I was born a princess and raised by a dog.
But before we get to that, you need some backstory. Everything that happened later, including how I came to be raised by a dog, can only be understood in the context of war, race, oppression, and what happens to our minds and hearts and loved ones when we don’t transcend our trauma.
My father was an extremely charming, handsome, brilliant, rage-filled man. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for him facing racism daily. It injured his pride, but more than that, it damaged his heart and spirit. It wounded him, racism, as it always does its victims and its perpetrators.
Daddy was not a tall man, but he gave the impression of one. His skin was burnished chocolate, with large, nearly black eyes and black hair. For much of my childhood, he had a beard. He had broad shoulders, and was very strong. I remember him lifting a car once. It had something to do with fixing it. I thought he was the strongest man in the world.
He grew up in a palace in what is now Bangladesh, his parents Zamindars. Our family had lived there for generations. Their home, built of marble with inlaid jewels in the walls, was a work of art.
So, there he was. A young prince, being raised in the sacred ways, learning Sanskrit and studying Vedanta, practicing yogic meditation, learning to recite long passages from the Bhagavad Gita, as well as math and science, and of course the ancient science of Jyotish, the Indian tradition of astrology.
He was being prepared for a life he’d never lead.
When the British pulled out of India, they wanted to be sure there was no fighting between the Hindus and the Muslims. There were extremists on both sides that perpetrated violence on the other. But what they failed to consider was that the majority of Hindus and Muslims lived together in peace as neighbors and friends.
Yet, the British wanted to divide the country by religion. They say the viceroy, Lord Mountbatten, did not want to divide the nation, but was forced to do so. So, he got drunk one night and drew a line on a map. The British spread rumors far and wide that this division was “Ghandiji’s Plan”, knowing the people were more likely to cooperate. It was announced that on August 7, all Hindus had to leave the part of the country that my family had lived in for generations.
Of course, they consulted the stars and found they needed to leave immediately, with no time to spare. No sooner had my grandparents concluded this than their family doctor and close friend arrived with the startling news of marauders and bands of thieves setting on Hindus in Muslim lands — in the Hindu lands, they were doing the same to Muslims. With their great wealth and position, our family was being targeted. They had to leave within minutes.
My grandmother gathered the 7 children and my great grandmother while my grandfather stuffed as many coins and jewels into pockets as he could. They left with only the moon to guide them, piled into oxcarts and leaving behind everyone else they had loved, and everything they owned. Their beloved servants, whose families had served ours for generations, were to follow with as much as they could pack. The doctor believed that because they were not the ones being targeted, the servants would be safe.
They never saw a single one of them, or their home, again. The servants that were caught were murdered, the rest fled. The home was looted, with even the stones being torn from the walls.
The privilege that allowed my family to leave earlier, and therefore survive, still bothers me today. I don’t know how to make amends for the lives of those who were murdered while trying to save my family and their possessions.
On their way to Kolkotta, they witnessed far too many atrocities. Horrors that never fully left my father’s eyes. There were so many British soldiers they had to bribe along the way that they arrived in Kolkotta destitute, only to find the home they were promised in exchange for the one they left was occupied by another family.
They had nothing. They were homeless — refugees in a foreign city in the midst of one of the bloodiest wars India had ever known.
They call them Midnight’s Children, the ones who were forced to flee in the night.
One of the roles of a Maharaja is to rule on disputes between the people in their region, and my grandfather had been educated as an attorney. He found work, eventually rising to a judgeship.
They rented a small, one-roomed hovel and started over.
Sometime in his early 60’s, my father returned to his Hindu spiritual roots. He began rereading the masters — Ramakrishna, Aurobindo, and of course Vivekenanda. He sat in on talks with swamis at a temple that I now attend from time to time. And he changed. He dug deep into the pain and fear that caused a lifetime of rage, healed himself, and never victimized others with his rage again.
He and my mother seemed to fall back in love. I was amazed to see them holding hands. We never really talked about what changed or how, but he left me his books, which I, too, now read for guidance in self healing.
Ma grew up in a different war on the other side of the world. In the Netherlands, during Nazi occupation. She has long, fine, blond hair and eyes that are sometimes blue and sometimes green. Her features are defined by strong, clean lines. She always took care to dress beautifully, although she had some very odd habits with make-up. She was so exotic dressed in beautiful Indian silks and draped with delicately patterned gold jewelry.
My grandmother gave me a bracelet made of Dutch dimes when I turned 10, and told me that Hitler had banned Dutch money because it all had the queen’s likeness on it. My grandmother wore the bracelet in defiance through the entire war.
My grandparents were very active in the Resistance. They hid Allied soldiers in the catacombs under their 11th century home, which had been a monastery centuries before.
They hid Jewish families in their attic, and provided housing to children whose parents sent them there from heavily bombed regions to keep them safe.
The food was rationed, truly not enough for the family alone, yet they shared with all of these other people. So, my Tante Adri, who was unmarried and lived with them, used to ride her bike as far as she needed to purchase what food she could on the black market. It wasn’t enough, though. Since my grandfather was a florist, they had access to lots of tulip bulbs. So, they lived on tulip bulbs, with a spoon of cod liver oil everyday for fat. They were starving.
When she was about 7, my mother and her 9 year old brother, Co, began smuggling food into concentration camps. I gather they were the first leg in some sort of underground food relay. I don’t know what camp, or how they did it, or what they saw. On these things, Ma never speaks.
What I do know is that the sound of a fire alarm or marching boots cause her panic to this day. She told me that the Gestapo suspected the family’s illicit activities trying to save whoever they could. But the Resistance had their own spies, so each time a raid was planned on their home, the local hospital would admit my grandfather, saying he had heart trouble. They would send the soldiers to their property outside of town where my grandparents grew their flowers, so that they could hide in the barn. The Jewish families and refugee children that they were sheltering would hide in other people’s homes, and the rest of my mother’s family went to the hospital to be with Opa.
When Canadian soldiers freed the town, there was great jubilation. One of them kindly gave my mother and her brothers the first candy they had ever had in their lives, the first oranges, and their first toys. My mother was 9 before she played with a doll or ate a chocolate bar.
I asked her once if she ever went to therapy to deal with her early childhood experiences. She said, “Don’t be ridiculous, child, everyone in the world had just been through the same war. Should everyone have gone to therapy?”
This is the woman that had three breech births and two root canals without any painkillers. She feels that pain is part of life and should be accepted. I think she may find it weak when people don’t just take whatever comes. Pain— war— torture— just grit your teeth and get through it.
***
In the tapestry of my childhood, threads of joy and pain were intricately woven, but it was amidst the embrace of animals and nature— playful, loving dogs, wise, watchful birds, chittering squirrels, graceful deer, whispering trees, and the babbling creek— that I found solace and salvation. They became my sanctuary, my refuge from the storm of my family life.
Journey to Wholeness: Transcending Trauma with Indra Lahiri invites you to tread the sacred path of healing alongside me— a journey fueled by love, hope, and the transformative power of nature's embrace. Together, we'll unearth the buried treasures of our souls, weaving the fragmented pieces of our being into a tapestry of resilience and grace. For as Sister Dang Nghiem eloquently reminds us, 'It is true that the cool waters of happiness are sweet and precious, but it is suffering that carves our cup.'
Join me as we traverse the labyrinth of suffering, guided by the light of compassion and the promise of wholeness.
Indra,
Reading about your family history helps me put my own family history into better context and, importantly, it helps me bring more compassion to my mother and father for what they survived. Your writing is beautiful, powerful, moving, and enlightening. I am so looking forward to continuing on this journey with you. I sense I will be discovering much about myself and my background as I continue to read. Thank you for this work.
Indra, I'm in awe of your parent's and grandparent's story. It is so much like my parent's and grandparent's, but from Ukraine and their escape to Austria and finally to the United States. American Soldiers gave my mother and her siblings oranges. She said she remembers how amazing they tasted. I'm looking forward to your future posts.