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I made an interesting discovery when going through my late mother’s possessions. In 1947, when independent India came into being, a personal project was born. My mother Olivia, who was 20-year-old at the time had helped her maternal aunt to bring out a family journal for private circulation. It was titled, ‘Our Own Mag’.
Emily Asirvatham, the journal’s editor was a fascinating woman. In the early 20th century, she had master’s degrees both in Mathematics and English literature. Not surprisingly, her parents could not find a match for her. Prospective suitors were probably alarmed at her academic achievements.
In her editorial, Emily praises her junior associate’s literary talent. “Olivia has an aptitude for writing,” she declares.
My mother celebrates nature in her poems while her stories are moralistic. In ‘Honesty Is the Best Policy’, a schoolboy participating in a competition enters a painting by somebody else as his own work. Sure of success, he accidentally spills ink over the artwork.
Besides penning pieces, my mother encouraged her relatives to get their writings published. “My daughter Olivia compels me to contribute,” writes my grandmother Daisy.
Her reminiscences of childhood include an account of a peculiar pastime. She would place bits of iron on the railway track to watch them get flattened by trains. ‘Saturdays and Sundays were for mischief,’ affirms the adult author, whom I regarded as a serious, prayerful person. Daisy also briefly mentions the young man she would marry later.
Other contributors to ‘Our Own Mag’ describe enjoyable holidays at Ambattur, not far from Madras (now Chennai). Soundarya Vilas, the ancestral house, seems to have been the happy hub of animated activity during the summer months. My mother, her siblings and cousins enacted plays, went on picnics and organised sports events. These are faithfully recorded in ‘Our Own Mag’.
My favourite article is by Dr A Chelliah. He was the brother of Emily and Daisy and, consequently, my mother’s uncle.
He recalls that, in 1928, aeroplane joyrides were being offered for ‘the modest fee of Rs 10’. He wished to take his one-year-old niece with him on a flight, and the pilot, after some hesitation, agreed to have the baby on board. My great-uncle concludes: “The pilot was so delighted with the courage and conduct of Olivia that he called her ‘a plucky little kid’. She is the assistant editor of this magazine!”