Why “The Words Whisperer”
Who would have ever thought that one of the most difficult things when starting a writing blog was deciding on its name!? I tossed around a few ideas… “The Write Stuff”, “Pen-Up”, “A Walk on the Write Side” …but none of these gelled with me. I wanted something unique, something that I identified with, something that reflected my roots.
They (yes…the infamous “THEY” who have an opinion about everything) say that for a tree to bear the sweetest of fruit, it needs to have its roots firmly in the ground. So, let’s start there…my roots.
Three years before the start of the First World War, on 20 July 1911, a boy-child was born. His birth neither heralded any 21-gun salute nor any proclamations in the streets. Instead, something of a far greater magnitude occurred. The sun lost some of its brightness; the angels lost some of their compassion; the God of Healing parted with some of His divine gifts. All this, and much more, were bestowed upon this remarkable boy-child; a boy-child who grew up to be a man whose first name I proudly bore as my last for more than thirty years, before the swipe of a pen and the Department of Home Affairs changed it. He was my paternal grandfather, my Aaja, Mr Rampursat Hansraj.
His father, Hansraj, was born in India and arrived on South African soil at the tender age of 2 on 20 April 1891 aboard the SS Pongola VII with father, Chhangur Baba and mother, Thulsia. Chhangur Baba was named as such due to him having 5 fingers and one thumb, (‘Che angoor’ literally translates to six fingers in Hindi) and hailed from a village near Ayodhya in the North Indian State of Bihar. He toiled the land as an indentured labourer and went on to acquire farmlands in the area that he worked. These lands were then bequeathed to his sons, Hansraj being his eldest.
Aaja was the eldest of Hansraj’s nine children. He grew up working the sugarcane fields of New Guelderland, in the Province of Natal, with very little formal primary education. He worked hard and was a source of inspiration to his younger siblings, who held him in high esteem. During this time, he became a top-class swimmer and was referred to as “Dabula ‘manzi” by the locals. His passion for swimming seems to have been passed on to some of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Time passed. Aaja went on to marry and had five children (3 sons and 2 daughters) of his own. He lost his life partner, my Ajee, in 1966 and never remarried.
By the time I was born, Aaja was sixty-four years old, with a shock of silvery-grey hair. He had mellowed greatly and spent his time in his beloved garden. He had “green fingers” and anything that he attempted to grow, he succeeded. The best mealies and pungent bulbs of garlic spring to mind when I think of his luscious garden near the family burial grounds alongside a crystal-clear stream. I remember his garden so well. It was set within an orchard of huge mango trees and as children, we ran through the graveyard and splashed through the stream with our dogs, Buster and Ringo, without any care or fear, as he tended to the beds of methi and dhania.
He very rarely got angry or raised his voice. He saw humour in just about every situation and his laughter and mischievous smile will remain etched in my memory forever. He told us stories and made us laugh, and some of life’s greatest lessons I learnt from sitting with him.
I was fourteen years old when I injured my ankle, quite seriously. Aaja turned physician and massaged my ankle with the skill and aptitude of any modern-day physiotherapist. He made a poultice of aloe, turmeric and onion and applied it to the injured area. It worked like a bomb and before long I was able to walk with much less of a hobble. Aaja commanded the respect of people, near and far, with his healing skills and in his younger days, many flocked to his home on the farm to be tended to by him. I learnt something new on the day that I was injured…formal education was not a prerequisite for greatness!
On 13 January 1996, five months before my 21st birthday, Aaja departed this world in his 85th year and embarked on his next great journey. He left behind a legacy far greater than material wealth. A legacy that lives on in his children and grandchildren and their children. They went on to become educators, lawyers, doctors, accountants and retail specialists, but above all they became compassionate human beings. They learnt to appreciate the simple things in life and they learnt to respect everyone, irrespective of colour, religion or social standing.
Another, less known, fact about him was that he was a horse whisperer. He was sought after, in his hey days, by the white farmers to tame their wild horses, a task he accomplished with stoic aplomb.
It was from this fact, often glossed over, that the idea for The Words Whisperer was formed. I could never be a Horse Whisperer, and I am nowhere close to being the person that he was - a person of small stature but a larger than life personality. I can, however, honour him by naming this blog in his memory. I am who I am because of him, because of the sacrifices that he made and the little lessons that I learnt at his feet.
Aaja, this one’s for you (perhaps there’s a bottle of the old ‘Blue Top’ somewhere to drink to this?!)
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