A Beautiful Sunset looking out to Venice Beach, Los Angeles. I captured this image from my balcony, back in the winter of 2016 while we were on a trip to the US with a few days at Venice Beach. I thought I would share it with you to give you a little bit of sunshine on this cold Winter’s day here in the UK.
This was a piece I wrote a few years back. I was lucky enough to have its included in a lovely Anthology titled ‘More Voices on the Verandah’ which was the final in a series of works by Anglo-Indians and those of Anglo-Indian descent. The Anthology is available still and is edited by Lionel Lumb
They were just nameless souls on sepia, staring out seemingly into space: a peer into a time long since past and now, not often remembered with any degree of regularity. With its jagged edges, it was evident that part of the photograph had been torn away, why is a mystery. Someone in the family, though I cannot recall who, had once mentioned that there had been a rift within the family back in the days when they used to gather at the beautiful hill station of Mussoorie, when escaping the harrowing heat of the city. That was as much as was known. There was no accompanying documentation and nothing written down to suggest who the people in the picture may have been. That they were ancestors seemed a little more than likely. The photograph depicted a wedding scene. Three people remained in the frame. Two seated and one standing or rather two standing but as one had been unceremoniously decapitated he could not be counted. He could have been anyone. The bride wore a lavish wedding gown of lace with what appeared to be a full layered veil laid lightly and carefully, so as not to interfere with her elegant upswept hair which was so fashionable in the early 1900s. Seated beside her was an older man with a head of thick snow white wavy hair, and sporting a long white beard: a little like Santa Claus in a suit. Beneath the hairy façade was a man not unlike my father. In fact, but for the beard it could have been my father sitting beside the bride. It was the eyes that gave it away. They were the same eyes that had watched over me all my life. Only my father’s eyes had seen different things to those of the apparently stoic figure of the man pictured here. Their worlds were far apart but their narrative of origin was one and the same.
Aunty Paddy had been a gifted and animated storyteller who had a penchant for making colourless characters come to life. She would captivate us with stories of heroes, heroines and travellers tales. “Children….are you listening carefully?” would be our queue to gather round to hear how our ancestors had sailed across oceans in search of fame and fortune. The story told so eloquently and consistently by Aunty Paddy, revealed that long ago when great vessels with billowing sails ruled the waves, travelling the trade routes carrying spices, silks and other luxury commodities, and when George III was King; two or possibly three brothers had set sail from bonny Scotland for the far off and exotic land of India. One of them or maybe all of them had been seduced by what the East had to offer, fallen madly in love with and married an Indian princess, and lived out his days happily ever after in India. This was perhaps a rather romanticised account but this was how the story had been told and retold. One brother had perhaps been a doctor, one a sea captain and the third, if indeed there was a third could have been anything Paddy decided him to be. Such is the power of the narrator. The stories were most likely a mixture of myth and reality but to us as children they were fact rather than fiction, impressing upon our imagination that we were indelibly connected to this mysterious and mystical other world, where gods were more than one, and princes were one and many; a world that had captured the hearts and souls of our forefathers and that was forever in our blood.
Shared experiences, cultures, customs and habits all go some way to forging our identities. What we are told as children often stays with us as adults. However, there are other commonalities that can engender an inherent sense of identity and belonging, such as the idea of shared stories and myths. There is no hard definition of myth. Myth is sometimes seen as being synonymous with fantasy and fairy stories, and little to do with fact. The notion of myth often conjures up images of superheroes and superhuman beings that create an idealised view of where we come from, therefore adding to our sense of worth. To us, these pioneers were real life superheroes; they represented the true to life fodder of fairy tales and fiction, that filled our minds with the machinations of an ‘Other’ world.
Linking myth to the narrative form is relevant, especially when considering Anglo-Indian narratives of origin because their change in circumstances, and the transitions they underwent in adapting to a colonial and a post colonial era both in Indian and in British society is shrouded with princesses both real and imagined. Of particular interest is what has become known as the princess myth which seems to circulate in many Anglo-Indian families. The myth suggests the presence of a noble ancestral connection and more specifically an Indian princess. What is of importance is why this myth has been created and the reason why some families lay claim to a princess in their midst.
Aunty Paddy’s version of events is echoed in a letter dated 19th December 2004 written by Marjorie Williams to her niece;
…thank you so much for sending me a copy of the family tree…It’s very interesting that so many Howatsons lived in India. Where does the Scottish side come in? I suppose Thomas Howatson who was originally married to (an Indian Princess)? So I heard. My story was that two brothers, Thomas and George set sail from Scotland – one a doctor and the other a sailor or captain of a ship. I can’t tell you where I got this story from – maybe Paddy…
The letter demonstrates firstly, that we find our narratives of origin appealing at any age. Marjorie Williams was 81 when she wrote the letter. She is unable to remember where she got the story from, ‘…maybe Paddy’ she asserts. Paddy was her elder sister who had died some years earlier and who it is purported knew more about the history of the family than anyone else. When Paddy past away, so too did much of the family narrative.
In addition the letter typifies the element of the ‘Indian princess’ myth that circulates in many Anglo-Indian families. Marjorie Williams is Anglo-Indian. Her father was Hugh William Howatson born in Calcutta, India, in 1886, habitually resident in India until about 1900 when he was sent to Britain to finish his education and later to follow a successful career in medicine. It was in Scotland that he met, fell in love with and married his own princess. His princess was Annie. It was close to one hundred years earlier, when Hugh William’s great grandfather Thomas Howatson had set sail for India. What Thomas would have thought of the Britain that his great grandson Hugh returned to can only be guessed at. It is known that following an irregular marriage in Glasgow, Hugh and Annie journeyed to India and travelled about with their young family for a few years, only to return permanently to Britain later. The reasons for their movements between these two great lands, is unknown. The Diaspora to other lands following partition and independence is well documented but what of those who returned to the fatherland beforehand. What are their stories? Our sense of ‘self’ is governed by what is going on the world and is in a constant state of flux.
It is only by telling our stories and passing them on to our children that we can preserve the memories and myths of past lives. Many stories are passed down between one generation and another, while other stories remain untold and are lost forever. So next time, when you are gathered cosily around the dining table after a sumptuous Sunday lunch as is quite common among families, laughing at the crazy antics of dad’s schooldays, finding out about grandma’s culinary gifts or hearing of an aunt’s penchant for telling tales, take note and listen very carefully to the snippets and anecdotes of your elders for these are your stories, your narratives of origin: savour every word and share!
‘Time is what prevents everything happening at once’ ~ Albert Einstein
First of all may I just wish everyone here in the Blogosphere a very belated Happy, Healthy, and Prosperous New Year in 2019! As they say in the film The Hunger Games ‘May the odds be ever in your favour’. Could not resist saying that! ! I have not done much on here for a while, as my beautiful horse River had an acute bout of Sand Colic on Christmas Eve, undergoing emergency surgery that same day as this was his only chance of survival. It was truly a do or die moment. The very word ‘Colic’ instills fear in those of us with horses, as colic in horses can be fatal. The Christmas break consisted of daily trips to the Equine Hospital some thirty five miles away. Sometimes twice a day. That said, Christmas is a time of miracles, and my equine friend made it through surgery. He is back home now and all is going well, and the prognosis is good. So explanations and best wishes aside, it is time to set pen to paper or rather fingers to the keyboard click, click clacking once more.
Is there such a thing as real time or is time just an illusion?
Time is the one thing that once given can never be gotten back, so waste your time wisely seems to be good advice, that is of course if wasting your time can ever be wise. Whether we follow that advice or not is of course up to us but in my experience more often than not we do not waste it wisely but rather just waste it without due care and attention. We then later realise that we have been procrastinating over this, that and the other and time has somehow managed to escape us. We ask ourselves, ‘Where did the time go?’ or ‘I lost track of time’. Even in these short few words written here, there are numerous references to that which we often refer fondly to as Old Father Time. Old Father Time perhaps being a more favourable image of the Grim Reaper reminding us maybe that our time is limited. I am beginning to think that we are obsessed with the ticking of the clock; tick tock, tick tock.
We are often told that there is no time like the present, and yet we constantly dwell on the past, and wonder about the future, and therefore often miss the moment that is here and now. Time can be quite the conundrum, in that we have too much time on our hands, yet not enough hours in the day to get things done. Time is said to be a great Healer and yet Time waits for no man. Time is of the essence and yet often time eludes us and is scarce. We have too much time or not enough. We are short of time and time is short. There is no time to get things done and yet we are often told we have all the time in the World. So which is is?
Every second counts, and there is one born every minute, which could refer to any number of things. Time can be our friend or our foe depending on where you stand on the subject. We are often rushed for time, and that time in the day when we go to work and when we return home during peak hours is aptly named rush hour. There is that time before sunrise and sunset which is dubbed Golden hour. Sometimes we feel robbed of time. Our time is precious, so why oh why do we waste so much of it?
There is so much more that I could write on the subject of time as time is everlasting but just now for me, in this instant, time is short and I must rush off in order to spend some time doing something that I love. Off to the stables it is then, to spend quality time with my much loved horse River who has been given extra time, so I look forward to some more happy times ahead. I thank you for your time, and hope that you will pop by in the future to spend a little time with me. Au revoir!
Adonis Blue Butterfly. Image captured by Liola Photographic
Butterflies fly by
fluttering colourful wings
rainbows in the air
© Liola Lee 2007