Selling my parents antique furniture, Bangalore, India

The men were champions fitting so many pieces in a tiny auto My heart has been heavy this past week, having to sell my parents antique furniture, now that Mum too has passed. The finality of the last nail in the coffin really, to sell all their things and close the chapter. These pieces adorned the beautiful old mansion that was our home through our childhood. Infact many of the pieces belonged to my grandfather and we used so many ourselves, which has made it all that more difficult. We were given time over the years while Mum was ill and ailing, to take whatever we wanted of the furniture and had to sell the rest on her passing. We did not want most of the pieces as they are not meant for an apartment. Just one cupboard takes up so much space and anyway we have built in wardrobes now.

One of my students now with Deloitte bought Mums linen cupboard and is so pleased! The job was tough, BUT being one of the executors of the wills it had to be done and I am glad my parents felt confident in reposing the job in me as well, their first born. Thank God there was never a difference made between male and female progeny in our family and being the eldest it was a good feeling to know that. Who wants bossy goofy men around? And I am glad my parents made sure of that.

The dining table with heaps of memories Today I have found, whatsapp and FB are the greatest selling tools ever. Far more effective than all the ads I have designed and published in the 12 years I ran my own advertising agency -- Arc Advertising. Ads in the papers cost money. Social media is FREE and has a fantastic reach. PLUS, social media, caters to niche audiences. So I put out a small para on my FB page that I was selling my parents antique furniture. In minutes I had two serious buyers. “Could you send me all the pics on whatsapp?” he asked and with alacrity, I climbed down the stairs to Mum’s flat and clicked all the pics. I sent them to him and in seconds he had decided what pieces he wanted.

The Dumb Waiter or sideboard which every respectable home had “ Can I come tomorrow?’ said one. Sure I said and he was there on the first day of the lifting of the lock-down. He came with his whole family and the autorickshaw to carry away what he bought and paid for immediately. It was heart wrenching to see the familiar pieces vanish into the auto and out of sight in under an hour. But there is no other way, someone has to do it. The Dumb waiter or the Side board which held the beautiful soup tureen my Nanna and Mum loved to serve in. It also held a brass gong which was banged to alert us that lunch or dinner was served. That was a more gracious era. An era with culture and genteel norms of etiquette. I do so miss it, today’s culture is not worth talking about.

Mums showcase which held her crockery which had vanished with the old bungalow We ate and drank out of fine china and I did not realise how much that meant to Mum till she visited us in our new home and I offered her tea in a mug.No! Mum always wanted tea in a tea cup and when she did deign to drink from a mug, Dad found beautiful bone china ones for her! There was no question of slurping our tea or eating with fingers. Infact we never could scrape our plates too and always ‘closed’ the plates with our cutlery once we had eaten and were done.My sons were taught that and I am glad they do it with their families too -- no wastage of food and clearing the plate-- only serve as much as you can eat. Mum always had beautiful white cloth serviettes which we used at parties and the table was always covered with a damask table cloth which probably belonged to my grandmother. As the movers lifted off the table top, memories of the hundreds of parties we had in Hayes Road came flooding back. The big screen which divided the dining and the hall was moved back and the tabletop was lifted to one side and the legs were moved forward. In seconds the top was fitted back, the table cloth in place and all the goodies came flooding the table from the kitchen.

The horrible sofa set with its hard cushions That table saw my mother correct her ISC scripts with my sons earning 25 paise per script that they helped her tabulate. That table held her books spread out as she worked with Dad on her Masters in English at the ripe old age of 50. My parents taught us age is just a number and there is no age to stop studying and achieving. And it was all done on that table. The table held dosas,wrapped in newspaper, brought from the top of the road by Dad in a cloth bag and a tiffin carrier with chutney and sambhar. We all sat around it and wolfed down two solid heavy dosas each. Dad ofcourse had to disgustingly drink the remaining sambhar. The table also saw a glut of mangoes year after year from the malgoba tree. “ You can eat as many as you like,” said Pappa which was in contravention of Dad’s “ eat only one,” diktat.

Mums beloved Escritoire which I had to clear of her writing stuff and her pedicure set. The table saw weddings and engagements, it saw grandchildren’s baptisms and achievements celebrated.The table also always held a flask of tea, sugar and milk which we could help ourselves day or night -- a habit I continue. Or in mango season, jugs of mango fool. My heart broke as it was loaded onto an auto, especially when my sister tells me it was bought with Dads first salary for his parents. The sideboard held the plates and cutlery we used every single day and ofcourse the table mats. The large showcase held all Mums prized glass and crockery which sadly nothing is left of all that. Probably lost during the building. The large and heavy Rosewood open showcase held all Dads beautiful corals and massive shells from the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. It also showcased his miniature planes and grungy looking elephants and a rhino from Kaziranga. All that fascinated a child growing up.

Why no one has bought this is a question mark which I hope to remedy The old sofa set will be shipped to the Goa house and so will the washing machine and the fridge if there are no buyers. I refuse to get conned on quality goods which have hardly been used. Ofcourse Mums bed goes back to the Little Sisters, her wheelchair and everything else which she used too. The furniture is almost gone, except for the modern looking beds. Even though they are solid quality no one seems to want them. Whatever is left will go to the Little Sisters of the Poor. And I will have the money that I want to say a year or two of masses in honour of my parents and feed the poor as well in their name at Don Bosco.

The Chest of Drawers in the Dressing room which Dad used. The rest hopefully can be used to clean up and spruce up my sisters flat, which has been run down with the servants ruling the roost for five years and to our great relief cannot enter any more. It’s a terrible and sick feeling when your home is invaded by outsiders taking control. So glad that the furniture has been bought by good homes which will value the pieces like we did growing up. Yes, our childhood has vanished, but we know they are in good hands.

Secret Seven in the UK

Box Park near Croydon station Several years ago when I first started going to visit David and Rashme in the UK, I also factored in seeing old Bangalorean friends, who also live there. Basically started with them wanting to be part of my iBrowse book club and now of Book Bound. But we have grown bigger than the book club discussions and keep in touch a lot,through FB, FaceTime and whatsapp every single day, even though I live in India. We are seven of us and over the years become thick as thieves. Infact, since we all belong to the Enid Blyton generation we call ourselves the Secret Seven!

Enjoying a meal at Box Park before the show It began with my cooking a typical desi meal and calling them over to meet in David’s home. Transport in the UK is very expensive for me a foreigner to use trying to travel around visiting them. So, I cook over the week as in the UK nothing goes rancid or bad like it does in India. I start with the meats so the sauces and masalas kick in well. And finish with the paneer and dahi vadas and on the morning ofcourse the pea pulao and raita that Mum always made for a party. I was never a fantastic cook like my sister Christine is, but over time and with those extraordinary ITC masalas which I carry, I am really happy with what I serve.

Before the Buddy Holly show in the Fair Field Hall, Croydon David is a wonderful help, taking me shopping for the ingredients and helping clean up and set up the table out on the patio. Really, my big, giant of a son is quite the sweetest ever, always ready to help and takes off the burden of seeing to everyone’s drinks as well. Ofcourse his garden makes the most wonderful backdrop. It is so pretty, like something straight out of a picture book, especially now that the landscaper has turned it into a work of art.We all sit out on his grand patio amidst the scented roses and honeysuckle falling over the bamboo from the neighbours. All my friends are gardeners and so always bring a gift of a plant for David rather than silly flowers.

The quirky pizza restaurant in Box Park The last visit my friend Averil said,” Enough M! No more cooking. Let’s all go out for a change!” So I took a train down to Battersea and met Kiran and Averil there and enjoyed wolfing down sandwiches and a cup of coffee in the lovely Battersea park. Kiran brought me HUGE wedges of chocolate cake made with Stevia knowing I am a chronic diabetic. It was to die for and need to learn how to make my own from her. Kiran by the way is as old as my eldest son David! A few days later she had organised tickets for a show and the four of us went -- Padma a doctor with the NHS, Corrinne who is retired now, Averil and me. I first met Averil at Clapham Junction station and we took a train to Croydon, where then ambled across to Box Park in Croydon. BoxPark is a food and retail park made out of old shipping containers. Built just outside East Croydon Station we met Corrine at the gate and then ambled into the park to decide what we would have for lunch.

Could the pizzas be any bigger? “ Take a look around this place called Box Park,” said Averil. “ I was keen to bring you here as you do a lot of travel writing and this place is quite unique.” Yes it would make a great story I said and straight away started snapping my pictures. Containers lined up on both sides had been creatively turned into little food joints from which we ordered what we wanted to eat. I went for Thai food as British Thai food is far superior to what we get in Bangalore. Corrinne and Averil ordered a large Pizza for the table and Padma coffees for us all. I finally landed eating Pizza while Padma and Averil demolished the Thai.

Averil Padma and me had a blast at the Buddy Holly Show Then once we were replete we walked down to the Fairfield Halls in Croydon for the Buddy Holly show. The show told the story of Buddy Holly’s rise to fame and his tragic death in a ‘plane crash in just two years of his reaching stardom. Twenty of his most beloved songs were played much to our foot stomping delight. The music is definitely my parents era, but music has no age and we enjoyed the show, well worth the expensive tickets. After the show we ambled back to the Box Park for a cup of chai or a latte for me and headed home. Doc Padma drove, so she left to find her car while Averil Corrine and me took the train. Averil kindly dropped me off to the train taking me to Woking and called David to say I was headed home. In 20 minutes I had reached and this time had the sense to walk out of the correct exit gate. David was waiting to drive me home and We stopped off at the Chinese place to collect dinner before heading home.

The gut wrenching pain when burying your mother

My beautiful 'Bombay girl' mother. We could not fill her coffin with bought flowers, as the shops were closed with the quarantine. But we gave her a piece of Hayes road to carry with her instead-- the brilliant heliconias growing in the garden that she probably planted. When the original homestead was being pulled down, I took a clump of the heliconias and planted them in our farm in Hoskote. They grew and flourished there and multiplied. When the apartment block came up I brought a cement pot filled with them back and replanted them along the wall. They have become an immense clump, happy to be flourishing on the wet waste from the pit. Strangely at this time the flowers were all in bloom and so when I was told that there was no shop with flowers to buy, I did not bother -- I know she would have preferred her own flowers, from her own home. Mum loved Hayes Road even though she was married into it from Mumbai.

The brilliantly coloured heliconias from Hayes, that went with her Mum’s burial was much easier emotionally for me without the long drawn out Mass in church, with the hundreds of well wishers present. Burials with church services have a distribution of communion and filing past the coffin and it's a nerve wracking experience for the family as hundreds come up to wish and condole. Instead it was all over in a short few hours with a service at home. Sadly our regular known Jesuits from St. Joseph’s were not present, just priests from the Patna province, who would give her weekly communion when she could swallow.

Mum when she taught me in CJM, New Delhi The old man priest seemed to feel it was more important to talk about how well she had been looked after and the cleanliness of the room, rather than an eulogy for Mum. He gave the person incharge 100% for cleanliness. I wanted to say he was lucky my mother was dead, cause she might have told him -- cleanliness is a given in OUR homes! We don't need your certificate. He was embarrassingly and obviously primed to say so, the silly old man. I was glad I could read out David’s eulogy which came from the heart, which would have made her happy.

At a picnic with her FAPS students in Coorg The family grave was opened out and Mum was interred along with Nana, Dad's mother. Nana’s remains were put into a smaller box which was lowered down first. Then a slab of stone and earth and then, Mum’s coffin went down. Such clear foresight on the part of Dad to have bought both graves side by side for his parents and the space inbetween as well. Now the family can all be buried together without having to run around the cemetery looking for graves. Technology helped to bring my sister Christine Pereira, and brother Mark Furtado and families living in Perth, and David in the UK to 'attend' the burial of their beloved grandmother and mother.It was amazing that we could show them the entire service and they were present through it all as they could not fly down to be physically present.

As a teen with her baby sister Priya Mendens who is a local singer, generously came and helped us sing a number of hymns which calmed us all at the site. We did have to sing a number of hymns as the Parish priest -- Monseigneur Jayanathan from St. Patricks church took time to arrive. The grave was opened out and the foot boards and ropes ready to receive the coffin. Burial is a gut wrenching, heart churning, emotion draining process, which I have never been able to stomach. Since the time my Nanna was buried I hate it and avoid all funerals. But then it has to be done and hiding like I normally do like a coward, I forced myself to be present. I kept looking at Dad's headstone to tell him she was coming and Pappa and Nana too. They could have a jolly good party together-- the four of them. Free from the constraints of battling kids, which they must be sick of. But by the time the lowering of the coffin happened and the dreadful thudding of the soil on a beautifully bathed and powdered Mum, my legs could not hold me and I sat on the ground. Weak, disoriented and exhausted, as it had all been too emotionally draining for me. My family understands and I prayed I did not become nauseous.

Mum with her favourite cousin -- Joy My brother John organised the entire burial process with the undertakers, the coffin and the hearse.That is the worst part of a burial and it’s amazing how he handles it with no drama, exactly like my father did with his parents. Except Dad had both parents buried in a week and a newborn baby inbetween. A lesser man would have crumbled. God is good, he finally heard our prayers to release Mum from the bondage of unendurable pain for so many years. I would come to see her everyday after my jog, watering the garden and making the chappatties for breakfast. I would hold her head and say -- GO Mum, why don’t you go. And then the day after the doctor who had visited, grandly upping all sorts of needs of hers left, maybe Mum heard her and decided it was time to go. For a woman used to making her own decisions, to being handled by three servants day and night, was torturous for me to see. Being the eldest I was used to being my parents right hand for everything they did. It broke me to see what they were reduced to, with outsiders deciding what was to be done for them and how their savings was spent.

My extremely good looking parents But the sorrow of finally interring her in the ground was unbearable and I could not throw that handful of soil on her. I just sat on the floor wincing with every thud of soil on my just bathed, lace clad mother. Clods of soil, closing her forever from my view and from being able to see her ever again. But after two days of being a zombie I sit writing this and talking to myself saying, shake yourself up. Mum is in a much better place, a place you wanted her to go to. I take my cup of coffee to the terrace and let the breeze play on my face and dry my tears. I hammer into my brain that my parents have gone and probably I will be the next in line.

My handsome, aeronautical engineer -- Dad. My book " A Bend in the River of Life' Is a paean to my parents before Parkinsons reduced them to lingering shadows of themselves. I have had hundreds of people who have gained solace from reading my book. That is good, as that was my plan anyway, because I believe life’s experiences need to be shared. Life is a circle and Mum’s passing is the end of an era. She and Dad would not want me to grieve, but grieve I must. I was their first born, I saw the best of them, I enjoyed the best from them, so I need to slowly let go and let them live as memories in my heart and as the inspiration in whatever I do, for the rest of my life.

An athlete is for life

13 years old and breaking the Delhi State 100 metres record. It was strange but in Bangalore, when I was in the Good Shepherd School for two years, I was not much of a sports person. I think it’s probably because I was sent to school when I was underage and was competing with girls sometimes two years older. It was only when we left Bangalore for New Delhi and I was in what is considered the best girls school in India -- Convent of Jesus and Mary, Gol Daak Khana that I found my athletic prowess. By then I guess the difference in years faded away because there were different age groups and I had grown taller.

The start which Dad fine tuned to perfection Plus I was in a class filled with girls from only the top echelons of society. There was the shooting Princess from Bikaner, with the most beautiful rings I had ever seen and she would change them every single day with different sparkling stones in them. She had a governess who sat outside in the verandah all day, in a spotless white saree and saw to her food and her snacks. Girls who finally became top fashion designers like Asha Kocchar, News readers like Komal GB Singh, Hockey stars like Kiran Garewal, film stars like Valerie Pereira who became Valerie Jalal Agha, Archana Dalmia who is Sonia Gandhi’s right hand woman -- the list was endless.So naturally the spirit of competition grew in me and the urge to excel like them bubbled up.

Winning was second nature to our Delhi State team in Basketball My father was the Mysore State athletics star for years in the ‘30’s and is still remembered for his athletic and hockey prowess. Seeing me start to blossom from the Vth standard in Delhi, he began to take me out to the lawns of the Officers Mess where we lived and worked on my starts and my arm action. Everything he knew he taught me and promised me starting blocks and spikes should I win my races. I not only won my races at my first under 13 age group initiation into the track and field world, I also broke two records in the Delhi State Meet, which stood for several years in my name. Immediately from the stadium itself Dad took me to the Sports store in Connaught place and bought me my spikes and blocks. Mum would make sandwiches and bring iced lime juice and cheer from the stands. And my sister Christine would participate as well in the longer distance races.

Basketball stars yet again in the National Stadium, New Delhi I represented my state at the time which was New Delhi three times in National Games in Jullundhar, Cuttack, Orissa and Ahmedabad, Gujurat. I also played basketball for the state and enjoyed my years right through school and college winning bags of medals and cups. I believe sports teaches one discipline. Dad was an extremely disciplined man whose day was planned to the last minute. Sport taught me discipline as well and juggling several things at one time is certainly because of the quickness learned from sport. Infact I still start my day with a 2 k jog every morning including Sundays.

Winning in Baldwin Girls' School as well . this time as a young teacher. Today I see my sons too fit the same mould, where discipline is the key learned from sport. They were Asian level triathletes which was a far superior and tougher sport than either Dad or I had attempted. Today the doctor son still participates in marathons and triathlons across the country (USA) and I go cheer and watch with pride. He was to have participated in the Ironman in May which I was all booked and ready to go after attending my niece's wedding in Australia. However COVID had other plans.

Class VIII in my posh school in New Delhi. He says sport has given him the strength and endurance to be a cardiologist standing for hours doing procedures. The older boy spends his extra hours in the garden and cycles to collect his baby son from day care should he be working from home. Both boys are passing their skills down to their kids which would make my parents happy as well as my husband and me.

My gorgeous five year old then grand daughter and her Dad racing. The skills are being passed down the circle of life.