Born in Elysium, 1920s–54

MY MOTHER, JENA, WAS raised in the coastal town of Dar-es-Salaam, meaning ‘Abode of Peace’ in Arabic. Like Mombasa, it was a cliché of seaside gorgeousness but more languid. The lobsters and crabs, she said, were slow of movement, and birds slothfully hung around on trees most of the hot day. The sea was part of the music of her soul; her favourite Hindi song was about the sound of melancholy waves leaving traces of sadness on the sand.

Her father had made good, and was kind and generous, she was told by those who knew him, a man who valued humanity and God equally, a radical position for those times. Then disease took away both her parents. Jena and her younger brother Pilu were orphaned too young. Graveyards in the tropics are full of such premature deaths. There were no photographs or images to give shape to the sense of loss the siblings must have felt. Jena spent her whole life peering at family faces, seeking clues and signs so she could construct identikit images of her mother, Puribai, and father, Ramji. When her granddaughters were born, Jena always said, excitedly, ‘I dreamt she is my own mother returned – her face must be my mother’s face. Look at her, pretty nose, she doesn’t look like any of us, must be my mother.’