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My parents called me Hugh after after a friend of theirs who was my brother's Godfather.
This always confused me. I thought he was my Godfather and as he was not it might be
one of the reasons I eventually rejected my given name.
My Grandfather was a Church of England Vicar, so he christened me in his church just before
we moved to Pakistan.
My Father was teaching military stuff at the staff college in Quetta. The very few memories
I have are of my Ayah, or nanny, whose name was Uppa. Uppa had a diamond in her nose and
wore Jingly ankle bracelets. She pretty much looked after me until I was two and a half
while my parents got on with having a good time. My dad played polo and my mum sat around
looking glamorous in sunglasses!
When we arrived in Quetta, they handed me over to Uppa and said, "this is Hugh."
"Acha!" Uppa replied, "Shoo!"
"No, Hugh!" they insisted.
"Acha!" Uppa replied, "Shoo!"
There was nothing they could do about it, so the name Shoo stuck. In fact for most of
the time, she called me her "Little Shoosahib".
Uppa only spoke Urdu, so that was the first language I spoke! My Father was pretty fluent
in Urdu, so at least he understood what I was saying! The only Urdu I can remember now
is: Salaam - Cha - Chinnie - Doot and Acha!
I think my parents were happiest living there. Being so close to Afghanistan, Quetta is quite
a different place now. Pakistan is quite different too. Having gained independence from Britain,
the Pakistan Army Colonels, that my father taught, pretty much took over the government
of the country.
While my father was in the British Army we moved on every couple of years, so it was
soon time to go back home. Uppa was distaught when we left! I was her little baba!
I have vague memories of the long, hot, crowded train journey to catch the boat. I had recurring
dreams about it for years. I always woke up in a sweat up when a toothless swami grinned
at me through the window!
Passenger airplanes were still very expensive and only for the really rich, so we sailed
home in style aboard the SS Cilicia. By the time we got back to England, I'd lost all
my Urdu and was only speaking English.
After garden leave in West Kirby, it was off to Germany where I was to start remembering
stuff about my life on my own and not just from family stories.
So, stay tuned for the next exciting episode of Drawing My Life!
Will I ever cut my hair? Should I really have eaten those aspirins and who set fire to the
house!?
Click the links to make sure you are subscribed so you get updates about my channel and find
out more about my weekly schedule of drawing, advice and inspiration. Then see what happens
next in episode three of "Drawing My Life!"
... in the meantime, Keep drawing drawing drawing, practice practice practice and I'll
see you next time. You take care now, bye bye. :)