Ammi

Ammi entered the world with wide, searching eyes—deep brown and full of promise. Her gaze met the soft green-gray eyes of her father, though he couldn’t see her. He had lost his vision shortly before her birth. Still, in that moment, his heart surely saw her more clearly than sight ever could.

Her first cry echoed within the crumbling walls of a two-hundred-year-old mansion in Kakori, India—a place as storied as the noble family it housed. The wooden doors groaned shut on hand-hewn trunks, the waves of Salaria Lake whispering just beyond. Mango orchards, dark and lush, stretched endlessly into the horizon. It was 1944, and Ammi was born into a world both ancient and changing.

Back then, women had few choices. My Nani, Ammi’s mother, had been married young to a man losing his vision—a match arranged without hesitation or foresight. On her wedding night, she watched her groom struggle to read a letter of congratulations, her heart sinking with silent dread. Ten years and six children later, Nani made a decision few women dared: she left. She left her husband, her home, her country, in search of a new life.

She boarded a train with only her children and courage as company. Fearful of theft, she stitched her precious gold jewelry into hidden pockets sewn inside her daughters’ dresses. It was all she had. Gold was a woman’s only insurance then. They carried their world in trunks—and in their hearts—on a thousand-mile journey from Kakori to Chittagong, East Pakistan.

At Howrah Station in Calcutta, the chaos was overwhelming. The friend who was to guide them was nowhere in sight. Nani, desperate, and fearing confiscation by customs, decided It might be better for the girls to actually wear the jewelry. So all three girls were decked out in gold necklaces, earrings, bangles, anklets, tikkas and nose rings and everything else that Nani had been given in her trousseau. There they sat atop their bulging trunks—three little girls adorned in gold, glinting like princesses stranded in a storybook, while their mother scanned the crowd with growing panic.

Dusk fell and there remained no choice but to take a rickshaw and go it alone. That, or they would miss their onward train. Nani mustered up courage and summoned a cycle rickshaw. The rickshaw driver eyed the three little girls bedecked in gold, with a little too much curiosity. “That's a lot of luggage Bibi”, he said slyly. “The girls can ride in my rickshaw, and my friend will take you and the trunks in his”.

Nani smelled a rat. Her anger and fear bubbled as she hissed at him, “ I will not let my girls ride alone!”  Ammi’s felt sick with terror. She was sure they were about to be kidnapped. 

Just then, like a whisper of grace, the lost friend magically appeared out of nowhere. “ Baji, there you are!” he said. “I was searching for you all over the other train station!” he said, completely unaware of the disaster he had averted. 

And so ended their harrowing ordeal. Another long train ride later, they arrived in Chittagong, weary to the bone but determined, and excited to start their new life.

Nani didn't want  to outstay her welcome, so after enjoying the hospitality of her cousin for a few weeks, she thought it best to find simple accommodation for her young family. Home became an apartment in ‘Kabhiraj Building’, a decrepit old colonial era relic with flaking walls, its condition belying its fancy name. Two rooms with a latrine down the hall and shared showers was what they could afford, and they made it their own. Ever industrious, Nani and the girls scrubbed the floors clean and ‘decorated’ their apartment as best they could. 

The girls were enrolled in Fatimah Jinnah School a couple of miles away, and every day Nani would make a trek there on foot to deliver lunch to her girls. Ammi recalls her years in Chittagong as the happiest time of her life. They were poor, but rich in love, in learning, in dignity.

Money was really tight and Nani sold her precious jewelry, piece by piece, to make ends meet. Every time school fees were due meant a trip to the pawn shop where a family heirloom would be exchanged for ready cash. To supplement her income, Nani sewed clothes and hand made crafts to sell. When they were a bit older, the girls learned to knit. Ammi remembers being a fourth grader at school, with her eyes affixed to the black board, and her small hands busy under her desk, knitting needles clicking softly. Every baby sweater set sold for up to five rupees, big money in those times. To this day, Ammi never uses a pattern when sewing or knitting—she simply creates, as if the skill were stitched into her soul.

Ammi transformed some leftover yarn scraps into this knitted beauty (no pattern!)

Ammi loved dolls. Not just loved, she was obsessed with dolls. But she could never dream of owning anything other than home made dolls that her mother made. A store near their home had a beautiful, imported, golden haired doll in the window. Ammi would gaze at it longingly on her way to and from school, knowing she could never afford such a luxury.

Ammi did really well in her fifth grade exams. One day she was passing by the store accompanied by Nani, and lingered as usual by the store window, to lovingly admire the doll. She desperately wanted the doll. So close just behind the glass, but so out of reach. Her little girl's brain had an idea. She’d try her luck she thought...after all she had aced her tests, hadn't she? So, she took a deep breath...and in a small voice, she asked her mother if she could have the doll. Seeing the longing in her daughter’s eyes, something changed. Nani’s heart melted. She marched into the store and to Ammi’s utter disbelief, she purchased the doll for her.

Ammi was over the moon! She could hardly believe her good fortune. Clutching the doll to her chest and holding her mother’s hand, she began the walk home, excited to show the doll to her sisters. 

What happened next makes me want to cry every time I hear this story. Half way up the hill, Nani made a U turn. "What happened, why are we going back?",  thought Ammi, but she knew better than to ask. Back to the store they both trudged, Ammi still clutching her beloved doll. Nani walked up to the counter and said to the shopkeeper that they had made a mistake. She needed to return the doll. Ammi’s eyes filled with tears but she didn't utter a word and handed her precious treasure back to the shopkeeper. She could see the weight of the world on her mother’s stooped shoulders, her anxious eyes wondering whether their budget would stretch through the month.

Ammi’s life is full of stories like these, but she is never bitter. She gets a little wistful when she talks about her years in Chittagong, mostly recalling happy times, sewing and crafting beautiful things with her mother to pay the bills, while learning so much about life. Ammi is full of love and admiration for her mother, my Nani, who lived frugally but so courageously. The weight of the world finally caught up with Nani, and she died of a stroke at age 56.

Ammi married my Abbu at 18 and had me at 19. With Abbu, she traveled the world, putting her own talents and dreams aside to support his ambitions, while raising my siblings and I with the same quiet grace her mother had possessed. She kept crafting and sewing and knitting for everyone in her life.

She never lost her love for dolls. And now, among the many she’s collected, her favorite is one I gave her: a golden-haired doll, bought not with hidden gold, but with love repaid, full circle.

Ammi's doll collection

Walking in Ammi's footsteps: My dolls wearing matching dresses made by their Mom :)

Ammi and I.