Laxmi Narsai

 

Mai was always smiling and her eyes sparkled. She had a bubbly and vivacious nature with a positive outlook on life, the kind of person everyone loved to be around. A woman ahead of her time, Mai was one of a kind. 

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Every home has a certain rhythm to it. In our home it was akin to a loud orchestra and mainly centred on the kitchen. The pots would sing in tune with our Mai’s cooking. She was the conductor of a reasonably large band where the harmony of sounds ebbed and flowed during the day. It would start with a quiet murmur of voices with our mother setting out the breakfasts, catering to our individual needs: tea and toast for Dad, porridge for us younger children, Weet-bix for the older siblings and leftover rotli crushed over warm milk was our grandma’s favourite and what she had eaten when she was in India. That hum would level out during the day to a more peaceful pace as Mai would go about her endless chores. During the day visitors from the motherland would drop by for a chat, a spicy chai and other Indian delicacies fresh off the stove. The sounds came to a crescendo in late afternoon when she cooked our favourite meals, which meant she had several pots on the go all at the same time.

After school or work, the first thing we all did was go to the kitchen to lift the pot lids and get a quick look at our dinner for the evening. There was a not-so-subtle sound when a favoured dish was not on the menu that night! I’m not sure how our Mai fed her immediate family of nine children, along with grandparents, uncles, aunts, friends and other lonely souls she took into her fold. Money was always short but life evolved between the kitchen and the vege garden. There were also special treats such as whole fresh fish from the local fisherman based down at Freemans Bay, lamb sides via the uncle who worked at the local abattoir, home-baked scones and pikelets from our wonderful neighbour Nana Brown and cream doughnuts from the local bakery where my brother Ramesh worked. Everything that came into our house in the form of food was treated as a gift and eaten with great reverence, which in turn shaped life-long friendships in our small community. We ate, enjoyed and savoured the love she gave us through her cooking.

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Mai was born on 31 September 1931 in Bodali, a rural village in the state of Gujurat in India. Traditionally, a woman would return to her parents’ home to give birth. So Mai was born in her mother’s village. A few days later, after resting and finding her feet, Mai’s mother, with her newborn baby, returned to her husband in Karadi. As well as Mai, our grandparents had two daughters, Mani and Shanti, and two sons, Hira and Girish. Mai was brought up by her Masi (maternal auntie) and Masa (uncle), who didn’t have children of their own, in a town called Jalalpur. Being the one and only child in the household, she was pampered and doted upon. Masa was a tailor and he made her pretty dresses so she always looked lovely. Growing up with Masi and Masa was wonderful for Mai. Living in a town with modern conveniences meant that she didn’t have to do strenuous domestic chores like her sisters did. From the age of five, Mani and Shanti had to walk 10 kilometres every day to collect water.

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Compared to village life in Karadi, Jalalpur was fast and progressive. Growing up and going to school there meant that Mai learnt cosmopolitan social skills and cooking techniques, and developed an outlook that was quite different to village folk. These days we’d call her a townie.

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In 1946, Mai left her home when her marriage to our dad, Sukha Narsai, was arranged. He was fifteen years older and had been living in New Zealand since he was a young boy. She was only sixteen. A close family friend from India recently said that, at the time, no one could understand why Mai was married off so young. We can only imagine how hard it would have been leaving Masi and Masa and going to live in the village of Marchad with our dad and grandfather at such a young age. 

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The same year she was married, Mai had her first child Bhanu, the only one of us siblings born in India. In the meantime, Dad had returned to New Zealand and it wasn’t until two years later that he was able to make arrangements for his wife and daughter to join him in New Zealand. So Mai and two-year-old Bhanu left India from Mumbai on a passenger liner along with other Gujarati families. Being on a boat for so long with a toddler must have been challenging to say the least. Mai wore a plain cotton sari on the ship as this was the norm for Indian women. As they headed south, Mai really started to feel the cold. She was freezing. When the boat stopped at Fremantle a kind English or European lady took her shopping and bought her a tweed double-breasted winter coat to keep her warm, a generous gesture towards a young mother on her way to a new life in a foreign country. How lovely for Mai. The coat was fashionable, sophisticated and stylish. Savita recalls Mai wearing this coat and often receiving compliments from people who told her that she looked like Princess Elizabeth. Everyone in our family remembers how warm that coat was. It was often used as a blanket to combat the cold in our uninsulated Grey Lynn villa where the only heating was a two-bar heater and a coal range.

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Mai’s new home was above Dad’s fruit shop on K Road in central Auckland. It was small and cramped, a stark contrast to the large, comfortable family home she had left behind in India. Life was hard for Mai and a constant struggle. Money was always scarce so Mai would collect Shoprite coupons from the New Zealand Herald and count down the days until the family benefit payment came through. Bhanu remembers how the family couldn’t afford the Pasadena Intermediate uniform so she went to Richmond Road Primary instead for her intermediate years because that school didn’t have a uniform. 

Mai only had one relative in New Zealand, her great auntie, Lalie Chibba Lala. We called her Puke Momai because she lived in Pukekohe, 50 kilometres south of Auckland. That was a long way in those days, and Mai couldn’t drive or speak English.

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After she moved to New Zealand the babies came quickly and Mai’s hands were full looking after them. There are nine children in our family. After Bhanu came Pravin, Chan, Manjula, Ramesh, Savita, Rusick, Ramila and Husid. Bhanu recalls going to stay with Puke Momai for a few weeks when Pravin was born. Thank goodness she was there and ready and willing to look after Bhanu while Mai was in hospital and settling in at home with a newborn baby. A year later, Chan was born so Bhanu and baby Pravin went to stay with Puke Momai for a while. 

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Our family eventually moved to a new home on Sackville Street in Grey Lynn in the early 1950s. Ramesh is number four in our family and when he was a young baby Mai was very badly burnt. She was sitting down with her back to the open fire in our front room, feeding Ramesh from a bottle. Her sari caught alight and she had to sit in a bucket of soaking nappies to save herself. The burns were terrible. Mai could have died and she spent a long time in hospital after that having skin grafts and recovering. By this time our grandmother, Momai, had come to live in New Zealand and she held the fort at home while Mai was in hospital. 

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Our next door neighbours on Sackville Street, the Browns, were lovingly called Nana and Pop by all of us. They took Mai into their fold and helped her adjust to New Zealand life. There were lessons in how to cook English food, how to preserve fruit, make strawberry and apricot jams, as well as tomato sauce with a chilli kick. There were shopping trips to Lambournes at Three Lamps on Ponsonby Road and George Courts on K Road. Mai had an appreciation for porcelain and fine bone china; nothing other than English china would do. Mai didn’t save her good china for special occasions, she used it every day to drink her tea.

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Nana and Pop played a big part in our lives and treated us Narsai kids as their own grandchildren. They took Bhanu to birthday parties with them, and made us feel a part of their family. Nana and Pop were everything to Mai and us.

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With a large family, there was a lot of washing to do and get dry. We couldn’t afford a washing machine so Mai washed everything by hand in the bathtub, on her knees with a washing board, then wrung it all out, again by hand. Nana couldn’t get over how white and bright our sheets were. It was the hand-washing that did it. Thinking about the amount of nappies, clothes, towels and bed sheets there must have been is enough to make anyone cringe. Ramila’s memories of Mai include her always washing clothes and looking tired. She would rub Mai’s legs in the evenings when they ached. There was often not enough room on our clothesline so Mai would go over to Nana and Pop’s to hang washing on their line and at the same time have a cup of tea with Nana. She would chat to Nana in broken English, and the two enjoyed a close and caring relationship. Ramila can remember Mai talking to Nana about how the price of toilet paper had gone up and how expensive it now was.

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The other thing we couldn’t afford was a fridge. On weekends when Mai and Dad bought meat, it was kept in Nana and Pop’s fridge. Having such a big family meant Mai had to cook fresh from scratch every day. Our garden was a lifeline because growing our own food was far cheaper than buying it, and many Indian veges weren’t available in shops. We grew garlic, chillies, eggplant, Indian marrow, beans, Asian gourd and paatra, which is similar to taro leaves. The Indian community was close and connected then so a lot of home-grown veges were shared and swapped with neighbours, friends and relatives.

Even though we didn’t have a lot, Mai sent money on a regular basis to ashrams and relatives in India. She was selfless and put everyone else before herself. As well as managing our large immediate family, Mai helped friends and supported an extended family by cooking meals for them and doing their washing, even when they weren’t living with us. We barely had enough for ourselves but Mai was so caring, compassionate and generous towards others. She sent food parcels to the old, lonely men who had no family or other connections here and could not afford to bring their wives out from India to join them. Our brothers would drop these off on the way to school. 

Mai was the best cook and we’re not just saying that because she was our mum. Always creative and imaginative in the kitchen, she managed to make sheep brains, pig trotters and other cheap things from the butcher
taste delicious. 

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These were the days of six o’clock closing so, like other Kiwi mums, Mai made sure the family meal was ready when Dad got home from the pub. She had a reputation in our community for being a great cook, and family and friends still talk about her flavoursome cooking today. One memory Mala has of Mai is from when she was around four years old watching Mai making gorr rotlis (sweet pancakes) with her mother and aunts. Of course, Mai’s gorr rotlis made our mouths water and were delicious. 

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Like other Kiwi women of the time, Mai enjoyed watching the telly and knitting. She followed the ups and downs on Coronation Street and cracked up laughing during comedies like Love Thy Neighbour. The big-time wrestling show On the Mat was a hit with Mai and our dad. It was entertainment at its best and they thought the fighting was real. She used to knit clothes for us and Momai (our grandmother) with our family friend Kamu Jiji. These two were so clever and clearly talented that they could knit jumpers and cardigans without patterns.

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Our family home was small but there was always room for people who had just arrived from India and needed somewhere to stay until they found their feet. She understood the loneliness and feelings of isolation that go with moving to a new country and our doors were always open to them with Mai’s welcoming smile. Not long ago, a family friend told Ramila that Mai was the kindest person to her when she arrived in New Zealand as a girl from India. She has never forgotten Mai’s empathy and kindness.

Despite all of the hardship, Mai was constantly smiling and always looked on the bright side of life. She was very social with a wide circle of friends. As well as having friends in our close-knit Indian community, she had European, Muslim, Maori and Anglo-Indian friends. That was a big thing in those days and quite unusual for an Indian woman of that time. She was one of those people who would chat with anyone. She didn’t judge or discriminate; she just loved people no matter who they were or where they were from. Savita remembers one of our cousins saying, ‘Your mum isn’t like other mothers.’ That says it all, really.

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Something we all remember is how lively and full of people our home was. Family and friends of all ages came over to visit, hang out and enjoy Mai’s hospitality. There was never a dull moment. Mai was at the heart of it all, bringing people together with that warm smile. Friends we grew up with found our home relaxing and accommodating; they were always welcome and enjoyed good times, great hospitality and fun company there. Manjula looks back fondly on an evening we spent in the backyard of the Sackville Street house with our Girish Mama (uncle), Bhanu’s future husband Jasmat and a bunch of their mates. Everyone was enjoying good food, having a laugh and singing along with someone playing a guitar. Mixing with people outside our community and having parties wasn’t the done thing back then and Bhanu says other people in the Indian community thought we were a little different and unconventional. Mai was loyal and protective, always standing up for us children. She was a lioness and on one occasion blasted someone over the phone when defending our brothers.

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Mai was taken from us far too soon. She died on 2 July 1975 when she was only forty-four. We were so young. Bhanu was twenty-seven and our youngest brother Husid was only six. Her death was completely unexpected and it came as a huge shock to all of us. Mai had gone into hospital for a simple, routine operation to clear a blockage in her digestive tract, had recovered from the operation and was due to be discharged in a day or so. After the operation a blood clot developed in her leg, moved through her body and into one of the arteries in her heart and that’s what caused Mai’s death. Her doctor said a death like hers was one in a million. She was the heart and soul of our family and suddenly she was gone. We still feel like we were robbed of the most precious person in our lives.

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We know Mai would have been so proud of all of us—her nine children, fourteen grandchildren and six great-grandchildren (number six is on the way). As an immigrant woman from India she would never have dreamed that a university education, overseas travel as well as living and working abroad would become the norm for our family.

 

By her daughters Bhanu, Manjula, Savita and Ramila, and her eldest granddaughter Mala