jamna unka

 

This is my mother’s story, told by me, one of her seven living children. It is a story of courage and, I believe, destiny.

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My mother’s courage is evident in her story as she left the safety and security of her village home in India and travelled halfway across the world to a foreign land of foreign people with foreign ways. Though there were many others like her, my mother’s story is her own.

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She didn’t come to New Zealand and hit the headlines or become famous, yet she is important and worthy of note. Her life in New Zealand has significance because of who she was and where she came from, the sacrifices she made and what she gave us, her children, and the legacy that has become destiny for her children and her grandchildren.

Jamna was born in May 1920 in the village of Kothamdi, Navsari, in the Gujarat. She was the eldest of three girls and her mother died when she and her two sisters were very young. Her father remarried and so later my mother became the eldest of five girls. As the oldest, she had the responsibility of chores, looking after her siblings and also caring for her grandparents and doing their chores too. Because of this, she missed out on going to school, though her sisters did go to school.

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Betrothal was traditional and commonplace in Indian village life and so it was that my mother was betrothed to my father at a young age, sometime when she was six or seven years old. They got married at a suitable age (this was usually when a girl got her monthly periods; my Mum was eighteen years old so it was a good age). My eldest brother Jasmat was born in 1940, followed some years later by a little girl, Laxmi.

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 My father, in these years, was spending more and more time in New Zealand, along with other Indian men who were all working hard to send money home and saving enough to bring their families over. This meant years of separation for my parents. I remember Mum talking about the photo of my eldest brother Jasmat (included) and how Dad had written to her asking to get the photo taken and sent to him so he could see his son, who by then was four or five years old. He had not seen him since he was a baby! 

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In September and October 1949, my mother, Jasmat and Laxmi (the family) travelled to New Zealand on a boat, a journey that would take six weeks. My mother was now pregnant with a third child. 

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How courageous to embark on such a journey, and I know Mum was strengthened by the knowledge that her children would grow and thrive in New Zealand and that they would get a good education to ensure good jobs with good income, something not readily available in India.

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Thankfully for Mum companionship came from the other women travelling under similar circumstances. Strong bonds were formed with these others as they made the long journey together. 

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These ties remained firm despite the women settling in different cities around New Zealand. Mum told us how she had packed and shared jars of pickles and how welcome they were as the food provided on the boat was bland and so different to what they were used to. Jelly was put on the table one mealtime and both Mum and her friend wouldn’t touch it because it moved and wobbled in front of them—they had no idea what it was. That story was told with a lot of laughter.

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When the family arrived in New Zealand, a house in Herne Bay, Auckland, was their new home. They shared the house with other families and men on their own, still working and saving. I often think what that must have been like for her; I wonder how she managed.

She was restricted by language and the cultural differences must have been a challenge. What were her expectations of this new land, her new home that was so very different from India? She could no longer step out the door and chat to neighbours. Unable to communicate with shop owners, Mum was dependent on Dad to get supplies. Dad was working all day and Mum would have been constrained and isolated by the foreign language and foreign ways, stuck at home caring for the children and cooking for the many that lived in the house.

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It was a far cry from the village where, for Mum, life was about being in the community, surrounded by family and friends. The villages from where our parents came and the surrounding villages existed on subsistence living and this meant that Mum and other women like her worked on the land. This and the daily chores of washing clothes, collecting water, gathering food and cooking were often done with others, and all with a camaraderie that comes from growing up and living together.

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Having visited the villages, and through the stories Mum told, I can almost hear the laughter and chatter as she and others (sisters, friends, cousins, aunts) gathered to do these tasks, sharing stories or cooking together on special occasions like weddings. Support, connection, close relationships, safety, security, and a sense of belonging all represented village life for Mum. From that, she came to a house set apart and separated from other houses and very far away from family. The language barrier, looking and dressing differently in a largely white population did not make for an easy transition. There was no support nearby, no neighbours to easily call on for help. The other people in the house were working men or if there were families generally they did not stay long. 

Luckily there were others like Mum, newly arrived immigrants facing the same challenges of having to adapt to this new land. Companionship came from these other families, other women, who were from neighbouring villages in India and who were also finding their way in this land that was to become home for them all. Support and care for one another was necessary for survival in this new culture and country. As time went on, relationships formed with other Indian families in Herne Bay and Ponsonby and a natural community began to emerge. Social occasions like weddings or Indian movies were opportunities to come together and catch up with friends.

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Soon after they arrived, my brother Mahendra was born, followed a year later by another brother, Vinod. Next came me, Jasu, followed by my brothers Ramesh and Naresh.

Sadly, on 8th May 1956, my sister Laxmi (seven) and brother Vinod (five) died tragically in an accident. Our family of seven siblings became five.

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Losing two of their children, and without the support of extended family, would have been incredibly difficult for both her and Dad. It was this double tragedy that precipitated the family’s move to Queen Street, Onehunga, where we lived in a big house with massive gardens and lawns and equally massive trees that became home and a playground for us children and a gardening haven for Mum. 

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Soon our family increased as Mum gave birth to two more children, Raj and Lalita.

It was here in Onehunga that Mum forged relationships with other Indian women that would become lifelong. She still has these strong and enduring friendships. I can still see the many women gathered in our kitchen, each doing a different job, all talking at once, telling stories, laughing and most importantly getting the year’s supply of papad (papadums) made, dried and stored on the best of the summer days. My mother and these friends would go from house to house helping each other get the work done.

Visiting friends in Herne Bay, Otahuhu and other parts of Auckland was something Mum and Dad did every weekend and remained a big part of Mum’s social life. 

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In Onehunga, though, my memories are of her having visitors over often, and her walking to visit others with us children in tow. Mum was strongly relational; she loved getting together with friends. When we were all at school, she and her friend Gangaben from down the road had fixed days. What I remember was on Thursday we would have fish for dinner so each Thursday, they would walk down to the shops and get fresh fish from their favourite shop. They did the same for supermarket shopping; it was always the same day of the week, every week. Unable to read or write, shopping was done by memory and sight. 

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Sharing freshly cooked food from the kitchen or fresh produce from her garden was Mum’s specialty. Her garden was her pride and joy, and she was a natural gardener. Everything grew! Whenever visitors came, they would get a tour of the garden before they even got inside. And everyone was given something as they left. 

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Mum’s garden thrived. Every possible place to plant vegetables, she did. She grew many of the Indian vegetables and her green fingers and the volcanic soil meant bumper crops. Each Sunday, we were enlisted to help put chillies into punnets, eggplants into boxes and radishes into bunches, ready to be taken to the markets on Monday morning by Dad. This was good pocket money for Mum and she enjoyed seeing the wonderful products of her labour. She wasn’t able to read about the specifics of gardening; however, she would watch gardening programmes and copy what she saw. Years later we children gave her a glasshouse as a Christmas present, and it was a real hit. She was able to grow all her seedlings in there and often grew extra for her friends who would bring their own seedlings, which Mum would water and nurture along with hers.

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Mum saved seeds from her amazing garden, from year to year. These sustainable seeds seemed to be everywhere, drying on windowsills, on saucers or trays and, most memorably, stored in old Brylcreem jars. If Mum saw good produce, then the seeds were kept and dried, ready for planting in the right season. Among the sea of green in Mum’s garden, I remember the sight of torn strips of old saris or other cloth tied around the biggest chillies, beans or papri on the plants. These were not to be touched but the seeds saved for the following year’s planting. I still look with fondness at my mum’s brilliance at gardening.

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Little packages of food were tucked into her bag whenever Mum and Gangaben went off on their regular visiting jaunts on Friday afternoons. For as long as I can remember, these two would walk the streets of Onehunga to visit their friends and have afternoon tea. Even as they got older, they continued visiting on Fridays. All that changed was that someone would have to drop them off and then pick them up. Though they couldn’t walk as far, they would still pop round the corner to each other’s homes every day for morning tea and, of course, Mum always made sure she had something freshly cooking on the stove.

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When we were adults with families of our own, Mum always packaged up her specialties for us to take home. She would not let us leave her place without giving us something to take with us, whether from the kitchen or the garden. My children have enduring memories of her almost famous muthia (vegetable fritters) and puri which she would make especially because she knew the children loved them. They still talk about the muthia and puri, and how they wish I could replicate them!

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My childhood memories of Mum are of her in the kitchen or laundry and most often in her garden. When we came home from school, after dropping our bags, our first stop was always the kitchen, where Mum would always have food waiting for us. Then it was playtime and we had the freedom to have fun till we were called in for dinner or if it was getting dark. Many a flowery mud pie was made by me in the lush bushes and trees of our garden, which involved my imagination and creativity. And many a cricket and hockey game was played all afternoon by the boys.

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When I drive by Hill Street, nostalgic memories of the local Indian seamstress (Devi Kaki) come to mind. Mum would visit her as a friend and as a seamstress and usually with me in tow. Mum would always buy 3 yards of fabric so my sister and I always had matching dresses, always the same pattern—puffy sleeves, Peter Pan collar (sometimes with lace added), gathered waist and tied in a bow at the back. Upper Trafalgar Street was where the lady with the big knitting machine lived. Here, Mum would take us to get measured and our winter jumpers knitted. I think we were Mum’s translators! 

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I am so very thankful for Mum’s easy-going and relaxed personality. Though she worked hard (washing and cooking and cleaning for seven children!), she allowed us space and the freedom to be and to become who we are today. Mum nurtured and nourished us well, like she did her gardens.

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When I think about it, how must it have been for her watching her children integrating into Kiwi culture? She allowed us to do that, though there were suggestions about holding onto the Indian ways from time to time. These were things like wearing a sari when attending Indian weddings, paying our respects by visiting the home of someone who had passed away, or encouraging us to maintain our Indian friendships, and go to Indian social occasions. Today I call myself a Kiwi and remain Indian.

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As we got older, Mum was on at us to study and do well in exams. We may not have had to make our beds; however, studying was quite a different matter. Mum and Dad considered education a privilege (something Mum didn’t get) and she was adamant about us doing well at school.

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As I’ve said, Mum loved her garden and after she got Dad off to work, which was always very early, she would potter around in the garden for ages. Time was not especially important to her. We had a fire station close by and every weekday morning they would sound the siren. It was the signal that we needed to be ready to head off to school. A vivid recollection I have is of hearing the siren while still in bed and realising Mum had again forgotten to wake us for school. There was a mad dash to get dressed, grab some lunch and run off to school, hoping not to be late.

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My dad died when Mum was just seventy-one years old so she lived on her own for more than twenty years. Being the relationship-focused person she was and with her telephone (a lifeline), she stayed connected to her friends. Mum and her many friends would talk with each other every day and as they all got older, they set up a check-in system where they would ring before bed and then, in the morning, another call to check that all was well. Many a call was made to us, if a friend was unable to get hold of Mum. 

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Mum showed incredible resilience throughout all she had to endure over her lifetime. Having to face the tragedy of losing two of her children was huge. Mum never complained about her lot. She showed us by example that life is to be lived, despite the circumstances, and there was no point wishing for the past but instead to live in the present. She was generous and kind and always welcoming with a smile to whoever came across her path. Though Mum never mastered the English language, she was able to understand what we were saying. She loved her life in New Zealand. When we asked if she would want to live in India again, the answer was always no. 

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Mum did a great job of transporting village and communal life here to New Zealand. She showed me what it meant to be in relationships with other girls and women. A camaraderie that is a benefit to living and facing life’s challenges. Respite, too, from the sometimes never-ending duties. This, especially so, for Indian women. 

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As I near the end of this story, my (our) beautiful, darling mother has died just a few months short of her ninety-fifth birthday. She leaves us with a legacy of hospitality, generosity, community, sharing and the value of relationships. Her love for us, her family, her vitality for the life she lived and her generosity to her friends and everyone she came across remains constant in my mind as I think about her. 

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Mum and of course Dad’s decision to emigrate to New Zealand held within it the hopes of a better future and became the destiny they wanted for their children and grandchildren. I remain thankful to our parents, to my mum, who left her home in India to change my (our) destiny to live in beautiful New Zealand, for the privilege and the freedom to welcome New Zealand ways and culture while still holding on to my own. My choice to embrace Christianity freely was made easier by my mother’s generous spirit. 

Always my mother will remain to me an amazing woman of courage and destiny.

 

By Jas Govind