Karam Kaur

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There are many connotations of the word ‘karam’ in Indian epic verse and literature. In Guru Granth Sahib, for example, karam relates to act, deed, fate, destiny and the merits of one’s own actions. For a young girl from the Punjab named Karam, destiny awaited in distant New Zealand, a place she had not even heard of in her village, as she was barely educated in any formal sense of classroom learning.

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I do not know much about her life in India. Although, growing up in the 1920s in a rural North Indian village was probably much as it is now—cornfields, rice fields, acres of yellow mustard flowers growing in abundance, and conservatism in thought and deed, especially for women. For Karam Kaur the arrival of her husband-to-be, Juwala Singh from New Zealand, meant a sudden change. Her own ‘karam’ or fate was now in progress. Theirs was an arranged marriage, brought about by two family elders.

 

Seventeen-year-old Karam married Juwala in a traditional ceremony and soon after embarked on a journey that would take her a long way from the land of her forebears.

My parents went by ship to Auckland, their journey together being unique, as most Indian men travelling to New Zealand at that time did so alone, leaving wives and children behind in India. For my mother, the long sea journey was full of apprehension as she heard from my father about what to expect in their new homeland.

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Arriving in New Zealand my mother knew no one other than her husband and she spoke no English. Their first home in rural Te Aroha seemed no different to what she had known in Punjab. It was merely a hut, with an open fire outside for cooking on; there was no electricity, telephone, transport or washing facilities. Farm work was from dawn until dusk as my mother and father worked alongside each other, toiling over the land and milking cows by hand. Theirs was the reality of 1930s rural New Zealand during the Depression years. ‘Where was the dream?’ she may have thought.

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In 1938 they moved to Pukekohe Hill where they leased land and started market gardening. They had wanted to buy the land but the owner, Miss Potter, refused to sell her land to Indians. This kind of thinking was prevalent in Pukekohe at the time. There was even a group who called themselves the White New Zealand League. Set up in 1926 the League wanted to restrict Asian immigration and rights. The prime ministers of the time, including William Massey and Gordon Coates, were supporters. 

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During the Second World War, using horses rather than tractors, my parents harvested crops to supply the army troops stationed in Pukekohe. Living in a small shack, they worked long hours every day. My mother would be out in the fields during the day, and then work from evening until early into the morning, cooking and doing household chores. The shack was very basic with few comforts, running water came from an outside tap and candles were used for lighting. She was a hard worker—by candlelight she would hand-stitch Indian-styled clothes for herself from used flour bags.

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In 1939, a year after moving to Pukekohe, my mother gave birth to her first child, followed by eight others. Two were stillborn. One son and five daughters completed their family. Home-grown vegetables, hand-churned butter, a smattering of Indian spices (curry powder was basically all she could get)—such were the luxuries with which my mother blended wholesome meals for her children, continuing in the meantime with all the garden chores and also finding time to offer some delicacies to neighbours. Barriers between their market gardening neighbours began falling as she tried to befriend them, despite not being able to speak English. 

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In 1942, the family borrowed money and relocated to an ex-army house on Victoria Street, Pukekohe, making do with old banana boxes for furniture. My mother covered these with sacks, decorating them to give a semblance of warmth. Although the house was slightly bigger it had only three rooms: a bedroom, a kitchen area and a washing area. Water was heated on the coal range, a huge copper was used for laundry, candles and oil lamps were used for lighting.

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By the early 1950s my parents bought their first car and had also constructed a brick house. This was pure bliss for my mother as their new home had a better coal range and amenities like a bath, indoor toilet, electricity and running hot water. 

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My mother was determined to speak English. I can remember her tenacity. She would forever be asking her children, ‘How do you say . . . in English?’ We did not have the patience to help her and she would say, ‘If I knew how to speak English, I wouldn’t keep asking you, would I?’ But she did eventually learn—with the help of local Pakeha, Maori people and also from us children. She was so friendly she would try to communicate with everyone she met. She became close friends with her neighbours who also taught her to bake and sew. 

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Armed with sheer courage, my mother learnt to drive and was probably the first Indian woman in the district to acquire her driver’s licence. My father refused to teach her to drive as he was certain they would both lose their tempers. This did not deter her, however; she simply found someone else who was willing. As children, we were all at ease with her driving; she was a confident driver and gave us rides to school.

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As time went on, my mother was kept busy buying sprays for the market gardens, liaising with vegetable merchants, supervising the workers they hired, completing the payroll, providing lunch for the workers as well as tending to the needs of her children, husband and the household. As the difficult years slowly eased and we children took on more of the market garden work, my mother and father were able to spend time assisting other new settlers in the Indian community. They joined the Indian Association, helping with the construction of the first Sikh temple by donating the finance for all the bricks. Before the temples were built the Sikh community met in local halls. All the temples were built through donations; the first was in Te Rapa, near Hamilton, the second in Otahuhu, and now there are many.

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My mother loved Indian music. She would buy albums of the latest Bollywood movies from R C Hari (who bought them from Fiji). As a family we attended Indian movies at our local cinema every fortnight. A few times we went to see English-speaking movies. Although I was young at the time, I can still remember when the picture theatre in Pukekohe was segregated. White people were allowed to sit upstairs but all of us brown people, Maori and Indians, had to sit downstairs. 

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Even though she adapted well to the New Zealand lifestyle, my mother retained all aspects of her Indian heritage, specifically her Sikh faith and teachings, passing these diligently to her children and grandchildren. She was a very spiritual person, attending all of the monthly Sikh services and playing an active role.

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We grew up admiring our hard-working mother who had learnt to survive in a foreign land, surrounded for many years by strangers, though interacting with them in a positive way. She was a devoted grandmother who relished opportunities to teach her grandchildren about the values of honesty and respect, or retell her early struggles, so they could learn from her. As her name implied, my mother made her own destiny, growing from strength to strength, acquiring new skills with every turn, determined to make her family’s lives better. Her story is an inspiration to all of us—her daughters and son.

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My mother’s life ended in 1986. She survived my father and lived happily with her children, their spouses and grandchildren. Having been through many tribulations, she took joy in seeing her family’s prosperity and her traditions upheld by them in abundance. What more could a woman named Karam ask for?

 

By Pritim Kaur

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