INTRODUCTION…
Ever since I was a little girl and heard about Ma Mingalar (I’m not sure if it was Mingalar or Mingala!), Padmini, and Peggy, I’ve been intrigued by the story that crosses over the borders of two countries; India and Burma, now known as Myanmar. How did these three people get along with each other? Did they even know each other well? Perhaps, though each lived individually, all in one house! Intriguing, I must say.
Before I go any further, let me remind you, my mind has been weaving tales in and around these three ever since I was introduced to them at the age of seven. I still wonder about these girls who grew into women together. There wasn’t much divulged to me then, but whatever was, fascinated me and still does to this day. I wish I could find someone who would tell me more; someone who knew the truth.
In the meantime, I spin my tale around the existing facts, as they were told to me by my mother. I do not hold myself to speak only of facts because I must build the story based on my premises and surmises. I’ve tried to be logical and rational in my imaginings, but if you (someone who really knew her, and I mean the truth about her) find it preposterous, just stop reading…and give me the honest facts with proof. I’m not going to stop writing this. It’s too haunting and I have to get it out of my system. Hopefully, it will give me some inner peace.
Ma Mingalar…
I’m not sure whether the name was Ma ‘Mingalar’ or Ma ‘Mingala’. I can only remember being corrected when I repeated the name as one whole – Mamingala. I was told that it was said as two separate words. I faintly recall being checked for the ending too – ‘r’ or ‘a’. I can’t recall which one had to stay and which did not! Anyway, to move forward, Ma Mingalar was the granddaughter of U Ba Doon, a prominent member of a political party in Burma. I asked for the parents’ names but never got that information and not much else. It was a sketchy biodata. This was one of the main reasons for me to suspect that something or possibly everything was not quite right in Ma Mingalar’s world.
Ma Mingalar’s mother’s name was kept secret but her beauty was extolled. It seems she was extremely beautiful and had a complexion like porcelain. Her hair was very long and black and fell like a cascade to her calves; when it was not bundled up into a bun on her head. She lived a lavish and luxurious life, waited on hand and foot. She loved her cigarettes, which she smoked in slender holders, and chocolates were never far from her. There would always be a box kept within arm’s reach.
Besides her hair, she had captivating eyes and an oval face. She had doe-eyes that slanted, and her eyelids were ringed with long curling lashes. She loved jewelry and had a large collection of diamonds and Noga rubies. Not much was divulged about her father except that he was a diamond and ruby merchant who came to India for business. Ma Mingalar was born in the Madras hospital in the city of Madras, now known as Chennai. I think it was renamed: Rajiv Gandhi Government General Hospital much, much later.
Ma Mingalar’s story ends soon, with her mother abandoning her. Her mother left her in the care of the Matron of the hospital, who she knew. Whether theirs was a patient-nurse relationship or they were friends before Ma Mingalar was born is not clear. But the Matron, a Mrs. D’Sylva, took the abandoned baby under her wing. Initially, the baby was in the nursery and taken care of by the staff.
“But why would she abandon her baby? It’s cruel!” I exploded.
The reason, I was told, was that the mother found the baby dark-skinned. So what? Why would that matter? It did to the mother, it seems. This seemed so untrue because, in fact, Ma Mingalar was fair, as the story goes. Perhaps not the same skin tone and texture as her mother but definitely fair-skinned. I would protest at this and remark at the frivolity of the reason.
However, later on, as I grew and learned a bit more about her, many reasons for the given ‘Reason’ popped into my head. My speculations were logical but cannot be substantiated.
Padmini…
They called Padmini a very lucky baby. No, she had no near-death situations preceding her birth nor any infections or disease that she had overcome. She was a small, little bundle lying in the nursery with all the other new-born babies, and looked much like them, except she was the fairest of the lot.
So what separated her from the other babies that she was tagged ‘lucky’? It was a distinguished visitor who came to see her almost every other day. The lady would be accompanied by her woman attendant. She never stayed long but gave generously to the nurses and attendants caring for Padmini. Yes, she had christened the baby Padmini! This lady was of very high status – the Maharani of a place nearby ruled by her husband, the King. How she got to know about this baby and why she was so concerned about her is a mystery. She loved the baby so much that she wanted to adopt her, and she conveyed this to Matron D’Sylva.
“Your Highness, I love the child too. Besides, her mother left her in my care. Please don’t take her away.” Mrs. D’Sylva was distraught.
“Think over it. I will not insist if it means so much to you. But give it a thought. She is my child already, my little Padmini,” she said looking lovingly at the child who lay oblivious of the manner in which her fate lay in the balance… between a life in the palace with a Maharani and a not so opulent but very comfortable life with a Matron.
Mrs. D’Sylva, the Matron, looked at the Maharani as she made her regal exit. She was worried. Baby Padmini slept peacefully.
Padmini’s fate was decided. The Matron took her home!
She was a well-to-do lady of ample means. Her husband was a doctor, and they owned a big bungalow with a lot of land sprawling all around it. She had grown-up children of her own but she did not believe that Padmini would have a secure and happy life in the palace. So she adopted her. The Maharani would be the only one who’d care for Padmini she thought; and who knew the ways of the palace and royalty. Their whims and fancies were as changeable and unpredictable as the weather. And here ends Padmini’s story.
I was curious about the queen who’d visit her. But although her visits were spoken about, I was made to believe that no one knew why she came or why she named the child or even why she wanted to adopt her. I never did believe that!
Peggy…
“I don’t want to go to boarding school,” wailed Peggy as her mother petted and consoled her. She was older now and her mother wanted to send her to Goodwills Boarding School in Bangalore. Once again she repeated all the pros of a residential school, hoping that Peggy would calm down.
Peggy was an adopted child. Her foster mother had brought her home one day. Her much older half-sisters were shocked by this kind deed of hers. It was a bit extreme. So, Peggy was accepted as one of their mother’s whimsical, philanthropic gestures. One they would have to live with and tolerate. Although they weren’t mean to her or anything of that sort, there was no bonding either. They were so much older than her. I have no information about her foster father’s reaction. I guess he was okay with it or there would have been something added to the telling of the tale. All I learned was that he was a doctor and he was in Quetta when the big earthquake occurred in 1935. According to what I was told, he died there.
Boarding school was the best option under the circumstances as Peggy was growing up and beginning to notice and resent the way she was isolated from the older children in the house. So, finally, she was packed off to Bangalore with promises of frequent visits. She found that her stay at school was not as bad as she had expected it to be. She had a headmistress named Ms. Roper. The girls would often pronounce it as “rope her” for laughs!
The day came when Peggy passed out of school and returned home. Her mother had selected a college for her and had even registered her name, but Peggy had other plans. She was going to join the WRINS – Women’s Royal Indian Navy Service. Her mother was shocked.
“What are you going to do there Peggy?”
“Work, of course,” answered Peggy matter-of-factly.
“Yes, that’s clear to me, young lady. But what do you intend to work as? You go to college and then join the Force.”
“No. I don’t want to go to college. I’ve already applied for a secretarial course with Pittmans. I’ll be a stenographer!”
“Do you know how much they pay stenos? You silly girl, you’ll spend more in a month than they’ll pay you in two.”
Peggy stood her ground. She was as stubborn as the proverbial mule.
Peggy D’Sylva joined the Navy. She moved to Bombay now known as Mumbai. Along with her went Ma Mingalar and Padmini. She never left them behind. Over the years you could see the traces of each personality getting bolder in their influence over Peggy.
Ma Mingalar was a snob and very fastidious. She was also stubborn, wanted a lot of attention, and was self-absorbed. She was fashionable and loved to dress well. She liked jewelry too. Her favorite haunt was The Taj Mahal Hotel. This is where she would go for breakfast, many a time, or even when she wanted a cup of coffee. She’d take along a couple of newfound friends too! It wasn’t a hotel she could afford on her salary. But her mother sent her an ample allowance every month. Her mother knew her love for the good life. This was Ma Mingalar’s strongest phase.
Padmini was very much a South Indian though she didn’t look South Indian. She had a distinct southern accent; gestures and expressions too. She’d tell everyone she was a Tamilian, and look directly at them defying them to disagree. No one dared to, even though they’d carry big question marks in their eyes. Padmini could pass off as a Burmese, Indonesian, Malaysian, Singaporean, or any such race but certainly not a Tamilian!
The food she’d eat or serve would be South Indian fare and she’d discard her airs and discard cutlery to dig into rice with her hands. Padmini’s influence grew stronger than Ma Mingalar’s over the years. She even decided the people Peggy should befriend. Needs no saying, all were from South India. She even decided that Peggy should wear the Indian uniform (a sari) when she joined the WRINS (Women’s Royal Indian Navy).
Padmini was defiant. She was rigid and had a smoldering temper. She could be mean and even unscrupulous on rare occasions. Padmini was also a doomsday prophet. She was negative or suspicious about everything. She would find faults before praising. She would even find a tiny spot on a pristine white wall to reject it!
Peggy was the jovial, giggly, Anglo-Indian girl. Her foster parents were of Portuguese descent and their way of living was westernized. She’d be free with her expressions and speak only English and treat every other language with disdain, barring Tamil and Malayalam (both South Indian languages) and she was especially critical of Hindi and Punjabi, both North Indian languages. She’d inform everyone that her mother tongue was English! Some of the everyday terms she’d use were typically Anglo-Indian ones which you’d hear only in those homes.
The food would be South Indian preparations or continental or Chinese or Goan dishes. Peggy could be shy and took offense easily. She loved to sing and write poetry. Peggy could be quite immature, at times, and even as a grown woman she would compete with women much younger than her or be envious of them. Often considering them as adversaries when they didn’t even have the tiniest thought about competition in their minds.
As life took them on a roller-coaster ride, the first casualty was Ma Mingalar. I was sad to see her go. She was the one who added a bit of style and spice to Peggy’s life. Padmini held on tenaciously. I think Peggy liked her a lot. But down the years she succumbed to ill health. Padmini departed leaving behind Peggy.
When Peggy died, she died alone.
The only real part of the story had gone taking with her all the secrets of her birth and parentage.
My mother had left me to figure it out if I could. The three-in-one tale of Ma Mingalar, Padmini, and Peggy.
I have theories about my mother’s birth and parentage, but these are not based on proof. I’m sure each one of you who knew her will draw your own conclusions from existing facts if you have any. And I say that because I know, she never divulged any details to anyone for the simple reason that no one asked. No one was interested in her life to the point that they’d pester her with questions and facts, except my father, I suppose. I was the only one as curious as ever and wanted to know more.
I had been doing that for years; trying to complete the jigsaw puzzle. But it remains incomplete. I kept asking my mother for the truth but she wouldn’t tell me more than what she’d already told me. She didn’t tell much to anyone. My pestering exasperated her so much that I got scraps of the truth which I have presented here.
However, I know for a fact that the Maharani part was true. My mother had picked up the courage once, to visit her when we were in Madras for a short holiday because Daddy was there on Ty Duty and he thought we’d enjoy the break so took us along. At that time the Maharani was the Raj Mata or Rani Ma (queen-mother), the king had passed away and her son was the King. But mummy’s courage slipped away right outside the gates of the queen mother’s palace.
She sat in the car and gazed at the gates but lacked the will to go in… she longed to go but hesitation held her back. I asked her if she thought they wouldn’t know her.
Her reply was quick, sure, and confident, “She will remember me.”
“Even after so many years?”
“Yes,” was her firm reply.
“Then let’s go in,” I said excitedly opening the door.
“What’s the use? What difference will it make?”
Though I was only seven then, I still remember the look on her face. She sat back in the seat, her eyes still on those big gates. There was a gamut of emotions reflected there… longing, sadness, regret, resignation, and the futility of trying to reconnect. Then she asked the driver to drive on.
I know which kingdom too, but I shall not speak it because as mummy said, “What’s the use?”
I understand now why she wouldn’t tell me more. What I can recall of that day when she was so close to taking me to the source of the truth is her pain. Probably, it hurt her too much, or the resentment and anger hadn’t died and she couldn’t reconcile herself to the abandonment.
My heart has always been heavy with her concealed pain. I wish she had spoken about it and released the agony thus saving herself the pain, and she could’ve owned her true identity and lived her life as the person she knew she was.
PS: Daddy had described her mother to me. Mrs. D’Sylva, her foster mother, had shown him a photograph of her. Daddy also tried to find out more about her grandfather and had made a trip to Rangoon. But he was advised not to pursue the matter and to go back. According to him there seemed to be a veiled threat under that seemingly mild advice. He even told me that my elder sister resembled my mother’s real mother quite a bit.
It's In The Tale 
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