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12M

p3

…. in the feudal spirit

By

Taizoon Shakir

 

Synopsis

 

The novel revolves around an affluent family living in Bombay (India) and the servants that they employed. It is divided into nine sections, each section devoted to a central character that works for the family in a different capacity. The sections are linked by the family and chronologically by  the three children growing up, the youngest of which becomes a doctor and is the narrator. Each ‘servant’ plays an important role in the life of the young medic, and the other family members; and they in turn have a significant influence on his or her life.

 

The backdrop of each section is varied - Hindu-Muslim riots, the Bollywood film industry, a matriarchal harem, tuberculosis sanatoria, slum, village and chawl life, Bombay’s underworld, the municipal elections. ex-royal families and temple communities, with Bombay high-society absorbing it all.

 

The reader glimpses into India’s rich historical past- from the Mughal dynasty to the more recent Partition of the sub-continent after Independence from the British Raj. A different perspective into human relationships is seen- love and respect between the family and the various servants, friendships with the neighbours and a new look at arranged and love-induced marriages. It gives an insight into medical college and hospital life as a trainee surgeon in India.

 

Peppered with Indian words that spice up the narrative, and a light hearted humour that sweetens it. Violence and death are involved, yet there is a general feel-good factor that goes through the book as most sections end in the ‘happily ever after’ mode.

 

 The book starts with Amina- the children’s nanny who becomes an integral part of their childhood.

 

Amina

Amina was the quintessential nanny.

 Depending from which quadrant of the world you look at,  nannies are called differently - in Europe ,she’s bambinaia, bobonne or ninera, in the Middle East she’s called dady or murrabiat-atfal and in the Far East baomu or yaya.. In patois she is simply a picknee motha..  For my family- parents, older brother and sister and me, living in the Indian sub-continent, she was the most perfect ayah that ever graced a home.

 

She was round, a medley of bubbles and spheres clustered together without visible joints. From shoulders to feet her body was a large sphere that seemed to roll forward rather than walk. Her head was a little ball that had round eyes twinkling out at the world through round spectacles. She was also soft, small and smelled faintly of garlic and Lifeboy soap. When mum and dad were out and Amina was in charge, being naughty and undisciplined took on a different meaning without the worry of being caught, corrected and complained about. She was fun- a playmate to tease, take advantage of and share secrets with. She was also an adult to run to for help, comfort and protection. For my parents, however, she was much more than that. She was a superb cook, a ferocious watchdog of their children and property, and a living passport to their entire business, religious and social lives. For me personally she had been around from the day I was born. Like the proverbial rock, she generated an aura that assured me that she was and would always be there for me for ever and ever. So there we were, one happy family and their ayah, in the nineteen sixties, growing up in India-on the west coast of its peninsula, in the big bad and wonderful city -then called Bombay.

We lived towards the south of the city, on Marine Drive – the concretised arc of coastline, off which the sun dipped into the Arabian Sea every evening and the street lamps lit up each night, forming what we called the ‘Queen’s necklace’. Our building had a small garden attached to the two ground floor flats- one of which housed my family. It was a four-storey apartment block, with two flats on each floor- homes of great neighbours who became part of our extended family as the years went by. With Amina being an integral part of life itself, I hardly have any childhood memory in which she does not feature.

 

Aged less than one I can remember having my baby massage, laid along the length of Amina’s shins and being rubbed down, initially with plain corn oil. but later with scented olive and almond oils. Amina crooning some tuneful melody and me joining in with baby gurgles and gasps of pure pleasure. Mum has over three hours of video clips of these episodes of my babyhood, with Amina and me smiling blissfully into the camera.

 

At age one- thanks to the massages my bones became long, straight and strong and I tried to learn to walk. The pallo of Amina’s sari was always nearby, to catch hold of and thereby preventing falls or fractures.

 

At two, staying asleep through the night -only when Amina slept on her mat near my cot. I’m sure her gentle snores were the required ongoing lullaby.

 

At three agreeing to remain still enough to have a full haircut, only when held firmly in her lap. Hajam-the barber (who shaved me in my twenties) remembered these otherwise trying monthly episodes with great clarity. Three year olds. in general created havoc in his shop. Not only had he to prevent them from grabbing hold of the sharp trade tools like scissors, blades and razors, stop them from spilling his carefully filled bottles of oils, creams, soapsuds and water; he had to keep them calm, entertained and distracted enough to be able to complete the haircut. All this in good time lest more than one landed up in his shop together. My brother, he could recall, had been an absolute terror. Thanks to Amina, I however remain placid enough. staring happily at our reflections in the mirror in front and being cuddled by her simultaneously. Consequently, mum’s videos shows me always well groomed whereas my brother was always with unruly hair.

 

Aged four making the ritual of laying out the night pathari (bed sheets, pillows and blankets) an exciting and energetic game, by climbing onto her back and insisting on being a cowboy, getting off only when sleep or exhaustion took over.

 

At five- the puddles created by the monsoon rains in the road and pavements along the way to school were irresistible. They just had to be jumped into and splashed about in- muddying my crisp white uniform and well polished shoes. Amina rolling along behind, under an umbrella which would always be too small for her entire self to stay dry, would try her best to scold, warn and plead to try and stop me. But the monsoon came only for three months in the whole year, in the rest of the year the puddles were mere trash-filled ditches and potholes. In any case wet and muddy uniforms were fun.

 

Aged six I fell from my bicycle and needed three stitches across my right eyebrow. As Dr. Khan, our next door neighbour and respected family doctor, injected the anaesthetic to take them, I recall hearing the louder, more profuse and genuine wails from Amina. Unable to compete with her in volume or pitch. I stopped crying and remained still for the rest of the procedure.

 

At seven  we dragged the poor woman to Saturday matinee cartoon shows. How she hated them. She could not understand them, found the darkness of the cinema unnerving, and the cartoons too violent for her gentle sensibilities. She sat through them with eyes shut and tightly clutching our hands. It certainly made me feel very adult indeed. She did enjoy the taxi rides and popcorn though.

 

Eight was an exciting year as we got our very own TV, and Amina loved it-more than, as she often said- us three kids put together. The Sunday evening film was always an old black and white Hollywood extravaganza of yesteryear. There was no way Amina would get up from the designated spot on the carpet till it was over- commercials and all. Consequently Sunday dinner was take away or leftover night- an almost unheard of concept in those days.

 

At nine- whenever we were out at a family gathering, we would always ring home to let Amina have the chance to pickup and answer the telephone- another life enhancing bit of technology that fascinated her almost as much as the TV.  The greeting- ‘Hello’ however, proved too difficult for her. She could repeat it well enough when we taught her to say it, but when on the phone, all she could do was giggle until the caller identified him or herself. This made us giggle as well and our telephonic conversations with her were a real laugh, punctuated by shrieks of delight.

 

Aged ten I can recall Amina’s voice in the gathering twilight, reverberating around the garden and neighbourhood. like a muezzin calling the faithful. On hearing her we would hurry home, as it always meant that mum and dad wanted us for prayers, dinner, homework or to meet some visitor.

 

Before I record what happened in the eleventh year of my life I must reveal Amina’s most fascinating trait. A fact, that for one amused us three kids never endingly and for another, at least for me personally, was to become a life’s commitment. It was the fact that Amina had liquid in her legs, giving them a spongy feel and a squishy-squashy appearance. Fluid filled the tissues below her skin, bloated her legs out and made her skin almost transparent. When we pressed our little fingers into her legs,  an impression would develop, caused by the fluid being pushed aside. On release of the pressure, the finger marks could be seen clearly, and as the fluid shifted back, the indentations slowly faded away. To our children’s minds this was pure magic. How we loved to press designs- like our initials- into her leg and watch as they slowly dissolved back into her skin. From the toes upward, well beyond her knees, she had this very exciting find. We were, of course, not allowed above the knees despite arguments, tantrums, false and sometimes even real tears. The end of her sari firmly drew a line of modesty at the knees. This game would give us no end of pleasure- and preventing us from playing it was the only threat Amina could use to curtail our mischief and regain control in the house when she was in charge. The other great thing about this was that this was a secret between the four of us. We solemnly swore to keep this game from mum and dad, Amina insisted on this. Some days however, despite behaving impeccably, we were not allowed to play with the fun legs. Perhaps the water disappeared for a while, and following a cyclical pattern returned again in a few days. Or at times it may have been painful for her such, that she could not bear pressure on them. Then again, perhaps Dr. Khan gave her some medicine that eased it a bit. Be that as it may, we kids loved Amina- squishy-squashy legs and all.