大象传媒

I was born in Rangoon Burma in the late 30s.

My earliest memories are of being rushed into underground bomb shelters, with sirens blaring and hushed voices guiding and soothing everyone, while bombs exploded with deafening sounds and frightening glares.

My mother was in hospital having my younger sister, and my father, who worked for the British Oil Co., was on war duty with the Engineers repairing roads and railways, to keep the oil and supplies flowing.

Hushed voices spoke with concern about the birth of my sister, while part of the hospital was bombed, but 'mother and child were safe'.

My next memory is of all of us rushing to get on a steamer, leaving everything behind, all my toys, and then my father, who was carrying me, got off too, and we were away without him. I held back my tears, gripping my mothers hand tightly, remembering I had to be brave for my sisters, while I watched the waves on the side of the ship grow as we progressed from the river to the Indian Ocean.

In Calcutta we were met by my uncle and stayed with our cousins, with a lot of fuss, and fun, while we waited for my father to arrive.

It took him a long time, as he missed all the ships, and came by road, on Lorries and Jeeps, when the British evacuated.
I can still feel the relief and joy shared by all the families, when he finally arrived.
But he was different, thinner, gaunt, quieter, thoughtful, slower to smile or laugh and his eyes didn't light up as they used to.
It took my father some what longer to return to us fully.

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