Born in Rangoon (now Yangon) in 1925, my elder sister was part of an 11-member family that fled Burma during World War II. Along the 1,500-km stretch of hilly, trackless terrain, the barefoot caravan of women and children endured severe food shortages, diarrhoeal infections, and painful foot injuries.
Post-War Settlement and Marriage
After the family reached Amritsar and settled in a modest two-room house, the search began for a suitable match for her. She eventually married a freedom fighter who had spent time in Mirzapur jail on charges of complicity in train derailments during the Quit India Movement. An engineering graduate from Banaras Hindu University, he came from a deeply patriotic family.
Awakening of Creativity
My sister had received no formal education, yet her father-in-law gifted her an expensive pen. Lo and behold, the literary milieu of Hazra Road, Calcutta, awakened the poet and artist within her. One of her embroidery works, Horse Head, was adjudged the best in an all-India competition organized by Usha Engineering Works. It was there that she learned sewing-machine mechanics, a skill that made her popular among women in the neighborhood.
Her Husband's Career and Children
Her husband supervised engineers who, in those days, were compelled to work on 89-day contracts followed by a mandatory one-day break in service. This experience brought out the leader in him, and he eventually rose to head the Blasting, Drilling, and Grouting Division of the Bhakra Dam project. Four of their five children became doctors. The fifth, perhaps to vindicate the name of their home — Engineers’ Villa in Amritsar — earned an MTech degree, though he too eventually took charge of the administration of his brother’s high-end hospital.
Master of the Household
The management and upkeep of Engineers’ Villa, however, was almost entirely my sister’s domain. Whether it was a leaking gas cylinder, a faulty socket, or a defective switch, she understood every electrical connection in the house and maintained it expertly, even keeping a watchful eye on the energy meter installed at the gate. Free from kitchen duties, she would inspect leaking taps, clogged sinks, or minor masonry defects. She possessed a gleaming do-it-yourself toolkit, brought from the US during a visit to her son. She had picked up tricks of the trade from professional plumbers over the years. She did not merely run the house; she operated it like a well-oiled machine.
The Nut That Yielded to Soft Hands
One day, a friend of mine — a chief engineer in the Merchant Navy — happened to accompany me to her home. We saw her struggling to replace a sink pipe. The plastic pipe had come off easily, but the large brass nut beneath the sink refused to budge. The chief engineer, proudly declaring that he had spent his life among nuts and bolts in the engine room of his ship, rushed forward. Yet, despite all his effort, the stubborn nut would not yield. Even the box spanner supplied by the manufacturer kept slipping, much to his frustration.
At last, my sister quietly took over. Holding two spoons firmly against the sides of the hexagonal nut, she applied moderate pressure. The nut yielded instantly to her soft hands. The engineer could only regret that he had so confidently flaunted his engine-room credentials.
The writer taught linguistics at Khalsa College, Amritsar.
