Image and Text contributed by Jenny Mallin, Berkshire, England.
“Rai, jeera, huldi..” she would whisper under her breath whilst counting the ingredients on her fingers. Cooking came naturally to my mother, but occasionally she would open the pantry door and out would come a huge ledger book (image link), whereupon she would leaf through the pages until she found the recipe she was looking for. With no title on the cover to distinguish it from the other cookbooks, the only distinctive thing I can recall is that each page was so delicate and fragile that it would snap like a popaddam (indian crisp made of gram flour) and therefore it was out of bounds for us children – this book was just too precious to lose.
When I did manage to get my hands on the book officially, this most unglamorous book with its ochre, faded pages bespattered with sauces and flavours revealed several recipes handwritten in copperplate script by my great, great, great grandmother Wilhelmina dating back to 1850. Turning the pages one could see the handwriting style change over time, and evidence of how over five generations, each one of my grandmothers passed the book on to their next generation, offering us a chance to have a glimpse into a fascinating time in history, “the days of the Raj”, when the Indian subcontinent was under British rule.
My family’s connection to India began six generations earlier in 1775, in Yorkshire, England. My great, great, great, great grandfather Benjamin Hardy, was born into a weaving family in Mirfield, a small but important industrial town with a population of 2000 people. The area was called the Heavy Woollen District of West Yorkshire.
In 1794, Britain declared war on France and a 19-year-old Benjamin Hardy enrolled as Private No. 77 with the newly formed 1st Battalion of the 84th Foot regiment of the British Army. One year later, Benjamin married Frances Sheard in Mirfield and he and his regiment dutifully sailed to the Cape of Good Hope (South Africa).
Sailing to the Indian coastline in 1798, Benjamin and his regiment would stay on in India for the next 25 years with postings in Madras, Bombay, Goa, Kathiawar, and Kutch. There were also detachments sent to the Island of Perim in the Red Sea, Aden and Mauritius where they participated in the capture of the island from the French.
Benjamin’s last posting was to be in Bangalore. His regiment had been stationed there for four years and it seems that he also decided to bring his wife Frances over from England, for in 1816 she bore him a son Joseph (my great, great, great grandfather in the image above). Three years later, Benjamin’s regiment was disbanded and asked to return home to England, but instead Benjamin chose to stay in India and was discharged from the British Army due to ill health. He was only 44 years old and suffering chronic rheumatism.
Benjamin, his wife Frances and young son Joseph, settled down to live the rest of their lives out in India. However, Benjamin passed away four years later, on December 23, 1823 and Frances and her son Joseph continued to live in Bangalore. Joseph became a schoolmaster by profession in Mysore, in 1833, when an English School was opened for the first time in Mysore. At the age of 28, Joseph married Wilhelmina Sausman, in St. Mark’s Church in Bangalore.
Wilhelmina was only sixteen when she got married. She was born in Vellore, Madras on September 12, 1829 and records suggest that she was Anglo-Portuguese because her mother’s name was Louisa Dias, a common Portuguese name used in the Portuguese colonies of Goa and the west coast of India.
This photograph of my great, great, great, grandparents, schoolmaster Joseph and his wife Wilhelmina was taken in the early 1860s (in their mid 30s/early 40s) by studio photographers Orr & Barton, who were based in South Parade, Bangalore. It is the oldest photograph in our family collection.
During their marriage, Wilhelmina gave birth to eight children, but as often was the case those days, only three survived. The others were lost as babies and infants to the widespread pandemic of cholera that had killed around 15 million people by the 1860s. Their three surviving daughters were named Ophelia, Florence and Topsy. Ophelia, their eldest child was born in 1855 and is my great, great grandmother.
Wilhelmina’s notes and my own research suggests that for any memsahib settling in India was an overwhelming, even exciting experience but also thwarted with difficulties. Aside from the unrelenting heat, the major problem was in the hiring of servants, and in finding a cook who would be willing to touch the different meats that wouldn’t conflict with their religious beliefs. A Muslim servant for instance, would not touch pork, nor serve wine, or remove dirty plates from the table or wash them. Hiring a Hindu was also not easy, as they would not handle beef, fish, poultry, eggs or alcohol and the very strict practitioners would also refrain from onions and garlic.
It’s quite possible that Wilhelmina, like hundreds of other European wives and brides followed Mrs. Isabella Beeton ‘s bestselling victorian guide, the Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management, as well as another publication that gave detailed instructions to European women on effective household management in India. She must have felt it good sense to write all her recipes in one book which could then be given to the cook to follow and perhaps even improve upon. Her Christmas cake recipe shown here, is also annotated by my grandmothers and cooks after.
Generations after, this ‘more than 150 year old’ recipe book now lies with me, and I ponder over it ever so often with great personal as well as academic interest.
The contributor of this image and narrative is researching Anglo-Indian recipe names & cooking terms, and would appreciate any leads on the subject. She is also due to publish a book on Wilhelmina “A Grandmother’s Legacy – a memoir of five generations who lived through the days of the Raj”.
Image and Text contributed by Jonathan Charles Cracknell, London, UK
Just as India was heading towards Independence in 1947, people were celebrating the End of the World War II and this picture was photographed at New years Eve in the real capital of British India, Calcutta (West Bengal). My maternal grandfather, Peter sits here with a fez on his head, and next to him is my grandmother Anna. She was of mixed heritage – of Kashmiri and German Jewish descent. Sitting next to her is my mother and her then boyfriend, a British soldier, on leave from his posting in Malaya (now Malaysia). It was earlier in the same year that the British Military Administration in Malaya had been replaced by its own, the Malayan union.
The hotel, then known as the Great Eastern Hotel where this image was taken is now called the Lalit Great Eastern Hotel. An extremely popular place, the colonial era hotel was originally established as a confectionary shop and then grew into a grand and plush hotel in the early 1840s, a time when Calcutta was the top seat of the East India Company. The hotel had a 100 rooms, and claimed to be second oldest of the British Empire and India’s first luxury hotel. It was also well known for its extravagant and delicious french cuisine, and served snacks and a whisky peg or two, similar to a drive-by service, to horse drawn carriages. Referred to as “the Jewel of the East” and the “Savoy of the East” in its heyday, Great Eastern Hotel hosted several notable persons visiting the city including I am told, Queen Elizabeth II, the well-known author Mark Twain & musician Dave Brubeck. The hotel’s repute and value declined later during the Naxalite Era of West Bengal and was only recently reopened, now as a heritage property, by its new owners in 2013.
My mother’s father was worked with the Railways in Lahore (now in Pakistan) to which they would return to face the horrors of Indo/Pak Partition. But for the time being that seemed a long way off. This was the “New” India everyone was celebrating, not the Victorian dream of the memsahibs. A new comprehension and understanding of Indian culture and the world, was in the making, and this time, it was to be without the tired old prejudices of yesteryear. It was a time of great optimism and home and even back home in the UK people imagined a new world of equality, which would be reflected in the British election soon to come, when Winston Churchill was defeated by a Labour majority.
My father Aubrey Cracknell, too was brought up in Lahore. His father Charles Edwin Cracknell was a soldier in the British Army. After the Boer War ended in the early 20th century, he was shipped out to the Indian subcontinent, to Rawalpindi (now Pakistan) on the North West Frontier. It was here that Charles, my grandfather, met and married my grandmother, several years younger to him, and they had a son, Aubrey, my father, in the Cantonments.
When my father was only eight years old, Charles, my grandfather was wounded on a train from Peshawar, the city of the Frontier (Pak-Afghan Border) to Jalalabad (eastern Afghanistan). Hit by an Afghan sniper and wounded in the lung, he was hospitalised in Rawalpindi but died of pneumonia and other complications. He is now buried in the British cemetery in Rawalpindi which lies neglected and all the graves have fallen to ruin. My Grandmother left the cantonments and moved to Lahore where my father grew up.
Image and Text contributed by Teresa Stokes, Ireland
My great grandmother, May Forence Stokes (nee Fuller) was born in Sneem, Ireland in 1862. Her father James Franklin Fuller was an actor, novelist and a renowned architect of the time. In 1889, she married her cousin Gabriel Stokes, whom she fondly called ‘Jack’. She was his second wife; his first wife had died of puerperal fever, five days after the birth of their son, Hugh. May’s notes are not dated, but I estimate it to have been written in 1895-96. Gabriel was the Collector of Tanjore (now Thanjavur, Tamil Nadu), and they lived at the Collector’s bungalow in Vallam with their three small sons, Adrian, Terence and Herbert, and their pug-dogs Punch and Judy. She never lived to undergo what she writes of with dread in the last paragraph –which was to take the children back to Europe and return to India without them – as she died of an abscess of the liver on January 15 ,1897. Gabriel was left with four motherless boys, who were sent back to Ireland and were raised by relatives. He continued to work in India and became a member of the Executive Council of the Government of Madras, and even served as acting Governor for a few months in 1906. Eventually he received a Knighthood.
The following edited excerpts are from May’s long notes that she wrote for the family titled “Impressions of a Memsahib“. Her notes tell us a lot about the British mindset of the time; in particular where she implies that Indians are by nature too idle to govern themselves, is incredibly outdated, patronising and racist today. But they are also outdated mindsets of a wife of a British civil servant, which is how most Europeans were in those days, regarding other races and cultures, considering them inferior and unenlightened. But she loved her life in India, and unlike other European ladies who never ventured very far, she travelled to the jungle camps with her husband, sleeping in tents, rather than stay back home with the other ladies. It must be noted that in those days the term “Anglo-Indian” also referred to the English in India, not just of mixed race as it does now.
“I was reading about Eastern embroidery in an English paper, at an Indian camp, and I found myself wondering if the English women imagined what India would be like before they came here like I did, before I married Jack. Before moving here, I thought of it as a shining land of flowers, of white mosques glittering in the sun. I imagined the thronged bazaar full of picturesque merchandise, with stately Hindoos and mystical Parsees bargaining for a piece of engraved steel or the right carpet for the jewelled sandals of Jehan’s queen. I felt the air alive with an ancient charm of bulbuls. I felt the soft magic of air, filled with the sweet sad melody of Omar Khayyam. I imagined the East was all enchanted, compared to the alertness of our Western civilisation.
I brought with me to India an already formed liking, and a genuine interest in the region and its people. Since then I have lost some of my illusions, but it is not that bad after all. I have seen the “thronged bazaar”, the narrow, filthy quarters and roads of every native town, the scene of excited chatterings, for instance, a tousle-headed coolie woman, the veriest Witch of Endor who ever sold grain cakes. She tied the coins into a corner of the gruesome rag which draped her old brown shrivelled body, like the most grotesque of medieval gargoyles carved rudely out of rough wood.
I have seen a stately Hindoo bargaining with the tin-man for an old padlock with noisy gesticulations. Most alarming, until Jack laughed and assured me both were conducting the business quite amicably; and indeed when I looked at the tin-man sitting cross-legged in the middle of his wares, I had to acknowledge that he did not look very much perturbed. Then he curled himself up among his wares and went to sleep again, his native laziness stronger even than his love of annas.
Imagery I have found in plenty but it is not imagery of the poet –the breezes which blow through the trees come, alas, laden with the foul odours of an unsanitary, crowded, disease-laden native village than spiced with the breath of flowers. Still there is much to interest. Women draw water at the well with earthen water-pots. The patient ox with his mild brown eyes still treads out the corn. The grave, bearded Mohammedan still kneels at evening in the field or by the roadside with his face toward the setting sun to worship Allah who is great. The Eyoh patiently tills the earth and lives on the fruits thereof – he is contented with little and grateful for less. He is a perfect master in the art of cultivation. He is a simple grain-eating creature, born on the land and living on it, but he is not without intelligence.
At home, Periamal and Rukmini (maids) grin and chatter on their way, none the less happy because life presents no problems to their untutored minds. Sometimes Ramaswamy may beat them if his food is not cooked on time, or if the annas do not seem to go far enough in “curry stuffs”, but they are on the whole no worse off than their more enlightened sisters. Women bring their own contributions to the household exchequer, and are generally treated with the respect due to any moneymaking animal. They do not think themselves much injured by the blows, which they share in common with the patient and invaluable bullock.
One knows very little in England about either native or Anglo-Indian life. To begin with Jack, he is a Collector. When I heard this in England I felt a little strange. I could only think of a seedy person in a rusty coat with a sheaf of papers in one hand and a black bag in the other. But I soon found out that a collector is really a sort of small Lord Lieutenant in his own district only with very much more to do than the other two Lord Lieutenants I have known. Nothing in his district – which is usually as large as an Irish province – is outside his business. He is the Aunt Sally for all belligerents. To the Eyoh he is “his god to protect him” – to the staff he is the giver of appointments, and promotions, which means rupees. To the average European he represents a fair income too easily earned, while to the government he is a working machine to weave its different systems and varying details into one whole, as harmonious and as cheap as possible.
Part of the year he is bound to spend in camp, so that the British may mean something more than just a name to the jungle subjects of the Queen Empress. Some men think that a “Missis” is out of place in camp but we have often gone together – Jack and I and the dogs, and taken the rough with the smooth like good comrades. And a little roughing it does a Missis no harm. When she has been in Headquarters for some time she begins to grumble over the dullness of up-country life on a station, where the few Europeans meet at tennis and the club, dine with each other now and then, and pass and re-pass each other on their evening drives; but where life is limited in every sense of that expressive word. There is something pathetic in the efforts whereby the Anglo-Indian up-country Memsahib contrives to delude herself with the idea that she is keeping up with the usages of society and not drifting hopelessly behind the times. The most distinct and prominent feature of up-country Anglo-Indian life is monotony and an entire absence of humour. Perhaps it is the climate. Anglo-Indians, who are as a body tied and bound to officialdom, have no time to waste on new ideas. Their work is enough, and more than enough, for their energies.
It is a safe general rule that everything in India is the absolute opposite to English ideas. If two men shout at each other with wild excitement and gesticulations, there is no need to conclude that they are fighting. It is only their way of managing a friendly chat. If a native chirrups to his bullock he wishes him to stop; the tailor sews from left to right; the carpenter puts in his screws the reverse way; and so on all through the social gamut. As one drives past spreading avenues of banyans and tamarind trees, one passes many curious and unaccustomed sights to Western eyes. Rude Hindoo wayside shrines, where groups of bizarre red and white pottery horses and grotesque images keep guard over their swami, and strange, roughly carved temples. One of the largest and most interesting idols and one of its kind we passed by in our wanderings was the Monkey God, of which Jack took a photograph. This shrine is roofless, as the Monkey Lord is supposed to be perpetually growing. “You ought to give him an umbrella at least, poor chap,” said Jack irreverently to the smiling and indifferent “thasildar” who was our cicerone on the occasion.
Scarcely any of these better-class Hindoos here know the meaning of any of the symbols surrounding their temples, though they invent answers which suit the unofficial enquirer just as well; but I have never met any of them who could explain the origin of a sort of cross between a lamp-post and a flagstaff to be found in front of many temples in this district. My apology is due to the antiquaries for this irreverent description of the symbol. They take very little interest in their religion and any vitality which Hindooism possesses among the non-Brahmins is nowadays left to the women. Along the roadside are many wayside graves, of pilgrims who were buried where they died, with here and a European soldier’s grave; and whitewashed Mohammedan tombs illumined, if not long forgotten, by a little lamp whose dim neglected flicker only gives a greater loneliness to the scene. Indian jungle life is busy, and the cultivators work hard, though no people can enjoy leisure with a more luxurious abandonment to the bliss of being, without doing. All Plantations of castor-oil trees with long stems of silvery-purple bloom in the distance; tall nut palms outline themselves against the still, cloudless sky, and spreading plantains make dark rich shade. And everywhere there is a sense of illimitable space.
But the Indian jungle with all its beauty and all its colours lacks that intangible peace which touches the heart in the soft cool grey English country. No one really knows India, but those who have never been in the jungle, know least. It is in such backwaters that you most plainly hear “the East a-calling” with the voice of bygone mysterious centuries of a civilisation as conservative as the ages hold. One cannot but wonder how many generations it will take the Babu to forget the inherited traditions and instincts of those dim centuries; to eliminate the fatalism and indolence of his race; to cease to be afraid of any approach to personal responsibility, and be fit to take on his shoulders a European-made self government.
During my Indian years I have been in many camps, but of late Jack has always gone alone – and more conventional places, things and people have amused me. But there is little new to write of Viceroys and governments, dinner-gowns and ball-frocks. Environment is the only essential difference between social Anglo-India and social Europe, environment and its consequent limitations. Of governments, rupees, politics, progress and suchlike even the most loyal and conservative of memsahibs had better not write, lest perchance she speak lightly of dignitaries; lest she should speak of the vanished hopes and crippled lives of men who have given to duty the best of their mental, moral and physical being, to become at last the puppets of a mistaken policy as distasteful to native minds as it is to European feelings; a policy which thrusts on an apathetic and unwilling people a local self-government for which they are not ready, and augurs to them an unlimited right of appeal which makes capacity only another factor in the sum of the Civilian’s dissatisfaction, and any personal influence or individuality he may possess superfluous or embarrassing. Still he spares himself nothing the less because he has lost all hope and pleasure in his work, or because success is no longer the achievement. But a truce to politics. This ramble has grown apace.
Jack and I will go upstairs and see the children in their little beds, under the swinging punkhas; then we will go and sit outside in the moonlight, and talk of anything – everything – rather than the nearing day when, after one or two more hot weathers, we will take them across the dark water [to Europe]; to return alone to the large empty familiar house, and the new consciousness that for us, as for most of us out here, in India, this shining land has lost its glory and become a land of regrets. Meanwhile the night is beautiful, we are still together, and the children sleep. Let us talk long and think as little as we can; too much thought is bad. Time enough to bid sorrow good morrow when one meets it, and the memsahib has no wish to forecast the future.”
Image and Text Contributed by Sunita Vishnu Kapse, Mumbai
We lived in Shivaji Park, Bombay in a house that our families had lived in for eight generations. My father‘s name was Tulsiram Pawar and my mother’s was Chandra Bai. My grand-mother who lived until the age of 101, used to work in the municipality as a road sweeper. My father also worked for the municipality of Shivaji Park, cleaning garbage. But he was an alcoholic, most of the times drunk and incapable of working. He would beat up my mother and abuse her all the time, but she gulped all the pain and began working instead of him. She is the one who earned and brought us all up. Her salary at the time was only Rs. 200 a month, so it was tough on her. Most men in the chawl were in similar jobs and were all drunks & wife beaters, exactly like my father. All the girls in the chawl were scared to get married anticipating the same future.
My family belonged to the Mahar Caste, considered untouchables and of low caste in India. But we all got saved when my parents adopted the beliefs preached by Babasaheb, Dr. B.R. Ambedkar. If it wasn’t for him, we would have been on the streets or dead, of hunger or indignity. My parents converted to Buddhism following Ambedkar’s encourgement and since then we have been restored our dignity.
We are four sisters and two brothers. I was born on November 13, 1963. In school I studied up to class 10 (sometimes as night classes). I used to love dancing, participated in school events and played everyone’s favourite sport at the time Kho Kho. Embroidery was another skill I learnt from the women in the Chawl. On Saturdays & Sundays we would finish the house-work faster so we could rush to watch Marathi movies in a quarter that had a B&W television.
In 1982, when I was 18 my parents got me married. The chosen husband was Vishnu Rama Kapse. He was 15 years older to me. When our parents asked us to marry, we just did, there was no argument or discussion over it. My mother said that they were a well to do family, and they eat a lot, and so I will be happy. Later I heard, that my husband too didn’t want to really get married, but others advised him that he needed a partner who could also contribute to earnings. The wedding was all paid-for by my mother. I think she must have spent Rs. 5000 on it. As was tradition for the In-Laws to do, my actual name Satyabhama was changed to Smita by my husband, but my mother-in-law couldn’t pronounce it so she began calling me Sunita, and now everyone calls me Sunita.
This photograph is from my wedding reception in a small hall in Bandra, Bombay. With us is my husband’s regular employer (since he was a child), Mrs. Ula and her family. They really loved us. Now they live in USA.
I am wearing a Blue saree and my husband wore a Grey suit. In Buddhism, during the actual ceremony we wear white, not red as is the norm of most Indian weddings. With our dharma guru as witness, we exchange garlands, listened to a short sermon and that was it, we were married. There were around 200 guests for our wedding. The gifts we received were currency notes of Rs. 2 or 5 in small packets. I got married into a very large family, with mother, sister, brother and cousin in laws.
My husband was a simple decent looking man. He respected, and loved me passionately. He never hit me or embarrassed me in-front of anyone. He used to say “If I disrespect you in-front of someone else, they won’t respect you”. That is the reason my children respect me too, because that is what they saw. My husband really loved me, showered me with attention, but I am aware that he was also afraid that I might leave him, because I was a good looking and to top it, 15 years younger. That is the reason he never wanted to live away from the large family because he felt it kept me in check. I always found it very amusing but in a way it imparted a lot of self-confidence. We were great partners & friends and would never do anything without consulting each other. My husband would keep me updated on current affairs of the world. When I couldn’t understand, he would explain everything patiently.
My husband’s family came from Ratangiri and his family owned a lot of agricultural land there. But once the Dam and new railway tracks began to be constructed, many new people came and grabbed most of our land and so many of us, also from near by villages, were left with almost nothing. We still have a legal case going on but I doubt anything will happen.
Like thousands of others, my husband at the time in the 1980s was working in the Textile Mill, breaking yarn. When the mill shut down (called the Great Bombay Textile Strike), he began working as a wall painter, or as daily labour (also for the family in the picture). The same year my eldest daughter Annapurana was born, but the earning was not enough for us, so I began working as a domestic maid. My first monthly salary was Rs. 75 with a Sitan Family here in Bandra, I have now worked for them for 32 years and I still work there. Then we had a second child Abhijeet, a son and a third another daughter, Priyanka. My husband and I worked very hard and educated all three of my kids. They went to government municipality schools, and then they went to college. Fortunately for us they are now married into good families.
I never chose to be a maid, but I did it because if I didn’t work we couldn’t earn. And with my experience, being a good and honest maid was the best I could do. My husband would not give me all the money he earned, because some of it was kept for his brothers and their families whom he supported largely. So I too saved, keeping money aside and buying gold as an investment without him knowing, but the amusing part was he knew all along. I always worked around the Bandra, as it was close to home. The Parsi family next to our home sold their land and in its place a mosque was built. But we all casts and religions lived along as good neighbors cordially, perhaps because we were Buddhists and non-violent. In-fact in times of conflict in Bombay, the muslims neighbours always came around to check if we are okay.
My normal routine everyday for years was getting up at 6 am, pack my husband’s and kids lunch tiffin, go do all my work and return by 2 pm to fill water that would only come in taps twice a day. I learned a lot by working as a maid, like cooking different Indian Cuisines from my employers and then I would try it all at home. My family loved my cooking. Even when my daughter got married, I had every feast cooked at home. I have been lucky that all my employers respected and taught me a lot. Looking at our employers helped us aspire for a better lifestyle. But one thing that makes me sad is how people spend on things much more than they need to. Wasting food is probably the biggest problem I see in so many households, the wealthier the families the more food is wasted. But people and women are also more independent and that is admirable, though I still get worried if my daughter doesn’t come home on time.
In 2006, my husband developed a heart problem and he began to keep unwell often. So I got a couple of more jobs and continued working as a maid cooking, cleaning, sweeping, and washing to earn enough to pay for his medical bills. Many employers too helped with the medical bills. But in 2012 his health worsened and he passed away. I now continue to work as a maid, because if I didn’t work I would go crazy. Because of my children, I am not struggling for money, but it is good for me, it makes me independent, I work in places I like to work, I am respected and I get to step out. But I really miss my husband a lot. He was my friend, my protector, my partner of life. I really feel alone and cry when I think of him, but I thank Buddha and Sai baba because of whom I have great children, siblings and their families.
Image and Text contributed by Suresh Mandan, California, USA
This is the picture of us in Class 12, who met for the Day of Orientation, at our Loyolla Hall School in Ahmedabad, Bombay State (now in Gujarat). I stand on the top, third from the left. Among the most popular of the teachers was our Sports teacher Brother Bou, (sitting first from the right). A very fierce teacher, the Ahmedabad Football Association now even runs a Tournament in his name called the Br. Bou Trophy.
I was not sure whether I will ever look at this picture again and that too after almost 54 years. But since I have I cannot help but remember all that thoughts that it triggers. It was photographed on January 24,1959, the day of our graduation from School life to the oncoming college life. Our School held an Orientation Class to help us to assess the new world which we would facing in the Life. The control of the school authorities would be gone, the regimentation of the Principal and the Teachers would be gone, a watch on our behaviour would be gone and we would be in an environment where there would be no restrictions to attend the class, to study or to play. We were to make our own decisions regarding what colleges we chose, the faculty we selected as well as the new relationships we formed with friends and girl friends. This was the theme of our Orientation.
Ahmedabad at the time was not a part of Gujarat, as the Gujarat state formed only in 1960. It was a District of Bombay State. Loyola Hall school was one of the two elite English medium Schools of those days; its mother branch St.Xavier’s High School, Mirzapur Road, Ahmedabad was established in 1935. It was run by the Society of Jesus and therefore we had some European Fathers as well as local teachers.
The school’s location was almost in the wilderness when it was partly shifted from its location on Mirzapur Road to its new location in Memnagar in Ahmedabad. The school building was the only building in an area of about two kms., with no paved roads and no connection to any public transport system. At the time there were no auto rickshaws or mini buses. To go to school there was either the school bus, some public transport, a bicycle or your own two legs.
We were from a lower middle class family, due to partition of India, which had brought very rough times on to so many people and bent us into an unconfident state of dependency. I lost my father when I was just four years old and my education was looked after my elder brother and my widowed mother whose only motto fortunately was “Self Reliance”. My elder brother could not study beyond matriculation because of our rough times and took a job in Ahmedabad so that our family could survive. It was far sightedness of my mother and my grandfather who got us, my younger brother and I into this prestigious school, which was the alma mater of the richest people of Ahmedabad, a prosperous city with about 80 booming textile mills.
I was in class 11 when we shifted to this school. I depended on my trusted bicycle or the city bus to get to school which was about 12 kms from my home. When I travelled by city bus, it was a horrendous journey. I had to change two buses on extremely warm summer days, and then walk three kms from the nearest bus stop to the school, through rough uneven fields and roads.
By the time I reached school I would be so hungry but with meagre pocket money I had to depend on my tiffin from home. Sometimes my rich friends took me to the School Canteen for a quick bite. I was part of the school Cricket team and hence had made some good friends. My experiences with the school were so, that I never felt devalued with or by wealthy school mates, as we see nowadays. The school never differentiated or tolerated discrimination between rich and poor.
I graduated from college and went on to become a police officer at the Intelligence Bureau in Ahmedabad, now in Gujarat. When I remember those days, while writing this from California, my gratitude and the credit for this post, goes to my uneducated but a visionary mother. And to my grandfather who came only once to my school, to my elder brother who could never come on Parents day or Annual Day because of his job and to my great teachers and friends. About 80% of friends in this picture have done well in life and almost 90% are alive today. This photograph has brought back such great memories, all over again.
Suresh Mandan is a financial Patron of the project.
Image and Text contributed by Shaun Waller & Oonagh Waller, United Kingdom
These are the memories of my mother, Oonagh who was born in India to my grandparents, Glyndon Ralph O’Leary (Mike) and Sheilagh Anges Mary Maguire. – Shaun
“My father, Glyndon Ralph O’Leary was fondly known as Mike. He was born in 1902 in Toronto, Canada to Winifred and Ralph O’Leary, who were of Irish descent.
At the age of Twelve, he left Canada and began his military career in the Boys service, Indian Subcontinent from 1914 – 1919 and continued in various regiments serving the British Empire on and off until 1946.
Mike was also a Practical Motor Engineer: his brothers and he owned and worked in a motorcycle workshop and showroom called the O’Leary Brothers in Dehradun, Uttar Pradesh. They also designed and built a motorcycle called the White Streak. However, it never made it to production. At one point, they bought an old motorcycle, a Brough Superior from T. E. Lawrence (The very original Lawrence of Arabia) and exhibited it in their showroom.
While in the army in Lahore, Mike manufactured scale models for Forest Research, Rural upliftment, P.W.D. and Irrigation departments and also tactical models for training of mechanised fighting vehicles. 12 such gold medal standard models manufactured by him were on display in the Forestry Department of Lahore Central Museum. I wonder if they are still there.
Mike married Sheilagh Anges Mary Maguire in October 1928 in Lahore and subsequently had three children – Michael, Oonagh and Larry. Later the children went to boarding school in Mussoorie: Wynberg Girls High School and Allen Memorial Boys School.
In between postings, and to earn more money, Mike and Sheilagh also joined a circus, I don’t remember the name of the circus anymore, but it was in Lahore and managed by a Captain.Edwards. Mike trained would ride the Drome (‘Wall of Death’ or ‘Maut ka Kuan’) on his motorbike and also climbed a high ladder (in costume): he would douse himself with Petrol, set himself on fire and dive into a tank below full of water. Sheilagh, my mother, play her part too: she stood on stage with a cigarette between her lips while Captain Edwards, trained as an ace shooter in the military, would fire a pistol at the cigarette.
In Sibi, (a Balochistan province of now Pakistan) Mike and family represented the only military presence there, amid railway workers and their families. For leisure, Mike would hire ‘beaters’ and go on a wild boar shoot – the beaters would make as much noise as they could with sticks, tins etc. to flush out the boar then Mike would shoot down a couple. Back home the meat would be shared with neighbours.
On other occasions, the family went ‘fishing’, travelling on a trolley (a bench like structure on a platform with four wheels which fitted on the railway lines). Hired help would run along the lines, bare foot and push the trolley along and when the lake was reached, a halt was called. Mike would unsportingly throw a couple of sticks of dynamite into the water and the stunned fish would rise to the surface: all the men and boys would jump in the shallow end and retrieved the fish which, again, was shared with local families. His last posting was probably in Quetta (also a Balochistan province of now Pakistan).
Mike (Capt. Glyndon Ralph O’Leary) died in September 1945 during a Diabetic Coma. My mother Sheilagh and us children then moved to Meerut, Uttar Pradesh to stay with our maternal grandparents. A year later and a few months before Partition, in September 1946 we emigrated to England.”
On the ship, a whole trunk of personal belongings was apparently lost overboard and it included most of the family photos: very few images survive today. This is one of them.
Image and text contribution by Lt Col (Retd) Dr. G.Kameswararao, Secundarabad
This photograph is a wedding group photo of my father’s elder brother, Gadepally Suryaprakasam (also known as Surya Prakasarao). It was photographed at Kakinada, then known as Coconada, in the East Godavari District of Madras Presidency. He served the Nizam government in the Education Department. My grandmother, my father’s siblings, his paternal, maternal uncles and their children are a part of this group. The famous Telugu poet, Devulapalli Krishna Sastry is seated last on the right (on the chair). He was married to the daughter of my father’s paternal uncle. My paternal grandfather, Gadepally Venkata Sastry was in the service of Pithapuram Raja. He was a Sanskrit Scholar and a Trustee of the famous Sri Kukkuteswara Swami temple in Pithapuram, in which lies an incarnation of the lord Shiva, in form of a Kukkutam, a ‘Cock fowl’. He wrote in Sanskrit a Stotram , in praise of Kukkutam, which my mother got published in 1990. My grandfather passed away by the time this photo was taken and my grandmother is seen herein (middle, standing) as a widow, wearing the traditional white dress covering her hairless head.
– The Contributor is a financial patron of Indian Memory Project