C h a p t e r 1
B A C K  T O  T H E  D I S TA N T  PA S T:  C H I L D H O O D

My life began on the South-west coast of India, in what was then a small
town—Mangalore, in the district of South Canara. My father was
posted as a Judicial Officer (Munsiff) at Kurnool (now in Andhra Pradesh,
but in those days, a part of the Madras Presidency). My pregnant mother
went home to her parents—as she did for the birth of every child—to be
cared for and pampered at Churchills, the family home.
Churchills was a large, old-world, Portuguese-style house. In the front
was a large, open veranda, and the centrepiece was a carved, wooden round
table always laden with a big bowl of flowers, and surrounded by chairs.
All of us, as children, played ‘house-house’ under the table’s imposing
round top, pretending to cook, eat and sleep with all our toys and dolls.
There were countless large rooms, one leading into the next. The hall had
an imposing carved rosewood altar, benches done up with beautiful rattan
work and family photographs on the walls. The doors and windows were
carved and the floors had dull mud-pink stone tiles.
My mother was taken to Dr Shiva Rao’s hospital at Nandigudda Hill
on the evening of 13 April 1942. She was shifted to the labour room in
the early hours of the morning. Just about then, there was a loud bang,
followed by a total blackout. ‘The Japanese have landed! There was an
explosion in the port. Mangalore is being bombed; run for shelter!’ were
the cries all around. It was wartime, and panic spread, with doctors and
nurses disappearing into the dark.
My mother, unable to move, looked despairingly at the one woman
attendant who remained by her side. ‘Will you also leave me to die?’ she
asked.
‘Never! I will stay with you, even if the Japanese reach the hospital.
You will be safe. God is with us,’ she assured my mother. And so, by
candlelight, at around 5 a.m., I was delivered by the attendant and kept
on the bare floor. When my mother protested, she was told, ‘Nothing will

happen to her. I have given her to Mother Earth, who will protect her.
She will live to be great.’
I survived.
My mother was disappointed at the birth of another daughter (the
third), despite her prayers for a son. Early in the morning, on the way to
his office, her father dropped in to see her. She wept, thoroughly upset.
‘Never cry over the birth of a child. She is born on my birthday, she will
be a great lawyer one day,’ he predicted, blessing me with a cross on my
forehead.
The first decade of my life was influenced, to a large extent, by my
maternal family. It was also shaped by Mangalorean society. School, family
get-togethers, weddings, vacations—all revolved around that small town.
Churchills was a home away from home for eleven children—nine girls
and two boys—who visited regularly along with their families and were
provided for by my grandmother, Bai (as she was affectionately called by all
generations). Bai had a heart as large as her house. Family, distant relations,
friends, charity seekers—everyone was welcome, no one was left out or
neglected. Fruits of the season were bought by the basket, fish and meats
of every variety were laid out for lunch and dinner, the mouthwatering
sweets of the coast were served at coffee-time (we never had tea) and
goodies came out of her locked cupboard every few hours.
Bai ran the household like a Commander-in-Chief. From the kitchen
to the locked storeroom, to the garden with fruit and coconut trees, and to
the cowshed—she controlled and managed everything, with three faithful
women to assist her.
And then there was Mai—her mother in her eighties, with a toothless
smile—who lived close by with her son. She was a regular visitor. On
holidays, we’d gather around her to hear fascinating stories of days gone
by—of Tipu’s men who looted and plundered homes and killed those who
resisted, hanging their bodies from trees; of tall Afghan and short Japanese
men who came selling exquisite wares; and of Sadhus and mendicants with
knotted hair who brought rare herbs and medicines to cure any ailment.
My mother had been married to my father at the age of sixteen-and-
a-half, while still in the fifth form (eleventh standard by today’s yardstick).
Apart from being fluent in English, she was an artist who drew beautifully.
She motivated us, made us ambitious, and ensured that we did well at
school. My father, a lawyer, came from a rural agricultural family based in

Shirva in the South Canara district. He was an only son and had a sister.
Their mother had passed away while they were kids. Their father—my
grandfather, Abba—was a landlord, respected and feared by his tenants.
He was known to be not only a tough taskmaster, but also a patriarch who
cared only for the male inheritors of his property. So he sent his son to a
boarding school—St Aloysius School—and then to a college in Mangalore.
He refused to sell his surplus land though land reforms were coming. And
so, after he was gone, most of it went to the tenants, ending the saga of
the family inheritance in Shirva.
We spent some wonderful holidays in the village, although they were
few in number since my town-bred mother did not enjoy that life. The
tenants loved my father, who listened to their problems and pleaded with
his father to be more generous with them.
My maternal grandfather, Pascal D’Souza, was a well-known and
respected lawyer, who worked tirelessly to keep a lavish lifestyle going for
his large family. We called him Baba and loved him dearly.
In 1949, Baba was struck by tuberculosis—a dreaded disease in those
days—that confined him to his room, with only my grandmother and
mother attending to him, apart from the family doctor. On 23 June 1951,
we were picked up from school in a horse carriage and brought home, to
see candles and white flowers by the altar, and Baba laid out in a dark suit
with white socks and gloves. He was dead. An eerie silence prevailed, broken
only by mourners coming in with flowers to offer their condolences. The
next day, we were made ready for the funeral. This was my first experience
of a funeral. I was at once sad and nervous. I watched silently as the coffin
was lowered into a grave in the church and sobbed as I threw a fistful of
mud over it. When we returned home, there was a speech in praise of the
departed, and then everyone left, as I sat watching the candles flicker and
slowly die in front of a picture of Baba. My grandfather was gone and life
at Churchills would never be the same again.

My schooling was a chequered affair. While my siblings, Corinne, Joan
and Alan, were left with our grandmother at Churchills for schooling, I,
being a sickly child, stayed with my parents, going where my father was
posted. Thus I was home-schooled for most of the first eight years of my
life, though my travels with my parents ensured that I picked up local

languages without any effort—Telugu, Kannada and Konkani, among others.
When my father was posted as a Sub-Judge at Ottapalam, l was sent
to the neighbourhood convent school, where Sister Marina used to teach
me. She also prepared me for my first communion. Here I joined the local
children for sports, art and dance. They all spoke Malayalam—another
language that I soon absorbed.
I recall an afternoon in 1948 in Ottapalam. Ours was a lovely house with
many bedrooms, a large garden (infested with snakes) and a wicket gate.
Suddenly, policemen with guns appeared at the gate and in the compound.
My father returned home early and was very agitated. We were asked to
stay indoors. All the doors and windows were shut. We could hear loud
shouts on the road outside as processions went through the streets. I was
frightened. As I sat on my father’s lap, I asked, ‘What has happened? Why
is everyone scared?’ My father told me, ‘Mahatma Gandhi, our great leader,
has been killed. And now, the people are angry and are screaming.’ It was
an earth-shattering event, no doubt, but it made no sense to me back then.
I did not ask any more questions, sensing the mood around me.
My sister, Corinne, was beautiful, with two long plaits. She was loved by
all at home and in school (where she became the head girl). In December
1950, sixteen-and-a-half-year-old Corinne was married to a smart and
good-looking lawyer from Bangalore (now Bengaluru) named Gladwyn
Rego. The wedding took place at Churchills. When Corinne left, it felt like
a big branch of the family tree had been cut.
1952 saw the first election for the Madras (now Tamil Nadu) Legislative
Assembly. Bai’s brother, my grandfather’s partner in the law office, the late
L.C. Pais, was the Congress candidate from our area. His party’s symbol
was a pair of bullocks. So what better mode of canvassing than using a
bullock cart with a hand-held loudspeaker, and throwing coloured handbills
asking for votes?
Even as the neighbourhood was swept by election frenzy, Bai remained
rather uninterested in the electoral process and the Congress. In fact, when
her other brother, Lawrence, came to visit her, she is said to have spoken
disparagingly about L.C. Pais’ politics and his ambitions. This was promptly
carried back to him. And so, early one morning, there was a loud knock
at the door, and in marched the two brothers to Bai’s bedroom. They
gave her a lecture on the Congress, and told her to hold her tongue and
vote for the party. Having had their say, they marched out. Bai sat in her

nightgown under her mosquito net, peering through the mesh, speechless
and stunned by this early morning intrusion! I do not know whom she
voted for, but she was among the first to go to the booth and vote as
ordered by her brothers. L.C. Pais won the election, but Bai never forgot
the early morning knock and the obnoxious behaviour of her brothers,
whom she referred to as the Congress bullocks on a rampage!
Over that summer of 1952, we were in Gooty (Anantapur district)
for our vacations. There was great excitement when the visit of Pandit
Jawaharlal Nehru to Anantapur was announced. As the District Magistrate,
my father was in charge of the law and order arrangements. He decided
to take my brother, sister and me to the public meeting. The crowds were
frightening—in bullock carts and tongas, cycles, buses, lorries or on foot.
They came in countless numbers, in the heat and dust of that summer
night. We were seated in the front row, which was meant for the ‘officials’.
As Pandit Nehru walked in, there were cheers, slogans and garlands.
Nothing made sense to me. He climbed up to the high stage, waved, and
spoke, and departed as the cheering crowds began to disperse. We drove
back—tired, hungry, dusty and sleepy—down those kutcha roads and into
the dark wilderness, to reach home in the early hours of the morning.
This was the Congress’ Parliamentary election campaign—the country’s
and my first!
In April 1954, I moved to a new world, when my father was transferred
to Coimbatore as an Additional District Judge. My parents took my siblings
and me along as Coimbatore had English-medium education. I went to the
SSLC (Secondary School Leaving Certificate) section of St Francis Convent
in the second form. For me, it was a huge jump—from Malayalam and
Kannada to English. Since I was diagnosed with trachoma, and was advised
minimum strain to my eyes, during those early years in Coimbatore, my
mother would sit with me for hours and read to me, helping me memorize
my spellings and revise each subject, chapter by chapter. Thanks to her
tireless efforts, I overcame the language hurdle and stood first in my class
in my first quarterly examination. I excelled in sports as well, and was
selected for the school basketball and throwball teams.
Coimbatore also opened a window to Tamil culture and its nuances. I
picked up the language, changed my attire from dresses to graceful pavadai-
chokkas (later adopting the half-saree), grew my hair for plaits and dabbed
a small red bindi on my forehead.
In March 1956, my mother’s youngest sister arrived, armed with a
proposal for my sister, Joan—aged seventeen—who was shy and studious,
and in her second intermediate. Michael Peres—from the wealthy Peres
family which had business interests in Kerala and Karnataka—was the
groom. In no time, everything was settled. The engagement took place
that week and the wedding in Mangalore in May.
In March, my father retired to settle in Bangalore. Here he started his
law practice. We lived on his pension, as clients were slow to come. While
my father managed to buy a lovely house from an old Irish lady, getting
her to vacate the place proved to be a Herculean task!
Those were trying times. After the big bungalows we had lived in, we
found ourselves packed into a wing of my Aunt Mary’s damp, old house,
where we felt like unwanted guests. Thankfully, this was a passing phase.
Things began to change. My father’s reputation was his asset. His practice
grew, and we soon moved to our house on Ware Road, with a huge garden.