The year was 1967.
“Don’t get too cosy with me — I’m off to Australia!” Chris teased, his eyes glinting with equal parts mischief and sincerity. It was classic Chris: blunt, honest, and somehow managing to wrap up affection in the most unexpected words. He was more than my best friend; he was the person who’d been my anchor through life’s twists and turns.
Our story stretched back five years, to that unforgettable night at his mate’s birthday party. We’d both been swept up in the noise and laughter, and somehow, in the chaos, we’d found each other.
Life led us in different directions: mine to fast-paced Bombay, his to a quieter path. But no matter the distance, our friendship only grew stronger, making our time together all the more special.
On a hazy morning, we found ourselves pedalling side by side across the Mosque Road Bridge in Bangalore. The world around us bustled and clamoured, but in that moment, it felt like time was holding its breath. I’d never felt that kind of certainty before, a sense that my wandering heart had finally come home.
“Well, I’m coming too,” I blurted out, the words tumbling out, more conviction than bravado.
Chris paused, turned to me, and met my gaze directly.
After heartbreak and uncertainty, Chris’s steadiness was a blessing I didn’t realise I’d been searching for. There was no elaborate proposal, no diamond ring, just his quiet patience, unwavering for five years since we first crossed paths.
Times weren’t easy. Chris pulled night shifts in the Post and Telegraphs department, scraping by on Rs250 a month. I earned a little more as a CEO’s personal secretary, Rs550, enough to get by but hardly enough for big dreams.
We weighed our options, feeling the hope and the worry twisting together: how could we ever afford a life in Australia, let alone the journey to get there?
But fate, as always, had its own plans. We tied the knot, not with fanfare or glitter, but with a quiet certainty and the promise that, whatever lay ahead, we’d face it together.
. . .
It was a simple wedding, but one I’ll never forget. The hall at the farm was decorated with streamers that stretched right across the ceiling and tumbled down the walls.
Above the front door, a massive horseshoe made of plywood, painted blue and silver, hung, hiding a trove of confetti. Chris whipped that up himself, with a clever little trapdoor that could only be opened by pulling a string, letting the confetti rain down on the happy couple. It took a fair amount of planning and several trial runs before he got it to work just right.
Chris reckoned the horseshoe was a symbol of luck. “The arms of the horseshoe have to face up so the luck collects in the bowl,” he instructed Alf, all serious. Alf just grinned and said, “Your luck’s already come in, bro, marrying the most beautiful girl on the block”, making me blush.
Conrad, his best man, busy anchoring streamers to the centre of the ceiling, couldn’t help himself — “Yeah, and what’s left for us?” he piped up as they all tried to hoist the horseshoe into place.
“Hey, watch your step!” Conrad warned, but it was too late. Alf toppled off the ladder, and the whole contraption collapsed just as Mother Marge walked in to check what we were up to. The three of us — Chris, Alf, and I — ended up on the floor in stitches, confetti spewing everywhere. Chris’ mother shook her finger at us, brushing confetti from her hair, while I just joined the boys on the floor, giggling.
“Still some luck left,” Alf chuckled, peering into the hollowed-out horseshoe. But Mother Marge wasn’t having it.
“Clean up this mess, you boys. So much to do, no time for these shenanigans,” she said, trying to sound stern, though there was a twinkle in her eye. She couldn’t have been happier that Chris had found the girl of his dreams after all these years. I could see it on her face; she already loved me like her own daughter and wanted nothing more than to give me all the love and care she felt I had missed out on. After five sons, I filled that space in her heart for the daughter she’d never had.
I adored Mother Marge right back and finally felt like I belonged to a real family. Papa Stan and Mother Marge were warm and accepting, never critical; they saw the best in everyone.
“If you love someone, you love them for what they are and don’t criticise them for what they’re not,” she’d told me in one of our heart-to-heart talks. I cherished those conversations.
. . .
On my wedding day, I found myself reflecting on Mum’s words: “If you must marry that boy from the other side of the tracks, I don’t approve, but if it truly makes you happy, you’ll have to lead your life the way you desire.”
Dad always said I took after him, strong-willed and independent. He thought Chris was a decent man.
Like every proper bride, I made a fashionably late entrance — not because I was fussing over myself, but because I was overwhelmed by a mix of sadness and joy. The ache of my mother’s disapproval mingled with the happiness of marrying my best friend, the man I loved with all my heart. I had to touch up my makeup more than once, wiping away the mascara that kept escaping down my cheeks.
To the strains of ‘Procession of Joy’ by Hal Hopson, I walked proudly up the aisle on Dad’s arm. Mother Marge was dabbing at her tears. I always knew Chris’s mum cared deeply for me, and her warmth more than compensated for the formality of my own family, who placed great importance on maintaining appearances.
Later, I learned that Father Josef had spotted Chris laughing and joking with the bridesmaids as he waited for me to arrive. Believing Chris was flirting, he gave him a gentle reprimand. The dear old priest, eighty-six years old, looked every bit the part in his ceremonial robes, glanced at his watch, and fanned himself. It was thirty-two degrees Celsius inside, and even with the ceiling fans and windows open, he was still sweltering.
Father Josef was clearly cross with all the delays and shenanigans. He just wanted to sit down to his cup of tea, blueberry muffin and afternoon siesta — his cherished three o’clock ritual. Peering over his glasses, he muttered to himself, ‘Surely, they have the wrong man in position. Not the one flirting with the bridesmaids. He can’t be the one getting married.’ And in a moment of confusion, he grabbed Alf’s arm and put him in Chris’s place, commencing the ceremony.
Mother Marge, agitated, rushed up to the altar and whispered urgently to Father Josef, putting Chris back where he belonged. Father Josef looked shocked and wagged his finger at the naughty bridegroom.
The ceremony proceeded, mostly without mishap, until it was time for the exchange of rings. Nelson, our distracted five-year-old pageboy, dropped the cushion carrying the rings, and they rolled off down amongst the aisles.
Guests in the front pews scrambled to retrieve them, while the best man, thinking quickly, offered two rings off his key chain. Father Josef, whose eyesight was fading, accepted them and proceeded with the marriage blessings.
Mother Marge, feeling faint, fanned herself as Papa Stan smiled and winked at Chris, who turned around just in time to see what all the kafuffle was about.
In that unforgettable moment, as we recited our vows, Chris turned to me, the girl beside him, now his wife, with a gaze so overflowing with love and pride that it has remained etched in my heart ever since.
Now, fifty years on, he still calls me his whole world, tells me I am everything he ever wished for, and reminds me of it every single day.
. . .
Let’s take a stroll back to 1967 — not the Summer of Love, but for me, it was something even more life-changing.
My father, a prominent figure in the stockbroking world, turned to Chris with an offer so generous that it almost came with its own bow. “Young man,” he declared in the way only dads can, “You can work for me every afternoon after your night job. And when you get the thumbs-up for Australia, I’ll cover the fare for you and my daughter.”
Now, Chris wasn’t one for drama.
Without a single complaint, he rolled up his sleeves, worked hard, and barely got enough sleep to dream of the future.
Fast forward exactly two years: a letter arrived, stiff and official-looking, inviting us to the Immigration Office for our interview.
The wait to see if we were approved was agony.
When the final approval letter arrived, my hands were shaking so much I nearly ripped the envelope in two.
“We’ve been accepted!” I cried, my voice caught somewhere between laughter and tears. It felt like hitting the jackpot, except the prize came with a stack of paperwork that would keep us busy for weeks.
Our great Australian adventure was about to kick off.
We landed in Australia at the tail end of 1969, pockets light but hearts full of hope. Our first years were a whirlwind: finding jobs, securing a modest home with a mortgage, and slowly building the foundation of a new life. We were determined to achieve financial security before expanding our family.
By the time our first child was on the way, we’d not only settled ourselves but had also managed to assist members of my husband’s family in making the move Down Under.
Chris found jobs for his four brothers, and we supported his elder brother, Alf, through the immense challenge of losing a leg and the subsequent rehabilitation.
Our home became a bustling haven, with up to ten family members under our roof at one point! It was full-on, but we wouldn’t have had it any other way.
In time, my husband’s parents joined the fold. Mother Marge and Papa Stan were the last of the brood to arrive. She was a true matriarch, embodying the traditions of our Indian heritage even on Australian soil.
As new citizens in a new land, we carried forward many customs and, of course, a fair share of old wives’ tales, especially when it came to pregnancy.
Four years after tying the knot, I discovered I was expecting my first baby — due exactly five years after our wedding day. It felt like a beautiful bit of symmetry that made the moment even more special.
Mother Marge, my cherished mother-in-law, truly became my second mum in every possible way.
Her warmth and wisdom filled our home, especially in the form of her endless collection of old wives’ tales. While I never put too much faith in these quirky predictions, I always delighted in listening to her stories, which brought laughter and a lovely sense of tradition to our lives.
Chris’ mum had a knack for spinning yarns about pregnancy signs: cravings for sweets meant a girl was on the way; a hunger for salty treats pointed to a boy. If you carried high, it was a girl; if you carried low, it was a boy. Severe morning sickness? Another tick in the girl column. Then there was her favourite — the “ring on a string” trick. She’d dangle a wedding ring from a piece of string, watching for circles or side-to-side swings to divine the baby’s gender. She’d inspect my skin for that elusive pregnancy glow and fuss over where my weight seemed to settle, as if every little sign might tell her something new.
Of all her methods, the string trick was her favourite. After a bit of theatrical fortune-telling, she’d declare with absolute confidence, “It’s a boy!”
When the big day finally arrived and my waters broke, a wave of fear washed over me. “Now it has to come out. I’m scared,” I whispered.
Mother Marge, ever the steady presence, gently hushed my worries. “You’ll be right, my girl,” she reassured me, “Just breathe like you’re blowing out birthday candles!”
She rubbed my back, slipped me a lolly from her handbag (because, in her book, sugar fixes everything), and set off with me to the hospital.
In those days, husbands weren’t allowed in the delivery room, especially at St Anne’s hospital, where the nuns kept tradition firmly in hand. But thank goodness for Mother Marge; she was my whole support crew rolled into one.
Chris’ mum soothed me with lullabies, a cool cloth, and caring attention. Between contractions, she even tried to read my fortune from the tea leaves in the many cups the nuns gave me to help me relax!
“I see travel for you, love. Your next bub will be a girl,” she grinned, making me laugh even as I groaned in pain.
Labour was no sprint — 28 hours of endurance.
Through every contraction, every moment of doubt and exhaustion, Mother Marge was unflinching. She wiped my brow, whispered encouragement, massaged my hands, and offered up old wisdom that had been passed down from mother to daughter through generations.
When at last, with a final push, my baby arrived, the first thing I heard was her triumphant cry: “See, I told you — a boy! Now go and fetch my boy to see his son,” she directed the midwife with pride.
We welcomed Craig with love and tradition.
Every old tale told and every gentle touch from Mother Marge was a reminder that you can cross oceans, but the love and laughter you carry never gets lost in transit. And that, more than anything, made Australia feel like home.
Fifty years later, Craig and his brother Steven have truly made Australia their home. They both found a solid footing here, building successful careers and steadily climbing the corporate ladder.
I hope my grandchildren thrive in Australia, embracing its opportunities while honouring our traditions and cherishing Grandmother Marge’s memory. May they carry their Indian heritage with pride, blending it with new experiences and creating a legacy of belonging.
—
This post was previously published on Write A Catalyst.
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