For me, Jitu (Jitendra) is like my own son. I have so many memories of him. I remember walking to school holding his hand, and it always made me feel proud. Jitu was a very active and intelligent child, and he has grown into a handsome young man with a lovely family of his own — his wife, Pragna, and their three children: Krish, the eldest son, Kiran, their daughter, and Ravi, the youngest son.
We grew up together in Jinja and Kampala. The 1960s, when we were growing up, were very exciting times. Owning a television was rare, and that gave us the chance to spend so much time outdoors, playing near our home and going on little adventures. We would look for trees to climb so we could bring down guavas and small unripe mangoes, which tasted wonderfully tangy. Quite often, we would also go to the Museum in Kololo, Kampala. Alongside the traditional Ugandan arts and crafts on display, there were rocks in the grounds that we loved to climb. I still remember that we carved our names into those rocks, and sometimes I wonder if they are still there.
There is one moment from Kampala I will never forget. We had finished school and were walking home. Jitu always held my hand. He gave me a letter from school, which I began to read, and momentarily let go. That moment will live with me until I die. He let go of my hand and ran across the road, and was hit by a Mercedes car. He was lucky in a sense, because he suffered a cut to the right side of his head just above the ear. The screams, the panic — it was all intense. I was scared and in tears. But how ironic that the driver turned out to be a doctor. He scooped up Jitu and drove us to the nearest hospital. Somehow my mother was informed — no mobile phones in those days — and she rushed to the hospital in hysterics. Her anger was understandable. Her youngest child involved in an accident. I have never forgotten it, nor forgiven myself for being irresponsible. Thankfully he recovered fully, but the now visible scar always refreshes the bad memory.
In May 1972, my father received notice from the Ugandan Government telling him to quit Uganda within 90 days. After permission from the British Government, we all emigrated to England. A new and totally strange country, a different culture altogether, and on the horizon an immense learning curve that would test us all.
We settled in Leicester, where Jitu still lives today. Our lives as siblings have seen enormous change, and Jitu, being the youngest, has watched everyone settle in different parts of the country, mostly in London and the surrounding counties.
In 2007, when I was diagnosed with cancer, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jitu. I always felt, and still feel, that Jitu faces life a little more alone than the rest of us — the youngest, with everyone else scattered across the country. When the time came to tell him, I had to do it over the phone. Leicester felt very far away that day. I remember wishing I was there with him, face to face. Because I know Jitu — he would have held me, and we would have cried together. Sometimes that is all you need. And sometimes a phone line is just not enough.
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