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My Father’s Sisters: Ethel, “The Grand-duchess,” and Winnie, “The Duchess,” and Joyce (From My Memoir: I Lift up my Eyes to the Hills)

By Anita Mathias


 My father’s sister, Ethel, grandest of the town’s grand old ladies, was nicknamed the Grand-Duchess; (my grandmother was known as the Empress, and Aunt Winnie, the Duchess). 

Her face, a mask of hauteur, tight pursed lips, eyebrows and nostrils raised in habitual disdain, resembled a severe ruffed Old Master Renaissance Queen’s, say, Velasquez’s Empress Isabella at the Prado. 
The right numbers in marriage’s lottery–and long habit gave her the manner of one to the manor born. Her good fortune came, in its inevitable way, with a catch: a familiar one–the Indian cliché, the villainous mother-in-law. 
People whispered: “The horror always lived with them.  Ethel never had a proper married life.”  “That mother-in-law!” my grandmother had fretted when the proposal came. “Worry not,” the matchmaker, Bella, reassured her.  “She’s a sickly old thing.  She’ll die any day now, and Ethel will have a happy married life.” 
“In fact, the matchmaker died first!” my father said.  “Never count on anyone dying. Those perennially on the verge of death live the longest, defying expectations, coddling themselves, being coddled, while the apparently healthy drop dead in an instant.”
                                                   * * *
From the egg of inherited coffee estates, Ethel’s only son, Pete created gaggles of golden geese—canning and exporting the goodness of Arabian Ocean, crab, shrimp, lobster, oysters; buying factories, and eventually constructing a real estate empire: entire neighborhoods of apartment buildings becoming, probably, South India’s largest real estate developer.   
When, in the universally acknowledged way of single men in possession of a good fortune, he married, Ethel insisted that the bride live with them in the ancestral house, scene of her old travails. 
But!  “The woman who sleeps next to a man has his ear,” Aunt Ethel said vindictively over her dining table, lavish with lobsters and oysters (which I had for the first time at her house), crab curry, and duck molee in coconut gravy.  The ancient, bitter battle of two women for a man’s soul, the younger woman with her age-old biological weapons: youthful beauty, motherhood, and sexual attraction; the older lady with hers: tears, guilt, accusation, and the subliminal glue of primeval bonding and long obedience! 
But we have it on the highest authority that the meek (the daughters-in-law), will eventually, temporarily, inherit the earth. An often heard anecdote, perhaps apocryphal: The evil mother-in-law serves herself and her son boiled white rice, giving the daughter-in-law the kunji, the broth or gruel in which the rice had been cooked. The mother and son look sickly, while the daughter-in-law perversely thrives, growing thugda, solid, and strong on the lees–full of the B-vitamins unwittingly boiled out. 
Two queen bees? An impossibility.  Usually, finally, comes the day of the new queen.  Who swarmed.  I listened, I listened to the gossip.  The world lay before me as various, as beautiful, as new as a longed-for, unread book, and I read it by the golden light of fiction, seeking one to one correspondences between books and life, life and books, seeing uncanny parallels between Maggie Tulliver’s three aunts  in The Mill on the Floss, the wealthy formidable Aunt Glegg, doleful Aunt Pullet, and quiet Aunt Dean and my own three aunts, while identifying with Maggie, passionate, harum-scarum, the ugly duckling in a too-small duck pond.
Then to my funny, warm aunt Winnie and her husband, Louis (one of those couples one suspects of a diet as convenient as the Sprats).  Louis, dark, simple, slim, always-smiling, was a shadowy presence quite eclipsed by his large, jocose wife; in memory he walks, always, a few steps behind her. 
Aunt Winnie had worn whale-bone corsets, a curiosity we gaped at, until she gave up dresses, and her battle with bulges.  She now raised her massive arms and let her nieces and nephews jiggle her rolls of fat. 
“Remember when you wore Winnie’s dress and rung the front door bell?” Louis asked. My father, who graduated from college in 1937 during the Great Depression, lodged with Winnie in Delhi, while working his first job, clerical, ill-paid—but a job.
And Winnie laughed, “And little Derek did not recognize him, and said, “Mummy, there’s an old lady at the door, asking for you.”
“And how wicked he was, Anita. When we slept on the verandah on hot summer evenings, he’d wait till poor Louis fell asleep, then throw a wooden cotton reel at the fan.”’
“And Louis would wake, jerking his arms and legs into the air, upended spider-like, and say, “What’s that? What’s that?’ ”  My father grinned, a little embarrassed.  “And I’d wait till he fell asleep, then do it again,” he said.
                                           * * *
  In a family in which one or more advanced degrees were a minimum requirement–my grandfather was an F.R.C.S., Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons; my father, an FCA; Fellow of the Institute of Chartered Accountants, England and Wales; my aunt Jessie and Uncle Pat were medical doctor, M.D’s, Uncle Theo had a Ph.D—Winnie gaily presented her credentials, J.C.F., Junior Cambridge Failed.  She had sobbed for her mother in boarding school until she was summoned home.   
After Louis died, Aunt Winnie became the lachrymose aunt, bursting into tears at the thought of Louis, and she thought of him often.  Oh bereavement: perennial pain from a phantom limb, an unthinkable cocktail of guilt, loneliness, and grief!
And then, archeology.  “Poor Winnie, all the shocks of the family fell on her. She was the one who went in and discovered Daddy dead—just after he told her to call his lawyer to, at last, write his will. When your aunt Prissie–she was a student at Stanley Medical College–died of sunstroke while swimming, Winnie took the call,” Aunt Ethel said.  “When our sister Dora’s—she had eyes like yours, Anita—stiletto heels got stuck in the tram tracks in Madras, and she was crushed to death, Winnie was with her.” 

My father’s youngest sister, Juno, a school-teacher with a homely pleasant face, and salt-and-pepper curly hair coiled into her “bun,” lived in a little frond-swished cottage on the grounds of Palm Grove. 

She was a favorite among us twenty-seven first cousins–interestingly–for she, detached, self-sufficient, apparently did nothing to court our affections; her breezy will o’ the wisp manner was like the genie curls and whirls from the round-the-clock cigarettes she smoked, and let us puff, so that, mostly, our first acrid, gagging encounter with nicotine was our last.  She was, in fact, often preoccupied–with crossword puzzles which she solved obsessively, and with books into which she escaped, unable to sleep until she had read some Graham Greene, even when she returned at 3 a.m. from parties with her beautiful, popular daughter, Veronica.
Joyce’s approach to food was slapdash, her combinations bizarre–canned sardines and strawberry jam.  Mackerel and condensed milk.  “Mind your own business,” she snapped with unusual acerbity when we commented. Food was a subject on which she, customarily phlegmatic, was touchy.
In a family in which women run to fat, Joyce was haggard. Incredibly, she had shared the family likeness.  Her brash Jesuit brother, Theo—christened Theophane (the revelation of God) Archibald, destiny encoded in his name–returned from seminary at Louvain, Belgium to see her playing tennis in shorts.  “Joyce!” he cried.  “You look like a fat Chettiah women!” 
She stopped eating until this was not the case.  With raised eyebrows, the fat aunts, her sisters, told the story in unison, in a rhythmic, emphatic chorus.  “No rice.  No sugar.  No fruit juice. No mangoes. Just water with a dash of lemon.  And dry bread.  Soon she was skin and bones.  Tell her, Anita, tell her to eat. We’re soworried about her.”




Goals
Start Date—August 27th, 2012
Completion Date—August 31st, 2013
Word Count Goal-120,000
Words per day Goal—515 words a day
Progress (Aiming to write 6 days a week, excluding Sundays)
 
Day 28—16034 words (69 extra)
 


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anita.mathias

Writer, Blogger, Reader, Mum. Christian. Instaing Oxford, travel, gardens and healthy meals. Oxford English alum. Writing memoir. Lives in Oxford, UK

Images from walks around Oxford. #beauty #oxford # Images from walks around Oxford. #beauty #oxford #walking #tranquility #naturephotography #nature
So we had a lovely holiday in the Southwest. And h So we had a lovely holiday in the Southwest. And here we are at one of the world’s most famous and easily recognisable sites.
#stonehenge #travel #england #prehistoric England #family #druids
And I’ve blogged https://anitamathias.com/2020/09/13/on-not-wasting-a-desert-experience/
So, after Paul the Apostle's lightning bolt encounter with the Risen Christ on the road to Damascus, he went into the desert, he tells us...
And there, he received revelation, visions, and had divine encounters. The same Judean desert, where Jesus fasted for forty days before starting his active ministry. Where Moses encountered God. Where David turned from a shepherd to a leader and a King, and more, a man after God’s own heart.  Where Elijah in the throes of a nervous breakdown hears God in a gentle whisper. 
England, where I live, like most of the world is going through a desert experience of continuing partial lockdowns. Covid-19 spreads through human contact and social life, and so we must refrain from those great pleasures. We are invited to the desert, a harsh place where pruning can occur, and spiritual fruitfulness.
A plague like this has not been known for a hundred years... John Piper, after his cancer diagnosis, exhorted people, “Don’t Waste Your Cancer”—since this was the experience God permitted you to have, and He can bring gold from it. Pandemics and plagues are permitted (though not willed or desired) by a Sovereign God, and he can bring life-change out of them. 
Let us not waste this unwanted, unchosen pandemic, this opportunity for silence, solitude and reflection. Let’s not squander on endless Zoom calls—or on the internet, which, if not used wisely, will only raise anxiety levels. Let’s instead accept the invitation to increased silence and reflection
Let's use the extra free time that many of us have long coveted and which has now been given us by Covid-19 restrictions to seek the face of God. To seek revelation. To pray. 
And to work on those projects of our hearts which have been smothered by noise, busyness, and the tumult of people and parties. To nurture the fragile dreams still alive in our hearts. The long-deferred duty or vocation
So, we are about eight weeks into lockdown, and I So, we are about eight weeks into lockdown, and I have totally sunk into the rhythm of it, and have got quiet, very quiet, the quietest spell of time I have had as an adult.
I like it. I will find going back to the sometimes frenetic merry-go-round of my old life rather hard. Well, I doubt I will go back to it. I will prune some activities, and generally live more intentionally and mindfully.
I have started blocking internet of my phone and laptop for longer periods of time, and that has brought a lot of internal quiet and peace.
Some of the things I have enjoyed during lockdown have been my daily long walks, and gardening. Well, and reading and working on a longer piece of work.
Here are some images from my walks.
And if you missed it, a blog about maintaining peace in the middle of the storm of a global pandemic
https://anitamathias.com/2020/05/04/a-mind-of-life-and-peace/  #walking #contemplating #beauty #oxford #pandemic
A few walks in Oxford in the time of quarantine. A few walks in Oxford in the time of quarantine.  We can maintain a mind of life and peace during this period of lockdown by being mindful of our minds, and regulating them through meditation; being mindful of our bodies and keeping them happy by exercise and yoga; and being mindful of our emotions in this uncertain time, and trusting God who remains in charge. A new blog on maintaining a mind of life and peace during lockdown https://anitamathias.com/2020/05/04/a-mind-of-life-and-peace/
In the days when one could still travel, i.e. Janu In the days when one could still travel, i.e. January 2020, which seems like another life, all four of us spent 10 days in Malta. I unplugged, and logged off social media, so here are some belated iphone photos of a day in Valetta.
Today, of course, there’s a lockdown, and the country’s leader is in intensive care.
When the world is too much with us, and the news stresses us, moving one’s body, as in yoga or walking, calms the mind. I am doing some Yoga with Adriene, and again seeing the similarities between the practice of Yoga and the practice of following Christ.
https://anitamathias.com/2020/04/06/on-yoga-and-following-jesus/
#valleta #valletamalta #travel #travelgram #uncagedbird
Images from some recent walks in Oxford. I am copi Images from some recent walks in Oxford.
I am coping with lockdown by really, really enjoying my daily 4 mile walk. By savouring the peace of wild things. By trusting that God will bring good out of this. With a bit of yoga, and weights. And by working a fair amount in my garden. And reading.
How are you doing?
#oxford #oxfordinlockdown #lockdown #walk #lockdownwalks #peace #beauty #happiness #joy #thepeaceofwildthings
Images of walks in Oxford in this time of social d Images of walks in Oxford in this time of social distancing. The first two are my own garden.  And I’ve https://anitamathias.com/2020/03/28/silver-and-gold-linings-in-the-storm-clouds-of-coronavirus/ #corona #socialdistancing #silverlinings #silence #solitude #peace
Trust: A Message of Christmas He came to earth in Trust: A Message of Christmas  He came to earth in a  splash of energy
And gentleness and humility.
That homeless baby in the barn
Would be the lynchpin on which history would ever after turn
Who would have thought it?
But perhaps those attuned to God’s way of surprises would not be surprised.
He was already at the centre of all things, connecting all things. * * *
Augustus Caesar issued a decree which brought him to Bethlehem,
The oppressions of colonialism and conquest brought the Messiah exactly where he was meant to be, the place prophesied eight hundred years before his birth by the Prophet Micah.
And he was already redeeming all things. The shame of unwed motherhood; the powerlessness of poverty.
He was born among animals in a barn, animals enjoying the sweetness of life, animals he created, animals precious to him.
For he created all things, and in him all things hold together
Including stars in the sky, of which a new one heralded his birth
Drawing astronomers to him.
And drawing him to the attention of an angry King
As angelic song drew shepherds to him.
An Emperor, a King, scholars, shepherds, angels, animals, stars, an unwed mother
All things in heaven and earth connected
By a homeless baby
The still point on which the world still turns. The powerful centre. The only true power.
The One who makes connections. * * *
And there is no end to the wisdom, the crystal glints of the Message that birth brings.
To me, today, it says, “Fear not, trust me, I will make a way.” The baby lay gentle in the barn
And God arranges for new stars, angelic song, wise visitors with needed finances for his sustenance in the swiftly-coming exile, shepherds to underline the anointing and reassure his parents. “Trust me in your dilemmas,” the baby still says, “I will make a way. I will show it to you.” Happy Christmas everyone.  https://anitamathias.com/2019/12/24/trust-a-message-of-christmas/ #christmas #gemalderieberlin #trust #godwillmakeaway
Look, I’ve designed a journal. It’s an omnibus Look, I’ve designed a journal. It’s an omnibus Gratitude journal, habit tracker, food and exercise journal, bullet journal, with time sheets, goal sheets and a Planner. Everything you’d like to track.  Here’s a post about it with ISBNs https://anitamathias.com/2019/12/23/life-changing-journalling/. Check it out. I hope you and your kids like it!
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