Timely Meeting

By J SS Jokhan

Memories of early childhood awakened, begun at the formative years of the early 1940s. Bringing to life those indentured from India having volunteered for a promised better life after slavery. Any lifestyle was better than they had in those villages in India. Working the sugarcane plantation some thrived.
Growing up among a few remaining indentured whose anecdotes, told in songs of memories lingering of their youths in their former homeland.
We returned to the UK after 18 years in my place of birth, lured by memories of youth. As a fly on the wall, I listened and saw cultural differences working together in Trinidad. The conundrum of the DEWALI celebration; The ailing challenger; Eastern culture meets Christian Easter celebration in the west; and the KALI worshiper explains their philosophy are few of the anecdotes. And personal observations of the interplay of science philosophy and religion in humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491896846

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© 2014 J SS JOKHAN. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 03/26/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9683-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9682-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9684-6 (e)

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

* Chapter 2

Chapter 03

Chapter 4 A

* Chapter 5

Chapter 6

*New Chapter 7

Chapter 8

*New Chapter 9

*New Chapter 10

*New Chapter 11

*New Chapter 12

*New Chapter 13

*New Chapter 14

*New Chapter 15

*New Chapter 16

*New Chapter 17

*New Chapter 18

*New Chapter 19

*New Chapter—20

*New Chapter 21

*New Chapter 22

*New Chapter 23

*New Chapter 24

*New Chapter 25

*New Chapter 26

*New Chapter 27

*New Chapter 28

*New Chapter 29

*New Chapter 30

*New Chapter 31

*New Chapter 32

*New Chapter 33

* New Chapter 34

*Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

New Chapter 38

J SS JOKHAN author . . . .

The contemplation and creating of some record of our ancestor’s presence in the western world—especially in Trinidad, and for the past half a century, known as the Republic of Trinidad and Tobago was indeed, a daunting task.

Their background of our ancestors, although hazy—most of the information are at best conjecture on my part; yet nevertheless, coupled with general historical information, it is hoped that it would provide the reader, especially my own children in particular; and those of siblings and cousins—and all other branches of the JOKHAN clans—those children and grandchildren of my father’s older biological brother and two sisters; and last but not least, those off-springs of my uncle—BENNY JOKHAN… whom I knew as RAMPERSAD—officially named BENNIMADHO—represents that other branch—of clan JOKHAN—through another spouse, with three daughters and two sons.

My attempts, at best is nothing more than similar to someone grasping at straws in the hope of leaving some trace of our presence in this—the most dynamic era of human-existence in the world of our forefathers. This no mean feat of mental discipline—of assessing and finally including what needs to be included has to date, been a very challenging task. The most I could endeavour to achieve in this attempt is the trickling momentary remains of memories. No documentations remained except a photograph of my grandfather—born somewhere in the last quarter of the nineteenth century… the photograph retrieved from his driving permit, obtained about somewhere in a timeframe of the early twenties of the twentieth century. It was a requirement as of necessity to ‘drive’ an internal combustion motor vehicle in the third world colonial era of that historic period; in what was then the island of Trinidad and its little sister Tobago . . . Yes, driving permit indeed. For someone other than a non-serving ex-pat—it was indeed necessary to obtain permission to own and drive a car. As far as I recall my dad always referred to riding in the ‘RUGBY’ it is only now I’ve made the effort to verify the existence of such a vehicle… as it turned out was last made in 1933. I cannot verify whether it was bought—brand new . . . but I’m fairly certain it was a second-hand vehicle—bought from some returning ex-pat—as most of their foreign items of household furniture were. I know the old vehicles—parked across the road from our official residence—where they remained and rusted as the impending war created an extreme shortage of mechanical parts.

The contents of most of the early chapters have been written in such a manner as to give a glimpse of my early life, around the beginning of the Second World War, and yours faithfully just about two years old in 1942. A colonial society, evolved from a desire for sugar—the new luxury sweetener for British and European consumption, requiring an urgent need for workers as replacements for slave labour, which brought to an end all the horrors of those human degradation. Our forefathers filled that gap! They were brought to fill the labour gap on the sugarcane plantations.

On reflection, I am certainly aware those members of our clan—of the JOKHAN family, are being seen through ‘Rose Tainted glasses’ as much as; and very similar to: ’TIS distance * lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its AZURE hue’ . . .—surely defines the romanticism in me for those early days of childhood. (*Distance refers to time apse)

I am indeed certain of the opinion that there is a vacuum in the connectivity between my own two children and their ancestral roots—their points of origin. It is not just in the Caribbean from where their mother and I came. We both were born in Trinidad and Tobago, the descendants of those band of intrepid adventurers, who sought a better life—who came a couple of centuries earlier, as indentured labourers, arrived on the shores of Trinidad. They were not alone. They came with other young men and women from the same rural agricultural remote—far flung villages of what is now called UTR. PRADESH UP in India.

Having been brought across two oceans from another part of the world-they as members of the species, driven by the harsh realities of their existence within the narrow confines of rural village life on the subcontinent of India, were apparently offered an opportunity to work on sugar plantations in another part of the world—unimaginably far away in some distant land. The familiarity to the tall grass with high-sugar enriched stems indigenous to their ancestral home. And the labour entailed, was the only notion of their expectation. Such was their plight as Hobson’s choice. Any life was better than that to which they were accustomed. Such was the mind-set of those intrepid warriors of fate! Like the bee keepers, their landlords—on the Indian subcontinent—those who owned the lands took most of the laboured production leaving just sufficient for bare survival, on which our ancestors—the peasants, barely eked out a living.

When European man as convicts were forcibly carried across to the new world to that place of the newly discovered land mass of the duckbilled platypus, they were transported among; and by their own kinds. Others again were taken as indentured servants. Yet ‘Euro-man’, somewhat understood the harsh realities they faced; and knowingly went—with those to whom their indenture-ships were bound; sharing similarities of language culture and religion, with the sailors—and their overlords, somewhat prepared them for their journey and new life.

But, a vast chasm of dissimilarities existed between our ancestors and their sponsors. As race, language, culture and religion were the divide separating indentured from masters.

It was about a period after the birth of our grandson—PATRICK’S son his third and last child, that the subject was broached. Maybe a year or so after; when we were all together sharing the bountiful pleasure of togetherness as I distinctly remember that occasion as Patrick, just off the cuff like… remarked:

‘You know dad, I have no idea of what I could pass down to my children. You know—as some of the colourful anecdotes as memory sticks—record of their ancestral background’. It was on one such occasion when a short story as an anecdotal excursion; as a foray in my past, when Patrick’s pliant request, more so as if thinking aloud; an inquiry was voiced. I remember saying to him I could assemble a ‘family tree’. Reiterating the point he said: ‘That would not give a historic background except conjure some imaginary description in their minds as they grow older. Perhaps . . . was it possible to write the entire history of OUR FAMILY background from the time of their arrival in the CARIBBEAN—in a story form’. Having thought about it, a memory search recalled the little anecdotes which from time to time, I have told… . as having been passed to me from my parents, grandparents and the East Indian community at large, as I knew it.

I decided to weave some of them in a biographical history of ‘OUR’ people… their background… that is… their origin . . . . for both—those truly unfortunate—those slaves; and our own ancestors the ‘indentured labourers’. That is what our ancestors were. They were the ones whose weariness at being oppressed by landowners ‘as crop sharers’ made that fateful cultural and intellectual leap . . .

There are those who have moved away altering their lifestyles using their talents and abilities; while those among all the flotsams and jetsam—those remaining on the ground level not much dissimilar to the period at the end of slavery, need someone to blame for their miseries, seeking apologies for their plight.

The anecdotes and short stories, although thinly woven enabled me to try and create the life styles of our people with all the prejudices, fears, attitudes; and cultural idiosyncrasies held-on to by those diehards; yet allowing their off-spring to go again beyond—into the outer world in search of their own lifestyles.

The story begun here in the UK—as someone with whom contact was lost for many years; and who subsequently ‘passed away—became deceased’—Someone with whom I shared living space and ‘ate our food from the same leaf’ . . . . natures best disposable plate—the ‘SOHARRIE’ leaf of course. The story, although begun at the Queen’s hospital in Romford, reflected the reminiscences of the period beginning in the early 1940s, when I was just a child (born in 1940.). I was able to recall incidents and occasions which my own memory served well; and later corroborated by the only living oldest member of the JOKHAN clan . . . other than my mum—who herself confirmed some of the incidents mentioned. I may have dilly/dallied along the route from time to time, instead of cutting to the chase trying my utmost to explain thoughts and feelings. If anyone feels to have been mistreated in these assessments, then they would be free to examine themselves impassively, as I have tried to explain all the circumstances surrounding any such differences of opinions and attitudes. If someone still wishes to contradict my assessments then they would be free to examine themselves impassively; and if grievance is still felt may contact me at… [e-mail].

Our return to the UK was fortuitous in that we became acquainted with such new peoples who grew-up in the same enlarged community of Tulsa Trace and DEBE` and Woodland, further expanding to the general San-Fernando Mara-Bella BHAJIE TOLA, and other parts of that fair land, who have all become part of our emotional community.

(*A description of romanticism by—Scotsman Thomas Campbell

Also Thomas Carlyle—In an aphorism (a statement of general truth) In ‘DAWN’ called it—the Cult of Hero worship).

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CHAPTER ONE

TIMELY MEETING

Sitting beside the young man to whom I recently became known as the missing uncle—heard about, but not seen until a few months ago. And now the young man RAVI, son of my ailing surrogate brother of childhood, now reminiscing of those past times, I turned and said: "You have no idea of your ancestors except what you’ve been told by your father . . . or possibly someone whom you’ve met and who knows your family’. The young man looked at the uncle being opposite each other in the hospital ward—patiently waiting for the call from the theatre so that his father lying on the bed to be taken for what is referred to as His procedure—to be surgically operated upon. The father’s foot, had a non-healing Sore—not responding to treatment"—having gone past the third level of antibiotics appear serious.

Now looking at the uncle whose name he recalled, and not until a few months previously, at his cousin SAVI’S home, did this uncle ceased to be the just a memory—recalled from family conversations—that memory of someone spoken about is alive and well, now speaking to him as his dad lying in the hospital bed, very ill suffering with genetically inherent series of complaints, starting with Diabetes and Heart; with all the various side effects; partly the result of living as a bachelor and a widower to boot. Such was the result of ‘fire’ having claimed the life of his wife—my first cousin ‘GAYATHRIE’ and their daughter ‘UMA’, leaving father and son—RAVI, the sole surviving child, totally bereft.

It is very interesting, to observe both father and son in polite conversations, which is normally avoided if and also when ‘avoidably’ possible.

The father, a priest of the Hindu faith of the ancient Aryan Religion—the orthodox faith, occupied so much of his time, that his diet is one long journey into comfort foods—most desirable; yet the bane of modern man.

The father—the off-spring of one of those brave souls who ventured across two oceans, leaving behind the misery of the bee-hive existence perpetuated even to this day on the subcontinent of India among the peasantry in U. Pradesh. Now a helpless man, the father—Pundit GOBIN—a mass of flesh, and mind totally focused on his duties as a priest, yet somehow incapable of truly understanding what has gone wrong in his life as so much tragedy—losing his dear wife and daughter; and a son who speaks to him if needs be.

There lay the last of the young man’s closest relation dying—yet no one at that juncture in time was aware of the impending outcome, as both father and son is at loggerheads. The son blames the father for the loss of his mother and sibling sister. That much GOBIN the father, hinted to me on the previous day, as he—the father lived in hope clutching at straws for the compassion from the only person alive who truly mattered to him.

Anyway, such is the physical health of my surrogate brother Pundit GOBIN, lying propped up in the hospital bed with both his son and me in vigil.

Such is the situation as a whole deluge of thoughts flooded my mind, as the young man RAVI said: ‘My dad never told me much about when he was a boy but I knew from my visit to families in Trinidad—about my grandfathers on both sides; and uncles and aunts’, and he told me you and him were close’. The young man’s sombre mood was hidden by his spectacles. Those glasses he wore certainly helped him hide his feeling and anger to life’s slings and arrows—in his case, he somehow feels were caused by his father.

Pensive and listless, it appears that the emotional closeness between father and son has all but dried up. Conversation appears never easy between the pair—father and son, which alas appeared tragic to say the least.

In that fleeting moment my own mind fast tracked back to our childhood. Maybe a couple of years younger than me, yet like a sibling GOBIN, followed me whenever he was about which was pretty often. He became my companion up to the age about seven to nine. And then schooling together with them moving to SUCHIT trace, put paid to our continued togetherness. In games and play he preferred my company instead of my own sibling ‘BOYAH’. Maybe even at that tender age, his ability to think was more in tune along similar lines to my own.

Thinking back, it was somewhat similar to my own later sibling Omar, who endeared himself and became attached to me. Whatever was taking place, usually some game or mischief, Omar always used me as a shield against the rest of our siblings. We were never an easy bunch, whether in mischievous play or work; and Omar, even at an early age was capable of inflicting verbal blows and when the reaction to his invectives was physical he always used me as a shield When not around he’d wear my shirt… although overly large for his small frame, yet it was his comforter, and he slept with me also.

Anyway, let’s return again to the ailing father pundit GOBIN: From what I have seen of the entire process of medicine, he, the patient, with all his complications is to be the ideal teaching subject for consultants. Be it medical or surgical stretching over into patient care not that they do not wish him to recover, but to them . . . why hurry a good thing. For someone with such complicated medical conditions offering to any extremely and amorally clinical consultant . . . the best chances of a teaching tool… I imagine he was the Guinea-pig which comes along not too often—.maybe once in a while and not helped by the patient’s own interpretations of the rules of food consumption and medical care. Here is a readymade teaching platform with someone who for all intent and purposes is genetically susceptible to diabetes and yet did not seem to have consciously woken up to what had brought about the present condition and thoroughly laced with heavy doses of egocentricity, who it appears, at some level considers his ailment as an attention getter.

I continued the monologue further: ‘I don’t know whether your dad has told you, although I imagine he may have, you see we both grew up in the same enlarged village. Well, He lived in Tulsa Trace . . . which was only a short ride in an ox-drawn cart, a couple hours away, way back in the early war years of about 1940s—when as children we moved from one address to the other regularly. He officially lived in Tulsa Trace which is now Tulsa road. And I grew up in what was then JOKHAN trace. Tulsa Trace was upgraded to what is now Tulsa road; and JOKHAN trace remained as such. The idiosyncratic oversight—as I explained to the young man—Was just a prejudicial Christianised ‘unseen’ error as far as JOKHAN Trace and all other non-Christianised titles are concerned—and have remained as was originally named after the land owners who donated the lands for the opening up of public roadways. Such names significantly different—from the preferred Christian names and titles—even in this era of the twenty-first century, stuck out like sore thumbs in a free society.

All those roadways—traces mainly served the descendants of the East Indian communities, independent of those Christian overlords, with just—may be an odd family of mixed African descent. There is also a major road way connecting the various East Indian communities which is still called ‘GOPIE trace’—where, since our return to the UK, we discovered that one of our new sisters—SAVITRY—dear wife of HARRY—PERSAD,—a DEBE` born, been residing at Horn-Church in Essex in excess of twenty-odd years?

"You know ‘RAVI’ . . . George—your father", I continued, looking at the son of my ailing surrogate brother "GOBIN—although no blood relation, mind you, we shared living space when quite young." Yes, your dad—He told me that when He first came to England, to work on the buses, his landlady said she is going to call him ‘George’, owing to the fact that his Indian full name was just too much of a mouthful for the poor woman; and I suppose that most of his acquaintances subsequently knew Him as ‘George’. Ah those old Cockney landladies… most were pretty nice; and again, a few were dragons in human form. I suppose they were skivvies by nature, who shouted and controlled their own families with their verbal lashings.

‘Anyway He and I grew up together in Trinidad in the general community between Tulsa Trace and JOKHAN Trace. And before us, his dad and mine grew up, again in the same general community in the rural sugarcane belt’—I imagine somewhere in central Caroni? Not sure . . .

From all account as hear say—as told or talked about—by all those I knew to be my father’s companions, instilled in me a non-too overly untarnished history of my father’s youthful days—My dad, being the second legitimate son of what one would call a man of substance—that is my ‘grand-father’ who was JOKHAN SADHU. The title ‘SADHU’, with which he became imbued in his matured adult life—as that of a wandering ‘Holy Man’ . . . . a ‘Mendicant’—depending on alms for sustenance, which to me is the one aspect of his life that was not maintained—nor was he an ‘aesthetic’ in search of MOKSHA—enlightenment—abandoning the worldly pleasurable pursuits. I think he may have cooked his own food, as I’m pretty sure I’d seen his attempts to do so on some occasion with his overnight cronies around chatting away while they all took it in turn to do their bits and pieces in the course of making flat bread—‘SADHA ROTI’ for breakfast, accompanied by ‘CHOKHA’—a strong savoury dipping source, or some vegetable diced and fried—possibly made from a variety of fruits and berries, all laced heavily with some Scots—bonnets chilies, salt, garlic and onions, and home grown coffee or cocoa beverage to wash the lot down.

Maybe, his adoptive title of SADHU, fitted rather nicely as it denotes someone courting a certain religious-cultural status. More a title of convenience I’d say, rather than of substance. A similarity can be drawn to those spurious titles of COLONEL, CAPTAIN or Major, adopted by ex-military men? Such being the equivalent of a wealthy land-owning person in his own right—properties inherited from his parents and also the dowry through marriage with my grand mother’s inheritance. She who, was the older of two sisters, the younger was supposedly on her way to India. Yes she was sent to India. That journey to India, ended in her death at sea—leaving her share of her dowry, placed in the bank in "Trust". In my days as a youngster in the 1940s to 50s Barclays Bank was the preferred choice of the East Indian communities and the branch in San Fernando high street became the place where most, if not all financial transactions took place.

The East Indian communities, by nature, very hard working and thrift to the point where they became the butt of a whole host of jokes especially coming from our African neighbours who were never subjected to the harsh existence as our ancestors. When ‘survival’ was the milestone for thousands of generations—that hard taskmaster, honed their very character, as some of the true sons and daughters of Mankind. I think they were ripe and waiting to be taken from the breeding grounds of hardship towards the same again, to the sugar plantations of the Caribbean. Our African brothers, on the other hand, suffered the trials and tribulations of slavery for maybe half a dozen generations, before which on the African continent, as hunters gatherers—consumed what they had; and then sought more only when needs be—for immediate satisfaction and desires. They lived lightly-for the moment; and some still do. All the same, businessmen ‘spivs’ and moneylenders thrive among peoples who are spendthrift—found among all ethnic groups around the world.

Even among East Indians, like any other ethnic or racial group there will always be a certain portion of the population that are spendthrift, but far less than other cultures. Living in a strange land, away from their cultural comfort zone—they—our ancestors held-on to their distinctive original cultural ethos; as it created the comfort zone of social activities which held fast. And they knew that living in this strange land and like most, within their own communities, even in this era, there is still a part of that character, the very nature of the people to be sure to save something for a rainy day.

Rainy day indeed—Theirs meant the advancements of their off springs. A better lifestyle for their children—who, although may not have had the inclination for furthering their educations, definitely enjoyed a better and a much more advanced life style than their parents. As lifestyles go, looking at documentaries about that period of early cinematic creations, they were not much different to Europeans (British) standard… . bar the aristocracy and the higher echelons of the civil administration. I suppose some, like my ancestors—both the KANHAIS and the JOKHANS—whose lifestyles were like the well-to-do English Welsh/Scottish or Irish farmers, in their communities. And yes poverty existed. Yet as an overly bandied cliché… as even in the United Kingdom, poverty is merely a relative notion reflecting a lack of Well-Being, as one would considers being less than affluent.

Of course there were poverty traps… and there still are—Even in Trinidad.

My grand mother’s parents… . KANHAI SARDARH (or so I remember him being referred to) being the earliest of business families who came as "Indentured Labourers. Through hard labour and thrift, by their release from indenture-ship, amassed monies to acquire more properties enabling them to have cows—making ghee, yogurt and also opening up a dry goods shop. Now, here were the true sons and daughters of man—breaking the mould. From sod-busters to business entrepreneur in one lifetime! And it worked!

The ‘OLE SHAP’ an old building, I remember well as a child. Built of corrugated iron covering a gabled roof; and wooden structure, where my grandmother lived until about nineteen forty-eight. It was about three feet above the ground level as the possibility of flood meant that all their perishables had to be placed above. As I recalled there was an open storage loft between the apex of the roof and the ceiling supported by the internal walls of the building. The words "Ole SHAP instead of Ole shop"—a result of their by-lingual shortcomings—still conveyed the usage of the building. However, her spouse—My grandfather, lived in his own dwellings—under the very large cocoa house—furnished to a high standard of affluence.

My uncle—was the second of the JOKHAN’S children? I’m pretty sure! There was My aunt, then my uncle, another aunt and my father last, being the youngest of the siblings within the family. I cannot say for certainty but I am to conjecture that as the last of the brood, it could have resulted in his early philandering. Being last, allowed him a much greater laxity and leeway in everything he did. Besides, his father was also ‘fathering’ another fully housed family, while having a generous sprinkling of off-springs in the community, which was basically his own creation (the community I mean) in that he provided places for a great number of families in and on his properties; and I’d like to think he’d treated them differently from those ‘THHAAKOORS’—the landowning classes their parents left behind on the subcontinent of India. I can say with certainty that… I have never heard any stories told of my grandparents being unjust.

As I said above my grandmother’s sister having been espoused to someone the son of a previous acquaintance, and with due ceremony embarked on a steam ship to India; and having died on the journey… and whose death never became known until very many years later, when a visiting cousin went to India on a sentimental journey; and on his return informed my grandmother—the surviving sister of the deception. In the meantime throughout the many years, Letters confirmed of the sister’s wellbeing was a sham. And as half yearly sums from the trust fund was regularly sent. The reply always indicated that she was in good health and that she also had three children. At first the relations thought they would get away with it but for one small point. When the visiting cousin went to the family a wife and three children were produced on demand . . . in the vain hope that the cousin would not recognise the person . . . it depending on how intimately he knew the cousin. The hesitancy in her answering as he felt that the person shown were not aware of the former closeness of the visitor and the alleged cousin—Spouse shown to him. Having an overnighter at the family’s home the very next day he demanded to see a particular birth mark that could not have faded and that the ploy was exposed. That birth mark has survived and surfaced on the leg of both my own children—having skipped two generations.

There were only two brothers. My dad and his brother by the same parents. As a little boy I knew that I had another ‘uncle’—in fact, I had two other uncles. And they were brothers—RAMPERSAD and RAMDATH. (The older of the two subsequently became known as Benny) . . . and after my grandfather’s death that branch of the family moved; and only many years later I discovered that—uncle Benny was in England; with whom I made contact when I came to England. I found to my amazement that he was a truly amiable member of the JOKHAN clan; and held no animosity towards me, being, as far as he was concerned, a member of that other family, albeit, the grandson through his father’s first spouse.

It was here in England I also met his wife and three sons at the time—on the 14th September. 1963. He was the older of the sons of the other family who moved away after the death of my grandfather.

My biological uncle… my father’s full biological brother had his own shop to which many references were made even though I cannot remember except as having been given hard boiled sweets ‘KAIZER’ ball and PARADISE plums to suck. The KAIZER ball—a large Gobstopper, I imagine was named after Wilhelm KAIZER—as a parallel euphemism to a cannon ball of the first world war, possibly as the weapon that defeated the Germans?

I remember my uncle wrapping the sweet and then smashing it with a large hammer before giving it to me! Most of the time I wished he’d give me the whole thing. Oh, how I longed to put a whole KAIZER ball in my mouth. Think back in the situation, I have a feeling such a hard-boiled sweet would not have been able to fit in my mouth, yet I’d seen some of the bigger boys placed a whole round KAIZER ball in their mouths.

A long time—many years later, I remember reading the news that some young man choked on a similar sweet, awakened the recollection of my uncle’s actions.

It was only then I thought that he was not being mean! . . . I seem to remember thinking he did not wish me to savour the sweetness of a whole round massive hard ball all red and delicious. Oh, the sweet ecstasy of total satisfaction… and "Salt biscuits! He also gave me salt biscuits to dip in what was called chocolate tea. It was really cocoa beans roasted pounded and made into a solid bar, which was grated and put into boiling water laced with generous helpings of sugar and milk a generously plentiful commodity… well to me at least… . being a youngster… may be under five in age, who received attention from all the grownups around to which there were a plentiful supply (no shortages) . . . of grown-ups I mean.

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* CHAPTER 2

THE TOUCH THAT HEALS

All those thoughts flooded my mind in the blink of an eye. Then, remembering that the young man staring at me; I glanced at him a smile as I Returned once more from that journey of approximately seven decades in the past. At that moment I saw the Youngman’s father staring in our general direction with an air of expectancy, hopefully to be sated. Could you rub some cream on me arm? said the father—looking in the general direction and eyeing the son in that half-heartedly shy manner, only just wishing to be touched by his very own flesh and blood. ‘There is some cream in the drawer’, said GOBIN, in a sort of half-hearted anxious way, appearing to make an attempt to turn, as if that was possible, considering his present incapacity to move freely-far-less turn without an agonizingly great effort.

His eyes observing the compliant manner of his son getting up and moving to pass where I was sitting; and going round the bed, in search for the "Unctuous" cream. I felt that the son would probably have refused, had I not been there. No, he might have hesitate.to perform such a personal ritual to which the father hungered; and longed for. It appears that maybe as I was there, the father’s request was made; and that the young man complied. The father’s display of having the attention of his son, who could very well ‘not refuse’ such a request in my presence, was the object of the exercise.

A jar of petroleum jelly was the available product to which the father was well aware, yet that greasy substance extracted from the bowels of the earth, used by mothers as an ointment on the bums of babies, prone to blisters and rashes from sustained wetness of Pee worked miracles.

The father—called ‘George’, indicating the bedside cupboard on his left, the jar of petroleum jelly, suddenly became as if by magic an amalgam that linked this father and son relationship that may, or, appears to have grown apart since the death of his mother and sibling sister. I suppose since the death of his mother and sister, the father and son have cooled; and reached a point of matter-of-fact—Business-like attitude. Similar to an inconvenience that has to be borne with grace. That was an interesting exercise in close human relationship—especially those of parent and grown children—with the father requesting, yet wishing things were not so; and the son complying only wishing things were different. On another occasion, previously at the home of a niece—the young man’s cousin, I saw the same—matter of fact attitude; and wondered about it, not thinking much on it, as my own son and us seems to have drifted apart since his marriage. It is something I could not wish on anyone except that my own track record is pretty much the same. No, it was not the same. It was my father’s intransigent nature. His right to be ‘right’—as an attitude that could not be altered by time or place—caused the rift. He cornered my uncle—my mother’s brother; and all others concerned accepted and sided with him. He mainly objected to my marriage to the person with whom I had decided to spend and share the rest of my life . . . having fallen deeply in love. We became one in everything we did; regardless of all the stumbling blocks in our lives we are still together held by the invisible chord of affection and love (which appeared to be shaky at times having survived and flourished over the years).

My son—Our son Patrick . . . . his circumstances in marriage was entirely different. My wife’s introduction led to their marriage. She, my wife, I call her ‘Doll, spent the intervening period between their introduction and marriage on cloud nine-day-dreaming of all the things . . . the good things and times she was anticipating with sheer delight to do and enjoy with her new daughter, which, alas! . . . faded from the very first day after their wedding. I suppose it was just the nature of circumstances having stepped in the way; or just pragmatic good sense. Well they could have spent the weekend and then moved.

Returning again to the hospital scene: The son opened the jar and taken a dab with the tips of his fingers; and immediately started applying the petroleum jelly, from the shoulder to the wrist. The Filial expression on the father’s face was a joy to behold . . . as just pure ecstasy beyond the realms of description. It had to be seen as an insight into pure joy . . . to be experienced as receiving or taking from the giver in the charm of just a touch . . . and there was the son . . . in the father’s mind . . . performing an act of loving devotion which has, from the father’s memory not been recently experienced such loving kindness and devotion. The pretence worked—it must have been a very long time since the father and son touched each other with their minds. Never mind the physical matter-of-fact everyday touch that are just the mechanics of handing, holding, taking and all the other accidents of touch—But when touch is not avoidable and becomes just too casual, to ‘Be Felt’; and strained to be made without conscious thought, then emotional attachments are lost. It is far easier for one to casually touch as a mechanical act. Yet when that same act is designed to be a gesture of affection it becomes a great burden for one or the other; and sometimes for both, like greetings across cultures.

That wonderful experience… glinted in the eyes of the father, as he said: "You know Jay (when we were children he called me Jai for short. It was the last time when we met by our niece’s home . . . he must have heard all the others—my cousin BOODS wife and my wife calling me Jay). ‘You know Jay, he don’t know! But When he was a baby, I used to do that to him" repeating himself again: "when he was a baby growing up’. The word "that" is used expressing something distant… as if the act referred to is something just mechanical, or is purely that the Time lapse is so many years aback, it could not be referred to as ‘This’—representing the sheer act of physical contact of being "close"—as the longed for emotional attachment that once was; and now has become nothing more than a memory of time past—never to be recovered . . . Or so he thought . . . until now!

An illusion? The son ‘RAVI’ continued until the pliant grease appeared to be absorbed into the skin. Frail as the human emotion can be, it can be easily hidden. I suppose it takes someone with experience, possibly to be able to see—I mean to see behind the shy exterior of facial features—that, the wearing glasses helped to create! It certainly creates a nonchalant cavalier mannerism displayed with truculence—as ‘with a matter of fact attitude’ as He executed the gentle, loving . . . maybe more affectionate rather than ‘kind’ deed to the one person still alive, with whom he shared fifty per cent of his entire biological human chromosomes. Like electrical charges, ‘like repels’—yet in its repellence there is an all-consuming desire of the one to hold and smother the other in filial embrace. And yet again, too much water has passed under the bridge—as the saying goes… .

As a child I remember my grandfather having an earthen—a saucer-like container, called a "KALSAA" . . . in which he poured coconut oil mixed with a few drops of camphorated oil which he kept especially for me, or so I thought, that I may use to ‘massage his back’. He would spread a sheet and lie down on his tummy, exposing his torso, that I could pour some of the mixture; and smear his entire back—right up to his shoulders and then I would climb on top of him and walk all over as was directed which must… . have been the very special moments of bonding with one of his many grandchildren. I remember every day, late evenings I used to visit his quarters . . . his own house—the living space in a building, separated by space, however great or small . . . at least eight hundred feet in the first instant; and about sixty feet in the second . . . his home was closer to that of his second spouse—wife. Concubine is too ugly a word. In hindsight I suppose it was just an accident of fate. I’m sure my full biological grandmother was none too pleased with the situation.

Anyway returning again to the hospital bed-side: Such an expression of father/son relationship started me looking back in time from when I was just a little boy…

Having left RAVI at the hospital expecting that the Surgical procedure would be performed and that I shall be informed of it, I came home and started to write down all the thoughts that flowed out as childhood memories. I remember vividly my grandfather’s home. It was the ‘Cocoa-House’. His quarters as I recall was the ground floor—made under a very long Cocoa-house. At least twenty metres when closed and covered, extending half as much again on either side, as the sliding roof opens up on rolling wheels on rails.

The upper floor of the building was designed and purpose-built for drying cocoa, coffee and products from our plantations, including ‘Paddy Rice’—for whatever reason it was so called—the pre-milled grains with the husks could be ranging in a variety of shades of yellowish brown to downright mud-soaked dirty brown—the colour depending on the weather conditions in the reaping seasons. Sometimes in the rainy season the fields are flooded with incessant unpredictable rainfall, yet the rice crops had to be reaped whether it was wet or not. And when threshed and dried, the end product developed its own character and flavour as the staple food of the East Indian community. The flavour and quality was dependent on the time it remained in the damp wet muddy fields. After reaping most people in the villages lay out their paddy crops on ‘drying sheets’ spread on the asphalt roads, as an unavoidable fact of life—in the hope that the sunshine will quickly dry the paddy rice long enough to enable storage for consumption as the staple food grain; and if needs be as a saleable cash product. This was a normal feature of the seasonal life that existed before the Christmas period throughout the… country wherever those Indian off-springs have found it possible to group together for shared assistance in the all—consuming processes of agriculture—as their main occupation.

The cocoa house was spacious enough, and designed to accommodate at least more than one produce at their initial processes, with periodic anomalies, like that of the rice crop—when it was in full swing, as the drying house would be made empty of all other produce which, as a fact of seasonal exigencies, worked out pretty well. During clement weather, the roof, constructed in such a manner that it could be easily slid—open—coming apart in two equal parts rolling on wheels along rails, completely exposing the produce to be dried on the flat bedded floor-like surface, worked perfectly. As little children were sometimes roped in, to lookout for rain, Whenever I was there at his home; and the ‘Cocoa House’ was opened up. My grandfather used to tell us to wake him if it looked like it was going to rain, so that he could operate the crank, closing the rolling roof shed, ultimately preventing the drying produce from getting wet. I always saw him as old, but now myself looking back on those days, he was younger than myself as I am now at seventy three. I am sure he died in his sixties. Being old and also having a straight leg, the result of either rheumatism, arthritis or a combination of both or maybe some injury acquired sometime in his youthful days yet, I cannot remember any mention of the "HOW" he acquired his game leg. I have been privy to conversations when references were made to, or about him, by a whole hosts of people in the community wherever; and whenever his name cropped-up; and if ever someone mentions anything about him the word ‘LANGRA’ was used; which was the adjectival—Euphemism used in any society meaning "Lame-footed or Game-legged" . . . the synonym for someone whose unfortunate presence may have been in the line of fire on a hunting or shooting trip… or just maybe the jesting remark with reference to the individual and his inability to maintain sanity in the face of adverse walking difficulties… . as if the leg played ‘games with its owner’. During my early days in England, I’ve heard it said many times in discussions when referring to someone whom we knew at work, when a description of sorts was needed to create ‘a not unsympathetic frame of mind’ as someone whose walking style implied the possibilities of being in the line of fire when, at those unfortunate times the

. . . German’s expressed their ‘Teutonic’ accuracy derived from their military trainings.

Sometimes again I was taken to visit early in the morning—by his standard of early, considering ‘He’ always went to bed very late at night having the company—of guests, who may have stayed overnight. Such occasions were greeted by me with not unusual acclaim as in my child’s mind such occurrences in themselves were near as regular as I can remember.

His guests were people of his own ilk who were well-to-do and could spare the time effort and money to entertain or be entertained. I used to go to his room a large room… maybe about six metres long with three beds… only the one occupied by him was a double—; bed—fully draped over with a mosquito net.

I also remember He had a dog ‘BULLER’, with whom he was very attached… or was it the other way round or, maybe it was the dog, who was attached to the man. There were certain places where I felt the resentment of the dog. My grandfather whom I called ‘AHJAH’, spent an inordinate amount of time in his hammock, which he kept slung up on a hook so that BULLER could not occupy it. And I remember distinctly, that whenever I was able to unhook and untangled the thing, it was him-the dog—who entered before I had the chance. And there was nothing I could do to extricate him. Even if I entered it first, that dog had the dogged ability to enter without hurting me. And he would just somehow manipulate himself with both of in a quiet struggle—trying to out manoeuvre the other, to be in the advantageous position; and I seem to remember as if he always won!

‘AHJAH’, was apparently aware of the situation, decided on a solution. He made another hammock for himself, banning everyone—only meaning myself and ‘BULLER’—that dog from ever occupying it. It would not have worked except he "Tied" the hammock on a hanger when not occupied.

As far as I can remember there were always people—old people like him. By then My grand-mother was already staying in her own home the "Ole SHAP" which also had very respectable living accommodations. As far as I remember there were three bedrooms, a kitchen at the back-right-side; and an open veranda in fact the entire veranda was just the same length jutting out from the back of the house, continued on the same roof to the end of the veranda and that of the kitchen. Just the common… . space where about two hammocks were always slung along the main joists running the entire width, at the back of the building, for relaxing. Yes, one could not find anywhere better.

Whenever my grandmother, aunt or my mum had visitors, they were all accommodated and entertained on the veranda during the daytime. My mum—. ‘Mama’—always went across and just sat in the hammock spending some quiet time by humming some tune or other.

"ARGIE"—the grand matriarch of the family is the traditional title of the grand-mother (I refer to her as the GRAND MATRIARCH because she was the epitome of Queen Victoria in her mannerisms and features—with her straight long hair—tied in a bun; and covered with her ORHNI—the head—veil; with facial attributes that bore a similar shape, with again that stern look; as also her physical feature of not dissimilar to being short and rotund. This description was confirmed by Uncle Ben when last we met a couple of years around 2011) Yes she was my grandmother on the male side of my family. That is how the grandchildren—those children of the sons would call the grandmother. The children of the daughters are meant to call their grandmother ‘NANIE’. If another Indian stranger was passing by and asked… or even overheard a bunch of children playing and some calling her NANIE and others again calling the same person AHGIE, that stranger would soon conclude that they are all related to the same lady as grandchildren; and yet their relatedness differed in that some are the children of the daughter(s). Anyway, our ‘my’ ARGIE—ruled the roost in more ways than one. Small and rotund is how I remember her, brown complexioned, always coughing as a heavy smoker—holding her cigarette between the thumb pointing inwards into the hand; and when she puffed she placed the back of the hand near the thumb to her mouth and sucked hard at the cigarette and pulling the hand when the lung was filled, breaking the vacuum as the back of the hand is pulled from the lips creating the noise of a wind-rush until she stops and holds it—savouring the nicotine kick, with practice at each first pull. I remember my first foray into smoking was not dissimilar; and later changed by following the normal pattern of holding the cigarette between the forefinger and its other immediate companion. Yes, she was a spitting image of the old Queen Victoria.

"AHJAH" is the title by which I always called my grandfather. Again it’s the traditional name of the grandfather. A title for the patriarch on the father side; and is only reserved for the children of sons. Those of daughters would call him NANNA, as my cousins—those children of my aunts. Thinking about him now that I’m over seventy years of age I would say that he was a philanderer’ . . . far worse than my father. He, in fact had another complete family, with whom I always felt an affinity very similar to my own biological relations. They were then to me, no different than my own biological family. And I always enjoyed great affection from them whenever I was on the hill. I also called his other spouse—the mother of the brood’ ARGIE’ without a second thought. At that time in my life it was just the thing to do. Of course there were others whom I called by the same title, as was directed by grown-ups—according to the status of the individual in the community. By that second family my father had two half-brothers, being the two sons RAMPERSAD and RAMDATH both of whom I knew as a young boy of under-five but having lost contact. And only when I arrived in England and met RAMPERSAD again—he was then known as ‘Benny’, way back in 1963. His younger brother’s name, of course is—RAMDATH, who later migrated to the United States where he started his own family.

Being the younger ‘brothers’ . . . albeit ‘half-brothers’ of my father, I would have been obliged to refer to them as ‘uncle’. As a matter of fact I do call the older one ‘uncle’. In those days the smaller—rather the younger of the two ‘RAMDATH’, somehow seemed to resent me going or even being on the ‘hill’. I remember him telling me to ‘go home’—whenever I did or presumed to have done anything that he considered not to his liking. To the mind of a child that was very confusing, although now in my very hopefully—matured age I can fully understand the workings of a child’s mind—I was an intruder on his turf. I knew that I did not like to be told to go home. Whether he said that I was on his territory I cannot remember. What I do remember is that on one occasion he broke a whip. Well… I was on his turf . . . and whether the whip was substantial or not was immaterial; and when I cried out the older brother… ‘RAMPERSAD’ . . . now known as ‘Benny’ came to my rescue; and on other occasions it was his mum—my AHGIE or AHJAH, or any of the sisters—my aunts… all half related; and yet, I never felt the pang associated with ‘intrusion’ from them. And that was genuinely O. K by me. In hindsight, I am now able to look back, and appreciate the threat and anxiety of my presence, he saw in me—another . . . . person entering his comfort zone—a place he considered his preserve. In hindsight I can also see that I intruded on his father. Yet the time I spent with his father my grand—father-my very own AHJAH, must have really riled him up something terrible. On some of those occasions I remember crying out loud—as a child would, when bullied by another with authority—and my AJAH—grandfather scolded him with threats of being strapped with a belt or a whip usually a thin straight twig from the Hibiscus plants, normally one of the flowering shrubs in most front gardens—still in most gardens. They were all very loving to me in-spite of RAMDATH’S opposition.

In the British European cultures a grandparent is a grandparent, who has to be qualified with a statement indicative of the relationship—clarifying their relation—as to whether on the mother or the father’s side. Among the Indian descendants—those who were transported to the Caribbean to work on the sugar cane plantations, who brought along their culture and religion from that far off homeland, stood them in good stead so far away from their comfort zone on that land now far away where sights sounds and smell was then becoming a distant memory soon to be lost. And with their culture came all aspects of relationships that have evolved with built-in safeguards indicative of all biological and communal relatedness. In the single ‘adjective’ the word "AHJAH" or ‘NANNA’, represents a single individual referred to by either the off-spring of the son or daughter.

Both words indicate the title ‘Grandfather’ . . . expressing the completeness of a language honed during the many thousands of years covering the HARAPA/MOHENJO-DARO and finally the advent of the Indo-Europeans—those Aryans whose Genes we carry, mixed with those of the Dravidians—since about eighty to three thousand BCE*.

*The latest scientific testing of DNA shows South Indians as being the first proven to have left the African continent some 80 thousand years earlier. BBC Documentary by MICHAEL WOODS

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CHAPTER 03

THE AFRICAN LEGACY

That landmark of man’s emancipation from himself occurred when slavery itself became abhorrent to be tolerated by the human species. Alas among certain cultures and ethnicities political correctness prevents interference in and among power hungry men to control his kind. However emancipation from slavery in and among the modern world, was long drawn-out and only ended with the arrival of those indentured workers from the Indian subcontinent—among who were my own great grandparents; and all those of Indian origin in the Caribbean and other former British colonies, and including Trinidad where our forebears were brought to replace slave workers. They brought along their entire culture and seeds of their selected flora and cultivated as part of their ancient villages.

As for our African brothers and sisters, very few—only those with a propensity and leaning towards agriculture remained as workers—Paid workers! The status changed although the work, still as ‘back—breaking’—‘unchanged’. Those former slaves, now persons with dignity, no longer beholden to ‘Masters"—that cursed title. Yet his living conditions remained the same. In theory, he understood that ‘No man can force him to do anything that he did not wish to do in the first place’. That which he did was . . . as a bargain struck between two equals. Just the same, the employer was more equal than the employee—the worker—a condition he had to accept. *A recent documentary series on the Kingdoms of Africa . . . the very strong implication hinting towards slavery among the ruling kingdoms was unavoidable. Especially in former kingdom BUGANDA, the male slaves were castrated, while females became the property of those tribal conquerors. Only subsequently Buganda became UGANDA a British Protectorate to halt the spread of Islam from those horsemen of the northern coast of Africa bent on Islamising tribal populations for the end product of cultured slaves for their middles-east countries.

Among those human souls—those working in Households as "Servants" had quickly evolved a schemes of minimal labour for the positions held—be it in the homes or on the field. A means of artfully dodging excessive work during those times of slavery; and perpetuated into the No longer slaves . . . now Servant culture. Those household slaves created lines of demarcation separating household duties—with which any Trotskyite Union Leader of Marxist leanings would have been proud, considering the then status of those hapless people. Intellectually superior, as historical records have demonstrated. In WAR and PEACE TOLSTOI’S peasantry sometimes even after the end of slavery were treated not dissimilar to the farming creatures to which they were considered as very similar; and were no better off than bonded slaves of that era.

So powerful was the IDEA of work schedules within the household, that their ‘unsung heroic deeds’ have remained as part of cultural expressions among the people as monuments of the worst form of human oppressions. Those Duties—indoors and outdoors, held fast as ‘creation’ of rules of ‘superstitious ailments’, which could not be broken. If someone working in ‘MASSA’ house, he could not ‘work outside’ the house for ‘fear’ of catching serious colds and fever! Those refusing would do so even under the pain of being beaten. Some one of those first wave creating the obstruction—demarcations must have had to suffer the indignity of refusing to perform those cursed tasks—under duress, made sure the contrived resulting presumed ailments, are supported by those other hapless slaves, were brought to the attentions of their cursed masters.

The IDEA—"When exposed to heat, and subsequently exposed to ‘wet or damp’ conditions, would lead to—serious ‘heavy fever and pains all over the body’. Therefore those who cooked did only those chores; and those on other household chores stuck to their own duties; and those working with animals and so on—quite a clever ploy.

Deceiving oppressors—One can always try and understand, knowing his likes and dislikes—enables one to manipulate any situation.

For the Masters, emulating the Households of their English counterparts, creating a sense of affluence with all the attendant creature comforts, their egos were boosted. However, their needs were small… as most items of food were available on those estates, ostensibly for feeding slaves, and is now freely available to the former slaves, as incentive to remain as workers and household Servants. Such were the perks as incentives to stay and work, yet very few remained. Anyway the households could only accommodate a very limited number.

Job-wise, those chosen few were lucky, whose children would have been the first to attend schools run by Christian missionaries offering incentives towards becoming clerks and teachers, which must have been a great social status for those sons of slaves, being taught to read and