicting flying! So simple and faultless, my brother and I thought.
The next day, inspired by the spectacle, my brother and I decided to enact the flying Hanuman scene. We had a large trunk in our house, used for storing bedding and quilts. We sometimes would climb on it to play there. Over it, on the wall was a row of pegs. We found a rope, tied one end to the pegs and other one to the leg of the bed and our Flying Fox was ready.
We didn’t have wooden board, so we used a cushion. My brother took the first turn. Everything seemed fine as he slid down, supporting his legs on the trunk. However, the moment his feet left the trunk, he truly soared through the air and landed headfirst on the brick floor.
My mother heard the fall and came running from the kitchen. Now, thinking back, I know what went wrong. We needed the second rope and a wooden board.
Maybe next time.
27. The Missing Letter
While going through the letters folder, I desperately looked for an almost tethered letter that I inherited from my mother. It was from my maternal grandfather to my mother which she preserved for over fifty years. I believe it was his last letter to her. I have been looking for it for past few days, and hoped I would find it in this folder. I still haven't been able to locate it, though I distinctly recall showing it to my brother.
While containing nothing extraordinary—just customary greetings, weather updates, and local information—the letter held immense significance for my mother and, subsequently, for me, simply because it bore the handwriting of my grandfather. Physical memorabilia from my maternal side of the family are scarce. A photograph of my grandfather once hung on our wall during my childhood days, but I have no idea where it went after multiple house moves.
In my later years, as I delved into my family history, I inquired with my mother about him. She responded in one of here letters (which I found in the folder), detailing that he was born in November 1889 and passed away on December 25, 1961, when I was a mere 3 months old.
My grandfather earned a Diploma in Civil Engineering from Lahore ( now in Pakistan) and initially worked as an overseer in Jammu & Kashmir. In 1918, he had joined the Public Works Department and relocated to Madhya Pradesh, a state in central India. In 1929, the British government appointed him on a temporary post as Sub Divisional Officer (SDO), pending permanent appointment. But the promised promotion never materialized. Instead, they kept on compensating him financially with overtime payment. He remained a temporary SDO for fourteen year thirteen years. In 1943, and when the time came for the official appointment, he opted for retirement due to deteriorating eyesight. He was an excellent draftsman. His legacy as an honest and devoted employee was marked by his involvement in notable projects such as the construction of the Tilwara Bridge on the Narmada River and a bridge in Sihora on the Sayuri River.
Sihora is a town in the Jabalpur district where my mother was born, in a tent near a cemetery, where the family was temporarily living, while her father oversaw the road construction.
Here is a photo of my two grandfathers exchanging garlands on my parents wedding day.
Regrettably, I have no photograph of my maternal grandmother. My only recollection of her (clad in a white sari) is from a visit she made, a couple of years before her passing—a visit that felt like a poignant pilgrimage. It was the lone occasion she visited us. I can't even recall the year her soul embarked on its heavenly journey but the moment I still vividly remember is when the telegram arrived bearing the news.
The postman came through the courtyard door. My mother, upon receiving the telegram, let out a heart-wrenching cry. Maaji, our compassionate next-door neighbor, hurried to her side. She cradled my mother in her arms, offering solace, while I, as a frightened child, observed the scene.
That’s all from me this week.
See you next Friday.
Good afternoon Neera, another great read. Letters are so important to hold onto and so are cards. I went through quite a lot recently to try and make decisions as to which ones to keep, even my husband found it difficult to part with several. I still have a copy of a letter my father wrote to my mother during the Second World War, plus letters written to her prior to her marriage by an admirer, also a letter written to my mother after she had my youngest brother. Many memories to keep. Although not letter writing, this morning I was sorting through some drawers and found a white linen bag with “handkerchiefs” embroidered on the outside, inside is a collection of several handkerchiefs my mother had collected, many that would never have been used, far to pretty and delicate.
I love reading your memoirs!