River Crossings: Memories of a Journey

By Hemchand Gossai

From the moment he learns of his mother's death in Guyana, Hemchand Gossai begins the long journey home to his birthplace, thousands of miles to a now faraway land. Beyond the moment of sorrow and the grief that envelops him, the author paints a poignant and moving portrait of a life interrupted many times over. Filled with joy and pain, humor and sadness, this story will resonate with anyone who has struggled with self identity and transformation, and the wonder, shock, and comedy of entering a new cultural world. This is a story of choice and consequences, race and religion, childhood and fatherhood.
River Crossings is a journey of fulfilling final promises of a son to a mother, promises that must be kept, promises with their own challenges.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wipf and Stock
• Release date: Nov 1, 2006
• ISBN: 9781498271288

Hemchand Gossai

Hemchand Gossai is Associate Dean of Liberal Arts at Northern Virginia Community College, Annandale. He is the author of several books including Social Critique by Israel's Eighth-Century Prophets, Barrenness and Blessing, and Power and Marginality in the Abraham Narratives. He speaks widely on civic engagement and social justice issues.

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River Crossings

Memories of a Journey

Hemchand Gossai

RIVER CROSSINGS

Memories of a Journey

Copyright © 2006 Hemchand Gossai. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf & Stock, 199 W. 8th Ave., Eugene, OR 97401.

ISBN 10: 1-59752-591-X

ISBN 13: 978-1-59752-591-6

Cataloging-in-Publication data:

Gossai, Hemchand, 1954-

River crossings : memories of a journey / Hemchand Gossai.

xii + 350 p.; 23 cm.

ISBN 10: 1-59752-591-X

ISBN 13: 978-1-59752-591-6

EISBN 13: 978-1-4982-7128-8

1. Autobiography. 2. Guyana. 3. Hindus—Biography. 4. Lutherans—Biography. 5. Hindus—Guyana. I. Title.

BX6495 G 2006

Manufactured in the U.S.A.

In memory of my parents

Ramnarace Gossai (1901–1964) and

Chandroutie Singh Gossai (1909–1995)

Acknowledgments

This book would not have been possible without the grace, love, and generosity of many persons, and in many ways this story belongs to those who have lived and traveled my journey with me.

I am grateful to my friends Lud Schlecht and Carrie Edgar who graciously read this manuscript and in the spirit of friendship generously offered their insights and encouragement. My sincere gratitude is extended to the editorial staff at Wipf & Stock, K.C. Hanson, Jim Tedrick, Heather Carraher, and James Stock for their persistence in excellence.

For Nathan, Chandra, and Zachary whose lives continue to leave an imprint on mine, and to Shannon, my best friend, my love, with whom I journey across rivers and discover new horizons.

Prologue

I have always known, silently and quietly in my heart ever since I left Guyana, from that lingering heart-throbbing moment I glanced backward at my family from the top of the flight of stairs of the BOAC aircraft, that one day, perhaps in a month, maybe in a year, but one day I would receive the message that I dread most of all. It has been twenty years since that time and the day arrived. I sat with friends at supper one evening, an ordinary moment when I received a call, a message was relayed to me. I would not have imagined it this way, but it is part of the uncertainty of what we face, that in a moment of laughter the ordinary becomes defining even as my entire being was paralyzed from shock. I had prepared for twenty years and I was unprepared as the first day. Ma had died. Death is inevitable, and one prepares, but one is never fully prepared—ever. When expectation has changed to reality, everything changes.

I did not finish my meal and my friends did not know what to say. What is there to say? Indeed, there are very few words. In the midst of a cold February evening I felt alone as I sat in my car and drove to tell my two children, who barely knew their Ajee (grandmother), but whose faces bespoke of the pain they felt for me. Their youthful lips quivered. As I drove home, wondering what to do—as I must travel to the far away place again, perhaps for a final connection, my mind wandered to my growing up years. It seemed like a lifetime ago; it was a lifetime ago. There would be yet another gathering. Gatherings had defined us at Bagotstown.

That evening Shannon consoled me, grieving with me in her eyes and in her heart. Grieving for a mother-in-law she never met. That night she reminded me of the essence of presence of the one you love—few words and none ill-placed. Such is the nature of gift. We wept and smiled even as we fell asleep thinking of this life gone by.

1

Plans for a Wedding

A wedding at Bagotstown was a major event in the family, and for that matter in the area. Perhaps it was because there were so many children there in the Bagotstown family, that for a while it seemed as if there were always plans for weddings.

With every wedding Pa was fully in control and unflappable. His presence demanded respect if not reverence. Impeccably dressed, he strolled like a king. Even in his casual moments he wore his singlet and his creased tweed pants. I have no memory of casual moments. His very mode of dress was a mystery to me. I have no memory of seeing my father in pajamas; no memory of him in soiled clothing. His dress at dawn and dusk were never revealed to me. I saw him during the day and then mysteriously at night he disappeared. I do have a memory of occasions when I was awake early in the morning, as the sun was rising and the stillness of the morning punctuated by intermittent hours upon hours of lorries taking workers to the factories. I noticed on those occasions Pa doing his private devotions. Starting in the fenced-off section of the front yard where a stone, and a trisul (the physical representation of the Hindu Trimurti: Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva) were surrounded by a smaller fragrant garden. Pa faced the East, as the sunrays came in splinters through the leaves and there on one leg he ritually poured water. People in the community never commented in his presence about his clothing, but, perhaps, Thakur, the cane-cutter, who lived in the newly established government housing scheme, captured it best when with pride he said, De Man can dress bad. E seam like wan razah.

This was the look of a gentleman and Pa was a gentleman. He carried his five foot seven inches thin frame with an upright gait, thoughtful and serious, and some might say, aloof. Indeed he had a reputation for being aloof, but it was the manner in which he carried himself. For Pa there was no place in life for idle chatter. Words were an event and thus must be spoken and used with care and meaning. What one said must have value. It was as if he had sifted through all of life’s questions and from time to time one had the impression that he was only fulfilling his time on earth for his very life and the manner in which he had already lived it guaranteed moksha. He was envied for this. Was it not for this that Hindus lived! Bhowjie, his Bhahu, deemed it an honor to serve him, beyond the cultural expectations of daughters-in-law. Ma simply functioned in deference to him. She never called him by name, and would say yuh Aja or yuh Pa or affectionately, he. Everyone in the house and in the family knew who he was.

Pa was the philosopher-king and when he used his knowledge of Hindi and Sanskrit, he seemed even more so and the family was always in awe and wonder. More often than not he both ridiculed and praised in Hindi. Some of the words in Hindi which have remained from my early childhood are ones uttered by Pa. When he was not reading to the family from the sacred texts, he spoke with such knowledge about the British, their culture and traditions much of which he embodied. He spoke proudly and grandly of the British. Even though he knew of the indentureship of the Indians from India and the fact that most of the Indians who came from India starting in May 1838 remained in British Guiana, he always seemed to hold the British in high esteem. He recalled in detail the reign of George VI and spoke with pride of the coronation of Elizabeth II in 1952. The country was, after all, British Guiana.

It might have been that Pa would have felt this way about any White colonial power that governed the colony. Perhaps. In any event, however, this was the British.

The white people have culture. They have done something for themselves. We must be grateful. Deh na bad.

The very colloquialism, unintentional as it was, served also as a stark reminder of the complexity of the quadrilateral cultures: British, Creole, Indian sub-culture in Guyana, and the Indian culture in India. One aimed to be like the British. But Pa’s sense of the British was deeper. He was no mere anglophile. This was not a superficial love of the British. He genuinely believed in the notion of the mother country, the superior mother country.

He strolled like a king giving orders to the children of the household about decorations for the upcoming visit to the colony of Princess Margaret in 1959. Eight by eleven Union Jacks strung together measuring one hundred feet were tacked around the upstairs windows; after the flags were hoisted, he walked outside and looked with pride. The people walked by and admired the class of the family. Princess Margaret was coming, and the Maraj’s house made them proud. No one would question Pa. This was simply the way it was; it was a matter of propriety and civility.

But Pa faced a dilemma that ultimately he could not resolve. His ambition, his preference, would have been to be a professional thinker, a Hindu holy-man and philosopher. He knew of the life and thoughts of Socrates; he talked of him. In that regard, he was a teacher and a wise person. He did not set out to have students or for that matter followers. Yet, there were those who came to hear him; those who sought out his wisdom. While most of the people in our village and villages nearly sweated with discomfort in the heat and humidity, Pa always appeared to be cool and relaxed. It was as if he had control over the elements themselves. Even this very mundane matter added to the air of mystery that surrounded him. If anything, the public bestowed on him the title of wise man.

But as patriarch of the family he also needed to ensure the welfare of every family member. Thus began his role as proprietor of a dry goods store. One only has to imagine Socrates sitting in an Athenian store to get the idea of Pa as proprietor. He did this for the sake of the family and perhaps the sacrifice there only added to the mystique of Pa. His love was for reading and studying. Long before western psychologists publicly lauded the importance of parents reading to their children, Pa read to the household, though perhaps it was as much for himself as for anyone else. It seemed that he lived for reading the sacred texts. Bhaiya had showed no great interest in following in Pa’s footsteps in this regard, and while he worked exceedingly hard as the firstborn son, in his spare time, he would prefer to gaff with the neighborhood men. He would never be able to read fluently Hindi or Sanskrit, though he would finally memorize the Hunuman Chalisa. When folks heard him at a pooja (religious worship) chant along with the pandit (the worship and ritual leader) it was enough to believe that Maraj’s son was following in his father’s footsteps and Bhaiya allowed that belief to solidify. In itself this was a great honor. While there was no formal teaching, it was nonetheless expected that Bhaiya would know the sacred texts; it was natural to believe in this inheritance. But as is the case universally with second and third generation immigrants, maintaining the language of one’s origin was not only an early casualty; many felt that it needed to be a casualty.

The store opened every day at 7:00 a.m. and closed everyday at 10:00 a.m. for a while and then reopened at 3:00 p.m. Most of the open hours Pa laid on the counter of the store or sat in the chair and thought and read. Customers were as much a disturbance for him as an opportunity for a sale. After the store closed at 10:00 a.m., Pa took his daily meditation walk to the temple, hands clasped behind his back, across the trench, past the City Hall and the now unused koker (lock and dam system) to the Temple. He nodded to the many who had grown accustomed to seeing him walk to the Temple and he would nod to their Ram-Rams and Namastes. While not intending it, his presence at the Temple cast an intimidating shadow over the local pandit who was not as learned. After the morning walk to the Temple, he returned for the noon meal which everyone termed breakfast.

Bhahu, vittles ready?

Pa, meh ah come.

As was the custom, he was the first to be served and everyone would have to wait until he had been served by his Bhahu, his daughter-in-law, now beholden to him. He sat in the hammock made of coarse jute sugar bag or rice bag and there he ate with his right hand, careful not to have the food ever touch his left hand or for that matter go beyond the tip of his fingers of his right hand. Such was the cultural meticulousness. Eating in this way was an art in itself. I never quite mastered the art of the eating in this manner. After the household ate and he had sufficient time to rest, he would read from one of the sacred texts or on occasion an Indian folk story. When he departed from reading the sacred text, he might turn to Rabindranath Tagore and read a short story. Particularly in these times, the family was in rapt attention, as often it was not a familiar tale. No one would dare to disturb the reading of a text, even though the family knew, as in the case of the Ramayana or Bhagavad Gita, what the story line was. Pa was always content to read the story and occasionally give his impression; but for the most part allow the story to stand as is. We listened as if this was the first telling.

With Pa and Ma’s five daughters and three sons and Bhaiya and Bhowjie’s’s seven daughters and a son, it seemed as if there would always be a wedding. There would always be weddings at Bagotstown. While the adults were busying themselves with all of the many arrangements that came with a wedding, the children were simply happy to have an occasion for celebration, an occasion where there would be a gathering. An occasion where the children did not have the eyes of firmness or control overlooking them. There would be the large tent on the north side of the house. The vegetable garden would be unceremoniously uprooted and trampled upon, the large pepper plants and the squash and carila plants would die. Later they would re-emerge. A greenheart frame would be hurriedly built in order to erect a tent. The northern side of the house would be used to nail a long section of the greenheart and from there the frame would take shape and when it was all completed, a tarpaulin would cover it. Tarpaulins made of heavy canvas are not always easy to place on the frame. The advantage is that it will not leak and if it rains the water is held in the tarpaulin as it sags, but then it can be poked to the exterior and the water drains off the edge.

When Bhaiya and Bhowjie’s eldest daughter, Savitri’s marriage was arranged hastily and the wedding was set within a week, as a reading of the moon and the calendar dictated it to be proper, a tarpaulin could not be found at such short notice. Bhaiya ordered his son Rabin to get a couple of friends and go to the pandit and ask to borrow some sheets. This sort of informality was very much the norm. Rabin did as his father had ordered and returned home within a short time with a dozen bed sheets. The pandit’s wife, Aunty Rookmanie (every person of some seniority automatically carried the title of uncle or aunty), seemed surprised, but she sent the sheets anyway. Rabin seemed proud that he was able to be relied upon.

When he came smiling in the house Bhaiya asked him about the sheets and Rabin gave the bed sheets to him. He slapped Rabin on the head and wondered how he could go to a high school and be so stupid. Rabin would quickly come to realize that the big people, as the grown ups were called, referred to zinc sheets simply as sheets. Aunty Rookmanie knew this but only wondered quietly, while Bhaiya, who was attempting to have the presence of Pa in his manner, never saw the humor. The adults never felt it important or essential to explain such details to the younger generation. They should simply know.

Because the groom needed to return to England to continue his studies, the wedding was arranged quickly, also keeping in mind the importance of settling on a day that fits within the phasing of the moon. The moon phase played an indispensable role in determining the appropriate day for a Hindu wedding. For Pa and the family, haste was secondary. Some neighbors did wonder why the wedding was arranged in such haste. While no one dared to suggest anything that would appear boorish to blemish the reputation and standing of the family, some people did wonder. There was another untold, generally not-talked-about reason. For Brahmin families such as Pa’s, matters of caste, character, and education were of paramount importance, and this was coupled with the apparent scarce number of suitable boys, embodying these qualities. This was not an opportunity to be lingered over and certainly not one to be missed.

Savitri had no say in the matter. She had learned to cook at an early age and allowed to attend primary and high school to learn the basics of reading and writing, and was then prepared for the time when she would be married. Such was the design for a girl’s life. If love had a place in these arranged marriages, it would have to be learned over time. The relationship was not predicated on love, but rather one hoped that love would be borne out of the relationship. In fact the entire concept of love and all that it entails in American society did not play any meaningful role in Indo-Guyanese life at this time. The western notion of dating and falling in love were foreign to the very fabric of East Indian Hindu life. Such coming together between a boy and a girl was seen as disgraceful. The decision about a husband for Savitri was made by the elders in the family.

It seemed like a distant memory since the afternoon when Savitri stood in the corner of the garden adjacent to the store and talked and laughed with a handsome bus driver who was sipping a beer. Bhaiya noticed Savitri and angrily glared at her; he commanded her to get inside. The onlookers seemed more curiously amused than surprised. They had in different circumstances witnessed these outbursts from Bhaiya. Perhaps Bhaiya’s anger would have subsided quickly, but as Savitri retreated into the house, she glanced backward at the bus driver, almost involuntarily. Bhaiya’s rage was kindled and seeing this, the bus driver who remained anonymous, took one more sip of his lukewarm beer and left prematurely. For a while Savitri was nowhere to be seen and Bhaiya’s anger simmered. Pa, as was his custom ignored the outburst and neither Ma nor Bhowjie were able to calm him. They had witnessed such outbursts before. Now doubly angered and hurt by the seeming indifference to his act of propriety and power, Bhaiya sought out Savitri. He had already drawn his belt from his pants and wrapped the handle securely around his hand to give Savitri a beating. As Bhaiya stomped around shouting for Savitri, Pa intervened and called Savitri, who came immediately and he protected her. Bhaiya who had never to this point been able to assert his semi-patriarchal role, resented Pa’s interference and quiet power. He walked away—this time. Pa spoke softly and sparingly to Savitri.

Sav, that’s not a good thing to do. You’re from a respected family and people will speak badly. Savitri began with a sadness in her eyes, welled with tears. But Aja . . . , and stopped short. She knew. It seemed like an eternity ago.

Before the match was agreed upon, while the suitable boy and his family were still in the room, Savitri was dressed in modest but elegant fashion, and in a well-choreographed moment entered the room and brought a tray of aerated drinks (sodas) and sweets. As Savitri’s sisters peered through the bedroom doors, the elders sought to appear surprised and casual as if to suggest that this might have been the role for Savitri. This was Savitri’s moment; servanthood, modesty, deference. Such was the hope and expectation.

Sav, give Bali something fuh drink, Ma said.

But there was more to this exercise. It was an opportunity for Bali to see Savitri and for the family to watch her gait and mannerisms. The story has been told of the family who arranged the marriage of one daughter without the groom or his family ever having the opportunity to see her walk or interact. With her head bowed, her face partially covered seemingly out of modesty and respect, the agreement was made. When the day of the wedding came, it was her older and physically disabled sister who was married instead. This could never happen. Once the families agreed that Bali and Savitri would be suitable for each other, plans were underway.

Plans which typically took weeks and months to compose and execute now needed to be done within a matter of days. There was no time for formal invitations and a message was hastily delivered to the town crier. Within a day he would be in the streets and lanes announcing,

Maraj’s granddaughter, Savitri, will be married this Sunday. You are invited to the Katha [religious service] and Wedding. And repeated, again and again.

It would be the family name that will be used as few knew Bhaiya’s proper name and so the attachment needed to be made with Maraj. It would take the crier several hours to make the announcement and even though it was only a loosely formal announcement made, the word quickly spread and hundreds would congregate for the wedding.

Pa, who was physically very thin, appeared for a while to be particularly gaunt and he complained to Ma of not being well. Well, not a complaint, but more of a quiet announcement. The prescription was rest and soup, which seemed to be the family’s prescription for every ailment. His slight withdrawal from the hectic preparations for the wedding were barely noticeable. But something lurked within Pa.

As the wedding day approached, the arrangements became more and more intensified. The focus almost always seemed to be on food. How many bags of rice and flour, the two main ingredients for any such occasion? Puri (thin, deep-fried bread) and rice are the staples. Someone invariably would say not to buy soya bean oil, so the people would not have belly wuk. Soya bean oil had the reputation, perhaps as much myth as reality, of causing diarrhea.

Concerns such as who would play the drums for the wedding and the ceremonies leading up to the wedding would be a factor, although for the most part, there was one clear-cut choice. From time to time, however, other names would emerge, names of men who could play the drum and so a decision had to be made. Gisyawan, a local character, known as much for his capacity for consuming alcohol, and pak-pak (as cheap wine was called) as anything else, was an embarrassment. But Gisyawan’s name always seemed to be the center in these discussion for one main reason. He was widely recognized as the finest tassa player in the area. Some may be skilled, but his was a gift. But he was even more; he not only played the tassa drum, but also the bass drum, the bedum. It was a feat, and when he played, for that moment in time, even those who scoffed at his lifestyle, smiled an involuntary smile. In contrast to his life and general demeanor, Gisyawan’s playing was exquisite. Some place in the midst of his drinking of rich Demerara rum he mastered the art of the drums. There were others who could play and perhaps have a better lifestyle, but Giswayan stood alone as the best. The family knew what they had to do and as on cue during the week of these discussions, Gisyawan came to the house, drunk with a bottle of pak-pak in his hip pocket. Gisyawan was the solution, but he was also the problem.

But there was another issue that lurked even deeper than Gisyawan’s drinking. No one spoke about it, though in innocence by the children. One might hear one of the children utter publicly what is spoken of privately. Pa was a Brahmin of the highest order, and while he did not discriminate against others of lower caste, he nevertheless knew that Brahmins did not share the depth of their lives with persons of lower caste. It was widely known that Gisyawan was a Chamar. He was of a low caste. But he was known to the family and they have always tolerated him, as something of a charitable project. The Maraj would never publicly show disdain for one of lower caste.

The story is told of Baichan’s visit to Pa seeking advice. Krishna Baichan worked on the sugar estates and traveled everyday to the Diamond estate. He had worked his way up from being a canecutter to an overseer. Now in his fifties, he was respected, but the memories of being a canecutter and the knowledge that he was of a low caste were always known. One day Baichan came to see Pa, worried about a piece of jewelry which was missing and which he believed was stolen. Many people believed that Pa was able to point in directions where misplaced property might be. Baichan came with hopes. He sat at the large table in the lower section of the house, where it was shady and cool. Pa was in the hammock reading the Bhagavad Gita. Above the table where Baichan sat was the hat rack and hanging there was a two-month old Wilson felt hat. Baichan stared at the handsome Wilson, picked it up, and placed it on his head casually seeing how it looked. Baichan commented on the style and fit of the hat. Pa saw what Baichan had done and immediately told him he could have the hat. For Pa, the very act of Baichan placing the hat on his head desecrated it. Such were the unwritten rules of the caste system, and yet no one in the household would imagine that this attitude and action would be improper. Pa saw his decision not as a personal issue, but part of a larger and more complex landscape of one’s place in the world.

Ma seemed disgusted with the whole discussion concerning Gisyawan. Pa was listening, and Bhaiya—who was himself a heavy drinker—seemed embarrassed that the discussion lingered so long on drinking. Secretly he was hoping that the discussion would shift to the caste issue. While the discussion was going on, Rabin, then seven years old, sat in earshot and tried to inch his way into the group. Bhowjie, who was in the kitchen and could see what he was doing, called him away but he did not respond. He would be able to boast that he sat with the big people. Rookmanie, the pandit’s wife who had come to help sift rice, spoke as she picked a couple of black grains from the pint or so of rice on the sifter.

Gisyawan ah right. Leh deh man play nah.

She gave the impression that she had thought about this and her word would carry the day. Toolaram’s wife, who folks called koker lady, was also picking rice. She sat on the rough wooden bench six feet away.

He can prapa nak da drum. The mo he drink, the mo he nak.

Toolaram, her husband, has been known to drink with Gisyawan, but every one nodded. Rabin inched closer and Rookmanie noticed him and casually chased him.

Gwan bai.

He sat still and in a moment she repeated herself,

Bai, you na hear? Gwan. Leh abee taak.

This time Bhaiya threatened Rabin with two lashes and he immediately scurried away, with the limited satisfaction of uttering under his breath, donkey hole. Rookmanie seemed pleased and Bhaiya was irritated. There has always been the notion that one has to earn the opportunity to sit with the big people even when the topic of discussion is not particularly adult in nature.

No one in the family was altogether thrilled with the idea of Gisyawan, but they knew that he was the best, and while the people in the area knew him for his drunkenness and as a social misfit, the hope was that others who came from far away would only recall the fact that he was the finest. So it was that Gisyawan came to be the drummer. By consensus he was always assumed to be the drummer for every wedding at Bagotstown ever since. Just to be able to play for Pa’s family was enough of a payment for Gisyawan. In this kind of setting, discussion of payment is almost never entered into. After Gisyawan played and left the people talking about his skill, he was given a small piece and a large bottle of XM.

2

Trip to Mahaica

Relatives from the far away places like Mahaica made their way to the wedding houses. For the family, even though Mahaica was only an hour’s drive away, it was a relative distance, for physically and culturally, they were a lifetime away. The Mahaica relatives, Pa’s family always had a sense of mystery about them. They always seemed new and mysterious to everyone except the adults who would tell stories about them. They did not fit the proverb of absence makes the heart grow fonder, but rather they became more and more mysterious. Like all mysterious people, they seemed at once to be both fearful and inviting. The children would stare at them from a distance with wondering eyes. The Mahaica family never came for a day; they came for a week and always took charge. The rest of the family expected this and would complain later, but the mystique of the Mahaica family was such that no one challenged. Even Ma showed deference to them out of respect, though it was more than respect. One could always hear murmurings and complaints under the breath but no one dared utter a word. Within this Mahaica family, it was big Puwah who seemed most intimidating; she was Pa’s oldest sister and even with Pa, she would give an air of superiority, though Pa ignored her and for the most part she knew that her influence would not overpower him the way it did others. The family secretly spoke of her in hushed tones. Lil Puwah was different. She easily became part of the excitement of the scene.

The two Puphas strangely were also in the shadows of their wives. They were two brothers who married two sisters and these two brothers could not be more different. The one who we called big Pupha was the older of the two, but was smaller in size. He spent most of his time reading palms and telling whether persons will have a good future. He told all the young children that their lifelines were long and that they would be rich. Each felt honored and each believed him. While big Pupha was busy engaged with such matters, lil Pupha was content to tell jokes and enjoy himself. Neither seemed at all bothered about big Puwah.

With heads of grey hair and large bushy mustaches that were curved upwards, they both seemed mysterious to me. The general recollection of them had them wearing white trousers and shirts. Perhaps they came only on the occasions of a big pooja or a wedding, where wearing white dhotis and kurtas were the norm. In any event, they seemed to wear white. For many years, and long after they had both died, a photograph of lil Pupha with Pa hung on the wall, and they were both wearing white suits. The young children who were so fond of the Puphas never knew that the Puphas had died. One day it simply came up in casual conversation that they had died. They simply disappeared. Death was not for little children and to this day there is little spoken of their deaths. Funerals like weddings were for the big people. For us children it did not matter whether it was a funeral or a wedding. As long as people came and whether it was the funerary wailings of the women or the tassa playing, there was excitement. You knew that something was up when the Puphas and the Puwahs came from Mahaica to spend a week.

I was Pa and Ma’s youngest son; their youngest child, the youngest of ten children. As a young boy I had traveled with the family to Mahaica for a wedding. Pa bought a new Wilson felt hat for the occasion and Darsan, the tailor, who had created a reputation for himself as a fine craftsman, and had opened a tailor’s shop in Georgetown, tailored a finely sewn pair of trousers for Pa. Pa, more than ever, was particular about his clothes when it came to a wedding. When Pa arrived walking five paces ahead of Ma and me, the people looked in respect. For these occasions, even though it was pseudo-religious in nature, Pa did not care for the dothi and kurta. Instead he deferred to the English mode of dress. Ma on the other hand, followed the elegant way of the Indian woman and packed saris. I, too young to recall an earlier visit to the Mahaica family, would discover an incident, the narrative of which would be repeated at every opportunity, always to great laughter by others and to my personal mortification, as I became older and understood the significance of the event.

Pa, Ma, and I awoke early and while it was still somewhat dark, Pa hailed a hire car; Bhaiya, Bhowjie and others would come later. We made our way to the Stabroek Market to catch another car that would take us to the East Coast. Bagotstown to Stabroek is a mere five miles, though it takes forty-five minutes in large part because of the traffic, the unmarked roads, where there are holes at regular intervals, and the state of the hire cars, which often felt as though they would disintegrate at any moment. Even the new hire cars seemed to be tampered with. One thinks of V. S. Naipaul’s description in Miguel Street of Bhacku’s incessant and obsessive tinkering with his car. Even though the car in which we traveled was a 1957 Austin, a recent model, already the clutch was down to the bare metal and one could hear the rattling sounds as the gears were shifted. The driver was constantly shifting gears. To drive smoothly for long periods seemed to be impossible for most hire car drivers. He was constantly slowing down and shifting gears. Pa was oblivious to what the driver was doing. With only three passengers in the car, the driver continued slowly with his right hand out the window signaling to people standing on the roadside awaiting transportation. With a flick of the forefinger, he is able to ask whether they were waiting for a hire car. The signs were well known. Perhaps it was the decorum of Pa and his quiet reflective mode that discouraged the driver from stopping for a woman with a dirty apron around her waist and what appeared to be a fish basket sitting on her head, balanced by a carefully tied Madras rumall, the head-wrap worn by East Indian women.

The morning was still dawning and people were rushing to get to Stabroek Market from where they made their way to work or shopping, etc. Many of the people who lined the streets went to the La Penitence Market or Stabroek Market to purchase fruits and vegetables and then return to sell these items in their village. It was difficult work, with little margin for profit, but it was all that was available. The drive to Stabroek awakened me; the kind of excitement that comes from the journey to a national fair or Diwali fair. I did not allow the early morning and sleepiness to dampen my sense of adventure. My eyes wide open, I placed my head through the back window of the car. My hair blew in the wind. When the car drove through McDoom, I peered at Mr. Wilson’s dark schoolhouse, and knew with a wry smile on my face that I would not have to worry about Mr. Wilson’s wild cane whipping for a week. That in itself was cause for celebration.

Into Meadowbank, and the excitement for me grew even stronger as I waited with bated breath for Banks Breweries. For every young child, the Banks compound seemed like a dream, so beautiful, so clean, and even though the trench outside the fenced-in compound had been polluted and turned as black and thick as molasses, yet this was of no concern. I waited to see the fountain lights and even in the dawning of the morning, the flashing blue, green, and red lights beneath the water was eye popping for me. I smiled an involuntary smile and a sound of exhilaration escaped my open mouth and even startled me.

Banks Breweries was something of a turning point between East Bank and Georgetown, not technically, but in my mind, Georgetown was close at hand. There would soon be the Ruimveldt Police Station and La Penitence. By the time the car weaved its way through the La Penitence area, dodging people and stray animals, the sun was already above the horizon and the place was buzzing with activity. I settled back in the silence of the car. I was wondering about food as the car drove by one of the many Chinese restaurants that dotted Lombard Street. Bhowjie had dutifully prepared dholl (light-textured sauce/soup made from yellow peas) and roti (common bread), with curried borah (green string beans) for everyone to eat before they left. I would not dare ask Pa or Ma about Chinese food. It was a code that eating food from a restaurant was out of the question for the family. Cultural and religious etiquette made it unacceptable to eat from a restaurant. Instinctively I knew this. Moreover, I recalled that Ma had said many times over, Deh fry poke and beef in de same oil dat deh cook all de food wid. Dem people na clean. But there was also another memory that was fresh in my head. Two weeks before, Bhaiya had brought me to Georgetown and stopped on Lombard Street and ate lo mein with meat. I ate with him and liked it. Bhaiya told me it was chicken lo mein.

Even though Bhaiya was married with four children of his own, he was painfully aware of Pa’s pre-eminent influence and dominance within the family. In many of these matters, Pa’s words were not open to negotiation. The discreteness of Pa having a drink was taken by Bhaiya and exaggerated to great proportions. Bhaiya lived within Pa’s shadow and there could only be one patriarchal figure and as long as Pa was alive, he was the figure