My mother – Part 2

Part 1 is here.

A few years later came the next assignment – to Makeni – in Sierra Leone. My first exposure to school, my mother would braid my hair, pack me curd rice in an Aladdin flask that went into a pretty metal case. When I came back, it was invariably with one braid undone or redone – my friends including Patience A Serry-Kamal and Henny S Kamal were kind enough to help rebraid my hair. I remember giving her a tough time once when I told her I was to take a sheet of ruled paper to school the next day for a test; she gave me a pristine sheet of note paper. I was appalled. All my friends at school just tore a sheet from the notebook, and to take a pristine sheet just would not do. I recollect panicking and crying, but while she was calm, my mother did not back down. Of course, it ended up being a complete non-issue.

My brother, ten years older, was self studying for his degrees and accounting qualifications. Always mature and easy to deal with, he followed a strict routine of studying. When people talked of problems with teenagers, I was always incredulous. What problems? We had had none. But as my mother frequently says, we were living away from any temptations whatsoever – we had no television and no telephone. And my brother had no peers either. We would on occasion meet up with some of my father’s good friends but most were not in Makeni – Mr. Appadurai Muttulingam’s son M. Sanjayan was slightly younger than my brother if I recollect correctly, and his younger sister Vaithehi was someone I looked forward to seeing. Then, I would see Abarna Thiru once in a while…. But that was it. Being the early 80s, there was no question of video games or social media, let alone cell phones. Our only sources of entertainment were an excellent set of magazines and newspapers our father subscribed to (The Economist, The Illustrated Weekly of India, The Financial Times, The Hindu International Edition, Newsweek, Time), several Amar Chitra Kathas we carted around everywhere, shortwave radio on which my brother listened to the BBC continuously, and a very small, but excellent selection, of Carnatic music cassettes. We listened to these tapes so many times that we both still have every syllable in them memorised – GNB, Madurai Mani Iyer, Semmangudi, MLV, MS. Amma, worried that I was growing up without human company to play with after school, instructed my brother to spend a half hour playing with me every day – which he did cheerfully and at my level – be it dolls, house, or anything else. He never complained.

A tropical country in West Africa near the equator, Sierra Leone offered a similar bounty of vegetables as did India – in our own large yard, we had several mango, coconut, jackfruit, other palms, banana trees etc. My mother developed a keen interest in me for plants and produce – I spent my abundant spare time literally getting my hands dirty – growing sweet potatoes, potatoes and tamarind trees in the garden.

She made jackfruit chips, banana chips, vadaams from the local potato flour, fresh coconut oil from the coconuts. In our orthodox family, there was no question of a cook – the househelp would cut some vegetables (not all) but that was it – it was all my mother. I had absolutely no idea that coconut oil was not normally made at home or that jackfruit chips were uncommon – until decades later.

Examining a cluster of banana trees with the gardener one day, she felt a rush of cold against her thigh. Shaking out her saree, a small snake slithered out. “Oh, don’t worry, Madam”, said the gardener. “That is a harmless one.” It was compensated for soon enough. One fine day, I trooped inside from the yard describing a beautiful snake I had just seen. “It has a wide face and a U, Amma,” I reportedly said. She thought it was my somewhat overactive imagination. Until I drew it. Sure enough. By the jasmine bush was a cobra poised to strike. It was only the first of more hair-raising incidents of my instigation.

Another day, I keeled over in mid sentence, right in front of my mother, frothing in the mouth. My parents rushed me to the local doctor to be told that he was at the tennis courts. My mother went post haste and pulled Dr. Macaulay from his game. He gave me an injection saying we would know only in 12 hours if I would live or not. “She has definitely ingested something,” he said. I had eaten the camphor used for poojas – highly toxic, but with a deceptively inviting fragrance. Apparently, a year or so earlier, I had eaten a large container full of Vaseline Petroleum Jelly – it became apparent that I was attracted to pleasant smelling items – edible or not. Well, I am living proof of the fact that Vaseline Petroleum Jelly is NOT poisonous. I would not recommend anyone eat it though – unless, of course, one is suffering from acute constipation.

There was no fresh milk available in Makeni, so amma reconstituted NIDO milk powder (it had exactly the same packaging then as it does now) and used it just as we would fresh milk. There was no yoghurt for purchase in Sierra Leone either and no one we knew had it – in this really hot and tropical country, we really craved it. So, amma began yoghurt culture from scratch – another first amongst people we know. She said she used lemon juice to split the NIDO milk and used the whey to start the culture. Several tries later, voila, we had good yoghurt. Phew.

We then were in Madras for 2.5 years following my paternal grandfather’s passing. My mother approached the Principal of the nearby school for my admission. She made it happen – an 8 year old in 7th grade in the middle of the second term. She gave me all the support I needed at this time – change in continent, change in environment, change in teaching standard, change in subjects – even as she looked after my grandmother, father and brother. I was under NO pressure to get a good rank or to be better than my peers. Just do the best you can, she said. It helped that I had a wonderful set of classmates there too – Aparna Rangan (the first one I ever met), Sowmya Pattabhi, Richa Singh, Harini Bongu, Mary Pramila Ramanathan, Lakshmi Lakshmanan, Nalina Pranesan, Devi Sundaram and many more – my mother never ceases to give thanks to these lovely girls who made my sojourn in St. John’s Besant Nagar so extremely memorable.

Amma organised my music lessons, ensured that regardless of where I went to play, I was back and fed in time for class. Even now, OST Sir recalls my scrambling to finish my curd rice right as he would walk in….. ” Thair saadham aa,” he would ask. My mother also tells me how happy my paternal grandmother was that OST Sir was so kind and gentle in his approach to teaching, having seen others who were polar opposites.

My father’s final assignment, in Lilongwe, was quite like Lusaka for my mother. The same quadrant of the continent with mild weather, beautiful green and a capital city too. Here, one notable incident occurred whilst my parents walked back from the grocery store. My father walked fast and my mother was abysmally slow. Going ahead, my father was mugged. My father screamed my mother’s name worrying about her safety, even as he assured the mugger that he would give him everything he had. The mugger tore up my father’s suit, cut him near the ears and threw away his glasses. Amma, knowing her inability to walk fast or run, using her presence of mind, headed towards the major hotel in the main road to fetch help. All was well in the end – my father had suffered just a minor cut, my mother was fine, and even his glasses were recovered the next day. I still recollect our neighbour, who worked for the British High Commission, getting a baseball bat in hand – “just in case he should come here”.

Another neighbour was an English-French white South African lady, Robin, whose French husband, Alain, worked for the local tobacco processing company. One day, Robin, who had just recently moved in, knocked at the door, introduced herself and asked for cumin seeds. “I am making green beans with cumin,” she said. My mother gave her the cumin, and ever ready to pick up new culinary ideas, remarked that the combination sounded excellent. Sure enough, the next day, amma made beans curry seasoned with sauteed onion, cumin seeds, cumin and chilli powders. I would strongly recommend this combination – but only if the beans are tender and fresh – like haricots verts. Yet another neighbour there, an elderly American couple, the Malones, told amma to send me over to see the movie, Anna and the King of Siam. I remember watching it intently at their home and also picking up the tip of using a tad of instant coffee in chocolate cakes to intensify the cocoa flavour.

It was important to my traditional parents that I studied in an exclusively girls school which did not exist in Lilongwe. So, I was homeschooled (my next brush with a brick and mortar educational institution would be graduate school – after marriage). My father ordered the best self-study materials available. My mother was, of course, in charge of ensuring that I actually studied. Amma drew up a timetable for me to follow. It was written up, posted on the wall and adhered to strictly – allowing for breaks, meals and exceptions such as illness. When I was stuck, amma had to help me – particularly with Mathematics. I can attest to the fact that home schooling is super-efficient in terms of time spent/qualifications earned ratio, but it was a LOT of responsibility on my mother’s shoulders to ensure that her 11 year old studied in this unusual situation.

Reshma Roy was a dear friend. Her mother, late Mrs. Molly Roy, used to bring Reshma over whenever she could. It was always such a pleasure for both mothers and daughters. My mother made pizza as per Mrs. Roy’s recipe when my Krishnan mama visited with my mami and my cousins Kavitha, Mohan and Nithya…. I remember we used Gouda cheese since Mozzarella was not available. Surabhi was another good friend who lived within walkable distance. She was just the most polite and well mannered person I have ever had a chance to meet. Her mother made excellent baked goods and I used to play badminton on occasion with her.

We had interesting issues in Malawi. Coconuts, for example. These were available for just one week every year, imported from South Africa. So, we bought about 50 coconuts in bulk (we were a Keralite family and coconuts are crucial) and set about grating them en-masse and freezing – again, this had to be done only by my mother and me. To this day both of us are adept at breaking and grating coconuts on the old-fashioned floor-based grater at speeds that can rival experienced grandmothers. Every time I sit down with a coconut, I can remember the kitchen floor in Lilongwe. This was also where amma made halwa with chayote squash (chow chow or Bangalore Kathirikkaai in Tamil) as a substitute for the normally used ash gourd (pooshanikkaai) in kashi halwa since the latter was not available. No one could taste the difference.

My mother had to ensure that every garment we ever wore was ironed – most importantly undergarments. This was due to potential infection of the putzi fly (Cordylobia anthropophoga) which laid its eggs on wet garments as they were line dried – common to East Africa. These eggs would latch on to any mammal it came into contact with and grow into the pupa stage inside the body. My brother had been affected by it in Zambia and amma knew better this time. Fortunately, we had an excellent houseboy (househelp) that could take care of this). I grew up thinking that everyone ironed underwear! Now, after years of living in the United States where ironing anything is a rarity, it seems absolutely hilarious.