Capturing personal memories is a challenging creative process. The journey into ones’ past is littered with many emotionally charged questions and moments, which need to be carefully considered and selected. I have always worried about the veracity of the memoirs to be considered and collected. And whether I’ll find all the pieces of the jigsaw that will connect the past with my present. At the age of 70 I am becoming more aware of the relentless onward march of the clock, and, with my parents no longer around, I was anxious to exploit the limited time. I had to round up my past with the hope of leaving a lasting and fitting legacy for my children and grandchildren.
For me growing up in the tiny village of Ernest Florent seemed uneventful. When I read the exciting memoirs of other people, my life seemed to be mundane. I had a loving family and there was nothing else that concerned me much. All I was occupied with was moving ahead with the clock in line with what was planned for me by my parents. The past seemed to have been lost somewhere behind me as a sort of irrelevance. As I grew older I started to understand the importance of this past and I started to hunt the evidence of the trail left by my parents and grandparents. When I started to piece the jigsaw no starting point was visible. All I had was the recollections of what my father was told orally by his father.
In 1981 I missed my mother’s funeral and soon after, on a visit home after a very long absence, I desperately wanted to see her grave. My father firmly suggested that the future was all that mattered and dwelling on the past was a waste of time and energy. But something was challenging me. Something that was pushing me to ask searching questions about my past. I was also going through a period of spiritual restlessness. I was born a Hindu, a reluctant one at that. I was inspired by my teachers at the Catholic Primary School and had yearnings to convert. When in England I became a Catholic and married a Buddhist and my journey took another turn: into Buddhism. I was impressed by its focus on personal and spiritual development, and the deep insight into the true nature of life.
So here I was, so late at the crossroads of my life, reappraising my past with new spiritual perspectives. I called this my spiritual ‘bus journey’. Time was thundering ahead and, many, with the sources of my history, were slowing down, forgetting or dying. I needed to backtrack fast. I needed to rewind my life and reconnect with my roots.
Two events strengthened my need to reconnect with the past. I came across CONTACT, a newsletter of local sugar industry Deep River – Beau Champ dated October 1986 in which my father gave an interview that contained significant events in his history. He recalled his work and times and, for me, the content of the interview was spellbinding. Suddenly the fragments of my past, so far invisible and mostly vague, took a defined form. In my hands I was holding his history, factual and real. 40 years later, returning to my birthplace, I was ready to shape my history through the narratives that my parents have been holding on safely for me.
The other event was a visit to India that my eldest brother Kreshan undertook to the birthplace of my grandfather. My brother’s initial research unearthed this only photograph of him.
He was recruited as an indentured labourer in 1883. Born a low caste, and aged 22, he and his younger brother left the village Munjhuria (in the administrative unit of Dhoriapur, City of Gorakhpur, Uttar Pradesh) for a journey abroad. The recruiters in Uttar Pradesh spoke of a land where they would find gold under every stone. Impressed by such plausible stories he ‘signed’ a contract. From Manjhuria he travelled with his younger brother to Calcutta (now Kolkatta) to the depots on the banks of Hooghly River. The indentured labourers were housed in these depots before shipment. They were closely watched to prevent any attempts of escape, and there were many. My grandfather was allocated a ship called Merchantman (Ship Number 1308). He got separated from his brother, who probably was allocated another ship, or another destination. They were never to meet again.
The conditions in these emigration depots were extremely harsh and the same could be said of the ships. The hired ships to transport my grandfather and his band of ‘coolies’ were the very ships that serviced the slave trade. To all intent and purposes slavery continued under different methods to fulfill the greed of the empire builders.
The journey the Calcutta port was about 550 miles long, taking up to 60 days on foot and probably less for the lucky ones travelling by bullock carts. They would be held in the depots for up to two or three months unless a ship was immediately available. Their medical conditions and their ability to undertake strenuous work were assessed at this stage. Due to the filthy conditions in which they were kept outbreaks of dysentery claimed many lives, as did the crowded conditions in the ships.
On 7th March 1883 after a journey of about 6 weeks he arrived at the Aapravasi Ghat, Port Louis, Mauritius. From there he was taken to a depot on 17th March 1883 and then allocated to the De Sornay Sugar Estate in Beau Rivage (near the village of Trou D’eau Douce) where he was employed as a ‘palfrenier’ (horse keeper). This is interesting as most of his peers were allocated the hard and backbreaking work of clearing the lands of heavy volcanic stones in readiness for the planting of sugar cane. The promise of gold under the stones never materialised. My grandfather never had the skills associated with horse keeping but he may have been shrewd enough to persuade his prospective white employer of his abilities.
He spent 31 years in Mauritius and married my grand mother, a widow from an upper caste family. She was ostracised by her family for the rest of her life for marrying a man she fell in love with, and, as a result, she never saw her 2 children again. My grandfather died at the age of 52 during the Spanish flu pandemic when my father was only 5. My grand mother, however, died at the ripe age of 88, a feat, considering the social and health situation of women in the 1950s.
I am very privileged and proud to be associated with what my grandparents stood for and the sacrifices they made. They probably did not realise that their blood and sweat unwittingly contributed to a wider cause. In the UK we talk fondly of our beloved red brick Universities and the Welfare State. We could pause just for a second and think of whether the existence of these glorious institutions would been possible without the sacrifice of these powerless yet courageous individuals.
Coming back to the photograph I can’t help but think of the intense and reflective look on my grandfather’s face. He looks older than his years. His eyes are almost drowning in sadness. Looking in the distance he must be thinking of the unknown journey. A boy from the village, a low caste daring to have dreams and hopes, and wanting to make a success of his life. His face has a faint hope that he would return one day, but in his heart he must have felt the impossibility of this. He, however, exudes determination and a sense of pride and not frightened of the journey ahead. I salute the valiant man.
JOURNEYS 