CHAPTER 1 THIKA, KIAMBU DISTRICT, KENYA 1958

 

My first memory as a child is of the hibiscus shrub looming high up over the tiny figure of my three-year-old self. I peer at a bright reddish bloom drooping from the green branch a few inches above me, touch the so􀅌 petal, and try to make sense of the other four similar petals in a circle. I am intrigued, drawn to the long thin bit sticking out from the middle of the circular shape, and notice it has some small spongy bits at the end. My tiny nimble fingers reach out, trying to grasp these, but they disintegrate at my touch. I hear myself letting out a muffled sound at the touch of the soft pollen on my hand. I rub it awkwardly to brush off the yellowy-pink residue from my hand which, instead of disappearing, leaves a small coloured shape on my tiny palm.

 

I raise my head, distracted by the large green carpet of lush green that goes beyond my low-cast horizon. Suddenly, I hear my name being called. Looking up I see my friend Sima beckoning me over to her. I run towards my friend; however, there is a big hole at my feet, brown, dusty and damp, extending all the way to my left and to my right too. Eager and excited to get to Sima, I try to step over the hole, but I stumble, roll and land at the bottom. A sharp sensation goes through my forehead, arms, legs and body faltering over my tiny head. ‘Baa…’ I shriek as I feel a stabbing throb somewhere on my face. I have a blurred memory of a woman in bright clothing, her skin the colour of a glossy buttered chapatti, looking over me, and her

muffled words fading away.

 

My next memory is of waking up in bed. ‘Baa…’ I call out, my tiny hand to my forehead. ‘Mane dukhe chhe, (This is hurting), Baa…’ Next, I see Baa run up to me from the direction of the kitchen. ‘You should look where you are going,’ she says in a frustrated voice, but she makes reassuring noises and comforts and holds me with love. I do not remember how long it took for the injury to heal but I have a memory of the loving attention from Baa and my siblings. This incident is permanently etched as a quarter-inch scar at the top-left of my forehead.

 

I am now five years old. It is quite normal in my childhood days to wander off to the green common, a large rectangular patch of grass and shrubs bordered by a road, houses and shops. The square is lined with a gutter about two feet wide and deep to gather the water from the surrounding area. Our house with the blue door is the second-to-last in a row, next to a lone fabric shop. The Gurdwara is round to the right corner and the Mandir directly opposite. A carpenter’s workshop owned by our neighbours in the last house stands beside the Mandir. There is a mill and another timber shop in the same row to the le􀅌. Baa and Baapuji know that if I am not in the house then they will find me in the grass square across the road where all the children from the neighbourhood gather to play.

 

The equator sun above is showing off today, shiny and bright like Baa’s gold bangles. The pale-blue sky is reflected in the pastel shades of her co􀆩on saree. There is the familiar earthy scent of the African soil in the air.

 

Children are having a game of ‘Gili Danda’. Danda is a makeshift bat and gili is a finger-length wooden oblong that Baapuji has made for us in his workshop. A bowler bowls the gili at the person batting. Fielders run or catch the gili before the baller gets to the stump ten or so yards away. I run up, dressed in my hand-me-down pink co􀆩on dress and brown plastic shoes. I want to join in the game my brothers, sister and their friends are playing. I see Bhai, my older brother, bent to the right, both hands clutching the bat poised just above the ground. His gaze is fixed upon the gili being hurled towards him by his classmate who lives in the house on the opposite side of the green grass square. ‘I want to bat. I want to bat.’ I shout in my little voice, trying to get his attention. ‘Not now, go away,’ Bhai shouts, flicking his attention to me and missing the gili by a fraction of a second. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do!’

 

After a fuss, the older children persuade me to sit with the three younger children playing ‘Panchika’ in a corner away from the Gili Danda match. Panchika is a game played with five pebbles – ‘panch’ means ‘five’ in Gujarati. You are seated and throw the panchika on the ground like you throw dice. Then you pick up one pebble and throw it in the air and catch it. You have to simultaneously pick the second pebble from the ground and catch the first one before it hits the ground. Holding on to the second you similarly pick up the third, fourth and fifth. If you miss any of them then you lose. The winner has to have all five pebbles in their palm without any of them falling on the ground. I try to compete with Sima and Niru but fail miserably. Niru has won the game and runs up excitedly to her sister who is a fielder in the Gili Danda match, making her miss a crucial catch. Some things never change – younger siblings being a nuisance and embarrassment to their older siblings!

 

A couple of hours later, Baa appears from the doorway of our house. She is looking beautiful in her sky-blue saree bordered with little daisy-shaped burgundy flowers. Her stature is lean and fragile but carrying a quiet strength about it at the same time. Her le􀅌 arm sweeps her saree over her right shoulder to stop it slipping down as she calls out to all the children. It is nearly dusk and it is time for Aarti at the Mandir on the other side of the square. There is much clamour at having to leave the game unfinished, but Baa says if we get there first then we may have a chance of ringing the bells tonight.

 

A commotion follows and there is a race between all of us to get to the Mandir. I do not stand a chance as my older brothers make it there first. I follow with my little steps holding Baa’s hand, feeling safe with the feel of her warm, so􀅌 fingers curled around mine in a firm grip. Sima and Niru trot beside me. Today their Baa is not coming but they know they are safe because it is known that they will be accompanied by any parent or one of the older siblings from the seven families living on either side of the square.

 

As I set foot into the temple, the scent of sandalwood from the incense animates my senses. I feel in awe of the three deities in bright orange are placed on the altar at the far end of the temple, beyond the worshippers’ platform. To my innocent eyes they are real living beings. I am told by Baa that they are there to look after me and my family, someone I can call on whenever there is confusion in my little world. I start a mental dialogue with the female deity who appears kind and approachable from the twinkle in her eyes and friendly smile. I ask her how she can help me so my brothers let me play Gili Danda with them tomorrow. I am just about to ask her how I win a game of Panchika when my mental chatter is halted.

 

The temple comes alive with the hypnotic sound of a conch shell that the Maharaj has put to his mouth and the chiming of bells rung by volunteers on either side of the deities. Today it is Bhai and his friend on one side and Niru and her sister on the other. The bells ring to the rhythm of the accompanying hymn singing led by the Maharaj and supported by the worshipers of the Aatrti ritual. My eyes follow the light of the lamp as the Maharaj circles it around the deity. My ears trail the melodious tunes coming from Baa. I look up and try to watch her lips match with the lyrics of the hymn, joining in with the odd word here and there. She looks down at me with tranquil eyes, smiles, and carries on with the singing and clapping – her gaze upon the deity expresses her complete and unflinching love for God. Slowly, all my troubles from the playground are diffused by this safe, magic world of light, colour and healing sounds. The Maharaj turns around and circles the lamp towards all the devotees as the ritual comes to the end. Baa whispers to me that this signifies everyone has a part of God within them.

 

One day unfolds into another. It is literally a carefree and innocent existence as a child. We have a radio but no television in our house. Time after school, weekends, and holidays is spent playing outside with whichever children are there at that time. We do not have expensive toys, so we make our own. My favourite is when my brothers give me rides on one of their homemade carts – four wheels a􀆩ached to the underside of a two-by-one-foot wooden plank. I sit on the plank and they push me until the wheels whisk me away, and then push me again when the cart comes to a halt. I squeal with delight and fright at the same time.