The jewelry box

Fate has an interesting way of bringing folks together, often making strong and lasting connections.

My story is of humble beginnings, a peaceful life until the Quit India movement and eventual splitting of the sub-continent in the mid-twentieth century. We had to flee the ancestral village, leaving a lot behind. Homes and lives had to be rebuilt. The oldest son was sent off to stay with relatives, to study and find work. He persevered and joined the millions of hard-working middle class folks in the bustling metropolis of Mumbai. Marine Drive, the “local” trains, the street vendor’s vada-pav all became an integral part of life. The migrant experience made for some very close life-long friendships.

Decades passed, and a new generation in the family arrived. As all new parents do, the first-born was most cherished and most protected. We were often in suburban Mumbai as the little ones took their first steps, went off to school, then college and beyond. All along, my travels were still within the confines of Western India, until one summer when we flew thousands of miles over large swaths of land and water to reach another western coast. And in this golden state, at the favorite grandson’s home, I soon met a new friend.

Her early story was not unlike mine but the trials and tribulations were of a different kind. Life in British-colonized Tanganyika was comfortable but the family’s faith was shattered by the loss of many sons, all in infancy. An older daughter and thankfully the last son survived. Laughter was hard to come by, the unspoken fear was that mirth would inevitably be followed much sadness. Though nature’s bounty was abundant, in the sixties the birthing pains of the new nation Tanzania, and a desire to rest brought them all sailing back home. Back to where it all began, back to the old way of life. The travels did not end though, as the family grew and soaked in more of the coastal areas of the Arabian Sea and the Indian Ocean. Swahili words, dancing with friends on Navratri nights and idli-sambar at the dinner table became traditions to be carried on.

Eventually my friend too traveled across the globe to sunny Southern California, to the youngest granddaughter. And here we are now, sitting amicably side by side, in a velvet-lined jewelry box. One an unconventional set of dangling earrings with small white pearls around an emerald stone, the other a traditional round stud with an arrangement of seven pearls set in gold. Passed on from grandmothers from both sides, enjoying the tinkling of ornaments, the lights, jingles and happy voices in this most wonderful time of the year, and watching together as life unfolds with more stories to tell.