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Journalism of Courage
An accessory of the Raj, the ayah was indispensable to the British planter8217;s household in Munnar. She ably assisted the memsahib to raise her brood, picking up a smattering of English in the process, which she proudly flaunted. 8220;Darling, don8217;t pluck the roses,8221; I once heard one tell her impish ward, 8220;Mummy will be very 8216;crass8217; with you!8221;
The children, in turn, learned a little Tamil from the ayah who, despite being no nightingale, was often required to sing her ward to sleep. Asked to sing at a birthday party, a little minx enthusiastically burst into a Tamil ditty learnt from the ayah. The all-women British audience applauded, little realising that the six-liner was sheer ribaldry, not meant for refined ears!
Forbidden to use the radio, an ayah slyly tuned in when her employers were away, quickly turning off the set when they returned. The memsahib confronted her. 8220;Did you switch on the radio?8221; she queried. 8220;No, ma8217;am,8221; lied the ayah, feigning innocence. 8220;Then how come it8217;s warm?8221; countered memsahib shrewdly. 8220;Have you been sitting on it?8221;
One night a rampaging tusker attacked a British planter8217;s bungalow, forcing him to open fire. In the ensuing pandemonium the ayah and his little daughter went missing. The duo was later found cowering under a cot, locked in a tight embrace, with the ayah feverishly fingering her rosary beads!
Not surprisingly, those bonds endured. Now and then a hopeful Munnar-born Brit turns up here 8220;looking for an ayah who brought me up as a child8221;. The elusive ayah is seldom traced but when she is, the reunion is understandably emotional and joyful.
