Elma and Madhu (Steve) in Duke
Forest, North Carolina, 1960.
In our globalized times,
interracial marriages aren’t
the gasp-inducing events that
they were way back in the sixties.
Information about other
societies and cultures flows
freely across national borders,
while communication
technologies keep us all in
touch when we want, where
we want. For millennials, it’s
hard to believe that once, the world was a very different
place.
At their American wedding.
In 1960, when 18-year-old Elma Griscom,
a Duke University freshman, agreed to a blind date
with a young Indian student—Madhu Vaidya—little
did she know how her life would change forever.
Steve, as Madhu was known in America, was a likeable
fellow and Elma’s relationship with him deepened
into love. When Elma became pregnant, her
family was shocked but quickly reconciled to her
decision to marry Steve and live with him in India. In
the following excerpts, Elma recounts her life with
Steve, during their years in Himachal Pradesh, where
Steve worked as a Forest Officer.
Elma’s detailed memoirs bring alive her experiences
as a young, impressionable girl parachuted
into the complexities of life in a large, extended Indian
family who, though affectionate, nevertheless
constantly urged her to ‘fit’
into the traditional joint
family milieu.
India itself was a huge
challenge for the pregnant
young foreigner. All the clichés
she’d heard of came
alive, from the searing heat
and dust of a Delhi summer
to pesky beggars, questionable
public hygiene, and
dodgy infrastructure. Add to that a gaggle of well
meaning but noisy relatives, lack of privacy and the
patriarchal structure of society, and one would
imagine a lesser person would throw in the towel.
However, bouts of homesickness and frustration
not-withstanding, the redoubtable Elma waded
through it all, giving birthto three children, learning
a new language, entering the teaching profession,
obtaining Himachal University degrees, and later,
setting up a small business.
There were circumstances and events that were
contrary to her American upbringing, values, and
sensibilities. What were her emotions and struggles
like? In this wonderfully frank yet sensitive account,
Elma offers us an engaging, detailed perspective
of life as an American bahu in traditional India, back
in the sixties. Now settled back in the U.S., Elma
hopes to publish
these memoirs of
her years in India
as a book.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Before I knew
it, I was saying
goodbye to
my parents and
younger sisters
at the Detroit
Metropolitan Airport.
The anxiety
about the trip
to India hadn’t
caught up with me yet. It wasn’t
until Steve and I boarded the Air
India Boeing 707 that I realized I
had no idea when I would see my
family again and what was ahead.
What was life going to be like in
Steve’s homeland?
Elma arrives in India—being
received by Madhu’s family at the
New Delhi Airport.
Inside the Delhi International
Airport, the arrival room was
crowded with people, and as we
entered, a large group of Indian
men, women, and children—at least
thirty—surrounded us. Everybody
was talking at once. Some family
members put garlands of flowers
and rupees around my neck. Others
handed me bouquets of flowers.
A part of me felt like a celebrity,
but another part was overwhelmed.
Will I fit in? Will I learn the
language? Will I like this new life?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
At five o’clock in the evening at
the Delhi home of a family friend, I
woke up dripping wet with perspiration.
I wanted to take a shower.
Hansa, Steve’s sister, took me to
an open courtyard at the back of
the house and then led me into the
shower room which was separate
from the rest of the house. I saw a
waist-high faucet and an empty
bucket but no shower or bath tub.
I felt silly asking her how to take a
shower when there was no shower.
I decided to go back to the bedroom
and ask Steve about the
bathroom. He laughed when he
heard my questions and explained.
“Fill the bucket full of water,
dip the lota (small metal cup)
into the water, pour water from
the lota on yourself, soap yourself,
and then pour more water while
sitting on a small wooden stool.” I
tried my first Indian shower.
The next day Steve’s sister
Vidya asked me to try on one of
the new saris I’d bought during our
shopping trip to Chandni Chowk
in Old Delhi. I had difficulty draping
the six yards of cloth by myself.
When I finally got the sari fixed
as well as I could, I looked at myself
in the mirror and felt sloppy
compared to the Indian women
who wore their saris so effortlessly.
I went into the living room to
show my in-laws and expected
them to laugh at me. Much to
my surprise, I saw their look of
approval rather than laughter.
Anjana said in Hindi, “You
look beautiful.”
The third day of our stay in
Delhi Steve told me that we were
going to an Arya Samaj temple for
a religious ceremony. I was told
to wear my new maroon silk sari,
an instruction I reluctantly complied
with due to the overpowering
heat and my protruding belly. We
arrived at the temple, and family
members led us into a large
hall with at least forty friends and
family sitting on the marble floor.
Steve and I were guided to the center
of the room where there was
a wood fire tended by a man who,
Steve told me, was a pandit.
I whispered to Steve, “What
kind of a ceremony is this?”
He shyly said, “It’s our Indian
wedding.”
We were married six months
back in Birmingham, Michigan,
and now there was a second ceremony
being performed? I began
to think that Steve’s parents felt the
first one didn’t count. When the
ceremony was over, I was relieved
but was also upset that I hadn’t
been explicitly told that the ceremony
was going to be our Indian
wedding. On the ride back to the
house I was quiet, but internally
my emotions were in a turmoil.
Three days in Delhi and I
was suffocated by lack of privacy,
overwhelmed by a strange language,
surrounded by new people,
and married a second time in six
months. I felt the pressure of family
members trying to get me to
look and act Indian. I sensed that
they were trying their best to make
me feel comfortable and accepted,
but our different languages, customs,
and lifestyles were stumbling
blocks. I had much to learn in
order to make the transition from
life in the United States to life in
India. I realized my journey was going
to take time with life-changing
challenges along the way.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
So many things were bothering
me. Would life in India get
better? I hoped so. Usually I’m a
pretty positive person. I did love
the beautiful mountain views from
the town of Shimla where we were
staying so Steve could apply for a
job in the forestry department. At
7,000 feet above sea level, the cool
climate was heaven after the Delhi
heat that I had to contend with in
my first four days in India. However,
at times I longed for America.
I was learning more Hindi
but could only follow a few simple
conversations. I still couldn’t
eat much of the Indian food and
hungered for my favorite American
dishes like cheesecake, spaghetti
and meatballs, steak, and
mashed potatoes.
One day, Steve and I had gone
out for an evening dinner with a
group of former high school classmates.
It was ten-thirty when we
got home. Steve and I quietly entered
the house trying not to disturb
anyone. As soon as we walked
into the living room where most
of the family was sleeping, Babu-ji
spoke up, “Why are you so late?
We were worried about you. You
shouldn’t stay out so late.”
I was shocked by his reprimands.
It was only ten-thirty, and
both Steve and I were out together.
As a high school teenager in Michigan
in the late 1950s, I had more
freedom than I did in India as a
twenty-year-old, married woman.
Steve apologized for being late, and
we quickly went into our bedroom.
It was two months since I arrived
in India, and I kept wondering
when Steve would get his job. We
were living in a sister-in-law’s overcrowded,
two-bedroom flat. If Steve
didn’t get the job soon, I wanted
to go back to America. I couldn’t
keep living with family members. I
yearned for my own space.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Elma at a tree-planting ceremony
in Himachal Pradesh.
During my first months in
Shimla, I made several visits on foot
to the maternity clinic for women
who plan to deliver at the Snowdon
Government Hospital. The staff
was knowledgeable and friendly. I
got more attention here than I did
at my Durham, North Carolina doctor
appointments. Most of the staff
spoke English which was reassuring
since I hardly understood Hindi.
Early morning (August 19,
1962), I woke Steve up and told
him I was having stomach pains
which turned out to be labor pains.
A jeep station wagon was sent for.
As soon as it arrived, several family
members crowded into the jeep
with Madhu and me. The twentyfive
minute ride to the hospital
seemed like forever with my pains
getting more intense as we traveled
the forested, hilly, back road that
wound up to the hospital on the
Sanjauli side of Shimla.
Once inside the hospital, there
was much confusion with Hindi
directions, translations, and broken
English. I wanted to walk to the
delivery room, but reluctantly
agreed to be taken on a stretcher.
In a few hours, I was looking at
my newborn baby boy. I kept gazing
at my little miracle and then
asked to see my husband. They
told me that I had to wait for things
to be cleaned up. Finally, Steve was
brought into the delivery room,
and he shyly stopped a few feet
from me and our little baby boy,
who was lying next to me. Steve
said, “How are you and the baby?”
From the delivery room, I was
taken on a stretcher to a spacious
private room. When I asked for
Madhu, the nurse said, “It’s another
half hour before visiting hours
start, and then he can come to
the room but only during visiting
hours. The hospital is very strict
about honoring women’s privacy.” I
was upset by this rule.
Finally, Steve walked into
the room with my father-in-law
Babu-ji. I wished Steve would come
closer and give our baby and me
a kiss, but I knew that Indian
culture frowned upon males and
females kissing in public, not even
married couples.
I asked Steve, “What is this privacy
rule not allowing males in the
room except during visiting hours?
I wanted you to stay in the room as
my attendant.”
Steve said, “I’ll talk to the hospital
administrator. I’m sure he’ll
make an exception for us.”
While we were talking, the lady
doctor who delivered our baby, several
white uniformed staff members,
and an authoritative male
figure entered the room. My doctor
introduced us to the head doctor
in charge of the hospital. We
conversed comfortably in English.
Steve and I brought up our request
for him to stay in the hospital room
throughout the day and night.
The head doctor explained,
“Our rules do not permit this. We
are in India, and not in an American
hospital. Female patients would be
very uncomfortable with a male in
the maternity ward.”
We argued that Madhu would
stay inside our room so no one
would be inconvenienced.
I explained, “I don’t know Hindi,
and my mother-in-law who is
the designated attendant doesn’t
know English.”
Finally, the head doctor agreed
to let Madhu stay throughout the
day with me, but he wasn’t allowed
to spend the night. I realized that
this was the best arrangement that
we were going to get. This meant
that Ama-ji would be my attendant.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
After three years in India, Madhu
and I decided it was time for me
to visit my parents, and he would
follow after four months. I was six
months pregnant when I arrived
at my parents’ home in Birmingham,
Michigan. The reunion was
one of mixed feelings. We were
happy to be together, but it was
hard for me to be returning alone.
I was meeting them seven months
after the death of son Raju, their
first grandchild whom they had
only seen in pictures.
Shortly after my arrival in
Birmingham, I started working
at temporary jobs to pay for my
>>
Feature
Elma with some of her students at the
Bhartiya Public School.
hospital expenses and worked up
until my delivery. When the labor
pains started, Mrs. Eddy, our neighbor,
rushed me to the Royal Oak,
Michigan hospital in her car. Hours
later, I was overcome with joy,
looking at my 7 lb. 13 oz. daughter.
Madhu joined us in Birmingham
two months later.
Taking care of a baby in America
was different than in India
where my mother-in-law took
charge and raised our son in her
own way. Here my parents and
sister were there to help as needed,
but I was in charge. When asked,
they made suggestions, otherwise
I bathed, fed, and took Tara
to her doctor visits on my own.
When Tara turned five months
old the three of us returned to India.
Soon after, Madhu was transferred
from Rohru to Kulu which
was a much bigger town. Our Kulu
posting was a better place for me
than Rohru. I had a large circle of
friends, and many of the women
spoke English.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
From the time I was young,
I loved teaching. While living in
India, I had my first offer to follow
this passion when Madhu
was transferred to Chamba, Himachal
Pradesh in 1971. A year later,
I joined Bharatiya Public School
when Rita, our youngest daughter
born in Kulu, was admitted to the
nursery section.
On my first day of teaching,
I entered my classroom. The students
sat quietly in their wooden
chairs. I asked questions, and no
one replied at first. Then one boy
stood up and said, “My name is Rajeev,
and this is my first time in an
English medium school.” Once he
spoke, the others lost their shyness
and told me that they were learning
English for the first time and
were afraid they would make mistakes
when they talked. I assured
them, “It’s okay to make mistakes.”
Thirty-five years later and
living in America, I have reconnected
with some of my Bharatiya
Public School students through
Facebook and phone calls. They
are living in the United States, Canada,
Australia, and India. One of
the students, a successful career
woman, visited me at my home,
and we reminisced about our
memorable school experiences.
She still called me, “Ma’am,” as she
did when she was my third standard
(grade) student.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
My best friend in India confided
in me, “My worst fear is that
my son in the United States will
marry an American.” This comment,
which was in Hindi, is part of
a vivid memory from a social occasion
with Indian friends. I listened
attentively to their discussions in
Hindi. Having lived eighteen years
in India, I understood and spoke
the language.
A short-haired, attractive woman
from Shimla said, “I keep trying
to fix my son up with Indian
women in the U.S. He’s met a few
but has shown no interest. I pray
he doesn’t marry an American.”
At that point I couldn’t keep
quiet any longer and interrupted,
“How can you be so critical of
Indian-American marriages in front
of me?”
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Elma and Madhu at their 50th |
A close friend said, “Aap Hindustani
hain.” (You are an Indian.)
I took this to mean that she felt I
was fully adjusted to Indian culture,
and that I was one of them.
She was indirectly complimenting
me on my biculturalism. I guessed
from this discussion that my
friends felt I had made a successful
transition from the American
way of life to the Indian way of life.
After eighteen years of living
in India I felt comfortable with
Hindi, relished Indian food, wore
Indian clothes, socialized with
Indians, ran a small carpet business,
studied at Himachal colleges,
accompanied my husband on
forestry tours, worked as a teacher,
and had raised two daughters.