In this day and age it is rare for one not to be able to drive, but I have never learnt. I am very nervous of errant taxi drivers who behave as though they own our roads. I miss the days of the seventies and eighties when those majestic green government buses carried us safely to our destinations. Sadly, they no longer exist and privatisation is the new buzzword from the government. I am lucky enough to be chauffeured around either by my family or my loving partner and so I avoid being squashed like a sardine in a can and having my ears abused by the latest rapper. Why taxi drivers have to compete with hi-tech equipment in a moving vehicle is beyond my comprehension. But then again I’m a female and before I know it I’ll be fifty, God willing, which translates to the young of today as “old school”.
My partner, who is a true gem, hinted at a proposal before he left for Zambia a week ago but I am not ready for a legal commitment while the albatross remains around my neck. His disguised sigh of relief eased my guilt when I told him I’d take a rain check on his proposal. After all, will I ever be ready? Perhaps marriage would bring an end to my fears for he makes me feel safe. I know, though, that my whole life could be turned upside down – and it all rests solely in his hands. If he discovered the truth would he still want me? I have lost count of the nights I’ve awakened from the nightmare which has taken control of my sleep once again. To avoid that dark place I always go to my safe zone – my family.
I know now why I chose to be part of a well-respected South Indian family. My parents, like many of their generation in the Fifties, did not have the option of birth control in the early days when passion rode high, morning, noon and night. Because of the number of offspring my parents produced I had to wait in line before I made my appearance in their home. I chose them for the opportunities they would afford me as I grew to adulthood and fulfilled my purpose. (I’m still not too sure what that is but I suspect it is being a loving, strong woman who is also able to live with a dark secret.)
A host of brothers and sisters meant I had to find my place in a huge, demanding and challenging household. I still marvel at how my mother, who has grown frail with age, carried all her babies to term in her tiny frame and did not lose a single one of us. She often gets lost among her children, numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren at our family reunions. The only way she keeps her identity is by wearing the brightest of sarees and a huge red round dot on her forehead, a proud testament to the fact that her beloved is alive and kicking. Her hair, once the pride of her youth, is still long but time – that thief – has stolen its lushness and darkness. Now it merely resembles a silvery tail. She wears it in a tiny round knot at the base of her neck but she never fails to adorn it with a flower on social occasions. My mother is the epitome of the traditional South Indian grandmother.
My father is a regal-looking man with a strong stride, broad shoulders and an incredible smile that I know still melts my mother’s heart. He has lost almost all his hair but that has not diminished her love for him. His physical strength comes from hauling carcasses around every day, except Sunday. That is the day he ushers his family to the local Divine Life ashram to feed our souls with spirituality. Thankfully, my father is not a religious fanatic and although we prayed to our gods and goddesses and sang our religious songs every Friday our lives were not ruled by rituals. What my father was particular about was incorporating the teachings of Swami Sivananda into our lives and this was my foundation as I grew up. Having created a large family, he had no qualms about owning a butchery to provide for them, despite the principles of the Swami.
As a family, we truly admire my father for the life he leads. It is filled with love, loyalty and fun. As a provider he did what was necessary to feed, clothe and educate his family and as a father he also incorporated discipline into our lives. I was always delighted when he made my siblings pay for the times they made fun of me. I used the ashram as a place where I could escape their taunts and teasing as a gawky and awkward child.
It was there that I was initiated into the art and benefits of yoga. I devoured the lessons I was taught, especially those about the Swami’s life and I will never forget them. He was a medical doctor, born under the star sign of Virgo on 8 September 1887 in the village of Pattamadai in South India and his parents christened him Kuppuswamy. When he practised as a medical doctor in Malaysia he was fondly referred to as the “Heart of Love” for he never distinguished between the rich and the poor. He treated everyone he met with kindness and sympathy while retaining his sense of humour. His need to renounce all things material, and a heart made pure by loving service, led to him giving up his lucrative practice in Malaysia and returning to India. It was at an ashram in Rishikesh in June 1924 that Dr Kuppuswamy met His Holiness Sri Swami Vishwãnanda Saraswati whom he saw as a guru, a teacher, from whom he could learn more and after his initiation he was named Swami Sivananda Saraswati.
We learnt that he lived in a humble abode, followed a life of simplicity and selfless service to the needy, and that he practised various yogas and the scriptures. The Swami’s austerity was a hard act to follow; as a teen I could not see myself giving up the sweet, edible delights of Deepavali or walking away from the aroma of my mother’s South Indian fish curry in a tangy tamarind sauce.
As a woman badly burnt by the D-word I found it hard not to want revenge for the insults and injuries thrown at me. However, the seeds of the Swami’s teaching, planted in my youthful innocence, sprouted in my adult pain and I eventually found peace and wisdom in his teachings.
In their youth my male siblings helped run the family business. They were extremely good looking and used their looks, charm and most certainly my father’s money to play the field. Over the years they opened various branches so the business grew and the name became well established in the city. What I never grew accustomed to was the permeating smell of raw meat so it was hardly surprising that I turned vegetarian in my teens. My six brothers used to quiz me about this desire to be a vegetarian and asked whether this meant I was also choosing a life of celibacy, since I seemed to be following the teachings of the Swami so diligently. I was not immune to their quizzing and innuendo, given I liked the opposite sex, and told them to find wives instead of needling me. That soon put them in their place.
My brothers and I take after my father in height and skin tone. Sometimes I think, when I have my bad short-hair days, that I may look androgynous for I am nothing like my female siblings. They were terribly cruel to me when I was growing up. When I was a gangly pre-teen they played a horrible trick on me. They borrowed my youngest brother’s pants and shirt and a pair of braces, hid my clothes from me and when I stepped out of the bath they grabbed me. They dressed me in my brother’s clothes, even going so far as to give me a fake moustache so I looked like one of the boys. Tears of humiliation rolled down my cheeks, and I remember trying to wipe away the snot before it hit my lips with my sister’s blouse as an act of revenge.
I have never forgiven them for that, even though my mother sorted them out by making them spread the cow dung throughout the back yard. I watched from our bedroom window as they wrinkled their noses in disgust and tried to turn their faces away as they spread the mixture on the ground. I could not help but smirk for their punishment was well deserved. They never tried the same trick again.
When my breasts started to develop my sisters’ looks of envy were my revenge because boys began to take an interest in me. However, by then my five pretty sisters were married and starting families of their own. They took after my mother’s side of the family and were petite, dusky in complexion, and popular. They developed genteel manners and marriage proposals flooded in.