thirteen at the time, so Baba forced him to come home, but he ran away nine times and was in danger of falling into extremely bad company, so Baba deemed it better for him to live on with less-than-holy Roys rather than risk complete vagabondage on his own. The three years these boys had spent in foster care had, just as Baba had feared, secularised them beyond redemption. They had enjoyed freedoms they'd never known before; never, ever would they return to orthodoxy; and they had all taken Christian names. Now they were Richard, Walter and James, and they had all settled in London. But Baba called them by their Indian names for the rest of his life.
The second bitter drop was that caste purity ended with his marriage to Ma. There was no question of importing husbands and wives from India for his children. He would have to marry them to mongrels.
M A WALKED BEHIND B ABA . Ma's assimilation into the Roy clan was documented by two items in Balwant Uncle's archives: a creased, limp photo, passport size, of Ma, young, smiling, beautiful, wistful, confident, all these things at once, and more. And a clipping from the Times of India: ‘England-educated Brahmin barrister-at-law, widower, well-settled in Georgetown, British Guiana, South America, excellent income and social standing, seeks remarriage with Brahmin lady of childbearing age, willing to resettle in large pleasant home in Georgetown and raise a family. Widow acceptable. Dowry not required. Condition: must be literate and speak excellent English. Please send photo.’
Whatever steps had brought Ma to Baba were unknown to all and swept over, unmentioned, by Ma herself. She was a woman without a past; without a name. Baba addressed her as 'Mrs Roy', referred to her as 'my wife', or simply as 'she' and 'her'. Relatives and family friends called her 'Mrs Roy' or 'Mrs Deodat' and even 'Mrs D', or 'Ma D', depending on the degree of familiarity with her. Balwant Uncle and his wife called her Dee, short for Deodat's wife, her nephews and nieces called her Dee Auntie. Her own children called her Ma. Ma, in her turn, never spoke her husband's name in public. She called him Mr Roy, or, capitalised, 'Him', or 'He', or 'my Husband'.
Ma spoke little. Though her English was excellent (no-one asked, and no-one cared, why she had a perfect British accent) it was always Baba who did the talking. Ma's stories, of course, could go on for hours, but then only children were the listeners.
Ma did the singing. Ma performed the pujas. Ma worshipped Shiva. Ma healed. Ma cooked. Ma nourished. Ma was a cherished figure at all family festivities, especially weddings and wakes. It was said that when Ma worked in the kitchen the food never ran out, and even if fifty unexpected guests turned up, which was often the case because Ma's reputation spread and people were eager to find out if the rumour was true, there were always leftovers.
Ma cooked not only South Indian rice and sambar; she cooked Bengali, Punjabi and Gujerati. Badaam kheer, sooji halwa and kajoo barfi melted like nectar on greedy Roy tongues. On one occasion they discovered Ma could even bake a Yorkshire pudding, but no-one ever asked how she learned all this, and no-one cared. The Roy men stuffed themselves full of Ma's creations, and with swelling tummies washed their hands and mouths at the sink, burping and farting in deepest satisfaction. The Roy wives watched Ma cook with envious eyes, but Ma was too quick for them to learn her secrets. Chapattis flew out from under her rolling pin on to a growing heap like little flying saucers, her slender little hands flicking busily, expertly between the little balls of dough, the heap of flour, the rolling pin. Ma didn't give explanations; 'Cook with love,' is all she said, so the Roy women gathered in spiteful three- and foursomes and discussed Ma's failings.
Ma's hands were magic. Her children came to her with scratches and bruises and Ma would pass those little brown hands over the
The second bitter drop was that caste purity ended with his marriage to Ma. There was no question of importing husbands and wives from India for his children. He would have to marry them to mongrels.
M A WALKED BEHIND B ABA . Ma's assimilation into the Roy clan was documented by two items in Balwant Uncle's archives: a creased, limp photo, passport size, of Ma, young, smiling, beautiful, wistful, confident, all these things at once, and more. And a clipping from the Times of India: ‘England-educated Brahmin barrister-at-law, widower, well-settled in Georgetown, British Guiana, South America, excellent income and social standing, seeks remarriage with Brahmin lady of childbearing age, willing to resettle in large pleasant home in Georgetown and raise a family. Widow acceptable. Dowry not required. Condition: must be literate and speak excellent English. Please send photo.’
Whatever steps had brought Ma to Baba were unknown to all and swept over, unmentioned, by Ma herself. She was a woman without a past; without a name. Baba addressed her as 'Mrs Roy', referred to her as 'my wife', or simply as 'she' and 'her'. Relatives and family friends called her 'Mrs Roy' or 'Mrs Deodat' and even 'Mrs D', or 'Ma D', depending on the degree of familiarity with her. Balwant Uncle and his wife called her Dee, short for Deodat's wife, her nephews and nieces called her Dee Auntie. Her own children called her Ma. Ma, in her turn, never spoke her husband's name in public. She called him Mr Roy, or, capitalised, 'Him', or 'He', or 'my Husband'.
Ma spoke little. Though her English was excellent (no-one asked, and no-one cared, why she had a perfect British accent) it was always Baba who did the talking. Ma's stories, of course, could go on for hours, but then only children were the listeners.
Ma did the singing. Ma performed the pujas. Ma worshipped Shiva. Ma healed. Ma cooked. Ma nourished. Ma was a cherished figure at all family festivities, especially weddings and wakes. It was said that when Ma worked in the kitchen the food never ran out, and even if fifty unexpected guests turned up, which was often the case because Ma's reputation spread and people were eager to find out if the rumour was true, there were always leftovers.
Ma cooked not only South Indian rice and sambar; she cooked Bengali, Punjabi and Gujerati. Badaam kheer, sooji halwa and kajoo barfi melted like nectar on greedy Roy tongues. On one occasion they discovered Ma could even bake a Yorkshire pudding, but no-one ever asked how she learned all this, and no-one cared. The Roy men stuffed themselves full of Ma's creations, and with swelling tummies washed their hands and mouths at the sink, burping and farting in deepest satisfaction. The Roy wives watched Ma cook with envious eyes, but Ma was too quick for them to learn her secrets. Chapattis flew out from under her rolling pin on to a growing heap like little flying saucers, her slender little hands flicking busily, expertly between the little balls of dough, the heap of flour, the rolling pin. Ma didn't give explanations; 'Cook with love,' is all she said, so the Roy women gathered in spiteful three- and foursomes and discussed Ma's failings.
Ma's hands were magic. Her children came to her with scratches and bruises and Ma would pass those little brown hands over the
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