He shows me family memorabilia. Wedding photos first.
A Hindu wedding with Canada prominently on the edges. Ayounger him, a younger her. They went to Niagara Fallsfor their honeymoon. Had a lovely time. Smiles to prove it.
We move back in time. Photos from his student days atUofT: with friends; in front of St. Mike's; in his room;during Diwali on Gerrard Street; reading at St. Basil'sChurch dressed in a white gown; wearing another kind ofwhite gown in a lab of the zoology department; ongraduation day. A smile every time, but his eyes tellanother story.
Photos from Brazil, with plenty of three-toed sloths in situ.
With a turn of a page we jump over the Pacific – andthere is next to nothing. He tells me that the camera didclick regularly – on all the usual important occasions – buteverything was lost. What little there is consists of whatwas assembled by Mamaji and mailed over after the events.
There is a photo taken at the zoo during the visit of aV.I.P. In black and white another world is revealed to me.
The photo is crowded with people. A union cabinet ministeris the focus of attention. There's a giraffe in thebackground. Near the edge of the group, I recognize ayounger Mr. Adirubasamy.
"Mamaji?" I ask, pointing.
"Yes," he says.
There's a man next to the minister, with hornrimmedglasses and hair very cleanly combed. He looks like aplausible Mr. Patel, face rounder than his sons.
"Is this your father?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I don't know who that is."There's a pause of a few seconds. He says, "It's myfather who took the picture."On the same page there's another group shot, mostly ofschoolchildren. He taps the photo.
"That's Richard Parker," he says.
I'm amazed. I look closely, trying to extract personalityfrom appearance. Unfortunately, it's black and white againand a little out of focus. A photo taken in better days,casually. Richard Parker is looking away. He doesn't evenrealize that his picture is being taken.
The opposing page is entirely taken up by a colour photoof the swimming pool of the Aurobindo Ashram. It's a nicebig outdoor pool with clear, sparkling water, a clean bluebottom and an attached diving pool.
The next page features a photo of the front gate of PetitSeminaire school. An arch has the school's motto painted onit: Nil magnum nisi bonum. No greatness without goodness.
And that's it. An entire childhood memorialized in fournearly irrelevant photographs.
He grows sombre. "The worst of it," he says, "is that Ican hardlyremember what my mother looks like any more. I cansee her in my mind, but it's fleeting. As soon as I try tohave a good look at her, she fades. It's the same with hervoice. If I saw her again in the street, it would all comeback. But that's not likely to happen. It's very sad not toremember what your mother looks like." He closes the book.
A Hindu wedding with Canada prominently on the edges. Ayounger him, a younger her. They went to Niagara Fallsfor their honeymoon. Had a lovely time. Smiles to prove it.
We move back in time. Photos from his student days atUofT: with friends; in front of St. Mike's; in his room;during Diwali on Gerrard Street; reading at St. Basil'sChurch dressed in a white gown; wearing another kind ofwhite gown in a lab of the zoology department; ongraduation day. A smile every time, but his eyes tellanother story.
Photos from Brazil, with plenty of three-toed sloths in situ.
With a turn of a page we jump over the Pacific – andthere is next to nothing. He tells me that the camera didclick regularly – on all the usual important occasions – buteverything was lost. What little there is consists of whatwas assembled by Mamaji and mailed over after the events.
There is a photo taken at the zoo during the visit of aV.I.P. In black and white another world is revealed to me.
The photo is crowded with people. A union cabinet ministeris the focus of attention. There's a giraffe in thebackground. Near the edge of the group, I recognize ayounger Mr. Adirubasamy.
"Mamaji?" I ask, pointing.
"Yes," he says.
There's a man next to the minister, with hornrimmedglasses and hair very cleanly combed. He looks like aplausible Mr. Patel, face rounder than his sons.
"Is this your father?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I don't know who that is."There's a pause of a few seconds. He says, "It's myfather who took the picture."On the same page there's another group shot, mostly ofschoolchildren. He taps the photo.
"That's Richard Parker," he says.
I'm amazed. I look closely, trying to extract personalityfrom appearance. Unfortunately, it's black and white againand a little out of focus. A photo taken in better days,casually. Richard Parker is looking away. He doesn't evenrealize that his picture is being taken.
The opposing page is entirely taken up by a colour photoof the swimming pool of the Aurobindo Ashram. It's a nicebig outdoor pool with clear, sparkling water, a clean bluebottom and an attached diving pool.
The next page features a photo of the front gate of PetitSeminaire school. An arch has the school's motto painted onit: Nil magnum nisi bonum. No greatness without goodness.
And that's it. An entire childhood memorialized in fournearly irrelevant photographs.
He grows sombre. "The worst of it," he says, "is that Ican hardlyremember what my mother looks like any more. I cansee her in my mind, but it's fleeting. As soon as I try tohave a good look at her, she fades. It's the same with hervoice. If I saw her again in the street, it would all comeback. But that's not likely to happen. It's very sad not toremember what your mother looks like." He closes the book.