Timothy Taz Clegg Veena was such an amazing woman, I have never ever in my life come across any one person who had made me feel as welcomed and as loved as if I were one of her own.. it saddens me to read this, because of how Veena made me feel whenever I visited Darren Berlein.. 

Rest easy Veena, you have touched many a persons hearts and you will always be remembered as a physical form of one of Gods gifted angels..

Yvonne Moodley

Yvonne Moodley WOW…. This is a beautiful way to celebrate her life… Yessss she was an angel on earth for ME, personally… The words of encouragement when I was depressed, took me from my lowest low, to my highest high 🌹💞. She always made me feel like the most beautiful person on earth AND a queen 😊, and always praised me for my poetry.. 😉 yes… She was beautiful inside and out, and had a contagious sense of humor 🙏 Will try to retrieve her messages, and share it with the group…. Well done, will definitely follow the link 💞

Michelle Onenembo

Alexa, thank you so much for messaging me. I am so sorry for your loss. I pray that your mom didn’t suffer. If you can tell me, I’d like to know what happened. I’m more than happy to tell you how your mom saved my life. When I don’t have my medication I can’t control suicidal thoughts. Your mom and I have been friends on Facebook for about 3 years now. When I’m off my medication I have very low self esteem. I see myself as useless because I can’t work. I convince myself that I deserved all the bad guys and horrors I went through in life. Your mom knew what I’d been through and I will tell you. I was raped and sodomized for 4 years by my brother starting at age 10. I lived with 3 (one I married) heavy drinkers, 2 of them abusive. One of them strangled me twice, suffocated me once, impaled my forehead with a stick, broke my finger twice and broke my face. You can see why I have suicidal ideation. Your mom read a post I wrote and she could read more into it than anyone else. She immediately messaged me. I still have the message. She told me that I was too sweet and kind for me to deserve anything bad. She explained that I need to remember what I’ve always believed, that the bad things in life are a test…not of our endurance but of how we treat others while we are enduring it. Your mom knew I took the beatings to protect the guy’s child. She said that I was a stronger person for not letting the horrors I lived through change my personality or attitude. Your mom has always called me Sweet Michelle. She made me feel so good about myself that day. I went from cutting the tops of my feet with a razor (before I talked with her) to actually seeing myself as a warrior who survived with only a little permanent damage. If it wasn’t for your mom I truly believe the razor would not have stopped with my feet. She lifted me up in a way no one else could have. I loved your mom very much and I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve been crying since I read the post last night. She was a beautiful woman with an equally beautiful soul and I used to tell her that. Thank you again, Alexa. I hope this helps you out. Lots of love Michelle

Alexa… Thank you and you stay strong. I know what Veena meant to you and we pray all is going well in your life now. Always look for the positive in a situation although this not always easy but getting so many loving messages about My Honey has helped. Take care

Michelle…You’re welcome and thank you so much! Your kind words reflect her exact spirit. I will carry Veena and her wonderful messages in my heart forever to help keep me strong. I pray that your pain eases with time. Veena is always with you. Please take care.

“Toby, Toby,” I lie listening to the call. So familiar to my ear now. The sound of it tells me there is something else to be done whether to me or another duty in the house. How I miss my name being called. It would sound so sweet, to know that someone needed me again. Even if it were to fulfil my many duties that were unfairly assigned to me when growing up. Now, I lie here reflecting on the beauty of my once despised Aunts … my Marmies and Mosies. How I love them now. Funny how everything has just flipped around in an instant …. or so it seems. I don’t really have any idea of time any more. I just have my memories… and as if everything were all crowded in like a busy market place, full of hustle and bustle, shouts and clamour. The reeks of sweat and rotting vegetables from weeks ago on a sometimes mushy floor. Yes, my memories are all like that, coming and going, flashing past… sometimes lingering. But these aunts, they called my name; Koonthi. Oh, Koonthi what a beautiful name I had. If I could hear it just once more, I wouldn’t hesitate to run to them to get their work done. Now stuck in this bed there’s nothing I can do, not even lift a finger for myself. “Toby!” punctuates the air, “What are you doing? Come here!” demands my daughter again from her bed in my room. Yes, these four walls have been my empty space for so long that I can’t even remember from when. I know when I was running between the bushes and houses, across the fields and under the trees when I was feeling young. Feeling the hot sun, the cool of the shade and the mud between my toes. Oh, that life I had! Now I don’t even bother to look at anything here anymore, it’s all the same living in one room year after year. My daughter has decorated it beautifully and many guests exclaim so. I know so and I am so proud of her. She’s brilliant at arranging things in the house using very little. For her it’s about creating spaces and focal points, allowing harmony and peace to prevail. So, my room is serene and calm but I know it now and there’s little for me to explore. There’s more on the inside to think about or most times not to think at all. Everything is pretty mundane. What would you do if you spent over 10 years in bed in one room? “the flies are everywhere; they seem to just slide over the ooze that lies in depressions here and there across the market floor. People still just stamp across seemingly oblivious of them. They stand and chat, chew bettlenut, eat, smoke and serve customers ignoring the flies. They circle up when a foot approaches and drop back down once the threat has passed. What could I do about it? What could anyone do? This problem seemed too great to fathom out for us. No one wanted to take any responsibility for the Indian Market in Durban where we had our family’s fresh produce stall. All I could feel was disgust and it just became like a necessary evil of what we did there. All I could do was make sure we washed everything really well before preparing any food, which was hard because we had to fetch all our water from the river in buckets… one of my many duties.” What was I saying? My mind drifted off for a while. Yes, my life is now mundane. No longer full of those pungent smells… those choking, coughing ones of the ooze, the frying of vedas in deep smokey oil from blackened tins on a wood fire or the sweet aromatic agerbathi (incense stick) ones that drifted this way and that across our market. Yes, a necessary evil was the market, a filthy hole but one that sustained us. It was like a trash dump. “Uuugh, uugh” “yes whats it Ma?” Veena pipes up from her bed where she is busy on Facebook. To think of it now, perhaps these clean smelling sheets are now a kind of heaven my daughter makes for me. Where will this all end? Where was I? Yes, my daughter Beena. A good organiser. My room is pleasing to the eye but I have lain here so long and don’t have anything different to look at so I don’t even need to see it anymore. I don’t have to open my eyes each morning like other people and wonder what I am going to see.

It’s always the same so I just usually stare blankly ahead. “Toby, bring the fire now.” my daughter hollers. Yes, a good organiser of space is my Beena but actually also a very good organiser of people I have learnt lying here. And then I sigh, a long deep breath that I exhale vibrating gradually through my throat. I enjoy listening to its sound as it is like the “AUM” so sacred to my religion, Hinduism and I try to extend it as long as I can. It is one of the few sounds that I can make but I love it so much as it expresses a variety of things apart from God. It relaxes me, makes me feel content and shows that I am ready for the next part of my present-day routine. Beena understands this and she’ll often acknowledge it by coming over to me and saying a few words like, “Come on Ma, what’s wrong with you? Get up and talk, you’ve got a voice!” while at the same time pinching my cheek, kissing and hugging me. This “Aum” sound is profound to me having learnt it as a little girl where I expressed all its glory in its “first” state while experiencing life on the farm running free. Then I have experienced the “dream” state in my life even sometimes while I lie here on this bed. But mostly I think I am now in the third state of Aum because mostly I don’t even dream. This third state is one of the absence of all thought. I just lie here day after day with nothing to think about, nothing to dream about, only occasionally to ponder when I will enter the fourth and final stage of Aum – the “Source,” or more explicitly, transcend this life.

I hear noises of banging and clanging as the door is opened wide and the fire-stand brought in and I know my room will soon be warmed. Too warm in fact but lusciously warm, warmth that overflows, that’s abundant, that feels without end, all cold having been defeated and dispelled. Yes, it reminds me of my dad, Marmas and Mosas (uncles) back on the farm. They would have a drum knocked full of holes for a fire set up in the tin shed a short distance from the house where they would go to escape my Marmies and Mosies. They would gather around and drink and talk and laugh on cold days. This drum, in the middle, blackened by fire on the outside but full of red-hot coals within was transformed into a beast that glared intensely outward at me while I secretly peeped through this slit or hole in the tin wall trying to make out who was who, particularly my Dad. Sometimes I would press my ear to that chilly hole trying to catch the ebbing conversation that was ultimately about associated events and relationships of interest to the adult males of the house. Tit bits of information from a different perspective to that which as children we commonly heard while working around my aunts. I would strain to make out my Dad in the gloom or listen intently for his soothing reassuring voice before running off to play with my siblings and cousins. Sometimes though I would be sent on an errand into this refuge of theirs and yes, I would feel this warmth, this beautiful warmth, so beautiful that is was like the physical equivalent of love.

The fire for my room arrives, “Careful Toby, don’t scrape the wall, mind the door.” as were the common phrases my daughter said to Toby who, while a hard worker was known for being clumsy. This fire is on wheels, once a weber braai stand that finally succumbed to rust after many years’ service to me but now another that my son- in- law welded up with a silver half drum on top. Outside, where the fire is prepared seems like a secret to me in my immobilized horizontal state. I listen intently to all goings on around me in my condition but this procedure is of particular significance and I build up my own mental image. I hear the chopping, banging and crackling of sticks and experience all the effort that goes into it. I know that the twigs and branches are stacked up high and overhanging the drum to allow enough wood to create the coals but then on wet days the fire is lit on the veranda. Often, I’ve heard shouts and scolding’s when the flames lick ravenously at the roof or I hear overhanging logs that go crashing down to earth or burn the veranda tiles. By the time the drum came to me it was full of shimmering red-hot embers. Anything still burning was supposed to have been taken out before. “Toby, the fire is smoking, quick take it away!” Beena would scream if smoke was emanating. What has God done me?

The warm air caresses my face now. “Aaarggqhhh.” and I stretch to look around. The room has taken on a reddish glow and the movements of people throw diffused shadows across the walls and ceiling. I recognise my dad’s and my heart skips realising that I was now on the inside of that tin shed and wondering who might be peeping through the cracks. “Daddy… is that you? Daddy?” I hesitantly ask feeling a little unsure “Yes it’s me my baby, come and sit on my lap.” “coming Dad,” and I melt into his warm embrace. I raise my face to look into his eyes, “Daddy, Marmi sent me to tell you she needs the fire inside now. They’re going to bath baby and they want to warm the room.” “They can wait a few minutes while I cuddle you my girl. One day you’ll always be with me.” Actually no, it’s the curtains my daughter has religiously closed at bath times creating the illusion. Truthfully, I don’t really care if there are snoopers. My earthly life is being shed, I have nothing to hide, is how I now think. Suddenly, “Raj…hey bring that fire now before its finished, you had it long enough in the shed. The children need to keep warm after bath. Didn’t Koonthi tell you?” and a shiver goes down my spine… yes I told my dad. “Okay its coming now,” were the types of exchanges I remember concerning the fire. My Dad and uncles would have to give up their chatter in this cosy shed, bring in their fire and get back to their daily chores. Quite possibly I was hanging around outside their refuge and had to quickly disappear amongst the bushes pretending to be busy doing some gardening. I enjoyed listening to their stories and learnt a lot about men in general in particular how they had fun. So different from women.

With the fire ready and heating the room it would be time start. This was the most enjoyable and awaited part of my day, so relaxing. I just had to lie there while everything was done for me. Over the years I dropped most of my inhibitions to those who helped me, and yes while shy in my first few years like this it no longer really bothered me. Even my son-in-law sometimes helped bath me. This is of course different to the indebtedness I constantly felt toward him and my daughter. I just had to yield as I couldn’t do a single thing. I no longer knew how.

Growing up I was made aware of how important it was to be clean. I loved the gardens and making things grow but I learnt from my Ma and aunties that hygiene and cleanliness in the kitchen were paramount when preparing food. In fact, the whole house had to be clean first before you could even work in the kitchen. So, duties in and around the household started at sunrise every morning. As teenage girls we were divided with some of us sweeping the yard while others inside chasing the boys from bed in order to set the rooms. This was always a challenge for us girls as we would have to resort to different tactics to get them up. Sometimes it would be splashing water in their faces or shouting that there was a snake in the room. Often it ended up with a seniors booming voice to create order. With the house tidied and swept it was then down on our knees to wipe. Once a week the floor had to be polished from that same position. Then after all the cleaning was done, we would bath before going to the kitchen to help our elders. Food was never prepared without first bathing.

This chapter has been inspired by a little boy, young man actually who looked after his own bedbound stepdad for 6 weeks before he succumbed to cancer. “In the end,” he said, “it is only love that keeps you going.” I teared at the story.

I kneel before my Ma’s bed and look into her face. I also bury it in the sheets and duvet at times and weep. It’s usually quiet when I do this. I choose a time when all is calm. In fact it’s usually when my helper is waiting to help me start bathing Ma and sits quietly on a stool in Ma’s room. This is my time to pray for Ma. I love her so much, I love her more than anything in this world because she is so quiet and meek and helpless lying here before me. How can anyone not love a person like this I think? It is crazy but I love her now with her like this much more than my children and more than my husband who I do love so much too. I love Ma with all my heart, with every fiber in my body with every vibration my soul makes. How can I love her more I think? God help me and help my Ma I continually pray. Day after day I do this in the hope that he will create a miracle for her. Just let her talk so that I can hear her voice one more time, so that others will come and know their mother is alive and not just vegetative as it may appear to them. God please just help us, I pray and pray.

My mind always drifts to scenes within my Ma’s life. Whirrrr… whirrrr…whirr the sewing machine used to go. My Ma, so capable and diligent would be bent over her machine sewing, concentrating on what she was doing. Whirrr… is such a beautiful sound to me. It just transports me back to that time when I was a child and with my Ma in our own little house as a family. My Ma forging on with daily chores but in the machine she was doing more than that, she was providing and caring for us with love because in that machine, with that machine she was able to earn money to give us our daily sustenance. I thank you Ma.

“Hey Veenz!” Rajis said bursting into the studio, “that man is here!” and stopped talking to catch her breath after running up the stairs. “What man?” I asked looking at her quizzically as if she were a tittle nutty. “That man from last year, the one with the red beard, remember!” she exclaimed. “the one with the red beard at the exhibition.” “Oh really.” I jumped up not believing what I’d heard,” You lie.” “No true, he’s here downstairs, in the office.” Rajis’ face was now stretched wide and her eyes glaring intently at me. ‘Let me see!” I said rushing out of the studio. It was tea time and the corridors had students hanging around chatting or walking aimlessly about. l skipped joyfully down the three flights of stairs to catch a glimpse. Could it really.be him I wondered or was Rajis pulling my leg? I remember clearly the day we met. We’d had an interesting chat and I’d left a note in the visitor’s book for him to read. (I did not ever read it unfortunately, says the author.) I’d had fantasies. He was such a nice guy with great ideals about life, someone I thought of being on a higher level than most people, a deep thinker, someone who cared about the world. Perhaps someone I could feel at one with? But no was also heavy in my mind. He was white and there was Apartheid, a system designed to keep the races apart. This was 1983, could I dare to dream? Better not it will only upset me is how I thought then. “Hey Veenz, you like that guy?” both Rajis and Siva teased me on the way back to college after our jaunt out at lunch break to see the exhibition of the final year white students. “No, not really,” I replied dreamily, “Aww, come on don’t lie,” said Siva, “you spoke so long and you were sitting close together. Anyone could see you liked him… and he you too! We were watching from above and you two were so engrossed with each other that you didn’t notice us trying to call you. You didn’t notice anything happening around you.” “Okay I do like him but there is nothing I can do about it. I’ll never see him again so I must put him out of my mind!” “Hey, you never know where your fate may take you Veenz.” consoles Rajis. “No, it’s pointless, he was nice but he’s finishing his course this year and who knows what he will do next year. He’s probably got big plans already so I’ll never see him again. And he is white so we could never do anything together anyway. “Oh, shame Veena, you might meet again, you never know,” adds Rajis. Yes, I could dream but I shouldn’t really … just waste my time and hurt myself. With this memory pumping through my heart I stepped forward nervously in front of the office window that looks out onto the entrance foyer of the art and design building. Oh yes, its him. Oh my gosh! I can’t believe it. He must have noticed some movement out the corner of his eye and he looked up straight at me. I was supposed to have faked going past the office but had actually stopped so I was caught off guard and panicked a little. My hand shot up uncontrollably in a nervous wave with a quick smile and then I spun around, my skirt swirling about me and I headed for the stairs. I stopped on the first floor to catch my breath in more ways than one. Wow, it was him. Had he waved back at me? What was he doing here?

I was in the office checking the register and collecting some papers when I looked up and saw this girl. She waved and smiled at me so I returned the greeting. Who’s that I wondered? That girl from last year perhaps? Yes, it looks like her, hair a little longer, of course it’s her. I hadn’t expected to see her here at all. I imagined she’d finished last year. I dropped what I was doing and rushed for the door heading for the staircase her most likely route. I just glided up the stairs and breached onto the first floor. I looked left and right and there she was resting her back on the wall. “Hi, it’s you, how are you?” I asked trying to act casual. “Oh, I’m fine thank you, and you?” she enquired turning the focus back to me. ”Well, thank you,” I said, “so you are still here? I wondered whether you would be but thought it more likely that you had left by now.” “No, I’m in third year now.” “And what are you doing,” I asked referring to a course. “Oh, Textile Design.” Veena answered and lifted one foot to rest on the wall behind her. “That’s nice. What’s your name?” ”Oh, Veena.” she said. “Veena,” I confirm,” a pretty name.” “And yours?” “Brian,” I answered. “What are you doing here.” she inquired. “Me? I’m lecturing drawing to first years,” I proudly replied thinking back to when we first met as students. “That’s lovely,” she said. “Yes, and actually I better get back to my studio to get ready for class, I see break is nearly over,” I told her. “Good to see you again, hope to see you around Veena.” “Oh okay, I’ll see you,” she casually replied. And so I turned and walked down the passage to my class. Yes, I’ve met her, she’s here. How amazing I thought to myself?

Rajis was right! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d been crazy over him after meeting him last year but also knew it was fruitless thinking about it and had to force it out of my mind. But here he was! I wonder if we’ll talk, I remember thinking. I lent on the wall catching my breath and sighed, but the outflow of tension was short lived because as I looked left, I saw him exit the stairwell. Oh my god, what am I doing here and I looked for an escape but there was none so I lifted my chin and looked him square in the face. “Hey it’s you.” he said. “How are you?” “Well thank you and you?” I tried to reply casually, wondering to myself what he must be thinking I was doing here in the passage on the first floor where the first years had lectures and hung out. How embarrassing to be here. However, his relaxed tone and genuine interest in me soothed my fears and we exchanged some friendly words before he excused himself as break was coming to an end.

I floated airily up the next two flights of stairs. “Rajis I saw him, I spoke to him,” I sung and flopped in a chair. “Really, see I was right, what’s he like?” “Still the same,” I replied dreamily with a smile on my face.

It was a typical warm day in Durban, South Africa. Not a particularly hot day but a very pleasant one. One in which one could just wear loose fitting clothes such as a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and be comfortable without feeling hot or cold. Such can be the spring days in sunny South Africa where some of the best weather in the world is found.

It seemed like an ordinary day to Veena as she hurried out of home to get to College or Tech as it was commonly called. The M.L. Sultan Technical College was where this young lady was studying, “Beena your lunch, here’s your lunch,” her Ma came running out the kitchen door. “you must eat you need to keep your strength up for the day. You know I’m always worrying about you, you get so tired, you must eat at lunch time!” “Okay Ma, will do,” she said giving her Ma a tight squeeze and a peck on the cheek. “I have to run to catch the bus Ma. Bye see you later.” Up the hill of her driveway she had to forge and still further up the street she had to run to get to the main feeder road that went further up the hill to the University of Durban Westville, the University for people of Indian heritage. Durban is full of hills but Veena wasn’t going up the hill to the University. She hadn’t made the grade to go there when she finished her schooling. It would have been very convenient as it was a mere 1km from home. But now to get further education the one option for Indians was to go to Tech as they termed it but that was now 10km away down in the city by bus. When she first started there her fostered brother George chaperoned her there as he was going every day to town too but now, she was in second year and more independent and actually started later than he did and so could take a later bus.

“Hey, morning Veena,” said Siva her classmate as she entered the design building in college. “Morning Boy, how are you?” “Good man, finish your work for the crit?” “Yes, I got it here, had to work late in the night to do it. Thought I was going to run out of paint.” “Hey me too, lucky some other second years live in Res and they helped me out.” “You lucky, I always just got to make do with what I have.” “I already pinned up my work. I’ll help you do yours,” said Siva. “Yeah, thanks.” said Veena as they entered their studio. “While I was on the bus, I saw a poster that the final year Art students from Natal Tech are having their exhibition at the NSA Art Gallery,” Veena continued, “Let’s go at lunch time to see it? I’m sure one or two others would like to do that too.” “Ja, that’s a cool idea, get out of here for a bit after we get grilled at the crit for our designs hey?” said Siva.  “Oh, here’s Rajis,” said Veena. “Hey Rajis.” “Morning Veenz,” Rajis replied giving each other a hug. “We’re going to an art exhibition at lunch time, you going to join us?” asked Veena. “That sounds like a good idea, where is it?” asked Rajis raising her eyebrows. “NSA Gallery.” “Okay, but how we’re going to get there?” “So many questions you ask Rajis. Don’t worry about that we’ll get there. Siva’s coming so we’ll hitch hike.” said Veena shrugging her shoulders to emphasis how simple it would be. “Ja, you won’t have to worry Rajis, you know how I can karate chop if things get outta hand hey.” said Siva lunging at her with his hands in a classic chop position. “That’s sealed then, see you here at the beginning of lunch.” said Veena to Rajis. “See you guys later then, enjoy your crit ha, ha.” said Rajis with a knowing smile on her face, a second year textile design student and friend as she left their studio.

Veena was really a shy girl and not having grown up in one of the more affluent homes felt this more acutely. “We as humans must all have feelings of shyness.” She acknowledged. “To deny this would be lying to ourselves and people who claim this must be in denial.” was her belief. I have it for sure but I have to forge past it. Recently, a friend, a 71-year-old man who I run with sometimes and must by now have seen most things in life saw me speak in front of a crowd of people about a new trial run that I had organised. He said, “Brian I don’t know how you did it, I am so shy I couldn’t have done that.” It was an eye opener to me but just reinforced what I have said above. In fact, I am a very shy person too. I believe we all have inadequacies we perceive others will see in us and judge us for that. Some of these inadequacies hold our development and relationships back. They form and define our character without us even knowing it.

So, having been drawn to my Honey and her to me, and in a committed relationship with her didn’t just end the shyness. I was shy long before that. At school I was very shy and got teased because of it. I would blush; no ordinary blush, really blush. I must have been the shyest boy on the planet. I would go so red in the face that the boys at my table, (I went to boarding school), would start to say, “go green so we may go, go green so we can go!” Only the bell ringing the end of mealtime used to save me from this horrendous torture. All this would only make it worse. It would make me even more self-conscious about myself. Of course, there are things that you can do as part of ordinary day life in public that you are oblivious to and you never feel or think to feel shy about. That is because you are so immersed in what you are doing that you are not concerned about the rest of the world or what they are thinking.

Shyness can lead to depression as one thinks of all the negative aspects surrounding being shy. My Honey told me she was shy. At first, I did not believe her as she had such a good way with people. She could have them eating out of the palm of her hand. But shy she was, or so she claimed. This whole book is about who she was and how she became this angel but yes, shy she was.

Her way out of being shy as she related to me was to look people in the eye, put her shoulders back, stand erect and then use her facial features such as a smile, or expressive eyes to capture that person’s attention to make them feel special before they would notice that she was shy. She would then ask that person questions and based on their replies use her perceptive judgement to hone in on their misgivings in an up-lifting way without any suggestion or hint of a negative conclusion or a bias about that person. This was really part of her God given gift, her talent at making other people special over and above herself. Give the technique to others and they would fail though as they did not have the empathy that she exuded, the real core of her uniqueness. The initial posture that she took up was just a mask she put forward. In the era of Facebook this has fallen away and now allowed her to interact with people from all around the world in her special manner without having to put on that stance of herself. On Facebook your initial page presentation is probably akin to that.  So using this medium she was able to win friends across the globe while nursing her Ma.

To give you a classic example of her is to describe how we first met as told to me from her perspective. Then she was only 22 years old and made a deep impression on me. “I see you are busy working hard here, what are you trying to do?” Now I was in my 4^th year of fine art, sculpture studies and I was off on my own tangent of ideas about the world. I was set up in a shopping mall, in the focal area, the central courtyard where all could see me yet I was the epitome of what most people were doing there. I was challenging the way the system worked in my small way with my conceptual action-based art work. I was part of the final year student exhibition taking place in an art gallery there only I had chosen to work outside of it.

This young lady faced me. I too was young don’t forget. She was with two other people, a girl and a boy of about the same age. “Oh, forgive me,” she said, “I am Veena and these are my friends from college. We are art students and decided to come and see the final year student exhibition. It was our lunch time and we hitchhiked up the hill.” She stood there confidently with her shoulders back, chest forward and looked me in the eye expectantly. Now being a shy boy normally I would have cringed at being spoken to like this by a confident young woman but now I was in my element because I was on “my turf”, I was showing the world through my art what was wrong with society and therefore exhibited my own confidence.

For those not in the know of how Apartheid South Africa really worked in detail it was like this. I was a white boy and went to a college for Europeans only. Veena, an Indian person was at a college for Indians only and similarly so for Africans. But not all colleges were equal or offered the same courses. Sometimes by special arrangement through permits and procedures a person of one race was allowed to study at the college of another. Usually the white college had just about everything so it stood to reason that the other races would want to go to that college. However, such permits were rarely issued.

So there stood in front of me this brave Indian girl asking me about my work. Such interaction was rare in our country. Yes, we were both students and it ought to be considered absolutely natural that one student should just feel free to chat to another but in our context of racial segregation in 1983 this was not a likely event.

“We wanted to know what you are doing?” she reiterated insistently while I was thinking that everything was written on the boards behind me so couldn’t she first read that. However, I was keen to debate my reasoning with people no matter their race and background and had already done so many times during the preceding ten days of the exhibition but to engage a young Indian woman would certainly be rare. Normally they would avoid me.

She still stood there waiting for my reply. Her two friends hung back not having the same blazon confidence as she put forward. Meanwhile she presented herself as a very down to earth humble person. She had spiky hair. Not spiky in the way of trying to make a statement to the world but just a modest short cut hairstyle, the kind that you can see through to the scalp on the top of her head. She wore no makeup as far as I can remember a plain white blouse and a pair of old jeans. Just a basic everyday student not trying to catch anybody’s eye in particular. I can’t say she was beautiful but handsome yes. Big wide-open brown eyes, strong arching black eyebrows above, a small straight nose and a chin held up toward me waiting for my response. “Well,” I said,” I am carving a plank of wood out of this log.” (can’t you see I secretly thought). “Oh really, yes I can see that, that’s so interesting. It must be hard work.” Now this took me aback somewhat. Yes, it was hard work and that in part was the point of the exercise. That man does a lot of hard work to make products for consumption but a lot of waste is generated at the same time at a huge environmental cost to the planet.

So here in front of me was a woman who I thought would not have seen the whole point of my exercise seem to hone straight in on it. Here was someone who had a limited lunch break come to talk to me about my work. Yes, she had made an instant connection with me in the way she presented herself by commiserating with me the experience of what I was doing. “Well yes, it is a lot of hard work.” I remember myself saying, “I am trying to show the world how much waste is produced to manufacture one item such as a plank, so much destruction, so much pollution, to make products that we think we need but really don’t need. We actually need far fewer things to live than we make.” “Yes, it’s true.” she said thinking of how little they had at home and how her Ma struggled every day to make ends meet and at the same time moving closer to me and resting herself against the plinth on which my work was resting. We started to get into a deeper discussion about what I was doing and how it related to the world in which we live. I think we forgot about her two friends because after a while they appeared in front of us saying that it was time to back to class.

So here was this shy Veena who put herself forward with her techniques still in their formative years making an impression on me. This is my personal experience of how her magic worked. It wasn’t in her appearance or in a manner or style that was trying to impress me in anyway. It was her interest in what I was doing and what made me a person. There would have been little thought of romance because we were worlds apart being different races at different colleges – well just totally different. Fate had other plans though.

Veena’s ability to uncover and empathise with the feelings of the people with whom she came into contact with was her mark and true strength.         

So, when I met her, I knew there was something special about her. She could communicate instantly with me. There was no barrier, just an openness to discuss my feelings and beliefs. I was lucky to be part of our final year student exhibition and on hand when she visited.

I just met her this once but she lingered on in my memory. She was a pretty girl and I was young but much more than this it was the caring interest in me and what I was doing that attracted me to her. What ultimately made her choose me as her life partner is a question you may ask? There were many people who liked her, not because she was a cool girl but because of who she was. I can only think that I was lucky in that she saw my heart on that first day as it was laid bare by the very nature of what I was doing. Then the following year when we met again it remained bare when talking to her. She was someone who liked honesty in their feelings and these would have been the formative times of our relationship. So perhaps while others liked her and would have loved to be her partner, they hadn’t quite won her over because they hadn’t laid themselves bare enough. I can say with all honesty that unfortunately I didn’t always bare myself enough for her during our marriage as many other pressures come into play in such a partnership particularly in our case that of being a mixed-race couple.   

Working frantically Koonthi stuffs her pre made holes in the mushy soil with marigold seedlings alongside one of the vegetable patches. “Koonthi… Koonthi, Koonthi where are you.” what’s wrong with this child, she never answers when I call her. “Koonthi.” yells her aunt out over the garden again. Evening is settling in; the sky is wispy orange in the west from soapy clouds hanging motionlessly high above the departed sun. The air is cool and still with a few murmuring voices in nearby dwellings that carry out across the placid lands. Birds are chattering in the trees as they prepare to roost for the gathering darkness. A chicken ruffles its feathers and grates its throat in the nearby chicken run and old faithful stomps his hoof while grinding teeth on the evening fodder. Meanwhile Koonthi lurks behind some bushes within their blackening shadows. The whites of her eyes gleam wide, her black hair drawn tightly back into a tapering plait almost reaching her waist. She has a delicate rounded face that’s tilted up toward her aunt who’s just a charcoal silhouette within the framed doorway on the veranda. Her cheeks glow orange in the prevailing dusk and then she lowers her head to avoid detection. Some windows glow warmly with the flicker of paraffin lamps… this signifies that the Lutchmi has been lit and evening prayer complete. “Damn,” she thinks, “I’m almost done here, just a few more and they’ll all be planted.” as she sinks her fingers of one hand into the muddy soil making holes for the marigold seedlings she is planting while the other shoves two or three in each at a time. The air is sliced again, “Koonthi, where are you? Come ere!” Much shriller now and the demand having a threatening tone which fans out across the various yards close by. All murmuring stops abruptly. They know who’s calling and for whom. “That irritating child, ever since her mother passed away, she’s been troublesome, never completing all her tasks on time, what must I do with her?” the aunt grumbled to herself. “Auntie, I’m coming,” replies Koonthi knowing she can’t push her luck any further. She drops what she is doing and runs through the twilight toward the house. This is Cato Manor, a valley behind the high, stretched out hill overlooking the city of Durban where freed indentured labour and Indian traders were allowed to purchase land. Most residents turned to market gardening as a means of survival. All manner of dwellings were found here on this farming patchwork from mud and thatch, wood and iron to brick and tile and were dotted randomly as the individual owners fancied. The city fathers had adopted a laissez-faire attitude to this area being out of sight and left resident to their own devices. “Where you bin? What you doin?” asks her aunty. “Just planting marigolds marmi,” “Come my child, you have to finish making the roti’s, why you going to the garden when there’s still house work to do? The men want to eat just now! Wash yourself and get back in the kitchen.” “Yes marmi,” replied Koonthi sliding sideways past her aunt so she could keep an eye on her in case she decided to lash out with a slap as she sometimes did. A kind of fear gripped her but not one she was unaccustomed to. Life was different now that her Ma had passed away. Her aunt always saw to it that she was kept busy with something to do from early in the morning sweeping around the house, then inside with beds to set and floors to sweep and mop. After that clothes were to be hung, water to be collected from the river, food to prepare and more including making roti’s’. They were always needed with many mouths to feed but Koonthi’s real passion was to be outside caring for the plants and farm animals. Gloom hung around the inside of the house despite the Lutchmi being lit as the lamps only fed pools of darkness which allowed her to move unseen through the interior. She saw the men folk huddled in the lounge chatting, their distorted shadows projected by the brightest light in the house, that of the kitchen pressure lamp that let out a low hissing as it burned. Koonthi needed hot water but as she was about to enter the kitchen her father noticed her. “Ah Koonthi, come here my girl, where have you been? “Planting marigolds Dada.” and leant forward into her father’s embrace concurrently drawing in his distinctive aroma. Her head rested on his chest while he stroked her head, “You’re a good girl my Koonthi, but off you go, I know they are looking for you.”

 

A couple of elder ladies were sitting at the centre table in the kitchen while two others were busy on a side counter. Koonthi went straight up to the stove, a blackened but shiny cast iron hulk supporting a multitude of pots of various sizes emitting tantalising aromas. She chose the largest and blackest lifting the lid carefully with an outstretched arm while using a cloth to avoid being burnt and placed it on a side table. A billow of steam rose up and vanished. Under the side table Koonthi lifted out the jug for her hot water and transferred it into a bucket. Koonthi had hoped not to be noticed, “Koonthi,” one of the ladies called, “where you bin? you haven’t finished making the roti.” “Coming now.” she said glancing at that aunt and stepped out the back door into the darkness. Just to the left she entered the wash area, basically a lean-to shed attached to the back of the house. She knew exactly where everything was in the dark and slipped out of her simple work smock made of rice bags and hung it on her nail for tomorrow. She felt in the familiar area for the jug and dipped it into the cool river water she had collected earlier that day. She stirred the two waters together then feeling on a wooden ledge found the soap, facecloth and pouring cup. The first few cups of water were always the best but then her wet naked body felt the night chill as she experienced the powerful forces of nature acting against her. Her love for the outdoors was insatiable, she loved planting things, to see them come to life. She loved the chickens, the ducks the household cats and even the cowering dogs. She loved the pigeons kept in their cage but above all she loved their cart horse the most. He was so big and strong yet so gentle and obedient to those who commanded him but she loved him because she knew he loved her when he lowered his head to sniff her and kiss with his big fat lips that would tickle wherever he did it. And she loved him because none of the other women of the house really cared to give him a second glance except when they wanted to complain about him when he wouldn’t always do what they wanted him to do. The men had to protect him as his primary job was to take the produce to market and all other uses took second place. So, he was like this great opposer to the women in the household to which she felt akin. Ever since her Ma had passed away things had changed.

 

How sad that all was she thought as she slipped the soap over her naked torso. She placed the soap carefully in its place still all in the dark and lathered her slim body. Her hand glided over the slight mounds in front telling her that she was on her way to becoming a woman too. She paused thinking of her Ma and let out some impulsive sobs. How sad my Ma has gone, “0h Ma, where are you? Why did you leave me when you went to the wedding? I hate weddings, they took you away.” Tears filled her eyes but she couldn’t waste time, her Marmi would be calling for her at any moment. She had to finish quickly. She now took the cloth, dipped it in water and wiped off the soap. Every now and again she took the cup filled with water and poured it over the cloth and squeezed to get the soap out. It was just light enough to make out the white suds snaking their way along the tiny rivulets over the earth, finding their way forward. How life is she thought, it squirms this way and that, where will my life take me Ma, she thought still wiping her body free of the lather? Little did she know what her future held, this soaping and wiping. It was a metaphor for cleaning, a way of life, always trying to keep clean or be kept clean. She didn’t mind at all getting dirty, she loved it, always planting, always playing with the animals in the yard. It was a good escape from the house and the possible wrath or irritation of her aunts, but when she washed, she liked to be clean.

 

While Koonthi was engrossed in her outdoor activities her sisters and cousins were usually gathered on the veranda in gossip and giggles. This was a waste of time for Koonthi as she always had more urgent work, more productive things to do so despite her duties she felt she could achieve more, see things grow and develope. She was aware that she was now becoming a woman getting ready for the next stage of life. She had learnt how to take care of a household, raise children, cure ailments and cook for a large number of people. So long as you had a piece of ground you would never go hungry.

 

She enjoyed her bath, so while she delighted in digging the earth, she loved getting clean again. It was all part of the natural order and even like religion as things in life grew and died, were created and destroyed just as she learnt of the Hindu God, Vishnu. To her there was no difference really, nature and religion, they were the same cycle, nature just a reflection in a practical micro cosmological way.

 

So, while feeling the warm water gush out the cup down her body the silence was broken. “Koonthi, hurry up girl, you have to finish the roti.” “Coming marmi,” called Koonthi back politely as there was no use in being off-hand. She picked up the whole bucket with the last bit of warm water to do the thing she loved most and tilted the contents to envelope her body in a warm embrace as if her Ma was there for a second. It rushed to the earth driving away the snaking soap suds from the stone on which she stood. This was her life, one of hurrying from here to there like that of uncovered earth worms she would have to wiggle and squirm to her next duty.

 

As the reader of this you may wonder why it is included in this story. Some of it relates to what happened to Veena’s Ma later in life from being a vibrant person, always busy always working to improve her lot, to suddenly being laid to rest on a bed for over fourteen years of her life due to a stroke with her daughter taking charge of all her needs such as bathing.  Another is because Veena felt so much for her mum’s story that she wanted to bring it to life in a book which never materialised. So, what I was lucky to glean I have put together here.

“In the stillness of silence, in just a sliver of time when I wake up in the middle of the night and all else seems dead; now that is when I dare dream of other things… but even so, in that miniscule space I have to suppress my feelings, so I reach out to the world and her issues…” is how I am busy updating my profile on Facebook. I choose my words carefully, reading them over and over again; I add and subtract developing the feeling as I go along. The reality in the world is feelings; this is the most important thing to me… to connect with another person’s feelings. With me and my problems; it’s hard to imagine where I’m going to go and what will I do? Its hard enough being closeted here day after day without end. So, I sit here on my bed, in a corner of Ma’s room, in the darkness and only dream of doing other things but that’s difficult, so I flip open my laptop with its light on my clothes. I have a look at whose online (Facebook) and what friends I haven’t spoken to or communicated with in a while. I think of my status and of what I can write about to make my life look and seem as if it’s Bright, seem as if there is hope. That is what I do, because otherwise in that sliver of time that small slice of the moment I have for myself… for my own thoughts, I might descend into depression. I have to occupy it with something that will take me to another place other than that which I am in right now. That’s why I compose pieces that are beautiful about where I live, what I do, my Ma and life about me. It could be about the breath of soft mist around the darkened looming tree forms in the garden or of the differing characters my three cats portray or the antics of my two children or the noble qualities of my Honey. I live in a beautiful place and its beauty seeps into me day after day. I thank Lord God and my Honey that I have this place. But at times it isn’t the right place, it’s a curse, far from everywhere, so lonely and it seems like a hopeless place for me in a hopeless situation.

Now that sounds incredibly depressing and it is. But it is from this point and other low points such as the thoughts of how my Ma struggled in life with no formal education that make me identify with the suffering in the world. I often say I do not know of anyone who works harder than me in the world but of course there are. It only feels like I do because I don’t leave a single thing undone when I do Ma and that means my mind is fully engaged in her care for always trying to improve it no matter the amount of work. In other words I will not rest until I know she has everything she needs. Her needs are superior to mine as she cannot speak and I must be ready to anticipate or understand what they are. If I have a headache then I immediately think of her, does she have one? That goes for any ailment but more than that I must be fully aware to help her. So this vigilance keeps me busy most of the day and night. It’s tough. Just bathing Ma makes me perspire as I give her everything I have over the course of an hour and a half. So I can identify with child labour in India or refugees fleeing worn torn  parts of the world who are perhaps struggling across the countryside or over mountain passes to escape the carnage in their country or any other catastrophe or hardship. All these poor souls weigh in on me.

Don’t get me wrong I love what I do. I am looking after my Ma, that person who gave me life. But it is also tiring, like running a long race. So my poor soul is suffering too. Its saddened by the state of my Ma but also what I have to do to take care of her. So, if I have a friend who is in trouble, I immediately feel that person’s despair or anguish. I connect with them directly to their heart by what I say to them. They will find I am always with them, never apart.”

This is the story of a person, a woman, a child, a partner, a wife, a mother, a caregiver but above all an Angel because she gave of herself unconditionally to others and ultimately sacrificing her life so her Ma may live. I shall attempt to tell her story completely truthfully as I see it with some dramatisation in order to convey the real feelings and emotions of a person navigating her life joyfully, lovingly, happily (or… in joy, love, happiness) but also in sadness, despair and depression. Will you join me as I take this journey in unfolding her life for you?

I ask those who dispute my words to understand that the passage of time may have left some misty memories or a different interpretation of events that may have taken place according to their perspective but here is as truthful an account of a life well lived in the service of others that I can give. Your opportunity is being given here to place your version of anything you challenge by contacting me in order to address your concern and have it published here. In actual fact I implore such communication however I reserve the right to edit such texts before inserting them.

The undeniable truth is that she paid the ultimate price doing God’s work and for that is accorded her Angel status.  

“Veena, Veena…Veena…it’s time to turn Nanima,” whispered Mazetta in a husky voice, unsure of herself in her employer’s bedroom. (What’s it like to commit suicide??? Something I think a lot about. No one really knows what’s really going on. No one knows what’s really going on. No one really knows my life. No one cares any more, not even my husband, my children… My sisters abandoned me long, long ago…) “Veena… Veena… wake up…it’s time to turn Nanima…(I am wakened by the soft almost hesitant  but repetitive voice of Mazetta the night nurse but I ignore her calls and pretend to be asleep.)

No one knows my life either. Each day I have to forge on with my duties. Such as getting up early, the first in the family if you can call it that as my Honey has been up many times during the night. I have to jump out of bed and go, go, go. First on the list are my personal needs and then a quick call to kids, just to help waken them gently. Into the kitchen I rush to prepare the counter tops. We have 2 adorable cats but, in the night, they get up to their own devices and sometimes use the kitchen tops to lie on. Once all is hygienic then I get breakfast ready and start to make their lunch. I always have in mind when I was at school. I used to hate my lunch. I used to bring it home and secretly feed it to the animals out back of the house. We had a farm and had all sorts of hungry animals. Then I have to eat, dress and encourage the kids to keep moving. By now my Honey has awakened but her first priority is Nanima. If all is good there then she might help ease the flow of the early morning rush to get to school and the days trials. I am trapped in this cycle but at least I get some relief from my daily duties of getting to school, shopping for Nanima and the house and trying to earn a living. My Honey has none!

“Veena… Veena, Wake up, wake up,” Mazetta starts to become more earnest in her pleas for Veena to wake up as much time has passed since she first came to call and she fears getting into trouble from Veena for letting the time lapse between turns for Nanima get too long. (“Oh I wish I could die but I have to do this… I have to get up and help my Ma but I am so tired, I’d rather just sleep for ever. It’s been at least 5 years now, this constant plodding on. I have no future or a past; I only have the present. In my mind I have to keep it that way otherwise that ugly thought creeps in. The one that says yes, there is a way out, the one I have just told you about. The one that sometimes screams at me saying, “YES YES YES I am your salvation.” But then who will take care of Ma? That question haunts me… for there is no one, I have been abandoned. My sisters avoid me, have not helped at all and contribute scant nothing. My husband who lies beside me and I love dearly couldn’t do it.  I can’t expect him to and he has so much to do already. This incessant calling is getting to me. I have to get up.”) “Veena…Veena, get up,” Mazetta calls urgently and starts to shake Veena’s arm. “I told you not to touch me,” exclaims Veena jumping up, “I get such a fright!” Mazetta steps back in shock and apologises and tries to make her excuses but Veena continues to castigate her. I hear them continuing their argument across the passage in Ma’s room. I need to sleep but to intervene would be fruitless. Darren by now is awake in his room and he bangs the wall. “Keep quiet I need to sleep.” What are they arguing about you may wonder? Is it trivial? Has there been a dereliction of duties? Mazetta a nervous sort of woman when around Veena has always tried to please and she has those eyes that dart quickly up from her work to see if she has been noticed by her employer Veena for any transgression that may have occurred. The whites of her eyes always evident even in the dimmed light of deep night as they give away her nervousness.

“Veena I have been trying to wake you for half an hour now,” exclaims Mazetta. “Look at the time Mazetta it’s half past three and Nanima hasn’t been turned for 2 hours, she’s going to get bedsores. If you can’t do this work you must tell me and I will find another. And I keep telling you not to touch me. I get such a fright when you do.” says Veena. “I have been trying to wake you for half an hour,” retorts Mazetta. (“Is this really happening? Good God above please help me, I implore you. You have given me a task to do and I am trying my best, please don’t make it any harder for me. You have me right under your thumb and you are suffocating me, I have no life but this one you have given me. Give me a chance, I need to see my babies grow; I need to give my husband time. I need to look after myself, please help me Lord I beg you for mercy. Make my Ma walk and talk or else take her into your loving care. But please Lord God give me a chance.”)

It all started a long time ago with the birth of my Ma in 1927 and even her Ma, my Aji. (Hindi for Grandma) Aji went to a wedding when my Ma was just a little girl of about 10. She did not return. They say she probably died of a heart attack.

So, my Ma was brought up in an extended family of market gardeners living on a small holding behind the University of Natal as it was once called in an area named Cato Manor. It was a real country life and full of activities all the time with lots of work in the field or home. Being without a mother made her on the bottom of the pecking order and being darker skinned than her other cousins did not help either but it gave her a better understanding of how things actually got done because instead of her greater cousins dodging the duties my poor Ma had to get right down and do them such as learning to grow vegetables, propagate plants, grow fruit trees, tend to the menagerie of animal life such as chickens, doves and the trusted cart horse that pulled their cart to market nearly every day. Her experience was a practical one so while some of the “greater” cousins went to school she only did three years of formal school and spent the other years of her young life helping to run and work the land. Fetching water from the river was also one of her many duties. So she grew up very practical in nature which stood her in good stead for her coming fate. As was often the case in those days on reaching adulthood her marriage was arranged. The Uncles and Aunts found her a tailor from Grey Street, the Casbah as the area was once commonly called. She went to live with his family in Clairwood south of the city centre. The only storage space she had for her clothes was a suitcase under the bed. She had a miscarriage which brought much sadness to this newlywed couple. During this time, she had moved with her husband to Springfield just above Tin Town on the Springfield flats alongside the Umgeni River just North of the city centre. Drawing deep on her earlier years of life she was able to supplement her husband’s income by producing amazing vegetables from the fertile riverbank soil toiling long hours in the hot sun. Together with what her husband had saved they were able to purchase a couple of acres of land in Clare Estate just a bit further up the river valley. It was just right so it seemed as the slope down from the road was where they built their house with a top floor and a basement underneath, (which was to become the hallmark of houses built in the steep area of Reservoir Hills an adjacent area) and a flat piece where they could plant vegetables and fruit trees. She was indeed a thrifty woman using her astuteness to get ahead in life where others would have rather just wallowed in poverty. Building on her skills she had been forced to learn as a child because of having to make clothes for the extended family back in Cato Manor she now could increase her excellence in dressmaking with the expertise and machine her husband provided to supplement their income further. There was never an idle moment for this young woman and always money saved for improving their lot. Living off the land had gained a whole new meaning as the money she generated could be used for many important things in life. After one miscarriage in her newly built house in Clare Estate a neighbour offered her a child for her to raise as her own. Thus, entered George (Ba) into her life who at about the age of 9 became her first “son” She loved him with all her heart and he stayed with the family for most of his life. He was a gentle soul who had been given away partly as a gesture of selflessness but also as a way of passing on an under-performing child at school. Soon he was taken under the wing of the tailor husband and went to work in town learning the art of making suits.

Some years later, about 10 I am told my oldest sister Molly was born. She thrived with no health issues and then followed two more sisters and then I the last of the girls. My parents now longed for their own biological son who arrived three years later. I began to feel neglected as he became the centre of attraction. I started to identify with the less fortunate in our community, the downtrodden, the elderly the sick. Why was I left out I used to think, just a shy little girl with many questions on my mind. I couldn’t talk to anyone about this as they wouldn’t understand. Who knew anything about psychology then? Even so my childhood was one of great excitement. I could run freely about in the open between neighbours houses. I became a Tomboy teaming up with my brother and other boys in the area, getting up to mischief and learning to play as a regular guy while my other sisters preferred to stay inside as prissy young ladies. This way I got to know many more people than they did and as a girl within a group of boys I always offered encouragement to people I met who seemed less fortunate or in need of some help in the neighborhood. Despite my feelings I loved my Dad with all my heart and looked forward to him coming home every day from work. Fridays was a big day for us as my dad was paid and he would bring home treats from the streets in town such as chevda and murkoo and roasted nuts. In just another four years my Dad died of a heart attack at work so I was only seven. I looked into everything for my Dad believing he would miraculously appear, perhaps even in a cloud but that never happened. I was only seven. By now George was a young man and took over the role of father in my life and in our family’s. I was to want for nothing or so I believed. My Ma while extremely clever and thrifty had a lot of mouths to feed and George was only earning a tailor’s wage. We were still poor but yet had everything we could imagine. We never went hungry. My ma always made sur we ate well and first and then she would eat the left overs and things like the chicken skin and feet of the chicken. In hindsight I now see a route cause for her suffering these major strokes that she has had to succumb to.

It was when I went to High School that I started to get a sense of who I really was and what it meant to be one of the cool girls. Those better off usually belonged to the cool group as they always had the best lunches the cool gadgets such as…and hairdos. They could speak about other things in the wider world that I had no experience of and it made me feel that much more inadequate as a young girl. I tended to seek out the underdog type of person and lift them up from their despair as a way out of my own misgivings. This tactic I knew from the time my brother entered the family. Another method I used to gain some popularity was to give away everything I had. So, if anyone ever needed anything, I would be the first to offer what I had. My Ma would get mad with me but soon softened when I told her of the other child’s desperation for what I had given away. This proved to me that my Ma was a giving person who helped others in need.     

1. Your Parents are your first God, offer them thanks first in everything and acknowledge their contribution to your life. Without them you would not be here.

2. Look the other person in the eye. Level up with other people and don’t feel lesser or smaller than them. You are the most important person in the world to yourself.

3. Even the Queen of Britain has to go to the toilet. She has to defecate just like you so although she or anyone for that matter may have a higher position than you they are all just human like you are.

4. Submit to God as everything God has ultimately made. Give thanks to God for everything that you have, your house, your, family, your income etc. Thank God first for all this before you use it

5. Family first. Family was the most important thing to Veena. Nothing came before it, during it, or after it.

6. Give other people credit for what they have achieved. for who they are no matter how small and insignificant that may be. To raise someone up is to lift them higher and higher. It is the foundation of getting someone to be better than they already are even if they are old and infirm, crippled and in a wheelchair or so successful.

7. Live simply but aim to have the basic comforts. It’s no use stressing to get something when in fact once you have the basics nothing else matters. God is the most basic but a roof over your head and a full stomach should complete all your needs.

8. You can give away everything so long as you have your dignity. She saw those people who tried to discredit you or anyone for that matter as evil, as horrible people. She would not stand for it. To give was always better than receive whether it was in a compliment or in something tangible

9. Honesty. Those living a pretense or a pretentious life were wasting their time and hers. She didn’t want to waste her time feeding into those situations. If she could help those who were like that then she surely would so long as they showed that they were willing to change. She always had time for anyone wanting to improve themselves in a righteous way.

10. Love everyone equally, let God decide the difference.