Chris — The Boy Who Would Become My Husband

Before he became my husband, he was already becoming the man I would one day trust with my life.

When I sat beside Chris’s hospital bed in 1999, it was difficult to imagine the boy he had once been.

The man lying there — still, quiet, suspended between worlds- was my husband. We had already shared decades of ordinary days and extraordinary moments, building a life so intertwined that it felt impossible to separate one story from the other.

Yet before he became the man I would marry, before we crossed oceans together and built a future in a new country, he had been simply a boy growing up in India with a quiet determination… and a dream he did not yet know would shape both our lives.

Australia.

Long before we met at that birthday party in 1961, his journey had already begun.

Sometimes we imagine that love stories begin the moment two people meet.

But often they begin much earlier — in the shaping of two separate lives, quietly moving, without knowing it, toward the same point on the map.

Chris was born in Pallavaram, near Madras, now Chennai, in southern India, toward the end of the Second World War.

He was the third child in a lively household of five children: four boys and, finally, the daughter his mother had long hoped for.

In fact, when Chris arrived as the third son, his mother, Marge, had wished so strongly for a girl that she dressed him in little dresses and ribbons for several years.

Chris tolerated this arrangement with quiet patience… until he was about six years old. One day, quite firmly, he refused. And that was the end of the dresses.

Being the middle child in a large family meant he often had to find his own place.

The older brothers formed one pair.
The younger children formed another.

Chris lived somewhere in between.

Looking back now, I can see that this position in the family perhaps nurtured the independence that would later carry him halfway across the world.

His father, Stan Roberts, worked for the Post and Telegraph Office. His mother taught French part-time at a local school.

Money was modest, but the home was rich in other ways, full of laughter, noise, conversation, and the small daily dramas that fill a house where many lives are unfolding at once.

Chris, the third son in a lively household of five children, like many younger children, grew up wearing hand-me-downs from his older brothers. There were times when shoes were a luxury, and he often walked to school barefoot until a pair of worn shoes finally reached him in the family chain, already well used, but accepted without complaint.

As he grew older and began working as a telegraphist, he handed his wages to his mother each week to help cover household expenses. Food, clothing, and school needs for the younger children were all shared. He kept very little for himself. Saving for Australia took patience and discipline, but family came first.

That quiet sense of responsibility would remain with him all his life.

When Chris was six years old, his father was promoted to Postmaster in Bangalore, and the family moved to what was then known as the Garden City of India.

For Chris, it felt like entering a kind of paradise.

Bangalore was a place where sunshine and rain seemed to work together in harmony. Trees flourished effortlessly, flowers bloomed in abundance, and birds filled the air with constant movement and sound.

Wide, tree-lined avenues created shade from the heat, and a gentle breeze often moved through the city as though nature itself approved of the place.

While his brothers were drawn to the activity of the growing city, Chris often wandered through Lal Bagh Botanical Gardens, an expansive world of lotus ponds, fountains, ancient trees, and rare plants gathered from across the subcontinent.

Bright parrots flashed through the branches. Myna birds chattered noisily overhead. Kites circled high above the treetops. He could spend hours there, observing quietly, content to explore.

Years later, when I watched him patiently tending the garden around our own home, carefully planting flowers and adjusting the soil with almost meditative attention, I realised that this love of nature had begun long before I ever met him.

Chris attended Baldwin Boys High School. Although the family was Catholic, the Protestant school offered reduced fees for families with several children, something his father could not refuse.

Chris thrived there. He excelled in most subjects, particularly mathematics. One day, during an examination, he completed his paper in only twenty minutes and quietly left the hall.

His teacher followed him outside, concerned.

“Chris,” he asked, frowning, “have you finished already?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you not know some of the answers?”

Chris looked genuinely puzzled.

“I answered them all.”

He had scored 100%. Yet academic success was only part of who he was.

Chris threw himself equally into sports — cricket, swimming, athletics, hockey, and football. And especially boxing. Boxing suited him. It required patience. Timing. Discipline. Courage.

Qualities that would quietly shape much of his life.

There were two moments during Chris’s teenage years that left a lasting impression on him. The first came when he was about fifteen.

A group of visiting athletes arrived at the school from a country Chris had barely heard of before.

Australia.

They were players from the Collingwood Football Club, champions of Australian Rules football. To Chris, the sport looked extraordinary — fast, physical, unlike anything he had seen before.

After the match, he lingered nearby as the players sat talking informally. One of them noticed the curious boy hovering at the edge of the group.

“Ever thought of coming to Australia, mate?” he said jokingly.

The players began describing their country. Endless beaches. Strange animals, kangaroos and koalas. Wide open landscapes. A relaxed and friendly way of life.

They even produced photographs taken on simple cameras, small glimpses of a world that seemed impossibly far away. To a fifteen-year-old boy in Bangalore, it sounded almost unreal.

“I can’t wait to get there,” Chris suddenly exclaimed, surprising even himself.

The captain laughed and ruffled his hair.

“See you Down Under one day, mate.”

From that moment, the dream took hold.

Australia.

The second defining moment came two years later, when Chris’s boxing ability began attracting attention beyond school. A Wing Commander in the Indian Air Force invited him to participate in an exhibition bout at a base in Dehradun.

Chris accepted immediately. His mother was far less enthusiastic. She was quite certain her son would not survive the match. But Chris was thrilled — especially when he learned that the journey would be by military aircraft. For a young man who had rarely travelled far from home, the experience felt like a great adventure.

At the base, he met his opponent, the Wing Commander’s son, Sunil. Tall. Strong. Confident. They shook hands before the match.

“See you in the ring,” Sunil said calmly.

The fight lasted three rounds. The first was cautious. The second was more intense. By the third, both young men were tiring. Then Sunil made a small mistake.

Chris saw the opening. He stepped forward… and landed a clean blow. Sunil fell. The referee counted. Ten.

Chris had won.

On the flight home, the pilot invited him to sit in the cockpit. A small moment perhaps, but one that remained vivid in his memory for the rest of his life. But more importantly, the officers who had watched the match recognised something in him.

Determination. Courage. Quiet confidence.

Life in Bangalore brought other adventures, too.

At that time, public swimming pools were rare, and boys often learned to swim in deep irrigation wells used by farmers. Chris persuaded his brothers to help teach him. They tied a rope around his waist and lowered him carefully into the water. Then, distracted by a nearby cricket game, the older boys wandered off.

The rope slipped. Chris sank beneath the water.

Fortunately, one of the boys tripped over the rope and realised what had happened. They hauled him out coughing and sputtering — but alive.

His mother scolded them fiercely afterwards, though beneath the scolding was immense relief. The incident did not discourage Chris. Within months, he had mastered swimming and diving, eventually winning competitions in both.

Setbacks rarely deterred him. They strengthened his resolve.

India itself was changing during those years. Many families were beginning to leave, searching for opportunities elsewhere. Friends spoke constantly about the future.

England. Canada. America.

But Chris had already decided.

Australia.

He found work as a telegraphist in the Post and Telegraph Office and began saving what he could. Most of his earnings helped support his family — the rest he quietly put aside.

His brothers teased him constantly.

“You? Going to Australia?” they laughed.

“What will you do there?”

Chris smiled. Once he had made up his mind, very little could change it.

Then one afternoon, his friend Darryl arrived with exciting news. He had received his first posting as a pilot in the Air Force.

“You’ll be coming to my eighteenth birthday party on Saturday, won’t you?” he said, punching Chris playfully on the arm.

“I’ve invited some new girls. It’s going to be a great night.”

Chris laughed and said he would be there.

He had no idea that one birthday party would quietly change the course of both our lives forever.

Sometimes, when we look back, it is tempting to imagine that everything happened by chance. But often there is a quiet logic to life — a sense that certain experiences are shaping us for something we do not yet see.

Long before Chris and I met, he was already becoming the man I would one day trust with my life.

His patience.
His determination.
His quiet courage.
His willingness to keep moving forward, even when the path ahead was uncertain.

These were the qualities that would one day form the foundation of our marriage.

At the time, he was simply a young man with a dream about a distant country. He did not know that the journey toward that dream would lead him not only across oceans…

But eventually, back to me.

Sometimes two lives begin moving toward each other long before the people themselves are aware of it.

And when they finally meet, it can feel strangely familiar…

as though the story had already been quietly unfolding.

Continue reading:

The Night it all Began (coming next)

Part of The Long Road of Love — Memoir Series

A story of love, resilience, and a marriage shaped across continents and decades.

New chapters are added regularly.

Thank you for reading, dear friends ღ.

© Stephanie Roberts