Of Fiats, Cheetahs and Home

Divan’s Bungalow Hotel, 2012 – photographed by Sana Javeri Kadri

Diwan’s Bungalow with my father, 1920s

Our family home, Diwan’s Bungalow, was in Ahmedabad’s old city on a street which is now named after my father. It is a colonial-style bungalow with a unique blend of Muslim and Gujarati architecture and has been in our family for over 150 years. When I was small, there was no electricity and our rooms and hallways were lit up by kerosene lamps housed in beautifully cut glass shades.

Our neighbourhood in Raikhad, Ahmedabad

There was a constant stream of visitors, both relatives and dignitaries, for whom we would host large dinners from time to time – often featuring goat biriyani. My favourite uncle in Baroda’s wife, Else, was from Germany and had introduced us to creme caramel which became a popular desert tradition with guests at our home also.

Neighbourhood children would come to visit at the bungalow
– many related to us in one way or another.
Iftikhar and I are in the front row, 4th and 5th from the left

Another drawcard for neighbourhood visitors was our pet cheetah. It came to us via our Jewish friend, Reuben David, who later went on to become Ahmedabad’s zookeeper. Together with my brother Iftikhar and my cousin Hafiz, we would feed it raw meat offcuts from the butcher. When it was a very small pup we played with it outside if it’s cage – and eventually when it become too big we gifted it to the zoo in Baroda.

My brother Iftikhar Kadri studying.
He went to to become a celebrated Indian architect. 

I would walk to primary school with my brother Iftikhar, carrying our tiffin lunches of rice, roti and goat curry. Sometimes we would use our pocket money to buy small squares of chocolate on the way home. We would play in our large courtyard and fly kites on the roof around the time of the Uttarayan kite festival in January.

In 1933 when I was 6 years old, my father bought a maroon-coloured Fiat and Usman, the driver, joined our other servants. It was the first car I recall in our neighbourhood. For our inaugural drive we went Sarkhej Rosa after which the car opened up many opportunities to venture beyond our neighbourhood. Usman would polish the car after our dusty outings and for night excursions he would light the kerosene car lamps. Ten years later, it was Usman that taught me to drive.

Top, left to right: Iftikhar, Uncle Molvi, Munir (me!), Sharif, Siddiq
Bottom: Haydir-saab, (unknown), Mustafa Hasan Kadri (my father),
Zahir, (unknown), Uncle Shah-saab, Uncle Amir-saab
Front: Haydir-saab’s son.

Hunting Days

I started learning to shoot when I was 16 – taught by our driver, Usman. My younger brother Sal and I would ride our bicycles to Maninagar to shoot nilgai and deer. I loved the freedom of being in the countryside and the thrill of the hunt. Our family would feast on our spoils – usually spiced and cooked on a heated slab of stone and gobbled up with roti.

My father was a keen hunter and we would travel further afield with him and other friends to places like Oran for deer and the Thar Desert for wild ass. One summer we went by train to Dandeli for three weeks to shoot wild buffalo and stayed in the guesthouse of friends there.

My mother wasn’t so keen on us hunting as she feared for our safety. But she did enjoy eating the meat we brought home. The butcher would be called to the bungalow to deal to the carcasses and my mother would distribute cuts of meat to homes around our neighbourhood.

When I arrived in New Zealand, I took up hunting here also. I would go duck shooting with friends around the Bay of Plenty and stalk deer in the Kamais and Stewart Island. I also introduced both my children – Meena and Sunil – to hiking, camping, fishing and hunting.

Remembering My Father

My father, Mustafa Hasan Kadri, was born in 1887 and grew up in Diwan’s Bungalow, as did I. He liked to play tennis and I remember him gently smoothing my hair down when I would accompany him to the Gujarat Club. Sometimes he would treat us to ice-cream there.

In his 20s, he became involved in social work during the plague which hit Ahmedabad – and a dedication to social service featured during the rest of his life. He served for many years on the Ahmedabad Municipal Council and he later became elected as Ahmedabad’s deputy mayor. He was also a trustee for the Yatimkhana Orphanage (above) and of Sarkhej Rosa. He supported the freedom fighter movement and was friends with one of independent India’s founding fathers, Vallabhai Patel.

My father welcomes Queen Elizabeth to Ahmedabad

My grandfather, the late Diwan of Radhanpur, had understood the benefits of speaking English and had his son tutored as a child. This competency later served my father well as he was called upon to receive various English-speaking dignitaries to Ahmedabad in his role on the council. Being an ardent supporter of education, my father had been actively involved in establishing the MJ Library in 1938 and also supported Reuben David‘s zoo and the recreational development around Kankaria Lake.

In the late 60s, he travelled to visit my brothers and I in England and California. Developments around roading infrastructure interested him and he took back inspiration from his travels to the council in Ahmedabad.

Of the many lessons I learned from my father, the most significant were dedication to social service and respect for empowerment through education.

Remembering Preston

Together with Chandra at Preston Royal

Skipping to our wedding –  Dr. & Mrs. Moir as well as her sister Emily, our long time friends from Heywood, were our chief guests. Emily had specially made a three tier wedding cake for the occasion. A Hindu priest from London was in attendance to conduct the rituals. Having grown up as a Muslim, I was at ease with the rituals – as some of the slokas made it clear that Chandra would regard me as her god in obedience and respect. How could I argue with that?!

 
As mentioned earlier, we had our honeymoon in Majorca, Spain. There was no public transport in Majorca, so we thought we would hire a motorbike.  However at the very first trial of the motorbike, I came off the bike when it skidded. That was the abrupt end of our great motorbike adventure.

At the time of the wedding I was the Senior Registrar in Urology. Our quarters became a cosy cottage at the main gate of the Preston Royal.  I had the most pleasant and instructive tenure under Harry Graham while Chandra was Registrar in Obstetrics and Gynecology under Mr. Corbett. At the time Urology was a specialty was on the rise with developments in prostatic surgery and kidney transplantation on the horizon. As Urology was on the forefront of innovation it became the obvious choice for my speciality.

By now Chandra was expecting our first born, Sunil. I passed my final FRCS exam at Edinburgh in 1964 and we felt that Sunil’s imminence brought me luck in this achievement. As I was leaving Preston for my exam, Chandra decided to accompany me. We were travelling by car and snow had recently had fallen. Preston and its environs were covered with fresh powder and looked like a Christmas card.  Once in the city, I inadvertently drove on the wrong side, into a one way street. Half way through the street I was stopped by a traffic officer. He politely pointed out that I was in breach of the law, moreover he noted that  my car registration had expired. I replied that I was stranger to the city and mentioned that I was under stress for my impending exam. The policeman turned out to be sympathetic to my situation and decided to let me go without a ticket. I was half way through the one-way street – backing out was out of question.  So this pleasant policeman asked me to drive on through and if stopped by a fellow cop, to tell him that I had already been already booked. Such was the role of the policemen in Scotland – to help, and not harass, its citizens.

After obtaining my FRCS in 1964, there was an International Urology Conference in London. Americans were far advanced in Urology, particularly in my interest area of transurethral prostatectomy (TUR). Thus I was keen to pursue a Urology job in the US. I had applied to various places but had been declined. Harry Graham and I attended the conference together and I knew that the Chief of Urology at UCLA (University of California, Los Angeles), Prof. Willard Goodwin, was also attending the conference.  I managed to secure an introduction and was excited when Prof. Goodwin asked me to join him for a glass of beer at the bar. I told him about my experience and hard luck at finding a Urology job in the US.  At this Prof. Goodwin asked “Would you like to join us at UCLA?” I could not believe my ears and responded that I would love to. Prof. Goodwin on the spot appointed me to the position of Foreign Visiting Fellow in Urology.  Upon asking when I could join his team team and I eagerly answered – “as soon as possible”.  We agreed on my joining UCLA during August 1965.  I could hardly believe my luck and could not wait to give the good news to Chandra.

[Posted by Meena Kadri on behalf of her father, Munir Kadri]

Stopping by Nawab Manzil

We’ve been in Mumbai these past months and I finally located this image which I had been looking for to go with my previous post. From left to right: Dr. Uncle, Wali, Else Aunty, myself, my cousin Sharif, my brother Iftikhar and Hyder-saab.

… when I was 16, I embarked on an epic bicycle trip of 1800km from Ahmedabad to Pune and back… It was especially fitting that we passed by Baroda and were enthusiastically welcomed by Dr. Uncle, given that he originally taught me how to ride a bicycle with such loving patience.”

Happy New Year all…

[Posted by Meena Kadri on behalf of her father, Munir Kadri]
 

Nawab Manzil II

 

Dr. Uncle was by far my favourite uncle. Being an ardent follower of Gandhi, he was very particular about the dignity of labour and only wore home-spun khadi. He took up the gardening at Nawab Manzil. No gardener was employed, though they could easily afford one. He taught me how to do grafting of one plant on another. He also encouraged me to take up stamp collecting, leaf pressing and coin collecting. When I was five he had taught me how to ride a bicycle. Years later, when I was 16, I embarked on an epic bicycle trip of 1800km from Ahmedabad to Pune and back with my brother Iftikhar, cousin Sharif and anotehr friend, Usman. It was especially fitting that we passed by Baroda and were enthusiastically welcomed by Dr. Uncle, given that he originally taught me how to ride a bicycle with such loving patience.

Dr. Uncle was a close friend of Jawaharlal Nehru, our first Prime Minister of India. Nehru visited Nawab Manzil many times, sometimes when we were in there. I first met him there at age 12 – before India became independent. Both Dr. Uncle and Nehru were freedom fighters. Nehru was invariably  accompanied by his daughter Indira, who herself  became the Prime Minister of India after the death of Nehru. During the struggle of Independence, Dr. Uncle used to travel a lot and always had a suitcase packed and handy to pick up and take off. We learnt many things from him. How to be tidy, the dignity of labour, collecting all sorts of things and passionate love of India.

During the 1938, Dr. Uncle returned to the US and on his way back stopped in Germany. There he married Else, a young and remarkably pretty blonde German woman. They were married in a mosque in Berlin. He brought her to India and I initially met her on our first trip to Kashmir. She was stunningly beautiful. We called her Else Aunty. In 1946 the three brothers separated and there was a division of property. The family had numerous plots in Baroda and scattered all over Gujarat. When the properties were divided, Nawab Manzil stayed in the possession of my Dr. Uncle and he continued to live there with his family which now consisted of Uncle, Else Aunty and their newly arrived daughter called Wali.

Wali was born in Baroda in 1940. When she was only 2 months old, Else Aunty was sent for the duration of the war to German internment camps. She had a hard time with such a young child. Initially they were at the camp in Satara and later in Purandhar. There were some visiting privileges and I remember Dr. Uncle regularly making visits to the camps. They were released at the end of the war in 1944.

Years later in 1956, I was off to the UK to pursue my Fellowship of the Royal College of Surgeons (FRCS). As the Suez Canal was closed our ship was to sail round the Cape of Good Hope. My whole family and my favourite uncle came to the ship at the Bombay Pier to bid me farewell. It was the last time I saw my favourite uncle but he was eager for me to be on my way and explore the world. Memories of his positive influence followed me across the ocean and remain with me to this day.

[Posted by Meena Kadri on behalf of her father, Munir Kadri.]
 

Nawab Manzil I

My favourite uncle at his home: NawabMazil

From time to time we used to visit our relatives in Baroda. Back then in the 30s it was the capital of the princely state of the Maratha kingdom of Gaekwad. Our relatives came from the nawab family who ruled Baroda before it was conquered by the Marathas. They were a joint family of three brothers living together under the same roof in the traditional Indian manner at their grand home called Nawab Mazil.

Nawab Manzil was the opulent family home which housed our relatives and an array of staff – cooks, valets, sweepers and butlers, alongside accountants and secretaries. It was a sprawling and spacious residence. You entered it through a high wooden gate and the front was supported by impressive wooden pillars, painted in soft yellows and greens. There was an inner courtyard and extensive garden plus a majestic staircase leading to the bedrooms. It sparkled at night time, lit by gas lamps.

My three uncles were poles apart in their demeanor, character, habits and thinking. The oldest was Aminuddin Hussain Khan, the middle one Moizuddin Hussain Khan and then was my favourite: Fakhruddin Hussain Khan who we called Dr. Uncle or Chote Manmoon Sahib (younger uncle). All the three were highly intelligent but each had his own leanings and a different sense of humour. When their father Nawab Sadruddin Hussain Khan was alive they led a life of affluence and aplomb. He was a landlord of some substance in those days. When the Maratha Gaekwads conquered Baroda and defeated the nawabs, a treaty was entered into which entitled the nawabs to substantial land ownership that included a number of villages. These holdings were scattered all over Gujarat and brought in a considerable income. Sadly my three uncles lost their father when in their teens.

On one of my early visits to Nawab Manzil   

We lived in Ahmedabad. My father had been married to the sister of these three uncles – though she died and he later married my mother. I have some vivid memories of my first visit to Nawab Manzil in 1932 when I was 5 and my brother Iftikhar was 3. We used to regularly go to Nawab Manzil during our school holidays. Baroda was 60 odd miles from Ahmedabad. We always travelled by railway train. Although our own bungalow in Ahmedabad had its own distinguished charm, we used to love the glamour of Nawab Manzil. We would revel in the sumptuous breakfasts and luxurious dinners – all prepared and served by an entourage of servants. These were lavish experiences which we all enjoyed as a large family. Breakfasts could go on for 1 to 2 hours with the uncles debating various topics from their divergent perspectives. They were more Anglocised than our family and it was at Nawab Manzil that I first discovered marmalade.

To be continued…

[Posted by Meena Kadri on behalf of her father, Munir Kadri. Photos supplied by Suhail Shaikh – Nawab Manzil descendent now living in Paris]
 

Capturing Images + Love: II

 
A few months passed and I took my first holiday and went with a friend to the Isle of Skye. Before going away I had submitted a photo entitled Play Mates to an international competition held by the Illustrated London News magazine. While I was away a call came to Preston that I had won first prize. Apparently in my absence the Royal Infirmary was abuzz with the news that one of its residents had won a prize from such a prestigious publication. When I got back after couple of weeks holiday, Chandra was the first one to congratulate me for the prize.

A letter from the Illustrated London News was waiting for me. The letter invited me and an accompanying person to London for the prize giving ceremony – all expenses paid. I summoned all my courage and asked Chandra if she would be my companion. She said she would love to as long as she had accommodation in London in a separate hotel. Naturally I readily agreed.

So we headed to London – for my part it felt like a double win to be closely in Chandra’s company. The function was held at a posh London club and I was presented with my prizes by a celebrated actress who’s name I forget. I received a silver cup, a movie camera and a movie projector. The editor and some of the staff of the magazine joined us for dinner and the presentation. The winning photo was published in the magazine and the following week the photos from the presentation dinner were also featured.

Taking the trip with Chandra bonded our friendship. After four years of single-minded courtship from my end – we were married on March 24, 1962 at the Moorcock Inn in Yorkshire . The marriage ceremony was carried out by a Hindu priest (Chandra coming from a Hindu family in contrast to my Muslim upbringing). When we informed the Inn staff that we would need to light a ceremonial fire as part of the proceedings, the management invited the local fire brigade to stand by in case things got out of control. But all went well and we were soon heading off on our honeymoon to Majorka.

[posted by Meena Kadri on behalf of her father, Munir Kadri]
 

Capturing Images + Love: I

 
It was the Spring of 1957.  I was working in the Accident and Emergency Department of the Royal Infirmary, Preston, Lancashire in England. Then an event turned my life upside down. An Indian female house surgeon arrived from USA to do her membership exam for the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists. Her name was Chandra Bala. She was stunningly beautiful – for my part it was proverbial love-at-first-sight. The very first evening of her arrival I saw her talking to an elderly patient in A & E. Her attitude and gentleness deeply impressed me. I keenly sought to kindle our friendship.

In those days, I was also badly bitten by the photographic bug. I had a large collection of black & white photos which I had taken in India. One day I was showing Chandra some of my photos. Amongst them was a photo of a child on the shoulder of her mother, titled Mischief Maker. When Chandra saw that picture, she seemed confused. “Where did you find this photo? I saw it at the New York Museum of Modern Art in the Family of Man exhibition. I eventually managed to assure her that it was a photo taken by me and was selected after a competition held in India to be part of the prestigious Family of Man collection. The picture cast the initial seed of interest in me on her part.

[posted by Meena Kadri on behalf of her father, Munir Kadri]
 

There Were A Million Revellers That Night: III

Words & images by Munir Kadri. Originally published in India’s
Outlook Magazine India at 60 issue – August 20, 2007

As soon as Nehru saw Patel entering, he made straight for him, taking him into a corner. I trailed behind with my camera. I didn’t dare get too close to them, but it was easy to tell from their sombre faces and body language that they were not talking about the celebrations. That very morning Nehru spotted some rioters as he was riding through Old Delhi in his Ambassador car. They were setting fire to a house. Nehru stopped the car, got out and started beating up the rioters with the baton he always carried with him. He could no doubt have been easily overpowered by them, but when they recognised him they had the grace to apologise and leave.

Mountbatten must have come in while I was busy clicking Nehru and Patel. I noticed him standing alone. I walked up to him and, before my courage evaporated, asked him: “May I ask you a question sir?” “Fire away, young man, as long as it’s not too rude,” he replied.  “Sir, how could you bring yourself to preside over the partition of India?”  The question didn’t bother him. “It was the decision of your own leaders and they have publicly declared so.” Just then a waiter arrived with drinks and snacks, and I slipped away without further ado.

I went straight to the railway station from Azad’s home. But when I got there, I discovered I had lost my camera. Did I leave it on the bus, or was it stolen? I was frantic. The camera was the new Ikonta I had borrowed from my professor – what would I say to him? And the film inside it! Luckily for me, I had one roll which I had used up safe in my pocket. I was so stunned that I wandered around from one end of the platform to the other, looking for the waiting room. It was then I noticed the strange smell coming from the far end of the platform where some open bogeys, like the ones in which they cart coal, had been shunted out of sight. I peeped in and found that the bogeys were packed with dead bodies. I barely registered what was happening, my thoughts still circling foolishly on the lost camera.

Perhaps Vallabhbhai Kaka could help me find it. He was the home minister after all. But I couldn’t remember where he lived. I hunted for a railway policeman, and asked the first one I spotted: do you know the address of the home minister? He wrote it down on a piece of paper, and half an hour later, I walked into Vallabhbhai Kaka’s new ministerial home. It was completely bare, with a few moodhas in the verandah. When his man called him out, he just stared at me. I started blabbering about the lost camera. He heard me out impassively and then said: “You must go home immediately or Mustafa will never forgive me.” He put me into his ministerial car, an ordinary Ambassador without a flag, and instructed his man not to leave my side until I had boarded the train. So at half past nine on August 18, among the smell of putrefying bodies and silent passengers, my tryst with India’s first Independence Day finally ended.

[posted by Meena Kadri on behalf of her father, Munir Kadri]