My wife, Meenakshi, and I were getting used to the life in Kampala in our respective fields. She being a raw hand in teaching was given a firm encouragement and positive support by her boss, the head of Makerere University's Biochemistry Department, Professor Bosa. This went a long way in boosting her confidence in herself in those initial stages of her career. My work was cool in the hospital as usual, without any major excitements, much unlike the experiences in the interior.
As life was moving on, we were expecting our first child soon in April, 1976. Meenakshi was carrying on with her normal routine work at home, her teaching work and our social engagements. It was Easter time and there were four holidays including the weekend. As per routine we visited the Gurudwara and some of our friends on Sunday. Meenakshi was not all that well and she showed some signs of pain and discomfort by evening. I got her admitted to the nearest Rubaga Hospital at about 11 PM. Rubaga Hospital was just about10 minutes drive from our abode. By next day she had been in labour pains for almost about 24 hours. A young German doctor on duty seemed to be very busy attending to some other patients as well. Since I happened to be there, he asked me to take care of her in the labour room itself. It was then that she delivered our first born a son. It happened to be Easter Monday evening.
It was a great relief and time for jubilation since the delivery was normal, smooth, safe and without any complications with the grace of Almighty God. A few hours after delivery, she was moved to the room and asked to take a bath as against our traditions in India with so many taboos and rituals associated with post delivery period. All went well against so many odds. Justice Asthana had to delay his departure for circuit duty to Mbale the next morning, because he wanted to be around at this critical juncture and also because, as per Indian traditions, he wanted to feed our newborn some honey (shahad chatana). To our son, he was his always his Nanaji (maternal grandpa).
That was the occasion when we could see so many acquaintances coming forward to give us a helping hand in that strange land of Uganda where essential commodities were very much in scarcity. We cannot forget all those little gestures, which never made us feel out of place. All were so keen to celebrate the occasion with full gusto. On 10th day after the birth, a havan was solemnized. The Sehgals, Uppals, Raos, Asthanas and Goyals assisted us in organising the prayer function. These wise and elderly couples alongwith some other friends were like parental figures for us. I am so sad to state that many of them are no longer in this world now. It was during the havan that Mr Uppal insisting on naming the baby and we decided to call him Rajeev!
As per Indian traditions, we were not supposed to use the new clothes for the new arrival. Hence some old and used clothes were provided by one Mr. Lotay of Entebbe, who later migrated to Canada. When in Masaka, before moving to Kampala, we met a very humble and amiable Pakistani teacher, Mr. Bhatti, from Petaro, Pakistan. His wife had made a very kind offer to stitch dresses for the baby. On our shifting to Kampala and as they learned of the birth of Rajeev, Mr. Bhatti made a special journey to Kampala to deliver the clothes. We didn’t have enough words of thanks to convey our feelings to this Bhatti family of Pakistan. Only we can pray to God to shower His blessings on them. These are some of the great experiences we had in that land, for which we are so nostalgic.
Time passed and both of us were managing to look after Rajeev. Our houseboy was there to help with the household chores, and an ayah (nanny) was also engaged to take care of Rajeev during Meenakshi’s duty hours, which were quite minimal after one month of maternity leave. That was the understanding in her department. We were fortunate to have enough time at our disposal between two of us to look after our child.
A new problem cropped up. For a proper communication between ayah and Rajeev, we had to make sure that we talk to him in English and he learns how to speak and understand the language and be able to communicate with his ayah, who were using broken English. He started picking up the language well and could convey meaningfully to some extent as best as a child could do at that age of one or one and a half.
