The One-Way Ships: Uma Lohray's Brings Fore Forgotten Tales Of 'Ayahs'

Set against the backdrop of pre-independence India, the novel shines a literary light on a little-known chapter of colonial history: the lives of young Indian “baby” ayahs who were indispensable and integral caretakers in British households, and of whom many were later abandoned or left to fend for themselves in unfamiliar lands.

At the heart of the novel is Asha, a spirited girl from the hills of Shimla whose world is upended after her father’s untimely death, forcing her to consider employment as an ayah rather than returning to school. What begins as a tale of loss and displacement soon unfolds into a story of strength, survival, dignity and self-determination.

Here's an excerpt from Uma Lohray's The One-Way Ships 

We set out for Bombay before the first light of dawn. Mrs Jones and her daughter settled comfortably in a tonga without a word to me, and that was all that I saw of them for a large part of the journey. I followed in a tekha gari, an uncomfortable wooden box that seemed to accentuate every jolt and bump along the way. I dozed uneasily through the familiar portion of the descent.

On the descent, our procession was joined by various travellers, including servants on their way back to their native villages in different parts of the country, after having travelled with their masters to serve them on their summer sojourns or medical leaves in the mountains. Halts were infrequent and I grew very thirsty. The wooden box creaked and groaned and I spent much of the ride trying to brace myself against the jolts of the vehicle. That misery finally ended after what felt like an eternity, when we arrived in a town much lower on the mountains from where we were to take a train to Delhi.

The place was overwhelming. Crowded and frantic, the air thick with noise, the heat almost stifling. People surged in every direction, shouting loudly over the crowds in an unfamiliar language. The marketplace buzzed with shouts, the clatter of carts, and the shrill calls of vendors. I felt a pang of panic as I was swallowed by the dense crowd. The platform was a sea of unfamiliar faces, and the thought of getting lost in the mass of people terrified me. I clutched my belongings and kept close to my new mistress, my heart racing, trying to steady my breath amidst the sensory overload.

When we finally boarded the train to Delhi, it was just as uncomfortable as the earlier parts of the journey. The cramped servant’s carriage felt isolating, the air thick with the smells of sweat, dust, and the harsh metallic scent of the train itself. The unfamiliar, flat land stretching before me seemed were assaulted with new sounds, new sights, new smells— everything felt magnified and jarring.

I sat there, surrounded by strangers, the distance from the Joneses feeling more pronounced than ever. The further we travelled, the more disconnected I felt from everything familiar. I was too afraid to look back, too far from home to even know what the next steps would be.

When we reached our destination the next day, I was far too drained to take in the significance of being in Delhi, recently made the capital, and a place that was so frequently mentioned on the radio and in the papers. All I could do, when we finally debarked, was cling to the Joneses, the only familiar faces in this foreign place, and stay close to them, seeking comfort in their presence. I don’t recall much of the officer’s accommodation where Mrs Jones was welcomed warmly for the night. The only memory that stayed with me was the numb exhaustion in my limbs, and how I sank into the bed in the female servant’s dormitory. Sleep came swiftly, as if my body knew it could not rest any longer. I slept like a corpse, disconnected from everything around me.

Things finally changed the next day when we boarded the Frontier Mail, which Mrs Jones told me, with an air of great importance, was one of the finest trains in the British Raj. Its grandeur did feel like a different world altogether. The smells of leather, paraffin, spices and sweat that had surrounded me now gave way to the fresh scent of clean sheets, perfumed cabins, and the rich aroma of freshly cooked meat. The luxurious surroundings, the soft rustle of the linen, the clinking of fine china, made everything feel surreal.

Lieutenant Murray, a young and strong-looking sahib assigned to guide us, escorted us through the bustling station and to our coach. 

“Dr Jones is a magician,” he gushed to Mrs Jones, manoeuvring through the crowd with practiced ease and frowning at the attendants who were struggling with our luggage. “Is this your first trip on an Indian train?” he asked as we stepped onto the train. Mrs Jones mumbled a response, but it hardly seemed to matter to Murray, who continued enthusiastically, “Civilization has been hard won in these lands, but these trains, madam, are something the Raj can be proud of. Electrification of stations has already begun.”

“It’s awfully hot, the whole country is, but the train makes travelling through it as comfortable as one can hope for,” he declared, as we took in the spacious, air-conditioned compartment that would be our home for the night.

Then, with a slightly more condescending tone, he gestured toward me. “No separate rooms for the servants or the natives, madam. People usually send their coloured servants to travel on the coloured trains,” he said with a dismissive wave, as if it was a matter of course.

Mrs Jones finally broke her silence. “That wouldn’t do for me. I couldn’t have her lag behind and hold up my journey at sea.”

My face flushed with resentment, but I quickly turned away, unwilling to let it show. I wasn’t used to this, to being so openly dismissed. But Amanullah’s warning echoed in my mind, steady and clear: the gora sahibs and memsahibs outside the hills would be different, and my status as an ayah would carry no weight among them. I had to be cautious and avoid mistakes, for a mistake with them could cost me more than my life.

I swallowed my bitterness, forcing my gaze downward.

Extracted with permission from Uma Lohray's The One-Way Ships; published by Om Books.