Passage Across the Mersey

by Robert Bhatia

  In the background, an important initiative of the Government of India was of vital concern to Helen and Avadh. Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru was a strong proponent of secularism and modern values. He saw reform of Hindu law governing marriage, inheritance, women’s property rights and other important matters of family law as a high priority. After much discussion and debate, both before and after Independence, the Hindu Code Bill was introduced in the Constituent Assembly (the precursor to India’s Parliament, which was established after the first general elections in 1951). The significance was that until the bill was passed, traditional Hindu law would apply. Helen and Avadh could be married in India before all the messy details of a settlement with Kashi and her family, and ultimately divorce, were finalized. After the bill was passed, they could not be married until all those difficult negotiations and time-consuming steps were taken. Time was of the essence.

  Avadh left for India in December 1949. I can only guess at my mother’s feelings of apprehension as she waved him off. They had known each other for only nine months and many obstacles stood in the way of their happiness, but she knew her own mind and felt sure she knew his.

  From the day he left until they were reunited once more, Helen and Avadh maintained an almost daily correspondence. The letters provide wonderful images of hope, anticipation, cultural adaptation and sometimes misunderstanding. They also illustrate a fascinating attention to detail, partly necessitated by very limited finances. Above all, they offer a glimpse into the early stages of what would be a lifelong love.

  Chapter Eight

  With the work of the office whirling round me I could not say a word of what was in my heart today; but you will know I am thinking of you all the time.

  Avadh was booked to fly from London’s Heathrow airport on 16 December 1949. Heathrow had been in use as an airfield during the war but had only fully opened to civilians in May 1946, replacing an old grass airfield in Croydon. International air travel was still relatively uncommon, and his flight had to touch down in Malta and Cairo for refuelling en route. All this makes it feel like a very long time ago but at two p.m. on the 16th, he wrote to Helen from Heathrow with words that still resonate today: ‘From 9 in the morning we have been waiting and I hope we have not to wait more before the plane finally takes off. It is pretty boring. I hear we might leave in about half an hour. I am not ringing you as I have only a few shillings left.’

  It sounds as though Helen was nervous about him flying because he reassured her: ‘This plane is now perfectly OK. It has been passed by the aviation authorities of this country.’ Perhaps she was anxious about her own forthcoming journey because she had booked a flight on 28 December, just twelve days later. This was timed so that she could arrive in India a few weeks before the earliest date that the Hindu Code Bill could possibly pass. She also had a sea voyage booked for 12 January if there was less of a hurry. One or the other would be cancelled, depending on the schedule for the bill.

  On 16 December, the day that Avadh’s plane eventually took off, Helen wrote to him in India for the first time.

  My own Dear One,

  I shall be counting the hours, the days, the minutes until I can join you, and my heart is already winging its way across the heavens with you – what good is a body without a heart!

  If you feel you should meet me, sari in hand, at Bombay, bring some safety pins – it may not be orthodox but I’ll never keep it up without!!!

  Don’t worry, darling, if you cannot have everything perfectly arranged for my coming. As long as you can find a corner in which we can sleep, we’ll soon get down to finding somewhere to live afterwards.

  Helen was apprehensive about her first encounter with a sari, a long single length of cotton or silk, but she eventually became proficient at wearing them and often donned them for special occasions long after she left India. A few saris with silver or gold brocade were among her most treasured possessions and were handled, stored and cleaned very carefully.

  *

  Over Christmas week, she began to pack her belongings. Her mother knew that Helen was about to leave for India, but the news had been kept from her father until the last moment because Helen guessed he would be upset about her departure. On 20 December, however, the secret was out.

  My mother has had to tell my father what is happening as he demanded to know what was going on in the house, for example, the packing cases for my luggage arrived and could not be hidden. He has taken it very badly, but has not spoken to me about it yet. I think he is mostly very sad that his favourite daughter is going so far away.

  Mother has bought me three summer dresses, suitable to work in the house, and two beautiful pairs of white sandals.

  I have been hoping all the time that the journey was comfortable and that you have arrived safely. All my thoughts are with you in these difficult times and it is my constant prayer that we may soon be together.

  Avadh arrived in India on the 18th and the next day took the train to Ahmedabad. He tried to telephone Helen at work, likely attempting to reach her after most of her colleagues had gone home, but, hardly surprisingly for the era, the phone system didn’t work so he sent a cable on the 21st. Cables did not have punctuation so the word ‘STOP’ was used for a full stop. There was a charge for each word, so it was prudent to be as succinct as possible. The cable read as follows:

  ARRIVED SAFELY HERE VERY HOT EVEN NOW STOP CANCEL BOTH PASSAGES STOP IF YOU DECIDE TO COME WAIT TILL FURTHER MESSAGE LETTER FOLLOWS STOP DONT WORRY BHATIA

  I can only imagine the consternation and dismay with which this cable must have been received. My mother was days from her departure for a new life when Avadh wrote telling her to delay and added the words ‘if you decide to come’. If! She had planned her entire future around marrying him and now he appeared to have doubts.

  They had designed a code for use in their cables, because it was not even a remotely private form of communication. The message had to be written out at the telegraph office for the staff to process. At the other end, it would be passed on by telephone and then followed up with a paper copy printed directly from the cable. Given the sensitivity of their personal circumstances, Helen and Avadh had agreed that ARRIVED SAFELY would mean that the Hindu Code Bill had not yet passed through Parliament but it was not certain whether or not it would pass before the Christmas recess. LETTER FOLLOWS meant that Avadh was not able to go to Delhi immediately to see his family.

  In just twenty-four words, the cable threw up in the air everything Helen was counting on and gave her lots of reason to worry. She wrote back immediately on Thursday 22 December:

  My Darling,

  I was simply horrified to get your cable telling me to cancel both passages, since I gather that the Bill has not yet passed and, therefore, it will be all right for me to come to India. The only thing I could think of which has made you decide that I should not come is that you have discovered that the climate is very bad indeed. This fact I had already discovered for myself by the simple process of reading the Encyclopaedia Britannica. I have, however, consulted all the men here who have been in India, including two who have spent a year or two in Ahmedabad, and they are all of the opinion that I could endure the climate without being ill, provided I was immunized against certain diseases and obeyed certain other health rules.

  Ahmedabad, then capital of the western state of Gujarat, is semi-arid, with a monsoon season in July and August. Temperatures in January and February would normally be 28–31°C (in the 80s F), but in December 1949 there was a heatwave with temperatures soaring well over 38° C (100°F) and as high as 46°C (115°F). Helen continued:

  I have cancelled the air passage on 28th December but have retained the sea passage on 12th January and unless there is some very exceptional reason why I should not travel on January 12, I shall come. No doubt I shall have further cables from you tomorrow, Friday, or Saturday, telling me more about it.

  My dear, I do not know quite what kind of difficulties you have discovered s
ince your arrival in India, but I do so hope that I can come to you soon. I know life is not going to be easy for either of us in such a bad climate, but I cannot live without you, and I feel that if we live a few years in Ahmedabad you will establish a good reputation and then perhaps you could look for a post in a town with a better climate.

  I am all packed and ready to come and prepared to endure a lot just to be with you.

  On Christmas Eve, Saturday 24 December, she wrote again:

  My dearest Avadh,

  You will have received my cable telling you that I am holding on to the sea passage in the hope that I can use it. You silly darling – ‘if willing’. If willing, indeed to goodness. Do you suppose I should not come even if we had to live in an African jungle!

  I am sure you will let me have definite news as soon as possible and then I will know what to do about luggage etc. I know you must be having a hectic time and I wish I was with you to share the burden, but I shall come as soon as you give me the word.

  I miss you desperately and hope this will be our only separation. If deep love, plenty of common sense and years of dealing with difficult situations can help you, then we can make life pleasant together. It will not come without careful building, but what happiness we can have while building!

  It would have been understandable if Helen’s mother and father were suspicious of Avadh’s request that Helen cancel her voyage without giving a good reason. Was he trying to back out of his engagement? The thought must have crossed their minds, although it does not appear to have crossed Helen’s.

  Avadh wrote on 22 December (a letter Helen received on the 28th) with the explanation that the air passage she had booked was too early and he would not be able to get time off to meet her in Delhi or Bombay because he had to attend a physics conference in Poona. The sea passage was too late because there was a chance that the Hindu Code Bill would pass in late January. He advised her to take a flight in early January, if she was still determined to come. He said he was very worried about the effect the heat wave would have on her, even in January, and saw this as reason enough for her seriously to reconsider. ‘I don’t wish to discourage you but I wish to impress upon you that heat is quite a good deal and remains so throughout the year – while I get only a month off in the summer.’ During that month off, they would be able to escape the heat by going to a hill station where it would be cooler.

  Avadh had started work that day and also reported that he had been able to secure a small flat near the laboratory, although he had not yet seen it. At that time, he had not told his family that he was bringing over an English fiancée and he was probably getting more anxious about doing so but there is nothing in this letter that hints at that. There’s no doubt he loved my mother with all his heart, but suddenly the difficulties seemed to be piling up.

  Helen wrote back on 28 December:

  My Dear,

  I was so glad to have your letter of 22nd December today and to know the reason for your telling me to cancel both passages. I do hope I can come by sea – it will save such a lot of money and, further, I am at present so very tired that it would be a help to have a rest before trying to cope with a whole new world.

  How thrilling that you have found a flat so near the laboratory – I do wonder what it is like. Don’t worry if it is not very beautiful – we will soon make it pleasant together.

  I am not quite sure what will happen to me in 115° of heat, but we must just hope for the best. You will have to tell me every little dodge you know to help keep the temperature down and keep us well. Between us we shall do it. I believe that October is the worst month – when the earth literally steams with the first rains and the last heat. We shall just have to gargle our throats, swat the flies, disinfect the drains and generally declare a state of war during that time. Is it a malarial district? I have a few paludrine tablets from my doctor which will help us at first and perhaps we could get some more, should need be.

  Helen told him she had procured a book with which to start teaching herself Hindi, not realizing that Ahmedabad is in a solidly Gujarati-speaking region. Few of the local people would speak Hindi or English, while the university community would generally speak English. It does demonstrate that she was utterly determined to make a go of her new life and was applying all her grit and willpower to this end.

  On 23 December Avadh wrote to Helen acknowledging that his cable telling her to cancel both the air and sea passage had upset her. He was clearly under considerable stress. In this letter he told Helen that she should plan to come by sea because it was so much cheaper, but to keep her luggage with her until the last minute. That way if the legal situation changed and she needed to come quickly to get married before the new law passed, he could cable her again and tell her to fly. It seems to have been remarkably easy to book and unbook tickets at the last minute, with none of the cancellation charges we would incur today.

  On the 26th, he assured her that coming by sea would almost certainly be fine. The Hindu Code Bill was very controversial in India and the Assembly had decided to establish a committee of supporters and opponents of the bill from both inside and outside the House so it looked as though a significant delay was likely.

  Avadh had changed his mind about attending the academic conference in Poona and was now going to attend a different one early in the New Year. In the meantime, he was travelling to Bulandshahr, the small city near Delhi where his family lived in a gracious and spacious house built, as was traditional, around a courtyard. He planned at last to tell his parents and Kashi, who was living in the family compound with them, about his plans. ‘But you need not be afraid that I will change my mind. I hope everything will be o.k, although how my father will take it I don’t know,’ he wrote nervously.

  On 31 December, Helen wrote back:

  I am anxious that your father should not be grieved at having another daughter-in-law, and I would do anything to ease his sadness, except give you up. I feel that in marrying you I am not taking away anything that belonged to anyone else – nobody seemed to care very much whether you lived or died whilst you were in England, except me and I cared very much.

  I am not worried at leaving England, although I love my country very much. I know at times I shall grieve and want to come home, but surely India is not such a terrible country that I cannot love her too. You are in India, and it is people, not things, that really make a life. We shall make friends and, all being well, will be loved and respected – what more could we ask?

  She was understandably anxious about his visit to his family and wrote again on 3 January 1950:

  My thoughts have been with you specially during the past day or two, since you are at home and have to face your family. I hope that you have not been made very unhappy by it all. I wish that I could have shouldered the difficulty with you.

  I have thought very deeply about the big change I am making in my life and I feel that the things I shall lose will be outweighed by the things I shall gain. I know I have a terrible lot to learn, but I feel you will help me to do that learning.

  Between us, darling, there will have to be even closer understanding and patience than is usual between husband and wife, but I know in my heart that the foundations for such understanding are already truly laid. Remember, my dear, that had I married an Englishman, my life, at present in England, would have been very difficult. Supposing that I had married an English professor, it is doubtful whether we could have afforded for me to give up my business career, and that means that I should have had to do two full-time jobs, i.e. go to business and keep house. Life for the middle classes in England is far from easy.

  The day after sending this letter she received a cable from Avadh, dated 2 January, which read:

  SORRY FOR DELAY SEA BOOKING ALRIGHT MAKE FINAL DECISION AFTER FIRST JANUARY LETTER NO ANXIETY

  She replied straight away, with great excitement:

  The relief of knowing at last that all is well is wonderful. Bahr Behrend’s say that the ‘J
al-Azad’ will arrive on February 3rd at Bombay, but cannot say exactly yet. I will cable you the exact date as soon as I can be certain of it. I am finishing work on Saturday next and will travel to London on the following Thursday, breaking my journey at Leicester in order to see my friend Sylvia before I go. All this, of course, is subject to the contents of your letter mentioned in your cable.

  Bahr Behrend & Co. is a Liverpool shipping agent and the Jal-Azad was a passenger/cargo ship owned by the Scindia Steam Navigation Company of Bombay. Helen was booked to sail on 14 January, two days later than she had originally expected; because it was partially a cargo ship, the Jal-Azad’s schedule could be subject to change. That meant it was only a month until she would see Avadh again and her excitement was palpable. But then on 4 January she received Avadh’s letter of 1 January (an unusually quick delivery), telling her of his visit to his parents and her spirits must have plummeted once more.

  I left Delhi last night after spending three days in Bulandshahr with my parents and am still on the train and will remain on it till 12 noon tomorrow. My handwriting is shaky and the paper is hardly suitable to send to you [torn out of a notebook]; nevertheless I must describe what happened in Bulandshahr. I hope you will be able to read it and forgive me if it annoys you.

  My father and mother, as well as Kashi, received a very great shock when they heard of my intentions. My father felt very sad but he did not say anything to me except that though he would still regard me his son, and you his daughter-in-law (and invited you to live and wear clothes like we all usually do), yet he would be much happier if I did not marry you. But I had given you my promise and I could not break my promise from my side as they once suggested.

  Kashi also feels very sorry but she says that I only have to do that which will make me happy and that she will not expect anything from me. She is not prepared to marry again and she, being what her training is, will probably never do so. She was even willing to give her good sarees to you, which I did not accept. So here I am in the muddle, not knowing what to do.