Dahi Jeram

 

Dahiben Jerambhai, born 08.04.1925–23.11.1990 

Dearly beloved wife of Jerambhai 

Cherished Mother of Jasu, Ashok, Usha and Indira 

OM SHANTI SHANTI SHANTI 

 

These are the words inscribed on my maternal grandmother’s headstone at the Waikumete cemetery in West Auckland. 

My first ever encounter with (and real experience of) the notion of death came the day my Ba passed away. I was ten. I’d never had anyone so close to me pass away—she was in hospital and had suffered a heart attack, a common cause of death among Gujarati elders. Ba’s passing away came as a shock. 

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As a child I’d always thought grandparents lived forever, were immortal. I don’t know why—perhaps it had something to do with knowing they were so valued for their wisdom and insight, perhaps it was because they were always there to protect and nurture. So when she was suddenly taken away there was a feeling of emptiness, a void that could not be filled by any other person. 

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Ba was a very quiet, non-judgmental, patient, generous woman. She was eternally helpful, no matter how busy the situation. As a child I remember being intrigued by her, her unique inner stillness. It was as if there were hundreds of stories in her that no one could unravel unless by divine interference or something. 

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I’d never seen my parents grieve before and it was hard seeing my mum so cut up. It was unreal. A few days leading up to Ba’s funeral and cremation, Mum broke through her thick fog of grief and in a moment of clarity she made one simple request—that we place one item into Ba’s casket the day before the cremation. 

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One item? I remember thinking the only thing I wanted was for Ba to hear me say my last words to her and that the only way she could hear me was if I wrote her a personal note. My little sister Kapisha (five at the time) had decided on what she was going to offer; she chose to give up her one and only most loved toy, a Popple (a popular American plush toy), which was a huge deal for her. I felt sorry for my little sister and was touched by her generosity in giving up the one thing that brought her comfort and joy. In her Popplelessness I gave her mine (which she still has with her today!). 

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As for the note, mine read something like: ‘Dear Ba, I love you so much and will miss you forever I will also miss your delicious kadhi (yoghurt gravy dish) that you always used to make—it’s the best kadhi in the whole wide world and there is no one else in the whole wide world that will ever make it like you. Lots of Love, Rina.’ 

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That was it. That very note, the process of making it and passing it on to my mum really helped the grieving process. I had never grieved before. I somehow was able to come to terms with Ba’s death by having done this. A ritual. 

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In the years that followed I developed a need to know about and learn how to make kadhi. In my mid-twenties I forced my mum to teach me, and she did. Every now and then I make it when the mood strikes—it’s nowhere near (not even the tip of the iceberg) as good as Ba’s but it is slowly becoming better with time. 

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Ba grew up in Karadi, a small coastal village west of Navsari and the main railway line in Gujarat. Karadi was the very village in which Mahatma Gandhi was arrested towards the end of his iconic Salt March in 1930. I’ve yet to research it but, according to my Jasu Masi (my aunty, the eldest child), Ba arrived in New Zealand by ship in 1948 where she was reunited with Dada (my maternal grandfather). At the time Jasu Masi was a wee two-year-old toddler who had endured the ocean voyage with Ba. 

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A small humble township called Eltham, southeast of Mount Taranaki and known for its butter and cheese industry, became their home and business base. It provided a strong foundation for their growing family. They bore three more children after Jasu Masi, including Ashok  Mama, Usha Masi and my mum, Indiraben. 

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Ba and Dada ran their own fruit and vege store on Eltham’s main strip, Bridge Street. Just around the corner is Stanners Street and on it still stands the Eltham Town Hall. Gujarati families from the Taranaki, Manawatu/Whanganui regions would frequent the town hall to view one-off Hindi movie screenings. It was an opportunity for local Gujarati families to socialise, reconnect and identify with their roots. 

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In the late 1950s Ba and Dada moved to Gaine Street, New Plymouth, where they resided until the early 1960s. They operated a new produce store on the corner of Liardet and Devon streets. Their final dwelling in New Plymouth was on Bridge Street. 

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In the 1960s and 1970s there was a growing influx of Gujarati families to Auckland. So Ba, Dada and their four children packed up and relocated to Auckland, embedding themselves into the fast-growing urban-scape and community. My grandparents settled in Dryden Street, Grey Lynn. By then all four of their children were married and began to sprawl throughout Auckland with their own families. 

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From memory, in the 1980s, Ba worked for the Sanitarium company, the makers of Weet-Bix. They had built a solid foundation for their family in Taranaki which allowed for a smooth integration into the Auckland way of life. 

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As a young kid, there were some very peculiar yet strong sensations that indicated I was in the presence of Ba: sometimes it was the distinct whiff of pure coconut oil which she’d rub delicately into her hair or the soothing and fragrant smell of coriander combined with curry leaves and spices wafting from a freshly made batch of kadhi on the stove-top. Or the cock-a-doodle-doo of a rooster at the break of dawn as I lay in their spare bed as guest grandchild, foraging for strawberries in their garden and the rare glimpse of a home-grown green mango was always a pretty spectacular sight. Even watching Ba pull out a block of butter from the fridge and seeing her carve off a crest, placing the butter on top of the freshly cooked pot of rice as we both stood there watching it melt down while the aromatic flavours penetrated our nostrils and made my tummy grumble. Her presence was always a delight. 

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Recently I found myself standing in my mum’s kitchen curiously looking at a saucepan neatly balanced on top of the stove. On closer inspection I was able to read a name thinly etched on the outer rim of the pot, it reads: JM Fakir. My Dada’s (or grandfather’s) name. It’s just as well Dada had his name etched on this saucepan, I’d hate to think I was inspecting someone else’s through pure assumption. I placed the saucepan back—according to Mum, this was the very one my Ba used most of the time. And it still sits there in our kitchen, silently, patiently waiting—just like Ba. 

 

By Rina Patel