Laxmi Jairam

 

My mother, Laxmi Dullabh Jairam arrived in Auckland in January 1940, having met and married my father, Dullabh Jairam, in India the previous year. They travelled by packed passenger rail from Navsari to Mumbai, took a passenger liner from there through to Sydney and on to Auckland, in what was to become a well-entrenched route from the Gujarati city of Navsari and its outlying villages. She had chosen to give up family, friends, a vibrant village life and bountiful sunshine to embark on a new life in a foreign land at the outer reaches of the known world, that was at times hostile to the exotic cultures of the east, replete with unintelligible language and customs, bland cuisine and much cooler climes. 

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Dislocation from the familiar rhythms and rituals of Indian village life was often debilitating for many Indian immigrants on arrival in this new world; however, my mother positively thrived in the situation. I suspect her family life made her very amenable to the environment she found herself in. My mother’s home village Nani Pethan was at the very southern tip of the state of Gujarat, half an hour by bullock cart from the main township of Navsari to the north and three hours or so by rail from the bustle of Mumbai to the south. My mother’s father (Bhana Patel) and uncles were involved in textile trading with merchants in South Africa and had built up a successful business, allowing the family to enjoy a very comfortable life in a well-appointed and very modern (for the times) dwelling. Around the family dinner table I can imagine, amid the business discussions, there being much talk of exotic locations, unusual customs and cultures, and the expectations and possibilities these different communities presented. I feel this environment of curiosity and aspiration was the ideal psychological preparation for the challenges my mother would find in New Zealand. 

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When they got to Auckland, my mother and father moved into the accommodation at the rear of my grandfather’s shop at 141 Ponsonby Road (which is still there and run by a family member). My grandfather, with assistance from Dad, had established and built up a flourishing fruiterers’ business from the mid- to late 1920s and through the 1930s. Now newly married, my father was in the perfect position to take over running the business and start his family. 

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The living conditions at the back of the shop were quite basic; directly behind the shop and down two steps was a lounge-type area with an open fireplace and impossibly high ceiling, 18 feet it seemed. Beyond this, the ceiling dropped away to not much above 6 feet, in what was the tiny kitchen and dining room, furnished with a small dinner table, a sink, gas oven and hobs, and an assortment of cupboards. There was no running hot water however. A prep area for the fruit and veges destined for the shop ran adjacent to the kitchen, leading to an outside shed for washing clothes which housed a copper for heating water for the household. At the rear of the property was the obligatory outhouse. 

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At the side of the lounge area was a long steep staircase that led to three bedrooms, the small middle bedroom was windowless save for a tiny skylight, the other two were of modest dimensions. 

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My mother immediately set about creating a warm and cozy living area behind the busy shop. Sofas were purchased for the lounge, as was a bedroom suite and other assorted furnishings and trappings. Mum used her innate flair and a womanly touch to bring a serene peaceful feeling to the family living quarters. 

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And the family would duly arrive. I was born on 8 June 1940, my brother Prakash on 29 January 1943. These being the war years, my father was called up for military service training, leaving my mother to cope with the running of the business with assistance from some close friends. This would have been a tough assignment regardless. However, to manage with two young children and, at this stage, rudimentary English, the situation would have been daunting for many. It speaks volumes of my mother’s positive attitude and resourcefulness, dealing with this situation in the confident manner she did. As it transpired, Dad’s absence was to be relatively brief, poor eyesight curtailing any notion of extended duty in the armed forces. Although my mother proved she was up to the task, we were all very pleased at Dad’s return. 

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My mother was of a friendly gregarious disposition; people naturally gravitated to her and once she found her footing on the shop floor many customers became acquaintances and then firm friends in quick succession. She had a solid network of friends among the small Indian community in Auckland, many of whom originated from the same region, Navsari, or one of its many satellite villages. One of my mother’s strongest friendships was with an English couple, Jim and Eve Young, who lived at the top of Anglesea Street, virtually opposite the rear entrance to our property. Eve and Jim became my nana and pa, my English grandparents, and in keeping with this relationship I was often left in Nana’s care if my mother was helping out in the shop. A cup of tea and a chat with Nana was a great way to improve Mum’s conversational English and acculturation into New Zealand society, so we regularly had afternoon tea with her. From as young as two and a half, I was acting as an intermediary, transitioning from speaking in English to Nana to Gujarati to Mum.

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I was fascinated by Nana’s absorption in the craft of sewing. She would often hold pins in her mouth when she was pinning fabric together. I thought this so fantastic that one afternoon I demonstrated my new-found skill, proudly displaying a mouthful of pins to my perplexed parents. To my dismay this performance was greeted with complete consternation, a swift reprimand and scolding was delivered as the pins were carefully extricated from between my now trembling lips. In my defence I managed to say, ‘But Nana does this’, a little bewildered at my sudden fall from grace. This incident was fondly remembered by Nana many years later. Nana and Pa were to remain in the grandparent role for life, becoming Nana and Pa to the next generation as well. My children all benefitted from Nana remembering their birthdays and always writing or sending a card to commemorate the day, often with a little present included. They were to play an increasingly important part in my life in a few short years. 

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As I recall my mother was quite progressive and open to western influences in our day-to-day lives. It was not unusual for immigrants to attempt to retain as many aspects of their previous lives as possible, and in many cases be quite resistant to change. I was the benefactor of my mother’s progressive mind when it came time to visit the hairdressers; my locks were cut into a very fashionable look, noticeably different from the other Indian girls my age who all had the traditional village styles of plaits or a ponytail.

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My mother enjoyed English language movies, with the family often frequenting the Regal Theatre on a Saturday afternoon for its Western feature. The theatre was conveniently directly opposite the family business on Ponsonby Road. This was also another avenue to improve her English language skills, or so she claimed. 

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My father purchased his first motorcar in 1944, a 1937 Vauxhall, dark navy in colour, which we used to go on weekend outings. Ours was a good family life around this time, and my mother was able to employ a local lady to assist with some domestic chores. I was the proud owner of a cane doll’s pram, my brother a red pedalcar—both were items of considerable veneration among our peers. 

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With family and work life now settling into a very comfortable existence, after some years of hard graft, Mum expressed a desire to return to India with us, so we could visit her family, relatives and close friends. Mum also wanted us to experience her home in India, which I assume she had missed. 

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Unfortunately tragedy was to strike before we were to embark on this trip, with Mum succumbing to the scourge of the Auckland isthmus—an asthma attack claiming her life on 31 May 1947. I was one week away from my seventh birthday, Prakash six months from starting school. Mum’s sudden and unexpected passing was traumatic for all of the family but particularly so for Prakash. I recall a month or so after her passing Prakash had disappeared from the family home and was nowhere to be found. I embarked on a frantic wider search, with my best friend Frances eventually finding him somewhat confused near the gully at the bottom of Anglesea Street. He was hoping to find Mum somewhere there. 

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There is never a good time to lose your mother; however, to lose her so abruptly at the tender age of seven was particularly perplexing and confusing for me. I had my moments of crying in private, when I began to understand that I was never to see my mum again. In retrospect this was a real turning point for Prakash and me; to be deprived of Mum’s doting watchful upbringing would have many subsequent effects. Nana and Pa really stepped up at this point, providing many hours of loving care, support and comfort during this very unsettling period. I spent many afternoons in Nana’s company; she also nursed me through a tonsillitis operation and ensured that my birthdays and Christmases were times of great joy. 

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For the next two and a half years, every Saturday, after our shop closed at midday, Dad, Prakash and I travelled out to Waikumete cemetery to lay flowers at Mum’s graveside. Her grave was a masterpiece of design, made with high-quality coloured tiles and the headstone adorned with fixed vases on either side with a photo of Mum set in the centre. Dad spared no expense with this final resting place for Mum, and many visitors to the cemetery often stopped to admire it. 

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We would eventually travel to India, Dad, myself and Prakash, some two and a half years later, staying around ten months and returning to Auckland with a stepmother to look after us. My brother and I returned to school, Richmond Road Primary in Ponsonby. I would continue on to Auckland Girls’ Grammar and finished my schooling at the end of my sixth-form year. 

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At nineteen, I married Magan Ranchhod who was studying at Auckland University, and would later complete his bachelors degree in electrical engineering. We moved to Bombay, South Auckland, after our marriage and continue living high on the hill there. We have a family of two sons and two daughters. 

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My enduring memory of Mum was of her gentle, caring, compassionate disposition. She loved to bake Indian sweets for the family, always sharing these with friends and neighbours alike—Nana and Pa in particular enjoyed these exotic treats. I also recall one Saturday afternoon returning from the picture theatre across the street. Mum, Prakash and I were overtaken by a young Maori girl running at great pace only to trip and fall a distance up the street. Mum without hesitation ran to her aid, providing assistance as though she was one of the family. 

 

By Kamalaben Ranchhod