My Mother

... Honey is sweet, summer rain sweeter, Mother sweeter still. Nothing on earth can compare. ...

My grandfather, Chunilal Bharmal, was born in Kanshumra, near Jamnagar, in Gujarat in 1905. Son of the village elder, he had four brothers and two sisters. His wife, Mangabahen, one of five children, was born in 1912 in the nearby village of Arikhana. I first saw grandmother's village in 1960, when we travelled from our then home in Nairobi. My mother showed me the house she grew up in - the home she and her siblings had helped her father to build - by carrying baskets of cement on their heads. Were the tears in her eyes nostalgia, or bitterness because the house was no longer the family home?

In the early 20th century, when even a trip to Mumbai was a great adventure, grinding poverty forced many young people from Kathiawar in Gujarat to seek a better life in East Africa. Some were still in their teens. My father was one of them. He was twelve when, in 1917, he left India by dhow to cross the Indian Ocean for East Africa. I close my eyes and imagine the hardships he faced. Dhows were totally at the mercy of nature, and for safety they hugged the coastline of Pakistan, Arabia and the Horn of Africa, stopping, en route, in the ports of Karachi, Muscat, Aden and Mogadishu for fresh water and food, or to trade spices, ivory, dates and other desirable riches of India. The journey may have been rough but the ticket was not cheap. A few lucky travellers had relatives who had made the journey before them and paid for their fare. Most had to borrow from rich merchants and then spent years repaying the loans.

... I cannot imagine what my father must have felt when he finally saw land after three months on board... But this story is not about my father so I hurry on to the time when my mother entered his life ...

The luggage allowance was strict: one tin trunk with basic necessities and a bedding roll. The Muslim crews supplemented their diet by fishing, a strategy which was not much use to vegetarian Hindus and Jains, like my father. Instead, they brought rice and daal to cook 'Khichri' and, since dry powder milk had yet to be invented, a sweet called 'Penda,' made of evaporated milk and sugar which they broke up and boiled with water to make Indian milky tea. Others brought 'Sukhdi': flour and jaggery which, added to water, became a podgy pudding. The recipes may have been revolutionary but happily, the taste was pretty much the same. Fresh water on dhows was at a premium, to be used sparingly, so for most purposes seawater had to suffice. Unfortunately, baths in salty water and the constant tropical heat played havoc with the complexion. The Indian Ocean is rough, especially during the monsoon season, so most passengers were too ill to notice this comparatively minor inconvenience. My father probably had more problems than most as he had a pronounced limp, the result of a childhood infection his family had been too poor to treat. He cannot have been alone in his distress and misery, though, and it must have been a comfort that older passengers and crew, regardless of religion or caste, helped youngsters get over homesickness and the fear of the unknown which they all must have been experiencing. I cannot imagine what my father must have felt when he finally saw land after three months on board...

But this story is not about my father so I hurry on to the time when my mother entered his life. When he arrived in Africa, he found work with a cloth merchant and saved hard. At the age of twenty, he felt financially secure enough to found a family and went back to India, in search of a wife. He found my mother, then thirteen years of age. They married in 1925 and went to Kenya in 1928 and had children: my eldest brother Gulab, born that same year, followed by my brother Ratilal in 1929. For two years they lived in a corrugated tin hut and then returned to India. It must have been a very strong family obligation for my mother to agree to such a journey with two toddlers. Before the year was out, they were back in Nairobi where my eldest sister was born. Her death, victim of a plague which swept Nairobi in 1931, must have been more than traumatic as the next child was not born till 1935 - and that was me, and they called me Sumati, after one of the twenty-four Jain Tirthankars called Sumatinath.

We lived in the same tin hut till 1939 when my uncle, Chhagankaka joined us from India. We then moved to rented accommodation in a stone house in the Ngara area on Chambers Road to be shared by three other families. The house belonged to the Goan Institute and contained 10 rooms, 4 larders, two bathing areas, with verandas at the front and back and a large concrete courtyard in the middle, with 4 open air kitchens.. Communal toilets (pit latrines) partitioned by corrugated tin, were some distance away in the backyard. Not too far were the servants' quarters. Lakhamshi Bharmal had one room, while Hemraj Bharmal, Vardhaman Khimchand and Velji Premchand had two rooms each. My father had three, but he had sub-let one to Khimji Anand. Nairobi, in those days was surrounded by open land with wildlife roaming around freely and we often heard the roars of lions and the trumpeting of elephants in the night.

... Without my mother's wisdom in handling domestic economics frugally, I do not think he could have sustained his large family with his limited income. ...

My hard-working father started his career in Nairobi as a shop assistant, but once married, he decided to set up his own business. He bought fabric from his ex-boss on credit and went round door to door selling it to mainly Sikh and Muslim housewives, who stitched their own Salwaar-Kameez. Later, he acquired a bicycle for himself and employed a young African man to push a small cart with his merchandise, to accompany him on his sales rounds. Without my mother's wisdom in handling domestic economics frugally, I do not think he could have sustained his large family with his limited income.

During the years of World War II, when life was difficult even in Kenya, which was a British colony fighting against Germany who had occupied the neighbouring Tanganyika, my mother gave birth to most of her children. Babu was born in 1938, Hansa in 1939, and Tarachand in 1940, Ramesh in 1942, Sudha in 1943 and the youngest brother Shanti in 1945. I remember the scarcity of everyday needs - soap, salt, sugar, rice, oil - we took for granted before the war. I have memories of standing in queues with my siblings to buy our share of the rationed bread, sugar, milk and oil. We had no idea what the war was about but remember feeling scared at the sound of aeroplanes at night flying low over our dimly lit houses with hurricane lamps because of blackouts.

My mother had three more daughters - Anju, Damyanti and Panna - after the War. Staying fit and healthy to look after her large family was vital. She knew many home remedies for small ailments. On bruises and cuts we used her balm made from dried ground ginger root skin and her powder of dried papaya seeds and other ingredients worked like magic for most other disorders. She knew the benefits of nutrients in various foods, and often we were put on strict diets to cure an ailment.

Motherhood could have been my mother's full time occupation, and yet, I don't remember an overindulging mother. I remember a woman, who was always busy doing one or the other domestic chore. I didn't realise then, but most of these chores were money saving devices.

In the days when there were no gas or electric cookers, my mother used to make her own stoves out of empty kerosene tins. With a window cut out on the side, and iron bars laid across on top to make a grill, padded with cement and sand to retain the heat, the original kerosene tin turned into a durable stove. Everyone used charcoal and wood as fuel in those days. Nothing was wasted if possible. Even the charcoal dust left in the empty sack was put to use. My mother would mix it with sawdust and water to make cakes that were dried in the sun and later used one at a time as slow burners. Ash from all fires was collected daily and used to clean greasy pots and pans, thus saving on washing soaps. Coconut coir was used as a scouring pad.

... There was always a lot to eat around the house as my mother was an excellent cook. Besides our daily meals, she made a wide range of savoury and sweet dishes, pickles, jams and papadums (which required a tedious number of chores). ...

Water for bath was heated over these stoves, in empty kerosene tins. Later we acquired a copper water heating gadget called 'Bambo' which was commonly used by most Gujarati families. It stood on an iron tripod, had a funnel in the centre, through which wooden chips were fed to the fire that was lit below. Water was taken out through a small tap on the side, and it also had a vent through which more water was poured in.

All grains bought for the family were in their crudest forms, full of stones and dirt. which had to be picked by hand. Rice was pound in a large wooden mortar to remove its husks. Other lentils, like moong beans, chick peas, pigeon peas etc., were bought whole and then stone ground by hand to split them into daals. Whole wheat, millet, sorghum and rice were also stone ground for flour. Spices like coriander, cumin, turmeric and ginger powder were all ground finely at home. Turmeric and ginger roots were bought fresh, cleaned, dried in the sun before being ground. Pounding chillies into powder was no fun for anyone as pungent fumes made eyes water, noses drip and throats tickle. Women held ends of their saris with one hand, while the other went down mercilessly over the shrivelled up red chillies.

There was always a lot to eat around the house as my mother was an excellent cook. Besides our daily meals, she made a wide range of savoury and sweet dishes, pickles, jams and papadums (which required a tedious number of chores). She even made her own vermicelli, for a sweet dish. My mother's speciality was 'Kantlo', a nourishing recipe for nursing mothers. She was often 'borrowed' by neighbours and relatives to make kantlo at childbirth in their families. Special recipes prepared by my mother were never enjoyed fully unless distributed among neighbours and servants, a practice common among Asians perhaps to help less fortunate families.

Most of the utensils used in our house for cooking, and all tableware were durable, as they were made of brass. At regular intervals these utensils were tin plated, with a skilled and intricate process called 'Kalai', in order to keep them looking new and to stop them from rusting. Once again it was done by most housewives, including my mother. People who could afford to pay, would get someone to do it for them.

Without a degree in Home Economics, my mother was blessed with all relevant skills. She even knew tailoring. Old discarded outfits from a neighbour or a friend, were unstitched and used as patterns for cutting out new garments. My father had bought her a second hand manual sewing machine. I still remember turning the wheel by hand for her while she manoeuvred intricate patterns on the machine. We all had to wear clothes handed over to us by our older siblings. For daily wear we had two outfits only and a nicer one for special occasions. No clothing was wasted, as it finally ended up with the servants' children.

My father used to bring home left over pieces of cloth and trade samples. My mother would sort out bigger pieces to make the cover for a quilt, in which she stuffed small rags. These were held in place by putting stitches on the quilt at regular distances. My father sold these for a small income. We slept on mattresses that were stuffed with cotton wool, which was removed at regular intervals, disentangled by hand to make it fluffier and then stuffed back into the mattress cover. All children had a go at this. It was fun to sleep on these newly puffed up mattresses. Our beds were just a wooden frame on four legs, with coconut coir ropes tied across, on which were laid the home made mattresses. Our beds were aired to get rid of bedbugs or fleas and the ropes tightened whenever necessary.

... Despite these circumstances, I don't think we had a deprived childhood. My father paid school fees for all of us. Fresh fruit, nuts, chocolates and sweets were there in abundance. The highlight of special treats for us was the home made ice cream. ...

Since we prepared all our daals, flours and spices at home, we used to have the traditional Indian gadgets for these jobs. When these got worn out with use, my mother did not replace them immediately. She made them last as long as she could by repairing them herself. She would soak piles of old newspapers over a few days until they were saturated and turned into papier mache. She mixed the mache with ground tamarind seeds to give it a sticky consistency. She would paste the holes in straw winnowing trays and baskets with this mache. In any kind of repairs in and around the house, neighbours offered their specialist skills freely as if they were part of our extended family, and in return, my mother was always there to lend them a hand. Women from the neighbourhood provided baby sitters for each other, helped during childbirth (all deliveries were done at home), and became a great support network for each other as they all struggled to sustain their large families on their husbands' meagre earnings.

Despite these circumstances, I don't think we had a deprived childhood. My father paid school fees for all of us. Fresh fruit, nuts, chocolates and sweets were there in abundance. Although my father bought tins of butter puffs and ginger nuts made in England occasionally, regular biscuits were baked at home in a specially made oven. The highlight of special treats for us was the home made ice cream. We had a wooden barrel in which we used to fill ice, sawdust and salt. The ice cream making metal cylinder with a manually operated churn, was filled with milk that had been previously evaporated by boiling it over gentle heat for hours. To the milk my mother added saffron, cardamom, pistachio and almond flakes. The churn was then placed in the middle of the barrel with ice. The handle was turned for what seemed hours, before the milk thickened into ice cream. Younger children were given first helpings. My eldest brother made sure we all got equal portions and that no one was favoured. That was the delight none of us would ever forget.

Although most of us had our own innumerable household chores to perform, none of us ever felt that we had a restrained childhood. As the eldest sister, I had to help my mother look after my younger siblings and help her in cooking and sewing. But we all had a lot of fun with each other and with the children in the neighbourhood. We made our own toys out of cardboard boxes, empty tins, pieces of wood, clay and paper. We played with pebbles. We made rag dolls and stitched clothes for them. We played hop-scotch, hide and seek, 'Dhamaldhoko' (Children sit in a circle while one child goes round singing a rhyme. S/He drops a handkerchief behind someone, taps them on their head and runs as the other child gets up and chases him/her. The aim is to get to the vacated seat before being caught). During the kite flying season we made our own kites and had a wonderful time trying to beat others by making our kite fly higher and higher.

For us Diwali was as exciting as Christmas is for children in Britain, even though we got no gifts. There was, however, a lot of special food in the house. All the women from the neighbourhood got together to help each other prepare Diwali goodies and it was fun to run errands for them. Girls helped mother to clean the house thoroughly for the festive season, while my brothers painted and decorated the house. Available artistic skills were put to use in drawing and painting intricate rangoli designs at the doorstep of each house. When oil paints were not affordable, cheaper powder colours were used. Cardboard or metal stencils with designs of birds, flowers and diwas were prepared and powder colours were dubbed over them tied in a muslin cloth to make prints on the cement floor. The highlight of the season was the fireworks in the evening.

... Elderly men and women from our neighbourhood played an important role in our lives. They told us folk tales and taught us folk songs and Gujarati poetry. In fact the stanza that appears at the top is a famous poem about mother that I had learnt in my childhood. ...

We embroidered tablecloths and pillow cases, made bead hangings and other decorations for our homes. We embroidered complicated designs on plain saris and painted clay discs and pots. We made artificial flowers from crepe paper, which we put in vases that were also made by us at home. We used to mould heated black gramophone discs into cones and paint designs over them. We made vases from coloured glass bottles. These were made by filling a bottle with water at a required level; a string dipped in oil was tied round the bottle at the exact level of the water. The string was then lit and the part of the bottle above the burning string was gently tapped. This portion then dropped off at the water level leaving us with a perfect hand made glass vase.

As there was no privacy for anyone in the neighbourhood, we learnt a lot from each other through talking and watching. Some of our old neighbours moved away and Virchandbhai Patel and Maniben Tarachand became our new neighbours. Elderly men and women from our neighbourhood played an important role in our lives. They told us folk tales and taught us folk songs and Gujarati poetry. In fact the stanza that appears at the top is a famous poem about mother that I had learnt in my childhood. From my parents we learnt a lot about our religions through stories from Hindu and Jain scriptures. The whole growing process for us was a lesson for life ahead.

... If you wish to achieve something in life, depend on no one but yourself. ...

My extended family emigrated to Britain in late 60s with many other East African Asians. Even in Britain my mother adjusted well to her new life and provided a lot of support to all of us. My mother was as adventurous in her 60s as she was in her teens. She agreed to accompany my brother Shanti, my father, my two sisters and me, on and overland trip to India. We had with us a toddler of 2 and a 6 months old baby. We travelled through Europe, Turkey, and Afghanistan. Entering Pakistan through Khyber Pass was a treacherous but exciting journey. We proceeded to India, travelling through many holy places and finally ending up at Kanya Kumari, the southern most tip of India. We returned to England overland having completed 26,000 miles. Throughout the journey my mother made sure we all had a freshly cooked meal once a day. She had made sure we were well equipped for the journey with all kinds of food supply and home remedies. Her energy was inexhaustible. She kept us amused on the way with anecdotes from her life. We loved listening to the beautiful lullabies she sang to put the babies to sleep. I too used to doze off with a vivid memory of her rocking me to sleep when I was a child.

With a difficult early married life that improved later, as my brothers expanded my father's business, not only in Nairobi but in Britain as well, my mother was a happy and contended soul. She had a vital role to play in making my siblings and me into good human beings. She had repeatedly taught me a lesson: 'If you wish to achieve something in life, depend on no one but yourself.' Like her I have a holistic approach to life and share my expertise with others. I give reflexology treatment and teach yoga and meditate to enhance my soul. My mother's life has been exemplary for me in my survival when I was widowed in my early 50s. My mother died peacefully in Britain in her sleep without any illness or suffering at the age of 77 leaving behind her 29 grandchildren and 13 great grandchildren.

Translated into English by Bhadra Patel

This writing was developed in conjunction with Spread the Word Literature Development Agency www.spreadtheword.org.uk.