Never in a sari. On Sundays she’d a

Never in a sari. On Sundays she’d always change first. Back from mass, she’d unwind the six yards of silk or chiffon, replacing it with her baggy black cotton tracksuit and her brown pumps. Even in those unflattering clothes, her black eyes and quiet grace shone through. Her features were as prepossessing and loving as her physical accomplishments in her garden. She’d look round with a satisfied smile at the fruits of her labour before coming indoors, where she’d infuse the house with aromas of jeera, haldi, cinnamon and cloves. Then she’d call out to us.‘Anthony.’ She get’d no response.

‘Angelo.’ Sometimes he would oblige if he wasn’t working on his Meccano set.

‘Maya.’ She was Ma’s best bet if she wasn’t in the shower or on the phone.

When no help was forthcoming she’d call out again.

‘You children. Can’t you hear me calling?

If we were together upstairs, or with Pa in the TV room, we’d mouth her words, and laugh. Then I’d be told to go.

All Ma wanted was for one of us to go out into the garden to pick – kari pattha – curry leaves which she’d throw into a saucepan of simmering curry. Actually, thinking about it now, Ma wanted more. She wanted us to look at her garden and her kari pattha tree. After she had thrown the kari pattha leaves into the pot she’d head upstairs, and change into a home sari: simple, comfortable and usually unembroidered. After lunch we’d watch some old black and white Hollywood movie in the TV room. Ma loved Rita Hayworth. Pa’d sit on his Parker Knoll, Ma in her armchair and the four of us squashed up together on the sofa bed. As the credits opened with the huge cymbal sounding, or the cock crowing, Pa would break into a gentle snore while Ma would remind us, for the umpteenth time, that Rita Hayworth was Indian.

When they returned to England, finding a house with a garden had been a priority for Ma. She wanted to make up for all the years she hadn’t had a garden in Hong Kong. Despite her affection for all that blossomed in her garden, Ma longed for a small kari pattha tree. She wanted something of India in her garden. Over the years she would take fresh kari pattha leaves, root them as stem cuttings, willing them to grow but, more often than not, they would droop and die.

Once when I was about eight, I came into the kitchen and saw Ma looking at her kari pattha with such sadness in her eyes. I remember rushing up and hugging her and telling her, ‘Don’t cry, Ma. They’re only leaves.’

‘Oh sweetie, but they remind me of home.’

‘But Ma this is your home.’

‘Yes, darling.’ She patted me on the cheek. ‘But I have two homes. You have three.’

‘This is my home.’ I straightened my back and stared at Ma.

‘Of course. But your Papa is English, I’m Indian and you were born in Hong Kong. So you have three places in the world you can call home.’

I remember walking out of the kitchen wondering whether I liked the idea of three homes or not.

***

Pa would make the four of us smile, when he complimented Ma about her garden. He knew how to take care of the gardener but never did any work himself. Whenever he saw the blossoms on the trees, the flowers in full bloom, he’d tell Ma her sunflowers were as rich as Van Gogh’s or her roses as red as her bindi and Ma would smile. When he told her that her jasmine or her oriental lilies, smelt as sweet as she did after a bath, she’d give him one tight slap. We were clear it was Ma’s garden, though we all enjoyed it in different ways. Anthony and Angelo played football when they were younger and sometimes if Anthony got into a huff he’d storm out, walk round, and return in a calmer frame of mind. When we were kids Ma would hide chocolate eggs for us to find at Easter. In the spring and summer we’d put out folding tables and chairs and friends would come over for lunch. She even filled the ‘hungry gap’ with leeks and curly kale until her spring vegetables were ready to harvest.

Ma’d try to cajole the four of us into helping her in the garden, and then when her grandchildren were old enough, she would try, unsuccessfully, to rope them in. Occasionally, one of us would cut the lawn or weed a bit, though it never lasted for long. If Maya or I had something we wanted to talk to her about: sleepovers, trips, parties, we’d wait till she was in the garden, and then we’d follow her round, chatting away before launching into whatever it was that we wanted. We were such fools; as though Ma didn’t know. She knew, but she just liked us following her round the garden. Unless it was something crazy like: Maya, at fifteen, wanting to go to the Kumbh Mela; with a few cautionary words, she’d agree.

Eventually Ma gave up on us all, and through St Xavier’s, the local Catholic Church, she found Malcolm. Malcolm was a quiet, broad shouldered man who, though originally from Dublin, now lived in Larkden. Malcolm became Ma’s gardening soulmate. They were always engrossed in discussions about: the soil, the compost, the frost, the bugs, the weeds, her new plants, Gardeners’ Question Time, or something they’d read about. When we were young, it was the sixties and though people ate curries they didn’t really know what went into them, and rarely cooked curries for themselves, so there was nowhere, in the little Hertfordshire village of Larkden, to buy Indian herbs and spices. Ma was determined to grow her own kari pattha but Malcolm, though he knew a lot about growing plants and herbs, had never heard of kari pattha.

***

It was one summer Sunday when I could have been no more than nine, so Maya was eleven, Angelo thirteen and Anthony fifteen. We came home from mass. Though not as stunning as Ma, we all had to wear our best for church: Maya and I wore dresses with coloured tights and the boys suits with ties. Pa stopped the car outside the house. Normally one of us had to pull up the garage door but that morning Pa told us not to. We got out of the car, grabbing the keys from Ma, ready to change into our shorts. As soon as we got through the door Pa reined us in as though we were cattle on the loose.

‘No dawdling. Change. Put on something comfortable but decent and be quick about it.’

We all stood there staring at him.

‘Why what’s happening?’ Ma asked

‘No questions. Hurry up now.’

We all stood there like statutes. It was so unlike Pa; on a Sunday he read the Observer from cover to cover before lunch. We each had our routine; Pa’s orders just didn’t make sense.

He pointed us upstairs. Anthony and Angelo put on jeans and a T-shirt, so Maya and I did the same. Ma put on a green going-into-town sari, not too fancy but nice enough, and Pa bundled us back into his sea blue zephyr without giving anything away. We whispered in the back, and as though to placate us, Pa put on Radio One, moving his shoulders about to the rhythm that made us laugh. We kept asking but he wouldn’t tell. When he’d had enough of Radio 1, he got us playing games. I remember us shouting and giggling in the backseat as we vied to see who’d win. After two hours Pa finally stopped and parked the car. We looked out but none of us was any the wiser. Then Ma threw her arms around Pa and we all looked at her in surprise cos Ma doesn’t do that kind of thing. Anthony and Angelo were more controlled and patted Pa on the back. Maya and I just smiled at him as we didn’t really know what to expect as we’d never been to KewGardens before. We understood it was for Ma’s benefit, though by the end of the day we’d all enjoyed ourselves. Our first stop was the café where Pa said we could have whatever we wanted so we had scones and ice cream, chocolate and pop much to Ma’s disapproval. Pa coaxed her into having a scone with her tea and we laughed as she struggled to open her mouth wide enough to bite into it. As we walked past the Pagoda, Ma saw an Asian gardener and she ran towards him. We were all rather shocked but followed behind and stood watching her. She told him her worries and he shared all he knew. It made Ma’s day; she was thrilled.

Not far from Larkden are a number of garden centres. The next day Ma went by herself and bought what she needed, cut the stem cleanly at the node, and pushed the cutting a few centimetres into a mixture of potting compost and aquarium gravel with three curry leaves above the surface, as he had recommended. She planted it next to her bay leaf tree having decided they would be good company for each other. Months later she called Nana in Poona to tell her that her kari pattha was growing well. We were chuffed. From then on, if it was cold she’d cover it with a blanket, and talk to it regularly, about India, I imagine. The result was she always had fresh kari pattha. When she retired, the love and energy she had devoted to teaching her primary school classes, was now focussed on her garden. When Pa passed away it was gardening, the piano and her grandchildren that gave her life meaning.

***

While we were working through Ma’s things: the boxes in the loft of ornaments, mementos, letters from India, from Hong Kong, from her travels around the world, her clothes in the cupboards, her saris in the Chinese camphor wood chests, I realised what would be lovely, would be something from her garden. We had to sell Ma’s house so I knew it couldn’t be anything that damaged its appearance.

I would have treasured the willow tree that drooped lovingly at the front of the house. Like most Asian families we had relatives scattered across the globe: India, Pakistan, America, Canada, Australia and Africa and they’d always want to be photographed by the willow tree. There didn’t seem to be a part of the world where Ma didn’t have relatives or friends. Once she’d settled whoever in, she’d sit with them in the living room, looking out onto the garden. If the weather was nippy, she would simply point things out other

ผลลัพธ์ (อังกฤษ) 2:

Never in a sari. On Sundays she'd always change first. Back from mass, she'd unwind the six yards of silk or chiffon, replacing it with her ​​baggy black cotton tracksuit and her brown pumps. Even in those unflattering clothes, her black eyes and quiet grace shone through. Her features were as prepossessing and loving as her physical accomplishments in her garden. She'd look round with a satisfied smile at the fruits of her labour before coming indoors, where she'd infuse the house with aromas of jeera, haldi, cinnamon and cloves. Then she'd call out to us.'Anthony. '. She Get'd no response. 'Angelo.'. He would sometimes Oblige if He was not working on his Meccano SET. 'Maya.'. She was Ma's Best Bet if She was not in the Shower or on the Phone. When no Help was forthcoming She'd Call out again. 'You children. Can not You Hear Me Calling? If we were upstairs Together, or with Pa in the TV Room, we'd Mouth Her Words, and Laugh. Then I'd be told to Go. All Ma was for one of US Wanted to Go Into the Garden to Pick out - Pattha kari - which leaves Curry She'd Throw Into a Saucepan of Simmering Curry. Actually, thinking about it now, Ma wanted more. She wanted us to look at her garden and her kari pattha tree. After she had thrown the kari pattha leaves into the pot she'd head upstairs, and change into a home sari: simple, comfortable and usually unembroidered. After lunch we'd watch some old black and white Hollywood movie in the TV room. Ma loved Rita Hayworth. Pa'd sit on his Parker Knoll, Ma in her armchair and the four of us squashed up together on the sofa bed. As the credits Opened with the huge cymbal sounding, or the cock crowing, Pa would Break Into a Gentle snore while Ma would Remind US, for the Umpteenth time, that Rita Hayworth was Indian. When they returned to England, Finding a House with a. garden had been a priority for Ma. She wanted to make up for all the years she had not had a garden in Hong Kong. Despite her affection for all that blossomed in her garden, Ma longed for a small kari pattha tree. She wanted something of India in her garden. Over the years She would take Fresh kari Pattha leaves, root them as STEM cuttings, willing them to Grow but, more often than not, they would droop and Die. Once when I was About Eight, I Came Into the Kitchen and Saw Ma Looking. at her kari pattha with such sadness in her eyes. I remember rushing up and hugging her and telling her, 'Do not cry, Ma. They're only leaves. ' 'Oh sweetie, but they Remind Me of Home.' 'But this is your Home Ma.' 'Yes, Darling.'. She patted me on the cheek. 'But I have two homes. You have Three. ' 'This is My Home.'. I straightened My Back and stared at Ma. 'Of course. But your Papa is English, I'm Indian and you were born in Hong Kong. You have so Three Places in the World You Can Call Home. ' I Remember Walking out of the Kitchen wondering whether I liked the Idea of Three homes or not. *** Make Pa would Four of the US Smile, when He complimented About Ma. her garden. He knew how to take care of the gardener but never did any work himself. Whenever he saw the blossoms on the trees, the flowers in full bloom, he'd tell Ma her sunflowers were as rich as Van Gogh's or her roses as red as her bindi and Ma would smile. When he told her that her jasmine or her oriental lilies, smelt as sweet as she did after a bath, she'd give him one tight slap. We were clear it was Ma's garden, though we all enjoyed it in different ways. Anthony and Angelo played football when they were younger and sometimes if Anthony got into a huff he'd storm out, walk round, and return in a calmer frame of mind. When we were kids Ma would hide chocolate eggs for us to find at Easter. In the spring and summer we'd put out folding tables and chairs and friends would come over for lunch. She even filled the 'hungry Gap' with Curly kale and leeks until Spring Her vegetables were Ready to Harvest. Ma'd TRY to Cajole Four of the US Into Helping Her in the Garden, and then when Her grandchildren were Old Enough, She would. try, unsuccessfully, to rope them in. Occasionally, one of us would cut the lawn or weed a bit, though it never lasted for long. If Maya or I had something we wanted to talk to her about: sleepovers, trips, parties, we'd wait till she was in the garden, and then we'd follow her round, chatting away before launching into whatever it was that we. wanted. We were such fools; as though Ma did not know. She knew, but she just liked us following her round the garden. Unless it was something crazy like: Maya, at fifteen, wanting to go to the Kumbh Mela; with a few cautionary Words, She'd Agree. Eventually Ma Gave up on all US, and St Xavier's Through, the local Catholic Church, She Found Malcolm. Malcolm was a quiet, broad shouldered man who, though originally from Dublin, now lived in Larkden. Malcolm became Ma's gardening soulmate. They were always engrossed in discussions about: the soil, the compost, the frost, the bugs, the weeds, her new plants, Gardeners' Question Time, or something they'd read about. When we were young, it was the sixties and though people ate curries they did not really know what went into them, and rarely cooked curries for themselves, so there was nowhere, in the little Hertfordshire village of Larkden, to buy Indian herbs and. spices. Ma was determined to Grow Her own kari Pattha but Malcolm, though He Knew a Lot About Growing Plants and Herbs, Never Heard of kari had Pattha. *** It was Sunday when I could have been one Summer no more than Nine, so Maya. was eleven, Angelo thirteen and Anthony fifteen. We came home from mass. Though not as stunning as Ma, we all had to wear our best for church: Maya and I wore dresses with coloured tights and the boys suits with ties. Pa stopped the car outside the house. Normally one of us had to pull up the garage door but that morning Pa told us not to. We got out of the car, grabbing the keys from Ma, ready to change into our shorts. As Soon as we got Through the door as though we were in Pa reined US Cattle on the Loose. 'No Dawdling. Change. Put on comfortable but decent Something About it and be quick. ' We all stood there staring at Him. 'Why what's Happening?'. Asked ma 'No questions. Hurry up now. ' We all stood there like statutes. It was so unlike Pa; on a Sunday he read the Observer from cover to cover before lunch. We each had our routine; PA's orders just did not Make Sense. He Pointed US upstairs. Anthony and Angelo put on jeans and a T-shirt, so Maya and I did the same. Ma put on a green going-into-town sari, not too fancy but nice enough, and Pa bundled us back into his sea blue zephyr without giving anything away. We whispered in the back, and as though to placate us, Pa put on Radio One, moving his shoulders about to the rhythm that made ​​us laugh. We kept asking but he would not tell. When he'd had enough of Radio 1, he got us playing games. I remember us shouting and giggling in the backseat as we vied to see who'd win. After two hours Pa finally stopped and parked the car. We looked out but none of us was any the wiser. Then Ma threw her arms around Pa and we all looked at her in surprise cos Ma does not do that kind of thing. Anthony and Angelo were more controlled and patted Pa on the back. Maya and I just smiled at him as we did not really know what to expect as we'd never been to KewGardens before. We understood it was for Ma's benefit, though by the end of the day we'd all enjoyed ourselves. Our first stop was the café where Pa said we could have whatever we wanted so we had scones and ice cream, chocolate and pop much to Ma's disapproval. Pa coaxed her into having a scone with her ​​tea and we laughed as she struggled to open her mouth wide enough to bite into it. As we walked past the Pagoda, Ma saw an Asian gardener and she ran towards him. We were all rather shocked but followed behind and stood watching her. She told him her worries and he shared all he knew. It made ​​Ma's day; She was thrilled. Not Far from Larkden are a Number of Garden Centres. The next day Ma went by herself and bought what she needed, cut the stem cleanly at the node, and pushed the cutting a few centimetres into a mixture of potting compost and aquarium gravel with three curry leaves above the surface, as he had recommended. She planted it next to her bay leaf tree having decided they would be good company for each other. Months later she called Nana in Poona to tell her that her kari pattha was growing well. We were chuffed. From then on, if it was cold she'd cover it with a blanket, and talk to it regularly, about India, I imagine. The result was she always had fresh kari pattha. When she retired, the love and energy she had devoted to teaching her primary school classes, was now focussed on her garden. Passed Away Gardening Pa when it was, the Piano Gave Her Life and Her grandchildren that meaning. *** While we were working Through Ma's Things: Boxes in the loft of the ornaments, mementos, Letters from India, Hong Kong from, from Her. travels around the world, her clothes in the cupboards, her saris in the Chinese camphor wood chests, I realised what would be lovely, would be something from her garden. We had to sell Ma's House so I Knew it could not be anything that damaged its appearance. I would have treasured that drooped the willow Tree lovingly at the Front of the House. Like most Asian families we had relatives scattered across the globe: India, Pakistan, America, Canada, Australia and Africa and they'd always want to be photographed by the willow tree. There did not seem to be a part of the world where Ma did not have relatives or friends. Once she'd settled whoever in, she'd sit with them in the living room, looking out onto the garden. If the weather was nippy, she would simply point things out other.

ผลลัพธ์ (อังกฤษ) 3:

Never in a sari. On Sundays she 'd always change first. Back from mass she', D unwind the six yards of silk, or Chiffon replacing. It with her baggy black cotton tracksuit and her brown pumps. Even in those, unflattering clothes her black eyes and quiet. Grace shone through. Her features were as prepossessing and loving as her physical accomplishments in her garden.She 'd look round with a satisfied smile at the fruits of her labour before coming indoors where she', D infuse the house. With aromas, of jeera haldi cinnamon and, cloves. Then she 'd call out to us.' Anthony. '' She get d no response.

'Angelo.' Sometimes he would oblige if he wasn 't working on his Meccano set.

' Maya. '' She was Ma s best bet if she wasn t in the shower. ' Or on the phone.

.When no help was forthcoming she 'd call out again.

' You children. Can 't you hear me calling?

If we were, together upstairs. Or with Pa in the TV room we ', D mouth, her words and laugh. Then I' d be told to go.

All Ma wanted was for one of us to. Go out into the garden to pick - Kari pattha - curry leaves which she 'd throw into a saucepan of simmering curry, Actually,. Thinking about, it nowMa wanted more. She wanted us to look at her garden and her Kari pattha tree. After she had thrown the Kari pattha leaves. Into the pot she ', D head upstairs and change into a home Sari: simple comfortable and, usually unembroidered. After lunch. We 'd watch some old black and white Hollywood movie in the TV room. Ma loved Rita Hayworth. Pa' d sit on his, Parker KnollMa in her armchair and the four of us squashed up together on the sofa bed. As the credits opened with the huge cymbal. Sounding or the, cock crowing Pa would, break into a gentle snore while Ma would remind us for the umpteenth time that,,, Rita Hayworth was Indian.

When they returned, to England finding a house with a garden had been a priority for Ma.She wanted to make up for all the years she hadn 't had a garden in Hong Kong. Despite her affection for all that blossomed. In her garden Ma longed, for a small Kari pattha tree. She wanted something of India in her garden. Over the years she would. Take fresh Kari pattha leaves root them, as stem cuttings willing them, to grow but more often, than not they would, droop. And die.

.Once when I was about eight I came, into the kitchen and saw Ma looking at her Kari pattha with such sadness in her, eyes. I remember rushing up and hugging her and telling her, 'Don', t cry Ma. They 're only leaves.'
', Oh sweetie but they remind. Me of home. '
' But Ma this is your home. '
', Yes darling. 'She patted me on the cheek.' But I have two homes. You have three. '

.'This is my home.' I straightened my back and stared at Ma.

'Of course. But your Papa, is English I' m Indian and you were. Born in Hong Kong. So you have three places in the world you can call home. '

I remember walking out of the kitchen wondering. Whether I liked the idea of three homes or not.

* * *

Pa would make the four of us smile when he, complimented Ma about. Her garden.He knew how to take care of the gardener but never did any work himself. Whenever he saw the blossoms on, the trees the. Flowers in full bloom he ', d tell Ma her sunflowers were as rich as Van Gogh' s or her roses as red as her Bindi and Ma would. Smile. When he told her that her Jasmine or her, Oriental lilies smelt as sweet as she did after a bath she ', d give him. One tight slap.We were clear it was Ma ', s Garden though we all enjoyed it in different ways. Anthony and Angelo played football when they. Were younger and sometimes if Anthony got into a huff he ', D storm out walk round and return, in a calmer frame of, mind. When we were kids Ma would hide chocolate eggs for us to find at Easter.In the spring and summer we 'd put out folding tables and chairs and friends would come over for lunch. She even filled. The 'hungry gap' with leeks and curly kale until her spring vegetables were ready to harvest.

Ma 'd try to cajole the four. Of us into helping her in, the garden and then when her grandchildren were, old enough she would try unsuccessfully to,,, Rope them, Occasionally in.