OK, here’s your starter for ten. Question: I feel like a room without a roof. I’m clapping along. Which emotion am I feeling? Go on, take a guess.
Yep, I am giddy with happiness this fine morning. Positively brimming. Why the joy? Bapuji, Ba, Indira and Anil landed at Heathrow airport an hour ago. Finally, finally, we will get to spend time with them, hear their stories, help them live in a different way: a better way, a far less difficult way. There will be so many people around who want to make life easier for them, or just to spend time in their company. And they, in turn, will know us again. Since they last knew us well we have all grown and changed, with children of our own, in some cases. Bapuji and Ba will meet their newest great-grandchild: two pairs of eyes which have witnessed over 190 years between them will gaze into small, dark eyes which first opened two weeks ago. How do you start a new life when you are a hundred years old? We will find out. That is all.
Excerpt from pamphlet ‘Guide for Island Newcomers’:
This is a tried and tested recipe, and the fresh coconut is worth the effort.
You will need:
1 fresh coconut
3 onions, finely chopped
3 carrots
3 potatoes
400g peas in their pods
250g fine beans
3 large, ripe tomatoes
2 small, green chillies, deseeded and chopped
½ tsp tomato puree
3 tbsp oil
½ tsp salt
¼ tsp turmeric
½ tsp clove and cinnamon powder
¼ tsp cumin and coriander powder
1 small cinnamon stick
2.5cm/ 1 inch fresh ginger, peeled and grated
3 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
bunch fresh coriander leaves, chopped
The fruit and vegetable market in the Old Town is the best place to obtain the fresh produce. There is no parking, so travel there and back is best on foot or via tuk-tuk. Matatus and buses also stop nearby. Be prepared to haggle, but be aware that the vendors must make a living from their sales, and most have now fixed their prices. Walk around the market once before deciding which vendors to approach. Usually, vendors will sell only one or two varieties of vegetable, fresh from the farm. The spices may be purchased from the many grocery shops which line the streets adjacent to the market. They are usually sold ready-ground, and can be weighed according to need.
Method:
1. Crack open the coconut: this is best done with a dull implement such as the blunt end of a machete or cleaver. Tap the coconut firmly over its equator while turning it, until it splits. Hold over a bowl and drain the coconut water. Hold each half of the coconut in turn and rotate, while using the serrated shredder to pare away the white, fresh coconut. Place the shredded coconut into the woven coconut cone, add hot water and twist gradually from the top, holding over a large bowl. The pressure will force coconut milk from the cone into the bowl.
2. Wash the fresh produce thoroughly, ensuring that all soil is removed; we would recommend soaking and rinsing several times. Scrub the potatoes, and peel the carrots and potatoes. Cut these into small cubes.
3. Shell the peas. Check carefully for small insects, mildew and scarred areas: discard if found. Run your thumb down the pod to release the peas.
4. Slice the fine beans lengthways, checking for discoloured or scarred areas, and chop into 2cm pieces.
5. Steam all of the vegetables until tender, approximately for 10 minutes.
6. Grind the chillies, garlic and grated ginger in a pestle and portar, making a thick paste.
7. Heat the oil in a pan and sauté the onions until they start browning at the edges.
8. Add the tomatoes and tomato puree and fry for 1 minute.
9. Add the ginger and chilli paste, together with all of the spices to the pan and stir well.
10. Add the steamed vegetables to the gravy and simmer for another 5 minutes.
11. Add all of the coconut milk and the cinnamon stick, and cover the pan. Simmer on the lowest possible heat for 5 minutes. Remove the cinnamon stick.
12. Just before serving, season to taste and sprinkle with the fresh coriander. Serve with freshly steamed Basmati rice.
‘You hit me mummy!’ states the three year old, brazenly. ‘Er…no. I did not hit you.’ I quickly correct. ‘I did tell you to stop drawing on the fridge door, though.’ This subterfuge and diversion is new for my easygoing son, direct attack being one tactic he uses to deflect attention away from his own wayward behaviour. He has, in fact, turned into a threenager. He is suddenly full of strops and stomps, slamming doors and fearsome roars. And a very cute pout. He has developed a brand new habit of carrying a ‘souvenir’ back from any visit, anywhere: he leaves nursery clutching a small sticklebrick, a playmate carrying a pink belt, a wedding reception holding a tea light. The items are chosen randomly, and although woe betide anybody who tries to prise away the stolen good from his fingers at the time, my mini-kelptomanoac has no real intention of keeping them.
It is a different matter in the heat and bustle of a teeming city in Africa, where education, business and relative wealth contrast with extreme poverty and the resulting struggle to survive. The government have ‘cleaned up’ the street hawkers, those raucous roadside squawkers, with their cries of ‘Ananas! Maaaaaango! Iko hapa!’. While the roads look less crowded and are undoubtedly easier to manoeuvre they have lost a lot of their colour and character. The government view is that the street hawkers are a nuisance, and of course, they don’t pay taxes. The simple clearing away of the offending parties with stiff fines to dissuade rebellion costs little to implement, and this country does not operate a system of benefits for the poor, so on paper it’s a win-win for the suited decision makers. Silly, of course. Surely those important officials realised that those thousands of hawkers previously eking out a living, once that meagre living was snatched away, would turn to crime? Surely they did.
For two months, Ba and the family had nobody to help them at home. The dust- that swirling, sandy dust- carried by the sea air, settles everywhere and needs to be swept up at least once a day; it hugs the creases in clothes, and the only way to dislodge it is to beat them hard when washing. The heat at this time of year means that the refrigerator acts as little more than slightly cool storage space, and fresh produce must be bought at the market each day. The pendulous, jellyfish-like mosquito nets that hang over the beds must be tied up each morning, and released in the evening. Oh, the daily to-do list is endless, and the grandparents are in their nineties. Usually they have someone who comes in every morning to help, but their last help disappeared with their emergency electricity generator. Now, during the inevitable blackouts the darkness is broken only by candlelight, and the heat hangs heavy while the arms of the ceiling fans are still.
It is not, by any means, the first time that this has happened: almost anything that isn’t fixed in place has been stolen, from bent steel spoons to perfume. There is now nothing of value in the apartment, but items of use- the hand mixer, steel bowls, metal sieves, candles, for example- must be locked away for fear that these might vanish too. I have much sympathy for those who resort to theft to enable survival, but I struggle to understand those who are in gainful employment who steal from their vulnerable, elderly employers (who have little themselves). I just don’t get it. The toy shop, too, has been targeted. Bapuji has always been conscious of security, aware that his hard-gained stock could walk out of the store without payment, and has put measures in place. It was an elderly beggar, with his constant watch on the neighbourhood, who proved more effective than any security measure. He called Sudhir over one day. One of the shop boys had been stealing, siphoning out toys under his clothes and in his bag as he came and went from the shop on errands, alleged the man. It had been going on for months, he said, perhaps years. ‘Watch him’, said the beggar, ‘and you will know that I am telling the truth’. And he was . Some people retain honour when they have lost everything else.
I am collecting up the small items strewn around the house which must be reunited with their rightful owners. The toddler assists, helpfully pointing out his purloined treasures with no trace of apology. In his world, ownership appears to be a fluid concept, but at least he accepts the return of these items with good grace.
‘Borrowed’ items
** for those who are reading this and protesting that the stormy toddler described above is not the one you recognise, I admit use of a little hyperbole. He remains, despite his three years, a smiler who sees the sunshine in everything, but he has moments of rage and unreason. He does. Really.
‘May you live in interesting times’ states the well-known curse. Of those, we’ve had plenty during the last year. Not only has the world been in turmoil but personally, too, life spent the bulk of 2014 throwing the balls at us rather too quickly, and racing around trying to catch them all left us in a weary heap on the floor. Let me give you an example: In October I found out that we are expecting our third child- wonderful news- which explained why I had been feeling like my limbs were too heavy to move. In the preceding weeks, work had been intense and incessant, and we had been embroiled in an unnecessarily lengthy and complicated home move. The week following the clear blue line we left for a short break away, and no sooner had we dared to relax than Noah, our three year old son, sustained a not-so-short break of his own: a fracture of his femur. Five days in traction, flat on his back, and then a general anaesthetic for the application of a hip spica (a cast from waist down, covering at least part of both legs) were borne with little complaint: an amazing thing for an active little person. I gave thanks each day for my patient boy, and because the first trimester of pregnancy had been relatively kind to me. A balmy autumn turned chilly the week we returned home from hospital, and the central heating broke. A few more balls thrown and caught, and we were finally moving home, nine days after discharge from hospital. The grandparents came to the rescue: whizzing down the motorway to us each week, entertaining the immobile toddler as he lay propped up on his oversized beanbag, enabling me to return to work. Two weeks later I completed my annual appraisal, having submitted many hours of preparatory work beforehand. Interesting times.
Bear and hare
Noah’s injury reminded me of the time that Bapuji fell off his stool, his usual perch in the toy shop, and fractured his hip. Surprisingly, we were given a choice: surgery or three months in traction. We consulted orthopaedic friends, but even ignoring the medical pros and cons, there was only one sensible option. Bapuji would never have been able to tolerate the time in traction: he is a man who rises before dawn each day; he is a man who goes to work six days out of seven. Late nineties or not, a hip replacement was absolutely necessary. The surgery was relatively uneventful, but soon afterwards Bapuji became increasingly confused and incoherent. He would attempt to leap out of his hospital bed, or to pull out his catheter. He needed to be watched 24 hours a day, and my brother, mum and Indira took turns camping out in his room. For a man of considerable age he proved to be surprisingly strong, and the restraint required to prevent him from unwittingly hurting himself was almost too much for the diminutive women in the family. “Get them to check for a urinary tract infection” we pleaded over the telephone. “Ask them to arrange some blood tests”. What was performed instead was a CT scan of his brain, which confirmed that Bapuji had not had a stroke. Several days and sleepless nights later his urine was finally tested, confirming an infection which responded rapidly to simple antibiotics. Perhaps this was an example of topsy turvy medicine in a country where money matters, and the more expensive investigations are prioritised over the sensible ones? Bapuji recuperated well and, despite the protestations of all, returned to his seat by the entrance of the toy shop not long after discharge.
I was thinking, too, of Anil, with his cerebral palsy, of the surgery he underwent on no fewer than nine occasions. Noah weathered his seven weeks of immobility with good humour and fortitude- helped significantly by the iPad- but this pales in comparison with the two years, on and off, that Anil spent with his legs in a cast. He was, by all accounts, accepting and patient, but the frustration must have bubbled to the surface periodically. And for Ba, the lifting and fetching, the stretches and massage, and always, always the worry. Noah’s situation was very different from Anil’s, of course: although the X-ray revealed a gruesome-looking displaced fracture he was expected to make a full recovery. Thank you, fabulous paramedics (especially Hannah, who came back the following day, just to visit Noah), nurses and doctors for your smiles, your efficient work and your care. We were so well taken care of: the NHS at it’s best.
This year will be different- the interesting times will be tempered with a little ‘pole-pole’ (slowly slowly: Swahili). Let us be clear: I am not hoping for a slow and steady life. I’m not ready for that yet, not until I am old and have done all the things I want to do, not until my bones creak, but we will take some time to breathe and enjoy the small things. This year will be full of good things. Exciting plans. Watch this space….
We have joined the ranks of parents tied and bound by the school holiday system. Having cancelled a vacation in France we assumed – naively, it turns out – that we could book a last minute flight away. No. Not unless we sell our car, or some non-essential organs, it seems. The holidays that were available for this coming week were in near-identical resorts, the children’s clubs and swimming pools attempting to make up for mediocre food and lack of individuality, all for prices which bring a tear to the eye. We face a week in the UK, and our cases contain sunglasses and Wellies, shorts and waterproofs. The school holidays of my childhood in Africa were a different kettle of zebra altogether.
Most of our breaks from school were spent playing at home, playing with cousins visiting from the Capital. Older cousins-exciting cousins- with their knowledge of card games, Top of the Pops and the world in general. On Sundays the excitement was palpable: there was a flurry of activity as fresh curries and warm parathas were scooped into metal tiffins, buckets and spades hastily dug out and then we were off, clattering down the stone steps from the apartment. The brown Toyota was the can, we the sardines as we made our way towards the shimmering sea. Once at the beach we did what children do, stopping only when the aroma of a freshly cooked lunch emanating from the tiffins drove us back to the compound under the palm trees.
To Bapuji and Ba, with their impoverished childhoods, the concept of a holiday was alien. Bapuji’s enviable work ethic and the sheer size of the family prevented any change of scene – even day trips were a rarity – and an overnight sojourn was deemed impossible. It was only when the children were grown that they ventured to these famous white sand beaches just a short ride away from town. The beaches, which today are strewn with seaweed, hawkers of jewellery made from seashells and hordes of local folk were then empty and idyllic.
Then there was Safari. Waking at dawn for an early trip into the savannah. Heads bumping the ceiling of the Safari van as it bounces along a pothole-heavy red earth road. Nothing.. nothing.. nothing.. zebra! More zebra. Tired of zebra. A baby elephant holding onto its mother’s tail as they walk in single-file towards a distant drinking hole. The chase: the urgent voice on the radio, vans speeding up, racing towards a common point, creeping finally towards sleeping lions. Thousands and thousands of stars in the night sky. We did not go on Safari often, despite living in a country that stated tourism and Safari as its main industry. It was special, a rare holiday, saved for those times when we had foreign visitors.
Here, today, the cold wind is blowing. I feel a trip to the aquarium coming on, but first I must hide the buckets and spades before the children see them.
I admit it, I was a toddler geek. A small nerd. I preferred books to toys, initially lining up pages of photographs from baby magazines, then moving on to print. Perhaps my ambivalence towards toys was due to having easy access to them: I spent afternoons playing in Bapuji’s toy shop, surrounded by planes and dolls, bears and balls, noisy nee-nahs and plastic tea sets. Despite the book-obsession I had a few favourite toys that made the transition from shop to home. As a baby I loved a soft, squeezable rubber cat, similar to Sophie, the French giraffe carried by almost every infant in North London. Toddler photographs picture me with a metal car and plastic rings. I remember wooden block puzzles and Meccano, rainy afternoons playing on our terrace. I remember metal wind-up zebras. Like my daughter, I had a menagerie of soft animals whom I endowed with characteristics and voices.
I wonder if you have noticed yet: in my toy world there was an absence of playthings marked as being ‘for girls’. Oh, there was a presumption that girls played with dolls and boys with cars but most toys were fair game for any child that could use their imagination and create play. To parents of both boys and girls Bapuji would point out the bright colours, the buttons that would cause lights to flash and sirens to wail. It was a far cry from the gendered toy marketing that my children face. Visits to the toy department in many stores (despite the recent campaigns against gender-specific toys) are disconcerting: aisles of pink, soft and fluffy, sparkles, bows and frills; aisles of blue and brown, hard and shiny. I see dolls with exaggerated feminine features lounging in shops and restaurants, hairdressers and ballet studios with the word ‘VAPID’ printed in invisible writing on their foreheads. So this is how marketers want girls to play. Princess culture is everywhere and Barbie is big again. It makes my heart sink.
It’s not that I’m against princesses. It’s just that I would prefer the fantasy princesses to be more rounded: not the passive princess who sings to birds and waits to be rescued, nor the feisty one that wields a sword and saves the day but one that is just a little bit more complicated. Hurray and whoop whoop for Elsa and Anna, then. Frozen is the first princess film that my five year old girl has agreed to watch: until now she has been resolutely anti-princess. I can remember her, aged three, looking cross: ‘I am NOT a princess. I am a DRAGON!’ I am certain that she loves the film because it is a musical rather than for its portrayal of the complexity of humanity; in any case, she’s hooked, and that’s great, because the leading ladies reflect real people and real emotion better than the average Disney royal. As for pink, it is welcome in our house, just as long as all the other colours are there too. We actively chose to limit the pink-my daughter has a blue bicycle and a rainbow-coloured rucksack- because I would like her, and not a toy manufacturer, to decide which colour she prefers. She operates a rotation policy when it comes to favourite colour, and so far green and orange have spent longest at the top of the list.
When we emigrated to the UK I was given the task of choosing two or three toys to take with me. I picked a metal car (one with flaws: the driver’s arms are too short to reach the steering wheel and he appears to be embedded in his seat), my horse Dobbin and, because she was very soft with eyes that code when she was tilted, a doll called Josephine. Another doll was later brought over from Bapuji’s toy shop, but has lain untouched- surely I am not the only one who finds this child mother a little creepy (when the key is wound she turns her head to look at you):
My daughter shares my doll aversion, preferring dinosaurs, Lego and all things pirate. It was not intentional but our enthusiasm for this type of toy, rather than the ones typically targeted at young girls, has resulted in our five year old developing similar preferences. In Africa there was little children’s television to influence toy selection but upon arrival here I acquired storm troopers and Skeletor, My Little Pony and Wuzzles, Smurfs and Transformers. Judging from my children’s Octonauts and Spiderman collection TV and film are also influencing their toy choices, and I am looking forward to them watching Star Wars. My children also play with tea sets and balls, fire engines and mini feather boas. I don’t want my daughter to play like a girl. I don’t want my son to play like a boy. I would like them to play like children, not limited by anything but their imagination. I would love my children to see Bapuji’s toy shop, with it’s riot of colour and textures piled into a tiny space, just to watch their eyes widen with excitement.
It’s off to work we go. Three mornings a week I drop the children off at school and nursery breakfast clubs, my mind turning towards the work day ahead. I enjoy my job, and am lucky to have found something which keeps me interested, but despite this I harbour thoughts of giving up the career that I have worked so hard for. After a day of fairly incessant mental effort and the sprint to collect the children on time, the extra push required to feed, bath and bed the exhausted smalls leaves me ready for little more than an evening on the sofa. If I wasn’t at work I would be capable of so much more, I sometimes think. My children would be immaculately presented to school, and sun hats and wellies would never be forgotten; I would sashay around my sparklingly clean home, wearing an ironed apron while I made healthy, nutritious and delicious meals for the family; I would watch supportively as my son perfects his fingerprinting and my daughter practices guitar. I would devour books, listen to live music, hold intelligent conversations with interesting people. Something like that, anyway.
Attitudes to work vary so enormously: a fit and healthy eighteen year old once requested from me a medical certificate for an indefinite absence from work, whereas Bapuji…well, Bapuji is a different beast altogether. He rises before dawn each day of the week bar one, and follows a morning routine that has remained unchanged for most of his 98 years. In the newly emerging light of day he performs his breathing and stretching exercises on the terrace, readying himself for another day. By seven o’clock Bapuji is dressed in one of his light, short-sleeved suits; memories of my early childhood paint him in a pale blue one, a khaki one and one which is taupe, with neat lapels, buttoned up, no shirt. They are his uniform, part of his self-identity as much as the garb of any soldier. In fact, I can barely picture Bapuji wearing anything else, so infrequently has he given himself time away from work. Arriving at the toy shop, he opens the padlocked metal grille with the flaking paint which bars the entrance. He sets up his position by the door, an upright figure perching on a stool, waiting for the store-room boy to arrive. In the past his mind would be full of plans: launching new toys recently imported from Hong Kong, arrangements for a stall at the local fair and trade with shops across the land. The shop is quiet now, and he has little to plan. Still, Bapuji insists that he must work. The toy shop is his life’s work, more hours and effort poured into it than anything else. A symbiosis exists, Bapuji attending to the toy shop and the shop, in turn, breathing life into him.
I am certain, too, that the daily routine and the regular mental activity necessitated by being at work has kept Bapuji alert and mentally able. When he fractured his hip last year and the orthopaedic surgeons mooted the idea of keeping Bapuji in bed, in traction, for three months we feared that he would die- not from complications of his fracture but from boredom, if such a thing were possible. A unanimous decision was made, and Bapuji had surgery on his hip. Of course, he insisted on returning to work as soon as he possibly could afterwards. During the past few years Indira has taken on the burden of administration, so that Bapuji can be front of house, the proprietor and salesman. Yet Bapuji is starting to forget. It has crept slowly, this loss of memory, and not predictably; sometimes he will remember things in great detail, and at other times he appears vague or slightly confused. At times he is cantankerous- Victor Meldrew personified- and perfectly amiable at others. Bapuji’s deafness makes it harder to settle on the diagnosis: perhaps it is not that he has forgotten but that he does not hear in the first instance. Certainly, speaking with him on the telephone is challenging and could easily lead to misinterpretation. Could the symptoms be those of depression alone and not dementia? Possibly, but it is far more likely that he has a little of both. Bapuji is 98, after all, so it is not unreasonable that he should have dementia, but I have seen how the disease treats people; having reached this ripe old age, I cannot bear to think of Bapuji losing himself, the person that he is and was. Bapuji and the toy shop have work to do: they must delay the decline.
Hi ho, hi ho, got to make your troubles go, we keep on singing all day long, hi ho, hi ho.
says the beaded ‘toran’- a traditional banner- which hung over the doorway of Ba and Bapuji’s home. It now sits on my bedroom mantlepiece, and I glance guiltily at it when I walk past; my ‘To Do’ list is longer than any of my limbs and framing the toran has migrated to my ‘This Can Wait’ list. What is astounding is that Ba created this toran. It is astounding not only because of its intricate and accomplished beadwork but because Ba was mothering at least seven children while she made it. I admire my friends who have three children, and am in awe of those that manage four. Seven falls outside the scope of my imagination.
Usha was born a year after Ba joined Bapuji in Africa. She had little time with her first-born, however. There were no cosy coffee dates with other new mothers, no daytime naps to alleviate the exhaustion. Bapuji was, at the time, two steps up from errand boy in a local grocery shop, and busily trying to make connections. Within a few short weeks of arriving in Gilgil Ba received a message from Bapuji one morning, informing her that he would bring some customers home for lunch, urging her to provide a suitable spread. This became a regular- almost daily- occurrence, and one which was assumed would continue during pregnancy and beyond. Ba complains bitterly about this now, regretting her acquiescence. She is rightfully aggrieved, but I suspect that she also quite enjoys the reaction of the listener as she tells of her tribulations.
Very soon, Ba’s workload increased. Just 16 months after Usha came Vasant, and barely two years later Indira was born. By this time the family had moved to the city, the narrow, dusty, bustling roads making the daily trip to the market with three wayward toddlers a mission impossible. Bags full of fresh-from-field vegetables bumping against her legs, Ba herded the children back to the apartment. She sorted and washed, chopped and rolled, sautéed and simmered, filling the tiny kitchen with the aroma of cumin and coriander, fennel and cardamom. The family were seldom alone for lunch: Bapuji might bring home other traders or there may be visitors arriving from the port, staying for a few hours or a few days. One particular guest remained a little longer, Ba recalls. Babu was the eleven year old son of an old friend from Gilgil; a few days after his arrival, Ba, growing concerned that he should not miss the start of the new school term, enquired how long he was due to stay. ‘Bapuji had agreed, without my knowledge, that Babu could live with us for all of his secondary school years!’ Ba exclaims, brimming with indignation. I am incredulous. Gobsmacked. Bapuji had failed to discuss the arrangement with Ba, and his sometimes wonderful, sometimes infuriating mixture of pride, generosity and stubbornness meant that he would never renege on his promise. Babu stayed for seven years.
Nor had Ba and Bapuji completed their own family. Anil was born next, family life folding and fitting around the requirements of his disability. Asvin, Ila and Kailash followed in fairly quick succession, and two other children joined the family for a few years, meaning that Ba brought up no fewer than ten children. ‘I used to stay up late, preparing everything for the next day- I sorted through the sacks of dried lentils and rice, soaking some overnight. I made sure the clothes for school were laid out. I never sat down!’ explains Ba. ‘I wish’ she continues with a chuckle ‘that someone had explained contraception to me!’
It’s a rush, sometimes, making sure that my children are appropriately dressed, fed and vaguely awake before they are ushered out of the door by 7.30am. I feel a certain sense of achievement when I remember my daughter’s book bag (with books hastily read the previous evening), her PE bag (often with something clean inside) and a filled consent slip for the school trip, all on the same morning. ‘Ordered chaos…’ I mutter as I wipe crumbs of toast from my son’s chin at the nursery door. It is difficult to comprehend how, amidst the pandemonium of her life, Ba could possibly find the hours to create the toran that sits on my mantlepiece. I have moved ‘frame the toran’ back to my ‘To Do’ list- it will hang in my kitchen and act as inspiration, reminding me that there could be many more balls to juggle. Ba was a SuperWoman then and is a SuperGran now.
I have been watching my children unleash their creativity on their Father’s Day cards, brows furrowed in concentration, requesting felt-tip pens and glue with surgeon-like authority. Yes, Father’s Day is loved by makers of greetings cards and socks, novelty bottle openers and mugs emblazoned with ‘World’s Best Dad’, but it also encourages appreciation of fathers from an early age. I wish now that it had been celebrated when I was younger.
Despite working six and a half days a week Papa seemed always to be present in our lives. He often helped my mother get us ready for school, and squeezed multiple drop-offs and pick-ups into his already packed work day. He was my homework buddy every evening after dinner, coaxing me to complete the last two or three sums while I protested in exhaustion. He was my personal champion, cheering on my small triumphs. He was my school project hero, collecting pictures from magazines and travel brochures. I remember him late one evening, bent over my model ship, cardboard box and glue in hand. I was so proud of that ship. Papa was a softie, especially when we were unwell- he took his turn applying cold compresses during fever, and when worried, scooped us up and drove us over to consult a paediatrician friend- in contrast to my own ‘have some Calpol and you’ll be fine’ approach. He loved mischief and chocolate in equal measure. Oh, and Knight Rider and the A-Team. Every Saturday morning he would take us to the video store to pick out one VHS tape, to be watched and returned by the next day, and although the adults would have their own video to watch later that evening he would still join us after work for a few minutes of Mr Knight or Mr T.
Another TV cult classic, Quantum Leap, taught us that changing the past would result in irrevocable changes to the present, and although I don’t wish to risk any change to my wonderful life I would do anything to have Papa back. Failing that, I would settle for spending a short amount of time with him- just long enough to say thank you for all of the things that he did without recognition. Those things that meant that we were safe, loved and given the opportunities that we needed, both while he was here and when he was gone. Speaking to my mother about him, I would have loved to have known Papa in my adult life. He sounds like the type of man that I would call a friend as well as my father.
At approximately 10 a.m. on a hot July morning, in a small house in the district of Makupa, Anil was hauled into the world. Ba’s pregnancy had been uneventful, so it came as a surprise when the progress of labour stalled. The attending Dr Kurve (koor-vay) was compelled to fetch his bag of instruments, using forceps to deliver the 10lb baby boy. It was fortunate that the good doctor had been present: Ba’s other children had been born only with the assistance of neighbours. I am anxious just thinking about a pregnancy without the comfort of screening and checks, followed by a labour managed only by friends, no matter how many babies they may have helped to deliver in the past. Yes, there is something to be said about trusting instinct and experience rather than relying on modern medical techniques and knowledge but I would certainly take an ultrasound scan and a midwife over Sonia next door.
Initially all appeared to be well; Anil was thriving, putting on weight and smiling. He was almost six months old when someone noticed that he could not yet hold up his head. Anil failed to reach all of his other milestones at the appropriate times, and finally, one of the many doctors that the family consulted concluded that he has cerebral palsy. Definition of cerebral palsy: ‘Cerebral palsy describes a group of disorders of the development of movement and posture….’ (Bax et al from International Workshop on Definition and Classification of Cerebral Palsy, 2004). Translation into reality: Anil first sat unsupported at four years of age, learnt to speak at seven and has never stood upright. Ba massaged the tense muscles of his body every day, hoping to reduce the stiffness. The contractures, Indira remembers, did not seem to be as severe during his early years, but Anil gradually developed deformities due to the spasticity of his muscles: his hands are doubled over at his wrists, with some of the fingers twisted or curled in, his legs are bent at the hip and knee and he is unable to straighten them. A wheelchair would have been impractical in the apartment, and in any case, Anil’s hands were never capable of propelling one effectively. He learnt to move around on his wrists and knees, swinging himself forward. This works surprisingly well, but has left him prone to multiple infections which leave him bed bound while the antibiotics work their magic. Speech, too, is a real effort, and it is only by spending time with Anil and becoming used to the rhythm and pattern of sound as he articulates that we can easily understand him.
Anil was and is a constant in the family’s lives. He would wait for his siblings to get home from school, laughing along and joining in their chatter. He learnt to read with them, poring over their homework, and his arithmetic remains in daily use. His siblings sailed off to university and returned home. In their absence he had undergone the last of his nine operations. The family had found a German orthopaedic surgeon who had been confident that he could help. Each time the unspoken wishes hovered, a red balloon filled with hope: his legs would be straighter, he would be in less pain, he might be able to hold a spoon. Anil spent two years with his legs in plaster casts. In the end the red balloon drifted away, into the vast African sky.
Anil has always walked the tightrope between not wanting to be troublesome and fighting for his wants and wishes- the latter, I suppose, stemming from being one of seven children. In 1964 Anil’s dream of going on safari was made reality: he travelled to Voi, carried from lodge to safari van on the shoulders of a family friend. This was a highlight, excitement still apparent as he talks about the trip. In past times, Vasant and Anil’s evening visits to the lighthouse were set in stone, and if Anil expressed a wish to go to the toy shop or the beach then efforts would be made to arrange this. Ba not only takes care of his numerous daily needs but if Anil occasionally expresses a preference, for example, for a particular meal then she will readily cook it for him. Anil has his own part to play in this family: his is often the voice of reason, and his ability to think logically has stood them all in good stead.
But he grows older and weaker. ‘I have to go….’ said Indira, mid-sentence, during a recent telephone conversation. Anil had been sitting in his usual position on the terrace and he had fallen sideways. This has started to happen more frequently, apparently. He cannot manage what he used to; his need for care grows. Ba, at 91, remains his main carer, although Indira shares the work- mighty women, both of them. In spite of all their efforts, Ba can see her son gradually decline. Occasionally, in frustration, Ba says ‘We must have done something terrible in a previous life, to be punished like this- all of us’. Usually, however, she says ‘God gave us Anil and that was our luck. We must look after him.’ He was born into love.
OK, here’s your starter for ten. Question: I feel like a room without a roof. I’m clapping along. Which emotion am I feeling? Go on, take a guess.
The Mango Cage 
