The dhobi hid her in the washing

I was crying yesterday after the recounting of the tale of the survival of my friend H’s great great grandmother. H is Anglo-Indian, born in Kolkata and left India in 1957 just like my mother.

H’s great great grandmother had children so young that she was still alive to recount to H’s mother what had happened to her as a young child during the Indian Mutiny. And H’s mother related the tale to H.

It brought back to me the events of the Rwandan genocide. Another friend HY taught out in Rwanda when we were in Ethiopia. ‘Eight of my family have been killed’, children would say to her, ‘Have you had a genocide in England?’ HY would add to me that she got her water from the lake where bodies were dumped in the genocide. ‘At least I got to boil and filter it first,’ she would say, wryly, ‘Unlike the students.’

But back to H’s great great grandmother..

Indian fighters came in and killed her mother (who was sixth months pregnant), her father (who they hung up by his beard and threw spears at) and decapitated her two year old sister. The family were Jewish, but foreigners tended to be lumped together with the British. ‘But they weren’t all British by any means,’ qualified H.

The dhobi, obviously aware that something was about to happen, had managed to hide H’s great great grandmother in the washing. The  fighters came in and demanded to know if they were harbouring a European/foreign child.

‘Look for yourself,’ the dhobi replied.

The fighters put their spears through the washing. H’s great great grandmother had a scare on one of her arms where the spear scraped her. But they didn’t find her. The moment of bravery had paid off. That split second where looking just that bit furtive might have given it all away.

She was then taken to a Anglican orphanage and at the age of 13 married to a merchant of 39, who was good to her. But she ever mourned the loss of her Jewishness as she was brought up Anglican.

Seeking out the expats?

We’re heading towards the summer and our annual trip to Kolkata and this year I’m experiencing a change of heart about seeking out expat company.

The modern expat moves every 2-3 years and the ones you find in Kolkata are no exception although there are obviously some who’ve been there decades! I already posted The Gori and the Expat setting out some of the differences between the gori wife and the expat wife. The latter is usually not interested in learning the local language as they may be off to another continent soon. They don’t have their spouse’s extended family around. They are not in it for the long term. And as time goes on, your experiences probably put even more space between you. I think if you live in South Asia(as a gori wife) all the time you are likely to have expat friends just as you are likely to have South Asian friends. But if you dip in and out as a gori wife, I don’t think you really have long enough to get to know people who are in a different situation from you.

Maybe lose myself in books this time around.

Or practise my Bengali!

One day too I hope to go on some interesting trails in India such as going to the museum in Mysore to view the portrait of my ancestor or following the steps of William Carey (prominent Baptist missionary to India)…but for now with young children it’s malls and mishti doi all round…

A love affair with India

It’s been rainy here for days, mainly constant drizzle. There’ve also been some heavy showers. It’s mostly not that cold but sometimes there is a real sharpness and bite to the air especially in the early mornings. Rarely the Spring sun manages to break through in the late afternoon.

Until recently, rain always made me think of Ethiopia. I remember students shouting out at me in amused protest not to run across the road with a plastic bag over my head as the rain was just too heavy. They were right. It was like someone tipping buckets over you. It hurt. The heaviness hurt. Goats and sheep would huddle on the narrow concrete steps outside the suks, their hooves trying to grip on so they didn’t slip off into the rain.

Sometimes I would think back to a wet afternoon in Addis Ababa. I was in the kitchen leaning over the table leafing through one of our friend E’s Anglo-Indian cookery books. It was curious how recipes for chicken curry nestled besides recipes for chocolate cake. How the taste buds of these people reflected their mixed heritage. I remember too how E taught me to make Indian style omelettes with green chilli and how to know exactly when to turn them.

Now a curious thought strikes me, brought about by the reflective state the rain makes me fall into and the recent delving into the past of my family history.

It’s like there’s a pull within my ancestors both to India and to Europe. If you look at their European origins, mainly Spain, France and Portugal then intermarrying with Indians, you can see how this might have come about. And yet my mother’s generation – all of whom married white people – tried to deny this pull. I’m not saying that you have to marry an Indian to prove your own Indian-ness. But quite apart from who they married, they’ve all in some way tried to deny part of themselves. Although not completely, as they are drawn to Europe which is part of their identity. But with my Indian-ness under threat with my father’s Anglo-Saxon blood (if I married someone white my children would be over 3/4 European) it’s almost as if a force beyond myself pulled me back to India again.

But as for my cousins – again all are with white people or don’t have a partner. And I’m also the only Catholic (this comes from our Indian side too) amongst them. I think there was a lot of damage caused by my Indian grandparents marriage, the divorce and the fall out that it might have confused their children and their children’s children as to where the unhealthiness originated. In short, if they associated their own parents ethnicity with the damage they caused perhaps they developed a desire to get away from that ethnic group from which their parents came.

Sharell has talked about the pull of India and I wonder if she has Indian blood. She looks as if she may. We all have much more of a mix in us than we probably realise.

Tracing the female line…

It’s proving hard, like I thought. I can go back generations with the male line, but I’m currently stuck at my great grandmother on the maternal line although there is a little information beyond that.

My grandmother Agnes Saldanha(maiden name)’s mother was Margarita Teresa Fernandez (maiden name) known as Maggie.

Margarita was born on October 19, 1891 in Madras and married a Saldanha on 30 April 1917 in St Thomas Mount, Madras and hence she was known as Maggie Saldanha.

At the time of marriage she was the age of 25. I would imagine this was quite old in those times. Her husband had been married before and he was 22 years older than her at 47.

Maggie died at just 31 in Simla of double pneumonia having given birth to four children in five years. Her children were born on January 17, 1918 (Harriet), March 15, 1919 (Joe), April 14 (1920) (Agnes – my grandmother) and October 4, 1922 (Teresa). She looks deeply sad in the picture. I’ve been told that after the fourth child she locked herself in her bedroom and would not let her husband come in there.

Anyway, her mother was Maria Gloriosa Esperanca D’Souza (maiden name). And there I come to a block. I’ve contacted relatives who have family tree information as there is more if I can access it. I knew it would be tough.

Well, I heard back and I can go another three generations back from here but the information is sketchy. More anon…

The pointlessness of researching your family history….

So I was all excited about finding a half French, half Indian ancestor, Marie who was knicknamed ‘gori bai’ by the local people.

This is my great great great great grandmother. Her father, the French army officer is my great great great great great grandfather.

Anyway, I told the children and we worked out I am 1/128th French they are 1/256th French. (Clearly we may all be more French if there are any other French ancestors knocking around).

Then it struck me, of course, the pointlessness really of researching your family tree.

Why?

Well, only going back eight generations you’ll find you have 256 great great great great great great grandparents. Yeah, crazy isn’t it?

So which tree do you trace? Usually the male line is done. And how much of you have any of these people made up? And of course the one drop rule is crazy. How do we know who those 256 people were? And what connection do we have to these 256 past people much more than to anyone else in the past?

I talked in the earlier post about maybe searching the female line back, mother’s mother’s mother … but all that would be is a reaction to the limited way family history is usually done, and just as limited in its own way…

The storing spices question

About a year ago there was discussion in blogland about how to store spices on Lucky Fatima and the Gori Wife Life amongst others.

It’s not very picturesque but it’s proving convenient. Two or three months back I got a kitchen table with a shelf quite a lot below (see the photo). It’s really handy having the spices under my work surface.

Pros

1) Spices near to hand and yet not next to the cooker

2) Spices stored mainly in glass (I am a glass purist)

3) I can have much bigger jars for the spices I use more of (like powdered coriander).

Cons

I can’t see the labels looking down and it takes me longer than it should to find things sometimes (but I don’t have to wander round the kitchen).

I think I need to put seeds one side and powdered spices the other and herbs together too.  I could also stick labels ON TOP of the jars. That would help.

Back to Desi food

Well, that didn’t last long. (The foray into European cuisine some days back) Four or five days at most. Back to fish curry and dal with spinach on Friday. Last night North Indian chicken curry with peas and green beans. Why? Well I couldn’t get good fish for my seafood linguine on Thursday. I had white wine. Anyhow there was fresh cod on sale and I have all my spices at home plus fresh tomatoes in the fridge and coriander leaves in the freezer. So I thought let’s just go back to desi cooking – it’s easier! It was comforting too and fresh tasting.

Indian food can taste very fresh especially when there is use of lemon or lime. But sometimes Bengali food can seem heavy and greasy compared to, say, Gujurati food. But ultimately it all depends on the individual cook and quality of ingredients. Also every cuisine had its healthy and less healthy options and so taken in its entirety cannot be dismissed or put down.

I mean English food is meant to be the worst in the world but if can be amazing. Fresh wholemeal scones, homemade strawberry jam, Cornish clotted cream…mmm.

My taste buds must have been missing Indian food a bit because I’d been having Indian style omelettes for breakfast. You have to try these! A small onion chopped, 1-2 eggs, salt to taste, a deseeded green chilli. Get the oil really hot and fry! Delicious with white buttered toast.