Out of Ireland, into India

I've met many people in my fifteen years here in India, and just a few of them have passed on. The first death anniversary of someone passed by without notice recently. A quiet woman whom I knew from my Church. I knew her for only a short couple of years, but she left an impression on me. Normally, for the sake of privacy, I give different names for the people about whom I write. But in this case, I'm going to reveal the real name. Because this woman deserves to be remembered.

I first met her properly in my Church on Christmas morning, about three years ago. It was a bitterly cold morning, and I'd sneaked out of the house early with Mel to attend the Christmas Mass. I didn't want my little ones getting up early and running around in the cold. It's quite difficult for me to bring all the children to Church at one time as I don't drive. Now that they are getting a bit older, I'm going to rectify that. Anyway, after the Christmas Mass, the priest invited all the congregation to step down into the community hall downstairs and have a cup of tea and a piece of Christmas cake. Now I normally don't hang around after Mass - it's home to Yash and the kids straight away - but it being Christmas morning, I made it a point to stay back.

So Mel and I are having our tea (or is it coffee?) and this lady comes over. In a place where every woman is wearing either a sari or a shalwar suit, she sticks out in the crowd, for she is clad in slacks, an anorak and a headscarf. She holds out her hand in a friendly gesture, to shake hands. "Happy Christmas!" she says and adds "I'm Marie Doyle." "Marie Doyle!" I exclaimed. "You're not Irish are you?" She laughed and told me that she was a member of the anglo-Indian community and had lived in India all her life. In fact she was originally from Madras, now called Chennai, in the southernmost part of the country.

What I found particularly fascinating about Marie was the way she pronounced her name, Marie. The 'a' in the first syllable was rather long, so the name sounded like 'Maari'. I was baptized 'Maria', and my family (i.e. parents and sisters) call me 'Marie' for short, but what they call me sounds different. In my name, the accent is on the second syllable so it sounds like 'maree'. In my country, Maries of the older generation tend to pronounce their name the way she did. As for the surname 'Doyle,' she obviously had an Irish ancestor in the distant past. The Anglo-Indian community consists of people descended from European men who came out to India to work in the British times, and ended up marrying Indian women. They are of mixed ancestry and are usually found in the teaching profession. Anglo-Indians are found all over India, but they are becoming rarer to find nowadays. Many of them have moved to other countries, especially countries where English is spoken, like Australia and England.

I had noticed Marie in the Church before, and always wondered who that 'English' lady was. She was around seventy years of age when I met her, I've learnt. She had no grey hair, so she had a youthful appearance. She was slim, petite, and always as neat as a pin, in her slacks and skirts and blouses with her prim and proper English type accent. She always looked well turned out, her shoulder length hair neatly styled with clips, and was never seen without a touch of lipstick. Astonishingly, although well past retirement age, she was still working as a nursery school teacher. I've done a stint as a nursery school teacher, and I can say for sure that it is not easy work.

I subsequently discovered that Marie was related to the Flynns, a couple whom I knew from Church. In fact, she usually spent her Sundays with them. From them I came to know that she lived alone, with a couple of small dogs for whom she cared with great affection. They were just like her kids! Her salary as a teacher was very minimal, but she was able to maintain herself on it by scrupulous discipline. She walked more or less everywhere, unless the journey was too long. That same Christmas morning, after Mass, I noticed her buying some crisps and sweets and having them gift-wrapped. When she noticed me, she explained that she was buying some Christmas gifts for her neighbour's children. She was fond of children. Ever-optimistic, she celebrated as best she could. The Flynns had gone away for Christmas to Mrs. Flynn's family, and Marie didn't know them. So what? She didn't let that bother her.

I remember trying to help her get a small flat. She wanted a one room arrangement, with a kitchen and bathroom. One of my neighbours agreed to rent her such a room. They weren't too happy about Marie's dogs, though. I pleaded with them that Marie was a responsible woman who would clean up after the dogs. Besides, there was a separate entrance for her, so the dogs wouldn't bother the other tenants and landlord. However, Marie turned down that flat because according to her, it was too expensive. She regretted it later though, and enquired about the flat again. But by then it was too late. The flat she was already in was too far from her place of work and she was constantly on the lookout for something nearer. I really wish she had taken the flat I got for her because as I said, she would have had to pay a slightly higher rent, but the money she would save on travel to work would have compensated.

She had never married. She never let that bother her, unlike many here who would. In fact one of the last things I discussed with her was the subject of marriage. We were talking about a mutual friend, who, unable to bear the stigma of widowhood, had remarried in haste and was duly repenting at leisure. "Look at me!" she said. "I've never married! And I've managed!" She was so satisfied with her life. I believed she never owned a televison nor a mobile phone. When she had a day off from teaching, she would take a bus and travel wherever she had to and go and look up her old friends and community members. All her friends had regular visits from her, although she lived in a very distant place outside the city. Keeping in touch regularly was a wonderful trait of hers.

She lived in a place in the suburbs of Lucknow proper. She knew how to get herself around by public transport and if she arrived at someone's place and found they'd moved - she'd find them! She was quite an old Lucknow hand and knew every inch of the place. In many ways, I found her just amazing. I often think how lonely it must have been for this woman, wearing her English style clothes in an atmosphere so totally different, and getting by in Hindi with the locals, without any of her own kind to talk to.

Last summer, some unusual things happened. Firstly, her dogs died one by one. Then she got the opportunity to visit Chennai, her native city, as the Flynns, her relatives, had to go there. She was so happy. For years she had been unable to travel to Chennai, for her dogs would have missed her. It was then that she decided that she would have no more dogs. Regretfully of course, because, yes, they were great company. But now she was enjoying her freedom. She enjoyed a wonderful visit in Chennai, catching up on old friends and family. The visit did her so much good, she was looking wonderful afterwards. Fresh, and tanned, and...almost girlish in a way. She got lots of gifts and clothes in Chennai, and was feeling great. She also decided to move into a new district. Some people from her community had started up a new school. She arranged to rent a room in the home of a local Anglo-Indian family and was delighted that she would have some company so close to her new accommodation. She even confided to Jackie, our mutual friend, that she had decided to purchase a length of cloth and do what many other Anglo-Indian ladies had done. She was going to start wearing the shalwar suit and move out of the English clothes which had been her trademark. At the age of seventy plus, she was about to embark on a new life and a fresh start. I saw her in Church on that Saturday evening. My little boy Nitin was giving me a lot of problems, aged then just five, running in and out of the Church. I remember nodding to her from a distance, unable to have a proper conversation because of that naughty child. I had no idea she was about to leave the area.

Sadly her plans could never be realised. The very next evening, on her way home from the city centre in Lucknow, having just got out of the local public bus and walking the short distance to her flat, Marie was knocked down and killed by a careless driver who fled the scene immediately. Some local paanwala witnessed the accident, and with the help of a rickshaw driver, got the hapless woman to hospital where she was, I believe, pronounced dead on arrival. She wasn't identified for hours, as she was not carrying any identification.

Ironically, it was her English style clothes which helped to identify her. Some of the hospital staff guessed she might be a Christian, and telephoned various local Churches, and somehow she was identified and claimed by the Flynns who observed the necessary funeral rituals.

It's hard to believe she's gone. Sometimes, on a Saturday evening in Church, I glance over towards the spot where she used to sit and wonder why she is not still there. This woman with an Irish name, lived as a foreigner in her own country, among people who were not her own community, yet still managed to have a happy, meaningful life, right up until it ended suddenly one August night last year. To tell the truth, I find her example very inspiring.

Rest in peace, Marie Doyle. I'll never forget you.