Rami Hari

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The aroma of freshly fried puri,  doodhpak (milk and rice pudding), paatra (taro leaves rolled with spiced pea flour batter) and potato saak still brings back nostalgic memories of New Year’s Day lunch being prepared by our mum. Mum was a good cook who made tasty meals out of simple food. which in some cases was of necessity because of the lack of many spices in earlier times.

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Our mum, Ramiben, was born in Alura, near Navsari in Gujarat, in the early 1920s. Life in the villages was tough. In those days, water was collected from the wells by young women, who carried it in vessels on their heads. There was no electricity—lighting was from the flame of devas or kerosene lamps. Cooking was done over an open fire in the kitchen. Bathrooms were non-existent, at least not as we know them. Instead of a shower, you would take a bucket bath in a thatched-off area usually at the back of the house. 

In the 1960s, I visited India for the first time and found the way of life there a huge contrast to how we lived in New Zealand. It was quite daunting to adjust to the conditions. 

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Young women rose early, usually about 5 am, for their own ablutions and then to heat water over the wood fire for the other members of the family. Mum, as a young mother in her husband’s village of Sagra, found this life difficult with her daughter Laxmiben.

Mum’s parents—Bhikhiben and Keshabhai Ranchhod—had three children: Mum and her two brothers, Mangabhai and Sukhabhai. Being an only daughter, she was very sheltered and protected. She was betrothed to our dad, Ravjibhai Chhana Hari from Sagra, at a very young age, and later married. Their eldest daughter Laxmi was born in Sagra in 1939 and they lived there, mostly on their own, for about eight years.

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In the meantime Dad travelled to New Zealand with his elder brother Ranchhodbhai Hari, leaving Mum in India. He returned about eight years later to bring Mum and their daughter Laxmi to New Zealand. The three of them travelled by boat—not a cruise liner but a very basic ship. They went as a group for both company and safety. 

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I was born in Pukekohe soon after their arrival in 1948; evidently I was nearly born in Singapore as Mum felt she might not last until New Zealand, but with advice from other relatives on board they decided to continue travelling to avoid immigration difficulties. On arriving in New Zealand, Mum and Dad settled in Pukekohe. For Mum this new life was no easier than in India. Pukekohe was a rural town with market gardening as its main occupation. Our home was a basic wooden house with an adjoining building that held a copper to boil water. There was a motorised well which drew water from an underground spring and pumped it into a large holding tank. Clothes were washed by scrubbing them on a corrugated wooden washing board, placed in a concrete tub near the copper. 

In 1949 Mum gave birth to her eldest son Mohan. We grew to a family of ten children: four sisters, Laxmiben, Ratan, Urmila and Jumna, and six brothers, Mohan, Ganpat, Bhavan, Manilal, Sures and Vallabh. We older siblings helped Mum with the younger ones as we grew up. Mum had such a busy life with us all but she made sure we had a happy childhood.

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Our dad, too, had a very busy life. He played a very large part in our local Indian community, serving thirteen years as president of the Pukekohe Indian Association, and two years as secretary. He was also a founding member of the Pukekohe Indian Sports Club. Running a market garden, a fruit and vegetable shop and contributing to his community meant that time at home was quite limited. Dad also toured a large part of New Zealand with other members of the association, raising funds for the building of the Nehru Hall. The hall, opened in 1953, was the first community venue in New Zealand to be used for Indian weddings and functions. Until then meetings and similar had been held at members’ houses. Because of Dad’s involvement in the association, often he and Mum hosted various visitors and Indian families on association business. Mum became used to coping with our family on her own, and quietly but with determination bringing us up. She kept us close to her and Dad, and we are thankful for her guidance.

 

Other memories of Mum are of her taking lunch to us while we were working in the gardens; we were very appreciative of the tasty food and drinks she had made. She would join Laxmiben in the garden when it was time to listen to ‘Dr Paul’, a long-running serial on the radio. Mum didn’t always understand, but Laxmiben would translate for her and they were both avid listeners.

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Sunday lunch was often a delicious chicken curry cooked by Mum. First, with the help of a labourer who sometimes worked on the farm, the chicken was caught from the pen outside, beheaded, then dipped in boiling water and its feathers plucked. Finally, it was prepared and cooked—chicken could not be fresher than this! 

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Luckily for Mum (and all of us) Hindi movies were screened every fortnight. Actually, Dad was one of the people who organised these screenings, collecting the large metal box with the celluloid movie in it from Auckland and then returning it afterwards.  

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On other weekends, Dad would take Mum and us to Auckland to visit uncles, aunts and cousins, and they in turn would visit us, laden with lovely fruit from their shops. Veges such as chillies, eggplant, Indian beans, coriander and fenugreek were grown in the summer months and then shared. Mum would fill the boot of our car with vegetables for our relatives. They were really appreciated as there were no imported veges at that time. In fact even spices were quite rare, and family from India would send spices with any relatives coming to New Zealand. Moong beans, lentils and rice and a few spices were available only in Auckland, so Mum and Dad often travelled up to buy them especially. 

We used a large telephone box on the wall in our kitchen to communicate. It had a hand piece on one side and a handle on the other to ring the telephone exchange operators in Pukekohe. We would ask for the number we wanted to call, which the operator would connect at their end. Luckily Mum could handle the phone quite well, and could talk to Dad at our shop, or some of her friends. For her it would have been quite a revelation to see developments in technology—from this antique-type phone to a dial phone, and then push-button, cell and smart phones.

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In those early days, cooking in our house meant first lighting the coal range. This cooker, which was made of cast iron, would be started with wood kindling, and then coal added to create a slower steady heat. The range had two circular lids like hot plates on which the pots were placed. They could be used either open for a direct faster heat (for frying) or closed with a metal poker for a slower heat (simmering or similar). Mum had real expertise in controlling the heat, both for cooking purposes and also drying papad on a rack above the cooker. The warmth was also ideal for making yoghurt. The cooker had an oven on one side, which was relatively simple but quite effective. Mum made rice by first boiling it on the top element and then finishing it off in the oven. We children also mastered the art of making scones by trial and error.

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Unfortunately Mum passed away at just sixty years of age, with chronic illness in her final few years. When we think of Mum, my siblings and I often remember her generosity, especially in that time of early Indian pioneers. Not only was she incredibly generous to visitors as previously mentioned, but with us as well. If ever we required any extras for school she would carefully count out any change from her housekeeping money and made sure we were able to purchase what we required. 

To see her family happy was Mum’s happiness. 

 

By Ratu