People around River Road in Nairobi where Mohinder Singh Vohra ran an obscure bicycle shop called him “Major”. It was their endearing way of acknowledging his firmness when making decisions and meticulousness in doing business. His staff called him Mzee due to his social stature and advancing age. To his peers, he simply was “MS”.
He was keen on little details; a perfectionist who would frown and clasp his hands in discomfort when he noticed things were not right. His mantra that his employees got used to was: “Let’s fix this…”
“He would wipe the bicycles until they sparkled. He loved seeing things in order. You would not think he is a boss at Sarova,” says Welden Ooko, who works in a business adjacent to the shop. The dusty walls and faded posters at the Sardar Singh Vohra Ltd bicycle shop cast a contradicting image of the affluent hotels that the Vohra family operated for years.
On many occasions, Mohinder would be spotted sitting behind the counter of the little bicycle shop, nodding to welcome customers. When they needed advice on what to buy, he would step up and chat with them and they would laugh at his attempts to speak in sheng’.
“He was a people’s person. He tried everything to make people feel like he was their brother. Not even social class would separate him from people,” says Prabhdeep Singh Sihra, a close family friend whose connection from the family dates back to childhood.
He says even when the popularity of bicycles declined and the sale of motorcycles peaked in recent times, the Vohras never looked any other way. They had the means to expand, and the goodwill to ride on the fast growing motorcycle industry, but they clung onto selling bicycles.
Repair place
It is the first business the family patriarch Sardar set up almost one century ago after he arrived in East Africa. Historians record that Sardar came aboard a steamship from Rawal Pindi in the Himalayan Ranges, and started selling vegetables in Nairobi before establishing a bicycle repair shop at a time when owning bicycles was a reserve for the rich.
In no time, he started bringing in “Black Mamba” bicycles from abroad and selling on hire purchase to peasants during precolonial times.
His children Gurcharan Singh Vohra, fondly known as Chani who died in 2013 and Mohinder would often accompany their father to the shop. It is there that the idea that they should not let go of their humble beginnings was reinforced. “For some people, it is unimaginable to see a rich man walking comfortably on River Road, but Mohinder frequented the place so much, so that he was treated like a local,” says Khalsa Lakhvir-Singh, a researcher and historian who has followed and documented events around Vohra family.
Close friends say the family owes their success to their unity. They worked as a unit; and even in death, they remained together. They were involved in a road accident in Emali and Mohinder, 81; his wife Swarna Kaur, 82, their daughter Reena and daughter-in-law Atuxa succumbed.
Swaran was known for her hospitality and good cooking. Not even age would take away the joy she derived from working on huge meals that she would serve her family. “Mama had a rule that during meals, phones had to be switched off. She insisted that we abandon technology and enjoy each other’s presence,” says Prabhdeep.
A day before they died, the family had visited Makindu Hope Academy, a school that cares for needy children.
Patricia Kanini, director of Makindu Hope, recalls getting a phone call from one of the teachers saying a group of people from the Sheikh temple had a car full of goodies for the children. She spoke to Swaran who said they wanted to share a little joy with the needy. “They sang, danced and ate with the children. It was such a beautiful and unexpected deed,” says Kanini.
The next day, she heard news on radio that some members of the Vohra family had died. She says the remnants of the snacks they brought are a reminder of the generosity of a family that gave wholly without seeking attention. For Sasha Mbote, a former employee at Sarova Whitesands, the Vohras valued young people.
School fees
“The family used to pay school fees for some of my colleagues’ children. I will always remember how heavy they used to tip us just to encourage us. I still have a bracelet Mohinder gave me from India,” she says. Fortunatus Omondi says Swaran, who would buy groceries from him always, remembered his name and everyone around them.
“She would call you by name, no matter how difficult it is. She never forgot, even in old age,” he says.
On their final day on Thursday, hundreds of people whose lives the philanthropic family touched thronged the Kariokor Crematorium. “You cannot put in words the impact the Vohras had here and beyond. Their story should be reserved for generations to understand that no matter how much you rise, you should never forget where you came from,” says Prabhdeep.
