Stories Popo Told Me
By Alex Kwong, Host of podcast- Best Seat on the Couch
Photo credit: Michelle Harmon
My grandmother Popo was always a part of my life and my childhood is filled with warm, loving memories of her. I remember her humoring me as I asked her to watch “Wallace and Gromit: The Wrong Trousers” for the thousandth time, while I hid behind her in anticipation of the appearance of the evil chicken. I remember the delicious food that she would cook for me daily.
And I remember the stories that she would tell about her life. From these stories, I would learn about my cousins who lived halfway across the world in Nepal, about my late uncle Lynden who I never got to meet, and about my grandmother’s daily life with my grandfather Gung Gung back in India. The animal stories in particular were a favorite of mine, and I would ask her to retell her experiences with tigers and monkeys again and again.
My brother Andrew, Popo, me and Gung Gung
This film “Voices of Deoli” is about a part of my grandmother’s past that I wasn’t aware of until I was much older. I don’t remember exactly when she started sharing her experiences in Deoli Internment Camp with me, but I do remember stories that started during dinner and lasted long after we had finished. Sometimes these stories would start from a question I had asked. Other times she would bring them up herself. Sometimes my other family members would be present to listen, but just as often I would be her only audience. During these conversations, I learned about how she lamented the loss of my uncles’ education, and about how they tried to grow their own food supply in the dirt of the camp. I learned not only about the hardship and pain she faced during her time in Deoli, but also the uncertainty that followed after she and her children were released from the camp without my grandfather, who was detained again with other heads of families when they were released to Calcutta (Kolkata).
Popo and Gung Gung
My grandmother was very matter-of-fact when she told me these stories. Sometimes she would be indignant when recalling specific moments, but she would never cry or be bitter. It didn’t take me too long to figure out why, because for every story about her hardships during and after camp, she would tell me another about how she was able to pick her life back up, or found shelter for my mother and her brothers, or started a restaurant business to provide for her family. Then there was always a story that made me laugh like the story about American, the rooster: But that’s another story for another time. I remember she would tell me all this with a glint of unabashed pride in her eyes, as if to say that she won with the hand that fate had dealt her. And I agree.
My uncle William, my late uncle Lynden, my mom Joy and my Popo
Popo went on to be a successful restaurateur in Kathmandu and became the center of her sprawling, extended family. She was renowned for her kindness in providing a loving home for people in need, for as long as they needed. And people remember her for her bright, indomitable and youthful spirit.
When I think about the stories my grandmother told me of the injustice, cruelty, and lasting trauma of Deoli, I am proud of her. I am proud of all that she was able to accomplish in her life. I am proud that I knew such a strong woman who was so kind despite her terrible experience in the internment camp.
I am proud of my Popo.
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