by Chandramohan Nair
My father was posted at the Indian Embassy in Cairo for a period of four years beginning early 1958. We stayed in a leafy suburb of Zamalek, a district located to the north of Cairo’s Gezira island. Gezira, derived from the Arabic word “Jazira” for island, was surrounded by the waters of a tranquil Nile and home to many embassies, consulates and international schools. It was known as the “Jardin des Plantes” (Garden of Plants) during the 19th century rule of the Ottoman Khedive Isma’il Pasha and was renowned for its landscaped gardens and nurseries full of exotic plants.
My earliest Zamalek memories are of furiously peddling my tricycle in our airy two-bedroom apartment. I must have been around four years old, and with my two elder sisters, Latha and Renu, having gone to school and only my mother for company, I had to spend time amusing myself.
When I tired of my tricycle I would leaf through the school textbooks that my sisters would have left behind. I remember being captivated by two photographs in the beautifully illustrated geography book of my eldest sister Latha; if my memory serves me right, the first showed the deck of a trawler, moored in a harbour, filled with a haul of freshly caught cod while the second picture was of farmers shearing sheep in a farm. The images of the lifeless and silvery-scaled fish, some with mouths agape, framed by the enticing blue waters, and of the heap of fine white sheep fleece in the midst of green grass, kindled a morbid curiosity in my mind apart from conveying a sense of the exotic and the faraway.
The toughest part of the day was between lunch and late afternoon when my sisters would return from school. Amma would be trying to have a much-needed nap while I pestered her with childish questions. After a few monosyllabic responses she would fall fast asleep and I would reluctantly have to get back to my tricycle.
My sisters’ arrival would see the house filled with their shrill recounting of all the school happenings to a rapt audience comprising Amma and me. This would continue till we were done with the tiffin and hot cups of Ovaltine that was our standard evening fare. Sometimes Amma would surprise us with delectable toffees from a colourful tin of MacKintosh Quality Street. An hour of play would follow, which would occasionally end in tears over some silly squabble.
Until I joined school, I was also Amma’s constant companion during her monthly social visits to the homes of other Embassy staff. Buses were impossibly crowded so she would restrict the visits to places where she could take me walking. Leaving the cocoon of our apartment, these walks provided my first exposure to the world outside — the brightness of summer days, the shade of the tree-lined avenues, the streets that bustled with people, the pungent aroma of grilled kebab and the alluring strains of Arabic music that wafted out of roadside shops.
Amma looked forward to these trips as these families formed a support network that helped each other cope with the anxieties and difficulties associated with living far away from home in a different culture. There were not many children of my age around, so I would quickly get restless and pace around the living room of our host hoping that some tasty sweets and savouries would soon make an appearance.
Every now and then, there would be a bigger gathering with half-a-dozen ladies in attendance. At these get-togethers, the women would play Tambola with infectious enthusiasm and then listen to melodious Hindi movie songs on the popular Grundig reel-to-reel tape recorder. This was a gadget that fascinated me no end with its gleaming knobs and buttons that had to be pressed or turned, the whirring of the spool when on fast forward or rewind and the music that would magically emanate from its innards. As for the songs, to this day, whenever I hear a tuneful 1950s number such as Mera Joota Hai Japani or Dil Tadap Tadap Ke, I am taken straight back to those Zamalek soirees.
After two years of listening to my sisters’ school-talk, I was full of anticipation when I got admitted to kindergarten and joined them at the nearby Saint Josephs school run by the Comboni Missionary Sisters. I was all excited when I left home on my first day to school accompanied by my sisters, but when the imposing school gates closed and Latha and Renu disappeared after leaving me in my class line, I could feel incipient anxiety building up. I quickly found out that school was not quite the fun place I had imagined it to be. After having been pampered by Amma for four years and having had the run of the house during that period, the teachers came across as stern and the school rules restrictive. As the days passed, however, I slowly adjusted to the new environment. Still, it was always a relief to see my sisters during recess time and I would eagerly look forward to the evening bell when we could happily troop back home together.
On working days, we would hardly get to spend time with our father as he would leave early and return late from work; but he would be at home during the weekend. His favourite indulgence when at home was to get immersed in a book with some cold beer and potato chips for company. I found out later that his preferred beer was a brand by name Stella – from a brewery originally founded by Belgian businessmen before being taken over by the Dutch brewer Heineken. I would watch intently as he carefully poured the icy golden liquid along the inside of his beer mug made of sparkling glass, leaving only a thin frothy head at the top. I was allowed to freely partake of the chips but it took a while for me to get my first sip of Stella, at a time when my mother was safely in the kitchen. It was bitter and tasteless and I stuck resolutely to the chips after that.
My father’s books did not interest me. They did not contain any pictures or drawings and even the covers were plain and unappealing. There was an unusual exception, though, which kept me engaged for quite some time – a book which was full of illustrations of dogs wearing strangely human expressions. Years later, I realised that it was the collection of stories and drawings titled Thurber’s Dogs by James Thurber, one of his favourite authors.
I do not recollect many family outings when we were in Zamalek, but the few I am able to were memorable.
Seeing the massive pyramids and the Great Sphinx rising in the midst of the stark desert landscape was surreal while our bumpy camel ride was more earthly and exhilarating. A visit to the Mosque of Muhammad Ali – also known as the Alabaster Mosque – with its expansive interiors and alabaster plastered walls and pillars evoked a sense of awe and serenity. I would revisit these monuments countless times using our View-Master stereoscope which was the 60s’ equivalent of today’s home theatre.
A high moment for all the Embassy staff was attending a reception in honour of our then Prime Minister Pandit Nehru. He was simply adored by the children and there was a scramble to get close to him and greet him. One of the prized photos in our family album is a picture of my sisters and me in a group of milling children surrounding Chacha Nehru.
My years in Zamalek were not without some sad and stressful experiences though.
One was the passing away of my maternal grandfather in Quilon. I remember my father coming home unusually in the afternoon and breaking the news – it must have come by a telegram to the Embassy – to my mother. She immediately broke down and there was little that anyone of us could do to console her. She had been looking forward eagerly to our return to Kerala and reuniting with him and her six siblings.
Another not-so-pleasant memory was the tonsillectomy I had to undergo. The crowded nursing home of the affable and ever-smiling Dr Gamin Ali was full of worried mothers and fretful children and I experienced fear and anxiety when the nurse administered a pre-anaesthesia injection with an outsized needle. Amma’s constant assurance that I could have all the ice cream in the world after the surgery helped me endure the ordeal.
Towards the end of our stay in Cairo, there was an addition to the family with the arrival of my brother Raj. Overnight he became the centre of attraction which left me feeling a bit deflated as I had occupied the spotlight for as long as I could remember. I soon discovered, though, that this development had its own blessings – my misdemeanours at home and school would attract far less attention than earlier.
When the time came for us to leave, we were more excited about getting to meet our extended family in Kerala than leaving the familiar comforts of Zamalek. My last memories of Egypt are of the light-brown sand dunes on either side of the Suez Canal which we traversed at the beginning of our seven-day sea voyage from Suez to Bombay.
As the years went by, the memories of Zamalek were kept alive by reliving our experiences amongst ourselves and sharing them with guests and relations who would also sportingly endure a guided tour of Cairo through our albums, numerous curios and the View-Master.
Today, almost six decades on, those memories have receded. My parents and Latha are no more and Renu remembers little of those days. The old photographs have faded and the last remaining curio – an arresting copper bust of the beautiful Queen Nefertiti – has vanished, leaving me little with which to engage even the most interested visitor.
I am thankful that I still retain a handful of recollections that capture the essence of my childhood – a period full of affection, encouragement and wondrous experiences.
Zamalek, the garden of plants, remains a garden of soothing memories for me.
