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| Jill Cadman and Fiona |
I watched Fiona intently, without being offensive and I remember her busy English home may have not had everything in place, because, really she had a lot of stuff in her head to do, as a lady working with the government, but there was always that thing about style she maintained in her day to day life. Indeed, she was soft spoken and met my eyes, when she talked, rather infrequently making sure I was being addressed, but not rudely stared at. Polite and perfect with her diction, her relationship with her daughter, who had just become a mother and lives close by too, reflects the same spirit of respect and non-interference, although she is a great support to her, naturally.
“I like the way; you are so respectful of
her.” I said.
“Oh yes, I would always be that with her.”
Quite naturally, Jessica, her daughter
displays the same respect for her little baby who is only 6 months old.
“I can’t have her picture published,
because, she has to permit me to do so. She will have to grow up to decide for
herself.” She said, when I asked for a picture of her baby.
In an age of Facebook, where the boundaries
between personal and public is dimming out fast, it is important to draw the
lines somewhere and not go the whole hog and tell it all to the world.
Again, this is a show of respect, no matter
what the age of the human is.
Fiona comes from a line of single mothers.
Interestingly, her grandmother, mother, she herself and her daughter are all
single mothers. Like my mother, who chose to be a single mother, despite my father
being alive, the women in Fiona’s line too, made the same choice. This fact, this
points out to one thing for sure – parenthood, is a choice we make ourselves
and how we are going to fulfill the role is again a personal choice. This choice
undermines social norms to place the individual’s personal choice above all, no
matter what the price may be that one must pay for this bold decision.
Fiona makes the breakfast and dinner; a
single, working woman would do in urban India too. It is simple, quickly made and
does not require time to cook it up and place it on the table. A quick bowl of
porridge with a toast, butter as you please, honey and a cuppa, is just right
to start the day with. At dinner, time she spends with herself is with a
glass(es) of wine and some soft music playing in the background. She reads a
lot, both at work and off it and her single room with bath, drawing-cum-dining
room and a kitchen flat in London is a haven of books, not so much novels. She
is a serious reader from a very intellectually engaging time, the sixties.
On my way back to India, I spent time with
her alone for two days when we went to Oxford. Really, Oxford cannot be covered
in a day, or a month, or a life time. But the little town can be admired for
its rich history. Our guide that day, a lovely lady, who said her brain was
melting underneath the heat of the May sun, gave us a list of people who had
passed out of different colleges in Oxford. Pity, she forgot Dr Amartya Sen,
Nobel Laureate, perhaps because his name was a true tongue twister and
preferred to talk about names she could remember. I was proud to hear Dr
Manmohan Singh’s name but not so happy about her saying that Indira Gandhi, the
once Prime Minister of India, passed out of here and Sonia Gandhi her daughter in
law, also passed out of here. Indeed, I had raised my hand to rectify the
mistake by saying that Indira Gandhi attempted to pass out of here but
regrettably did not and her daughter in law we know was studying the English
language somewhere here but are not quite sure she succeeded in her Exams, but
we are certain that she was a waitress in one of the Cafe here where she met
and then married India Gandhi’s son, Rajiv Gandhi. Well, better sense took over
and I sheepishly put my hand down, remembering quite clearly what my English
Headmistress, Miss Thompson, always told us, when in England, do as the English
do - maintain a tight upper lip.
“I will always think of you when I am at
Oxford.” She wrote, and I agreed we had a lovely time, walking the streets of Oxford,
hopping on and hopping off the Oxford sight-seeing bus, many times over. Yet,
the real feel of Oxford is not yet in my blood and perhaps that will only
happen when we can both go once again, not like two friends walking its
hallowed streets, where many a stalwart walked but as a family, with Jessica and her pretty baby with
us.
When I look back, I think of all the little
things Fiona did for me, someone, whom she had met the first time in her life
and I feel once again, it is a way, a style of presentation of who she is, that
I will always remember her by.
Like all the people I met, who were a part
of Jill’s life, I know, Fiona had heard of me a lot and so there was a bonding
spun around a common friend, our own dear, dear Jill. But, now, a warm friendship
has kindled in our hearts too, separate and yet, strongly, bound by our common
love for Jill.
Isn’t it lovely, how love grows?
