The Ugly Sibling

Chapter 1

"For a scot, you are a little different..." was all that the taxi driver would say as he drove me from Glasgow airport to my parents' home. Somehow his initial bonhomie had completely disappeared. It was quite clear to him I was trying to 'con' him. I could almost hear his self talk: 'There is no need to be friendly with smart alecs!'

I did not feel bitter towards the taxi driver. The problem was with my brown skin. It was a source of unending trouble for my parents and my two siblings. It was very upsetting for my elder sister and my younger brother to explain to their friends that I, with my brown skin and a very Asian looking face, was their brother? Well! Most fair skinned British may not be rabid racists, at least not in public; still the most they could do was to be polite and courteous to the swarm of the brown skins that were over-running the isles. My presence among them was a rude reminder that the brown skin invasion had reached white homes.

My siblings were as fair skinned and rosy cheeked (a little freckled may be) as all British nationals were three hundred years ago. Notwithstanding the fact that I was born to the same parents as them, I was clearly and unambiguously brown skinned. The reason for this was our ancestry. My mother, then a little girl had migrated from India in 1948 along with her Scottish father and Indian mother. You could call her a Eurasian though the term Anglo-Indian was fashionable then. Though my grandmother was unmistakably Asian, my mother was as Caucasian looking as could be.

My grandmother, with her worsening asthma, could not withstand the unpleasant British weather and decided to meet her God within six months of reaching Edinburgh. In many ways her death was convenient. My grandfather could marry again, this time a purebred white lady and my mother could be properly assimilated into her adopted country without anyone noticing her mixed parentage.

All was well until I was born. I represented a past, which my grandmother did not live to tell my mother about, and my mother never cared to know about, on her own. I was a rude reminder of that unwanted ancestry. But having carried me in her womb for nine months she did not have the heart to discard me.

As an infant I was quite an interesting and alive toy in the eyes of my sister who was two years elder than me. All was well during the first three years of my life. It was only on my sister's sixth birthday that one of her friends was candid enough to point out that I couldn't really be her brother.

My sister Anne was quite confused by this clear declaration by one of her best friends. She cried her heart out and it took a lot of effort to calm her down. I was of course too young to understand it when this happened, but came to know about it later from my younger brother in whom Anne had confided. This sort of tells you that I was the unwanted middle one, in the normal sister brother relationship. Well, the matter could have been easily resolved by claiming that I was adopted. This is what my practical Scottish father had suggested to my mother years ago. The kind lady would hear nothing of it and fought with him over the issue till he gave up.

Since I could no longer be wished away, I had to be dealt with, in as humane and as Christian a fashion as possible. For the next two years birthday gatherings at our home were carefully avoided so that no child with his typical certainty would state what experience teaches us to either avoid or be circumspect about.

As I reached school going age, I was bundled off to one of those residential schools, under the care of watchful Jesuit brothers. One of them even suggested I should become a man of cloth if I so much as cared for my family. At that stage I did not think I cared for anyone except my maternal grandfather. In a way my grandfather felt guilty about me. But for his Indian adventure, I might not have been.

Grandpa continued to live in Edinburgh while my mother had moved to Glasgow after her marriage. I spent most of my holidays with him. Whenever my mother asked me whether I would like to spend the holidays with her or with my grandfather, I always gave her the right answer. But in all fairness, she did try to spend time with me while I was at grandpa’s place in Edinburgh. On a few occasions Anne and Will did accompany her. Anne was more at ease with me on such occasions than the very few occasions when I had turned up at Glasgow. Will was quite friendly and loved to tackle me with a football, but he generally derived his mood from Anne. But even today I am in touch with Will whereas I just happen to know where Anne lives.

My grandpa and I shared a special relationship. While we climbed to top of Arthur’s seat, he would tell me tales of his childhood, his youth and his days in India and how he had courted my grandmother.

Chapter 2

I am aware that in the eyes of many I am a product of an ‘unnatural’ relationship. Hence the origin and development of that relationship held a special significance for me.

My grandpa had served the Crown over the continent. His knowledge of French and German mores was of special significance in the war efforts of Britain. He had been deputed to colonies to impart knowledge to the allied army officers, which would serve them when they had to be posted in Europe as a part of the war effort.

Among his many sojourns, he had been asked to spend about three months in the Blue Mountains in South India to prepare the officers of the Indian army to fight in Europe.

As the jeep picked him up at the railhead on the foothills of the Blue Mountains and wound its way up to the army academy at Wellington, the rich foliage of the hills struck a chord in the young Captain. It was the month of March and one could smell the spring in the crisp air of the mountains. It somehow reminded him of his native Scotland. There was a light hailstorm as they reached the higher altitudes. In this idyllic setting it was difficult to imagine that elsewhere a world war was on. Capt. John Fitzpatrick was impossibly away from the theatre of war.

As the jeep pulled into the sprawling campus of the academy, the sentry at the gate smartly saluted the passenger in the jeep. Even though the academy was not short of Brits, the arrival of one more was something of an event. As the jeep entered the long and straight approach road to the main building, John was impressed with the neatly laid out flowerbeds on both sides of the road. There were fresh blooms on the plants and they appeared to wave out to him due to the gentle breeze. Behind the beds a tall fern fence cut off the view of the playfields on one side and a sprawling meadow on the other side. The fern fence was neatly sheared and the tops of the bushes had been artistically cut to resemble figures of animals. Through the gaps in the fence he could see that a game of football was on. Sounds of frenzied tackling wafted over the air to him as he rode past. As he approached the main building the smell of freshly baked bread hit his nostrils. The academy bakery was quite active. John suddenly realised he was quite hungry.

After the hello-well-met-fellow routine Brigadier Thomas Stevenson, the commander of the academy, took John around to the mess. The officers from all over the country had arrived for briefing sessions and there was a good deal of activity at the officers’ mess. Thomas introduced John to the other instructors of the scheduled weeklong courses. The other instructors were already resident in India and had mostly turned up with their wives, as the location was Blue Mountains. What better way to escape the sweltering heat of the plains! John’s sessions were just about an hour long every day and he planned to catch up on his reading the rest of the time.

Within a week John’s life had fallen into a nice routine. After the morning jog he would return to his quarters and bathe using two buckets of hot water, kept ready for him by his personal orderly. Next came the English breakfast at the mess followed by one or two hours of reading at the academy library. Then it would be time for his classes. Lunch would follow. After that he would return to his quarters to read and take a nap. A round of tennis or football would follow the evening tea. One more bath, a peg of scotch at the bar and dinner would complete the day. Saturday was the day for the 16 mm movies or parties hosted by the permanent faculty in their houses. Sunday was always reserved for church and cricket match. On John’s third Sunday this strict rule was given a go by.

It was the day of the Flower Show in the botanical garden ten miles away. The academy always won a few prizes in the institutional category. Many of the officers participated for categories such as best home garden, best lawn, best rose etc. A few prizes were picked up for those as well.

All in all attendance was mandatory, war or no war. Truckloads of families left after the rather short service by the co-operative Reverend.

While enjoying the festivities John noticed a beautiful young lady surrounded by boys who were clearly her students. She was dressed in a flaring flannel skirt and a short-sleeved blouse with a collar. Her dark hair and tanned skin clearly identified her as an Indian. But what surprised John and drew him to the group was the fact the girl was speaking to her students in French. When the girl saw John observing her, she stopped mid sentence. John felt he had to explain his intrusive behavior.

“Pardon me m’am! I was merely taken up by the fact that you were speaking in French to school children in this British area.”

“Sir! I hope I have not committed any crime by doing so”, her eyes were smiling mischievously as she responded.

John felt himself blushing. He was after all looking very officious in his uniform. He hastened to assure her that he harbored no such thoughts.

She was now smiling at his discomfiture. It made him blush even more furiously. The boys were watching the fun; fully aware their teacher was managing to score over the English officer.

Suddenly the lady in her took over from the girl. She scowled ominously at the children and told them to mind their manners and leave her alone, for a while, with the gentleman.

“Forgive me Major...”

“Captain not Major... Captain John Fitzpatrick…Instructor at the academy”, he paused to let the information sink in.

“Nice to meet you captain. I am Monique and I teach at the Lovedale”, the scowling lady had receded and the smiling girl was back. She put out her hand and he shook it.

As he released her hand reluctantly, she turned and started walking towards her group. After a few steps she turned and said to him with the same mischief, that he had earlier spotted in her eyes, “In case you are still wondering about my French, I come from a French colony not far from here and teach French at the school. As a part of my work, I try to speak to my students in French as often as possible. Now if you would excuse me... Good day Major…sorry Captain!”

As she carried her slender frame and moved away from him, he could not help staring after her.

Chapter 3

Calamities struck John the very next Saturday. The pink colored telegram brought in the news of his widowed mother’s death. She had died of fear while the air raid sirens were blaring over the city of Edinburgh.

The chief of the academy was kindness itself. He got on to the wireless and found out that a RAF squadron was leaving for Britain from the south Indian city of Bangalore in the next twenty-four hours. A telegram was dispatched to John’s brother requesting him to embalm the body and postpone the funeral by three days.

John left in a rush. But he calmed down on his way to the RAF base. A few miles away from his academy, on the roadside, he noticed a board announcing the approaching diversion to the Lovedale School. He remembered Monique and wondered whether he would ever see her again. Suddenly he felt his jeep swerve all over the road. In seconds it hit a huge tree by the roadside, John felt a shooting pain in his leg as shattered glass sprayed all over him.

As he came to, John looked around groggily and realized he was in some sort of an infirmary. He could see bandages all over his body. His right leg felt heavy telling him that it was in cast. He once again drifted off into drug-induced stupor.

John remained in a semi-conscious state for the next three days. His mother’s funeral had to take place without him. As John gained full consciousness, the grief caused by his mother’s death was no longer as distressing as before. His accident had made him come to terms with his loss.

It took Monique as much time to realize that the army officer recuperating in the school infirmary was the young captain whom she had met at the Flower Show. She promptly visited him with flowers and continued to visit him everyday. John started looking forward to her visits and bubbly chatter.

The good brigadier from the academy was again supportive and suggested to John that he could get the trainees over to his bedside so that he could lecture to them without moving anywhere. This brought Monique into closer contact with John as she offered to help him with the lectures. John found that Monique’s knowledge of French history and literature were adding tremendous value to his lectures.

The bandages came off in a week’s time but the cast took another two weeks. As Monique assisted him with his first tentative steps, it was clear that John was left with an unsteadiness, which would take time to resolve. During this time, Monique’s intellect and feminine charms were working on John. During one of their walks, he unwittingly let his bad foot into a hole in the grass and started losing balance. Monique held on to him to steady him. During this steadying maneuver, his arm was pressed against her soft breasts. Nothing was said as the crisis passed. In a few moments, they were in a hot embrace kissing furiously.

In the days that followed it was apparent to both the staff and the students of the school that John and Monique were in love. Soon the school principal was at John’s bedside for a man-to-man talk.

The principal was concerned about the effect the lovers were having on both the staff and students. A solution had to be found and it was found. John left the army, joined the school as a vice-principal and married Monique. In one year’s time they had a lovely daughter to cheer up things. There was just one dark cloud in this clear blue sky.

Chapter 4

“There were so many factors which made me decide to leave India,” My grandpa continued his life story. We were seated on a rock and a chilly wind was blowing across Arthur’s seat. The town of Edinburgh below us was bathed in the slanting rays of the evening sun as both of us watched over it from our vantage point.

“ John do you think we should start walking back?” It was another quirk of fate that I shared my first name with grandpa.

“No sir,” I said with the adamancy of a teenager, “You have to finish this part.”

Grandpa tousled my hair. For no apparent reason, I loved it. He continued the story of his life, with the full knowledge that I was the only one of his descendents who was interested to hear why he left India a little after World War II. “Your grandmother, may God bless her soul, had enough of a rough time delivering your mother. After that, her asthma started getting worse. Somehow I felt if I returned to Scotland she might recover. Another important reason, which helped me reach a decision, was the senseless killing of Gandhi. If someone who upheld tolerance could be killed during a prayer meeting, maybe things were changing in that country that I, as foreigner, had to take note of.”

But things did not go well for grandma as she started her life in Scotland. Though a school at Edinburgh employed both my grandparents, her physical condition worsened soon. She did assure grandpa that things could not have been better if they had continued in India. But he never got rid of his guilt in the matter. She died within two years of their relocation. But before she died, she did manage to extract a promise from grandpa that he would get remarried soon.

I am still not sure whether grandpa married Mary out of respect for the word he gave to grandma or because he was truly in love with her. They behaved almost like loving brother and sister, a feeling reinforced by the fact they never had any children. She was a colleague of my grandparents at the same school and was a good friend of my grandma. She was a lovely lady and survived my grandpa’s death in the last decade of the 20th century.

At the time of my grandpa’s death, I had just started working in London with an independent producer of TV documentaries. The first person Mary had called up was I and this was as soon as the doctors had confirmed that grandpa had suffered a fatal stroke. It was late evening and I managed to board the overnight train to Edinburgh to reach her.

A large number of mourners at the funeral turned to me- more than anyone else from the family. All those who mattered seemed to know how much my grandpa cared for me. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, I did not fail to notice a few raised eyebrows, which my presence caused among the casual acquaintances of the family.

Among the many things which grandpa left behind for me were his and grandma’s diaries. Now my knowledge of grandma and her family was better than ever. There were names and addresses, which were difficult to read and remember. My curiosity was now kindled. Should I make contact with my past? I wished I could get grandpa’s opinion on this matter. But that could not be done any longer.

Chapter 5

It was not exactly a quirk of fate that my producer decided to do a documentary on non-British colonies of India. I had sold him the idea and found him a sponsor as well. Rather than export an entire crew with equipment to India, we decided to sub-contract the job to a local company in India. Mony Brothers of Chennai in South India were selected for the job. Soon enough I was on my way to India to oversee the progress.

The brothers, Ram and Shyam of Mony Brothers were not unused to dealing with foreign companies. But my appearance threw them off as I identified myself as John Canmore at the arrival hall of Chennai’s international airport. Being shrewd business people, they avoided any direct reference to my facial appearance but just made sure that I was truly the person I was claiming to be. I knew the personal question would be asked in due course but played my professional role to the hilt till then.

I had reached Chennai in December and still found it to be hot and humid. I was glad to be in the air-conditioned comfort of the Mony home as I went calling on them the following Sunday in the evening. The subject of my unlikely face came up while we were seated in the parlor of their palatial house sipping scotch.

Ram, the elder of the brothers broached the topic, “John, hope you don’t mind my asking… Did your family migrate to UK in recent years?”

I laughed. “Oh no Ram! I am glad you asked. That gives me the chance to tell you a personal reason for visiting India.”

Saying so I narrated my to-date biography to the brothers and their wives.

“Wow! That is more interesting than fiction.” Priya, Shyam’s wife was candid enough to admit. She went on to ask, “Would you like to locate your cousins who may still be in Pondy?"

Pondy, more correctly known as Pondicherry was a former French colony. One of its earlier governors, Dupleix, had in a way, laid the foundation for the British Empire in India. He had thought of the ingenious method of installing incompetent descendents or children as rulers of Indian states and annexing them with time. But for the Englishman Clive, India could very well have been a French colony.

Pondy was about two hundred miles away from the Blue Mountains where my grandpa had met my grandma. It was less than 100 miles away from the city of Chennai where I had reached for my work. Being a former French colony it was a part of my documentary as well.

So the plan was to spend the Friday of the following week to approve the locales and shooting plans worked out by the staff of Mony Brothers at Pondy and spend the weekend looking for my long lost relatives. Priya promised to go over to Pondy over the weekend to help me, as the brothers were busy with other projects.

Priya was so taken up with my ancestry that she wanted many details about my grandmother. She wanted to do some background research at the library of the leading English daily of south India. She worked for the paper as a ‘society’ journalist. So by next evening, I had arranged to photocopy some of my grandpa’s records and sent them to her through Shyam.

When I look back upon Priya’s help in locating my cousins, I get a feeling that she regarded herself as a kind of private detective on a case. By the following evening I got a telephone call from her saying that she had located a grandaunt of mine, as well as two of my cousins in Pondy. Of the four siblings of my grandma, three had apparently migrated to France in 1950 when the French voluntarily relinquished control of these colonies. The fourth and the youngest of my grandma’s sisters was still alive and was in her seventies. This grandaunt had two sons. One had followed his uncles to France while the other had gone into politics to be killed in an air crash in the city of Bangalore. That made him something of a ‘martyr’ and his son, Charles, became a sought after candidate of the political parties. Charles had a sister, Bernadette, who too lived in Pondy. She was a lawyer by profession. Charles was born the same year as me while Odette, as his sister was called, was two years younger. Priya had dug up all this information in one day and I was extremely impressed with her work. As I listened to her at the other end of the phone, she herself seemed to be puffed up with pride.

Chapter 6

It was almost 7 pm on that Friday when my professional work was all done and I returned to The Sea Front Hotel in Pondy. The pretty girl at the reception told me that Mademoiselle Priya had already checked in along with her mother-in-law.

When we met for dinner that night, Priya had some more news for me. She had already contacted my cousins. She had first contacted Odette, who was quite excited at the prospect of meeting me. Without Odette’s help Priya could not have reached Charles. As with most Indian politicians he loved to surround himself with people and never answered the phone. Just a little before I returned to the hotel, he had called up and spoken to Priya. He had promised to meet me around ten in the morning. Odette and my grand aunt were to meet me by Saturday evening.

Until this time, I had been driven by a blind desire to meet my grandmother’s side of the family. Now that I had reached the point of actually meeting them, I really did not know what I wanted from the meeting. Was I looking for certain common facial features, which would confirm my antecedents? If that were my intention would it not mean that I did not believe my grandfather? Even assuming it was plain curiosity, which had brought me across seas, what good would be the proof of their existence? Did I expect Anne or my mother to overcome all their uneasiness about me once I produced photographic evidence of my Indian links. I was thoroughly confused. I never let on to Priya what I was thinking. After all she had worked hard to unearth things for me. I had no right to dampen her enthusiasm. Probably she would do a story for her paper about my reunion with my family.

To take my mind off my own doubts, I turned my attention to Priya’s mother-in-law. The production company of Ram and Shyam was named after her late husband Subramony. She was a kindly old lady about the age of my mother. Though her stated reason for visiting Pondy was to visit a yoga ashram on the outskirts, I could see she was there to chaperon her daughter-in-law. Probably she was squeamish about letting Priya be alone with an Indian looking Scotsman on a former French territory! Maybe I was not being fair to an elder but I really wished I could be alone with Priya and simply take a walk on the beach. Perhaps I was just aching for the company of a woman in my age group so that I could just forget about my anxieties about the meetings with my cousins. Suddenly I realised that I had not really had a date since my grandpa's death.

It would be unfair to say that life had been totally unkind to me. From the time I had moved to London I had ‘been there and seen all’ as much as any of my peers. I was often part of the cheering crowds at the football stadiums and I had a series of girls to share my bed from time to time. Many girls found me attractive because of the contrast between my Asian looks and British ways. But soon the novelty would wear off as they realized that I was as much of a devil or an angel as every other young fellow. Girls who wanted to get serious about me wondered whether they could really take me home to momma. Even if they did consider such a thing, I would point out to them the difficulties in getting me accepted. Most would give up and consider far more secure options. Even girls from Asia would accept my impeccable logic that I was unsuitable as a husband. All this kept me from getting entangled into a commitment. I was often not sure whether I was being wicked in my dalliances or I genuinely believed I was unsuitable for marriage.

At the time of my grandpa’s death I had just freed myself from my last girlfriend. When I went back to work I immersed myself in it so much that I would not have to think of my ‘best friend’, now dead.

Priya’s good looks, ebullience and her passionate interest in my cause drew me to her. I did not want to go to bed with her. I just wanted to be alone with her and maybe flirt a bit. The presence of her mother-in-law ensured that it was not to be. The end result was I passed that night with a great deal of discomfort!

Chapter 7

It was a little before ten o’clock the next day when I heard a knock on my door. I had managed to sleep despite my discomforts and woke up quite refreshed. It being a Saturday, I had decided to bathe and wear my jeans and t-shirt. I was just tying the lace on my shoes when the knock came. I went up and opened the door to find a smiling man just about my age. He was dressed rather formally in a dark suit. Quite a few rings adorned his fingers. His hair was well greased and combed back. I had no difficulty in guessing that I was looking at Charles.

“Hello John,” He said, “I hope I can call you John. Sorry about barging in like this. I should have called from the lobby, but I noticed a guy from my party office standing at the front desk and I wanted to avoid him for two reasons: First I did not want to offer any explanations for my visit here and the second, the guy is such a windbag and I would not have kept to my time with you. I know that you English are sticklers for punctuality.” He guffawed at his own humor.

I smiled sufficiently and asked him to come in. I also confirmed that I prefer to be called John.

As both of us entered the room and passed the mirror in the foyer, I was struck by the similarities in our facial features. I really cannot describe what I felt then. Was this the confirmation that I had sought? How will this alter my life? There were no clear answers for these questions. But somehow it was a relief to see in a physical form my ancestry, which grandpa had described over so many evenings in Edinburgh.

I am sure Charles was as uncomfortable as me. He was chatting away about inconsequential things. He asked me about my work and whether I had been able to get my work done in Pondy. That was a hint that I just had to say it and he would move his contacts in the government to facilitate matters for me. Politicians, all over the world, want to be seen doing well for their constituencies! Sometimes that tendency slips into their personal relationships as well.

I assured him I needed nothing of the sort and that Mony Brothers were a competent set-up. Now the talk turned to those who had migrated to France. I listened to him politely. I realised that I did not want to know too much about my mother’s contemporaries. I only wanted to know about my grandma’s times and my cousins now living in India. The first was to sense what my grandpa would have experienced. My interest in Charles and Odette was to understand how people of my age from the other side of my family differed from me.

Soon the talk turned to Charles, Odette and Aunt Edda. I found the schooling, which they had received was not much different from mine. They had read the same Enid Blyton as I had done and gone to the school where grandpa and grandma had once taught. Charles even told me that the school assembly hall had a photograph of John and Monique taken at the time of their marriage. He promised to arrange a copy of it for me. But what interested me most was his statement that according to Aunt Edda, Odette resembled Monique a lot. That information made me look forward to the evening meeting with them.

I found that both Charles and I were becoming comfortable with each other. Just then the phone rang. It was Priya and I cursed myself in an under breath because I had totally forgotten about her as I got to know Charles better. I apologized to her and asked her to join us.

She joined us alone saying her mother-in law had a headache. I could see that she was upset about having been left out of the initial part of the meeting, which she had worked so hard to organize. Probably she had looked forward to facilitating it. While she did not complain about it, I could see she bore a grudge. While she continued to be very helpful and very friendly throughout my stay in India, the attraction, which we had started feeling for each other, simply vanished. Maybe it was for the good for both of us!

Chapter 8

The day passed in a whir. Charles left me after lunch. Along the way he jocularly admitted to being a little disappointed with my looks. He was apparently counting on some photographs of both of us together to establish his British connections. That would have helped his political campaigns. We did get photographed together but that was for Priya’s newspaper column.

In the evening, Aunt Edda was wheeled into a small meeting hall near the hotel-lobby. Her wheel chair could not be accommodated in the tiny lift to go to my room. I went down to meet her and she proffered her hand for me to kiss. Odette was standing next to her dressed in a sari. I could immediately see that she was beautiful in more ways than one. If my grandpa had seen someone like her fifty years ago, I could well understand what he would have felt.

I could see that Aunt Edda wanted to say many things to me. She was handicapped by the fact that she spoke only French apart from her mother tongue Tamil. Both Odette and I knew very little French. So as a compromise, Edda spoke in Tamil and Odette translated into English.

Edda spoke at length about her childhood with my grandma. Memories flowed along with tears. I learnt about grandma’s childish pranks. I learnt about her interest in languages. I learnt how she took up a job with the passing away of their father. Edda laughed merrily as she narrated the first meeting between John and Monique. She sort of rounded off by narrating how beautiful Monique had looked on her wedding day.

At this point Odette had difficulty in translating. She was blushing quite a bit as she managed to inform me that Monique had looked as beautiful as Odette was looking now.

Having come this far, Edda wanted to know all about my life. I tried to remain clinical as I told her about my family. Edda was so full of questions that we continued to talk throughout our dinner. Before she left, she insisted that Odette would show me around the next day, some of the places connected with my grandma.

I could see that my cousins and aunt were genuinely happy to see me. As I drifted off to sleep that night I felt a strange kind of calmness.

The next morning at breakfast I asked Priya if she could join Odette and me for a spin through Pondy. She declined saying she had to take her mother-in-law to the Yoga institute.

When I went down to meet Odette for my conducted tour, I could see she was stunningly dressed for the casual outing. Her slim fit jeans and t-shirt were loudly proclaiming her assets. Her shiny red car was also attracting attention wherever we went.

Odette was full of jest and energy as she shared with me all that she had heard about my grandma from family sources. As the day wore on, we visited many spots associated with grandma’s life and times. The outing also resulted in many a souvenir purchase, so that by the time we returned to the hotel we were struggling with our load of carry bags.

Apart from all the fun and frolic I could see that Odette was quite attracted to me. Her body brushed mine on more than one occasion. Her laughter was often louder than necessary. There was a glint in her eyes. Having noticed all that, I was not surprised that she stood within inches of me with an upturned face as we entered my room and dropped the bags on the bed.

The defining moment had come. I had to speak my mind now. I put my hands on her shoulders and moved myself back by a few inches and said, “Odette! I am sorry. I may not sound logical to you. I know you are too distant as a cousin. But a relationship with you seems incestuous.”

I could see the glow go out of her face as I said that. She took my hands off her shoulders and sat down heavily on the bed. I stood still and remained silent. She recovered within minutes. I could see the color and smile return to her face. Looking into my eyes she said, “Damn silly of me. No?”

The moment had passed and we had come out unscathed. Odette spent the rest of the day with me and we could bask in a new kind of understanding of each other. I left India the next day and have never met her again till today. We do exchange e-mail occasionally. But I know, even today, I have a friend in Odette.

The visit to Pondy had been a kind of therapy for me. I have never again felt the need to go there or locate other relatives of my grandma. Even today Charles visits me but we no longer talk about old days. It was, as if, I had been possessed by a ghost and the visit had exorcised me of it.

Chapter 9

Three months later I returned to India to review the project with Mony Brothers. The filming had now moved to Goa- a former Portuguese colony in India. The month was March and it was not yet summer.

That Goa is a holiday destination is well known to anyone who is somewhat familiar with India. Even if you say that you are there on work, both your colleagues and local residents have that smirk on their face, which says it all- you can’t really be serious about going on work to Goa.

Nothing surprises a Goan as far as tourists are concerned. They are quite tolerant of all human failings and deal with all visitors as one would deal with a slightly demented but still loveable child. It makes little difference to a Goan whether you are a westernized Indian or an indianised Westerner. Most people, whom I came across, assumed I was the former and I was absolutely comfortable with that assumption. After London it was in Goa that I was perfectly at home.

Despite the time honored Goan traditions of afternoon siestas and evening tippling, the documentary was progressing quite well. So that left me with no option but to rest and have fun. I had become the inadvertent tourist. As is common among tourists I too became adventurous with food.

I was staying at a hotel belonging to a well-known international hotel chain, which is present in London and Edinburgh as well. As my booking was for fifteen days, I had become quite friendly with the hotel General Manager and most of the staff. So when I developed the Bombay belly on account of my indiscretions, the GM took it almost as a personal affront. He deputized his close assistant Dilnaz to check on me every hour. So as not to disturb me if dozed off from time to time, she was provided with a duplicate key to my room.

Dilnaz Contractor (her forefathers were government contractors, hence the surname) was clearly one of those no-nonsense girls who took her work very seriously. She could very well have been a hostel matron for rowdy bunch of schoolgirls. She belonged to a community of non-Muslim Iranians who had migrated to Western India many centuries ago.

Called Parsees in India, the community lapped up English education and western mores very easily and established themselves as industrialists in the city of Bombay during the British rule. While their outlook was western, the language, which they used at home, was Gujarati, which endeared them to the local population. Despite their closeness to the rulers and the ruled, Parsees maintained the ‘purity’ of their race by proscribing marriage outside the community.

This adamancy about racial purity and the higher levels of individualism practiced by Parsee women has caused this highly literate community to shrink in numbers resulting in their younger ones marrying outsiders.

Within days I started getting my strength back. Dilnaz became a bedside companion and we started chatting about various things. I also started noticing the woman in her as my health improved.

Most Parsees are light skinned with high cheeks and sharp noses, which enables them to pass off as Caucasians. Dilnaz was no exception. However, the hotel uniform did not do justice to her youthful figure. This I realised as soon as she graduated to spending her free time with me outside the hotel.

One day as we walked along the Mondovi River, she said in her usual forthright manner, “ You know John, I think you bear an unfair grudge against your family….” She paused to let the statement sink in. I raised my eyebrows and looked into her face.

“With your grandmother’s passing away, it never occurred to anyone in your family that they should prepare for something like you happening in future by telling everyone at all times that there was some foreign blood in the family. At best, what would anyone say if you said that your wife or mother had passed away? People would just say ‘I am sorry’ and the matter would end there. Till you were born this is what would have happened. After your birth they could not announce the Indian connection, as it was too late. People would have accused them of deliberately hiding things so long. Now they live in the constant fear that this can happen anytime in future. On the other hand, you will tell your friend’s circle and your children about your origins and there will never be any surprise about your descendents. So tell me now, who is more the victim of circumstances; you or your family?”

The more I thought about it the more I tended to agree with Dilnaz. Years of bitterness seemed to drain away from my being. I vowed not to embarrass my parents and siblings by turning up at wrong places.

Well! Dilnaz became my wife and we now live in London. We have two lovely babies who look very different from each other. But all our friends know we are of a mixed breed and we regularly crib about discrimination in UK. But we are in perfect sync within our own closed circles. That is what matters. Rest is politics!

(Concluded)


John Sr 1916-1996
Monique 1921-1950
John’s mother 1947
John’s step grandma 1931
Anne 1969
John 1971
Will 1973