So Much To Tell You

I don’t remember the person who brought me to La Martiniere Boys College, Lucknow, nor at what age I started there. All I remember is that I was the Phantom, the Ghost who walked in the Dormitory, in the class, and all around the School. I assumed that no one noticed my existence. I liked it that way. I believed that everyone looked at me with sympathy, or said or did something kind, like offering me a chocolate. At that time, they used the sort of voice people have when they are talking to little children, or pet puppies. Other times they got angry with me and yelled. Some times, they were cruel and made jokes about me. However, I did not complain to anyone, as I did not want to make them sound like they were evil. I thought them to be funny, loud, and noisy. I knew they found me hard to understand. In fact, even I could not understand why I behaved differently to the others.

I was skinny, weak, and not too smart. I could not play sport at all. Hated football, always went out on the first ball at cricket, and did not know which end to hold a tennis racquet. The Library was my refuge. I often went there at lunchtime and after school. Sometimes I looked at books, other times I pretended to read. I was a social outcast because I had nothing in common with the other boys. They talked about home, parents, sisters and brothers, and I had no clue of them. I felt myself to be a stranger amongst them since they all belonged to their parents and families. I belonged to no one but to the school. I was a reject and an abandoned child.

A melodious voice haunted me throughout at night with its unforgettable rhythm. I could never figure the words, nor could I identify the person who sang the melody. Yet as I grew older, I believed the voice belonged to my mother singing me to sleep. I also started to conclude that my mother could never have abandoned me with a dedicated voice like that. The haunting melody of that lullaby kept me searching for my mother in every woman who visited the school.

At the end of the term, before the summer and Christmas holidays, I watched the cars, rickshaws, and tongas arriving with parents at the boarding house to take their sons home. I observed from behind a tree, in the garden. How strange it was - so much movement, so much laughter! They all sounded happy, relaxed, and natural. Unfortunately, no one came for me; I knew I had a father in England. He paid for my education consistently. My father had his own children and wife, I was told, and that his wife was not my mother. Where was my mother? Was she an Indian or English? I often wondered. Nevertheless, whatever she was, neither she nor my father ever came for me. I was always at the college every holiday, unless a staff member invited me to their home.

Although I was always happy to leave the desolate dormitory during holidays, I was scared and worried throughout my stay. I did not know what was expected of an abandoned child like me. Mr. Morris, the Principal, and his wife invited me over most of the time. They had two sons and a daughter, Cheryl. She was a year younger than me. Everyone tried to make me comfortable, but I could only feel envious and being tolerated.

At the end of every holiday, I returned feeling sad and miserable because I missed a family of my own with a father and a mother. I was always a guest in everyone’s family. No one owned or loved me. I did not know what it was like to be loved and to love.

I often cried in the solitude of my cubicle, lamenting my great loss. It was hard to reconcile with the fact that my mother had deserted me. The very thought hurt. I contemplated continuously as to what led my mother into taking a desperate step as abandoning. Was it circumstances? It must have been a horrific circumstance, which forced a mother into abandoning her own flesh and blood!

I wondered whether my mother was anything like Gori Bibi, the favourite Begum of Claude Martin, the Founder, whenever I looked at her painting hanging in the Principal’s office. Was my mother a Hindu, a Muslim, or a Christian? However, that did not matter, a mother was a mother, and no race, religion, community, or country could change her from being just a mother. I prayed to Gori Bibi often asking her help in finding my mother. I was definite that she would understand since she herself had experienced hurt and rejection from her parents.

I discovered that Gori Bibi’s actual name was Boulone Lisa. She was very fair in complexion or gori in Hindi language. Her father was the Nawab Fazal Khan Bahadur, the grandson of the Vazier to Emperor Aurangzeb. Gori Bibi was only nine when a Frenchman, M. Carriere, bought her from her parents. Later Claude Martin purchased her and made her his favourite begum.

Even the Founder, Claude Martin, did not know his mother, I discovered; His mother died when he was only eight months old. Claude Martin was born at Lyons in France on the 4th of January 1735. He loved children and was able to provide them with excellent and adequate education and home. He gave them a good start in life by founding the schools in India and France. The spirit of Claude Martin gave me constant assurance of care and support in the absence of a real father, through out my childhood.

Claude Martine died in Lucknow on September 13th, 1800 and according to his wish, he was buried in the basement of the college. I felt his fatherly hand wiping my tears and comforting me with, "I understand son", every time I sang the school song:-

Time flew like birds and soon I was in Year 10. That year, like always, the Founder’s Day was celebrated with great ceremony. Staff and the senior students of the La Martiniere Girls were invited. The College hall lit up after the service, and the band boomed superb music while young couples danced entranced. I sat quietly in one corner watching the students flirt whilst the staff kept watchful eyes. I was not interested in Girls. My life was already in a mess!

Suddenly I was distracted by a soft voice, “Hi.”

I turned around and there right behind me sat a girl.

“Hi.”, I replied shyly.

“I am Monika.”, She said softly, “What is your name? Don’t you like dancing?”

“I am Tony.”, I replied. “I love dancing but I am afraid of making mistakes on the dance floor.”

She smiled in the most captivating manner. “I hope you don’t mind having my company. I am bored!”, she said as she strolled across to sit beside me. “I wish we were back in our school. All these celebrations and festivities bore me.”

“It is alright.”, I replied. “I also get bored at times, but then the Founder’s Day comes only once in the year.”

“Thank God for that!”, she said, “Claude Martin was quite a man! He came to India at a tender age of 16 but 24 years later died as a Major General. He never had the opportunity to prove himself a brilliant military leader; instead, he got the opportunity to prove himself a brilliant man of business. He arrived in Lucknow as a man of moderates means, but succeeded in accumulating a fortune of rupees 40,000,000! Plus his palace ‘The Constantia,’ which is today the La Martiniere College, and the fine house of ‘Farud Baksh,’ both of which he equipped with a luxury that included a library of some 4,000 volumes written in many languages, and a picture gallery containing a choice collection of works of art! Wow!”

“Yeah, he was a great man.” I replied. “I hero worship him, not because he gained a good rank and position and earned a lot of money, but because of the way he spent his money. Greater part of his immense wealth he has left for the support and foundation of Public Establishments, Charitable, and Literary. He left money for the poor irrespective of their religion or race, Christians, Muslims, or Hindus. He even left pensions for his favourite servants and the women of his harem, giving them all freedom after his death. He left pensions for some women and children belonging to other Europeans, who had lived in Lucknow, but who had died or gone away without providing for them. He even left large amounts to the members of his father’s family not forgetting the distant female relations.”

“You are right.”, Monika replied, “Although he lived like the Nawabs with a harem of women bought for his pleasure, he also did a lot of good and continues to do so even after his death.” We both nodded our heads in agreement.

“By the way, what does your father do? Mine is a doctor in Calcutta.”, Monika suddenly changed the topic.

I was dumbfounded. “I don’t know.”, I replied awkwardly. “We do not communicate. He lives in England.”

“You don’t know about your father?”, Monika asked. “Did your parents separate or divorce? I was twelve years old when my parents separated. My mother immigrated to the USA, and my father moved to Calcutta where his parents lived. I was placed at the boarding school in Girls La Martiniere. Every holiday my father takes me to Calcutta.”

“I do not know my mother at all. My father lives in England, and he pays my fees. I know nothing else about them. I grew up in this school.”, I replied.

“Why don’t you write to your father? I am sure he would tell you about your mother.”, Monika said. “I can understand how you feel. I also feel that way, lost and confused as to why, and what happened between my parents.”

We chatted the whole evening until it was time for her to leave. She was easy to get along with. We soon became good friends. Everything changed once I had a friend and a companion who understood me. I felt the magic of love, joy, and happiness. It made all the difference; I forgot my loss and started living like everyone else.

Soon the final examinations were over, and we had to leave La Martinieres College. Monika went to Calcutta and I to the principal’s home. We corresponded regularly. Both of us decided to join the Lucknow University.

Unfortunately, fate had something else in store. Monika’s last letter arrived a week before the University re-opened. Her letter woke me to the cruel realities and the romantic world of fantasies.

"Tony, I think this is a letter from Monika.", Cheryl said one afternoon, handing me the letter. "Perhaps it is to confirm the date of her arrival.”

I blushed, grabbed the letter, and rushed towards my room overjoyed. Monika had taken a long time to reply this time. The letter was very short, unlike the other ones I observed. It did not have the usual lipstick marks. Neither did the letter start with the usual "Dearest" or "Darling". For a minute I wondered whether the impersonal letter was from Monika, the girl who swore love on every line of her letter.

Tears rolled down as I read the contents. She wrote to say that she did not wish to continue with the relationship any more. Her parents had made up and she was going to the USA with her father in a week’s time. Her parents wanted her to join Howard University for medicine. I felt as though lightening had struck me; the fact that Monika had rejected me hit me hard. I was devastated.

“When is Monika coming?”, I heard Cheryl asking.

“She is not coming any more.”, I replied feebly.

“Not coming! What’s wrong?”. She took the letter from my hand.

“Bloody Hell!”, she exclaimed. “How could she? The bitch!”

Cheryl put her arms around me giving me the feeling of belonging and of protection. Her unaffected act of care brought tears to my eyes and I wept hysterically. The pain and hurt of years trickled through the tears. The floodgates were open because of the fresh rejection. I had never forgotten the fact that my parents had rejected me, and that I grew up abandoned like an orphan. Today the one woman I loved had also rejected me!

“What’s the matter?”, I heard Mr Morris. He and his wife were beside me in no time. “Why is Tony crying?”

For the first time I realised how much they cared for me. I had thought only of my loss and treated them as strangers. I never felt a part of a family anywhere. However, today seeing their concern, I realised for the first time, that they loved and cared all along. It was my perception that kept me locked in isolation. This new rejection brought us together and for the first time I became aware of my fault in denying people who valued me.

“Disappointments and rejections are part of life.”, Mrs Morris said. “You have not started life the happy way, but that does not stop you from making a success of your future life through your own efforts. Monika taught you to love, don’t let that love die. Find someone who will appreciate your love and give you happiness in return.”

I continued staying with the Morris’ after that incident. Cheryl and I became good friends. The following year her parents arranged for her further education in the UK. Mr Morris had a brother in London. She was going to live with his family for some time.

“I wonder if my father will sponsor me for further education in England?”, I asked Mr Morris one day.

“Why not? Write and ask him.”, Mr Morris said, “England has great opportunities, and you have the right to be there since your father is an Englishman.”

Cheryl helped me write to him as I found it difficult. He promptly replied to my letter. Although his letter lacked the fatherly touch, it offered me the initial financial help as well as the citizenship.

At the end of the year, both Cheryl and I flew to London by Air-India. We both went to stay at Cheryl’s Uncle’s house since my father did not offer accommodation. He wrote that he would see me once I reached London. I wrote to him twice strictly concerning the sponsorship. We both found it hard to express the emotions of a father and a son.

Cheryl’s Uncle and Aunt met us at Heathrow Airport. Somehow, I hoped that my father would be there. I sincerely wanted to hear the gentle voice of a father welcoming his son to a new country, but it did not happen.

A week later, an elderly Englishman walked in to the house.

“Ah!”, he said as soon as he saw me, “You look just like your mother with olive skin and dark eyes!”

I realised then that I knew Claude Martin better than I knew my biological father. Although we shared the same genes, and blood, there were no feelings or connection between us.

“I have enrolled you in the University as I promised.”, my father said. “Helen, my wife has been very cooperative in letting me do so.” I looked at him with disgust. “She said that we had a moral duty to educate you and give you a start in life since I was responsible for your birth. She did not want me to leave you abandoned in India as many others did. Helen made sure that I did my bit as your father, although we have our own children in England.” Then he added, “Anyway, I must leave now. I have to pick up my daughter’s children from school. She is working late tonight. It was good to see Tony. I wish you all the best in life.”

I walked him up to the door in silence and with abhorrence.

“No, wait,”, Cheryl said suddenly. “Tony has something to ask you. He has the right to know about his mother, and you have a duty to tell him.”

My father stopped at the door, he had not expected this.

“I did not think it was of importance. She was an Indian native woman with not much education. It was my duty to bring Tony up in the same culture and religion as myself. That is why I put Tony into a good Christian boarding school.”, he replied.

“Yes, education was important, but along with education he needed the love of his parents and a sense of belonging to a family. Therefore, he needs to know his mother.”, Cheryl insisted.

“Yes Sir, you have to tell me who my mother was and what happened to her.”, I said summing up courage from Cheryl's lead.

“I went to India as a young soldier.”, he replied. “Helen and I had just married and she was expecting my first child when I left. Life in India was very lonely and different from England. I longed for love and companionship. Helen refused to come out to hot and dusty India. Your mother Anzooria Begum was the only daughter of Nazamat Shah, a Muslim widower working in the army office as a clerk. He claimed that his ancestors belonged to a Nawabs family. They had a dilapidated haveli somewhere in Aminabad, and he lived with his relatives there.

Your mother was young, about sixteen, petite and pretty when I met her. She often came with lunch for her father. We fell in love, and before long, she was pregnant with you. We lived together for some time against her father’s wishes and you were born. She loved you and me very much, but I was a married man. I could not desert my family in England. Just before the Independence of India, when it was time for me to return to England, I confessed to Helen about the affair. She was angry, but being a compassionate lady, suggested that I give Nazamat Shah enough money to go to Pakistan with your mother, and leave you at La Martiniere College well provided. Anzooria must have married by now.”, my father said.

“How did she feel when you took me away from her?”, I asked weakly.

“She cried and threatened to commit suicide.”, he said guiltily. “But the local priest and I thought that it was for the best. I hated doing it but even her father agreed with us. She was crying bitterly the day I took you away from her. Yet I am definite that I did the right thing by her and you. She would have forgotten you by now, I am sure. You are doing well for yourself and have your own future to look forward to. Whatever happened was in the past. I could never have brought your mother out to England. She would never have settled into our culture. She was better off where she belonged. Besides, I had my wife and child waiting here.”, he said, trying to convince me.

“Thank you for all you have done, Sir.”, I said opening the door for my father. “I do not wish to have your donation any more. I shall manage my education and career myself. Good bye!”

That was the first and last time I saw my father.

Cheryl and I married two years later and after six years, we have returned to India with our son, Martin. I came to visit the college. Mr Morris had retired and another senior staff member I knew was the principal now.

Suddenly the new principal broke my reverie. “Tony!”, he said, “How nice to see you! You look good. What are you doing standing there? Come and meet someone you know very well.”

He took me into the staff room full of teachers; some I knew, others were new.

"Aslam, do you remember Tony?", I heard the principal say. A young man turned around and I immediately recognised him to be a classmate of mine. Aslam was always a day scholar. We had very little in common but I liked his quiet and unassuming disposition. Monika was a good friend of his cousin, Mumtaz. Monika and Mumtaz were in the same Year 10 class and they had completed HSc together..

“Aslam! I did not know you were teaching at La Martiniere College! You must love it here.”, I said, laughing.

We spent some time reliving the days of our childhood. “I married my first cousin, Mumtaz, and we have a small daughter.”, he said. Aslam invited Cheryl and me to dinner at his house.

One warm summer’s evening Cheryl and I drove down through the streets of the oldest part of the city and the heart of old Lucknow, Aminabad, to reach Aslam’s house for dinner.

We went past the gilded domes of the city’s remaining mosques and imambaras. Driving through the melancholic streets of modern and the old Lucknow, Cheryl and I commented frequently on the massive buildings dating from the days of the Nawabs, rearing up out of the surrounding pandemonium like monuments from some lost civilisation, seemingly as disconnected from the present as the pyramids are to modern Egypt. Under the Nawabs, Lucknow had experienced a Renaissance that represented the last great flowering of Indo-Islamic genius. Much of the surviving architecture of the city reflected this unique moment of Indo-European intermingling. We stopped at a huge impressive mansion. Aslam and Mumtaz were at the door waiting to receive us.

“Adaabh!”, I greeted him in the famous Lucknowi style. “What a magnificent haveli!”

“Yeah, it belongs to my ancestors. They were Nawabs.”, he said.

We barely had the time to sit down in the huge and artistically decorated lounge room, when I heard the unforgettable lullaby in the same tune and voice, which had haunted me throughout my childhood and youth.

“Who is singing that lullaby?”, I asked Aslam.

“Oh! that is Amma singing my daughter to sleep.”, Mumtaz said, “She used to sing the same lullaby to me in Pakistan. Now she sings it to my daughter.”

“Your mother! You are from Pakistan? What is your mother’s name?”, I inquired impatiently.

“My aunt, Anzooria Begum, and my grandfather went to Pakistan in 1947. She married a wealthy advocate in Lahore. Mumtaz is their only child. Amma and Mumtaz returned to Lucknow after her husband and father died.”

Cheryl and I looked at each other overwhelmed with emotions. “When did your aunt return to India?”, Cheryl asked, “Was her father, Nazamat Shah?”

“Yes! How do you know?”, Aslam asked, “He worked in the army barracks as a clerk during the British Raj. Aunt returned to India eight years back while I was in Year 10. Mumtaz completed her studies at the Girls La Martiniere.”

“Can I meet your mother?”, I asked timidly.

Mumtaz went in to call her. Cheryl and I stood dumbfounded.

“Amma meet Tony and his wife.", Aslam said when she came in.

I stared at the delicate and gracious figure dressed in silk and gold. We looked at each other. She had the same benevolent eyes like that of Gori Bibi. Does she remember me? Would she rather forget my existence? I wondered, while she stood composed.

“Amma, Tony likes your lullaby. He says it has haunted him since childhood.”, Mumtaz said, while I stood apprehensive with sentiment; tears clouding my eyes. Irrespective of age, I was a child again, waiting.

“Tony, mera betta!”, she said softly, as I rushed into her arms. She had not forgotten! My mother had not rejected me!

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