It is in such succulent Californian summer weather, that images of Mauritius comes back to mind to haunt me, like ghosts from a past life. The heat that turns all wild grass yellow, is an exact copy of Colline Monneron, a hill near my ancestral house in Champ de Mars, Port Louis. As i walked up the hill, the embrace of the perennial Mauritian heat right before summer, kicks in. Not too hot not too cold, it has the same format at the Californian heat that i felt just today. Mauritius remains close to my ventricular muscles. From time to time, memory snapshots (like photos taken but forgotten) resurface in my mind. I see things that psychically i might have thought were lost to me, willfully expunged, but no they are 'right there' staring at me like ghosts from a distant past. I was at his feet in Port Louis, when a sudden gust of wind blew outside, and he told me, "the winds of change have blown Son, they have spoken, you are not meant to stay here anymore". "Me ! not stay here anymore, how can that possibly be Sir, i have a job, a wife, kids, how can i possibly not stay here anymore". Little did i (Bacchus) know that in a few years all would totally change. The great transformation. I would be gone forever. All that remains of my island are now memories of a time, past. A virtual Mauritius of the mind. Palo alto, California: i am now walking with them, and i am back from my usual Mauritian daydreaming, back on ground zero. It is a bastion of the rich. I am beginning to feel out-of-place. I do not belong to such a place where the air is not affordable and it felt hollow, devoid of hope. The teacher was standing right at the junction of University Avenue, and Murphy. He was collecting anything he could get his hands on for the poor latin girl from his school in Redwood City. She was a immigrant from Mexico...been in a serious accident...parents lost all...no money to pay. I arose from my depressed state, smiled at him, shook his hand, thanked him, and walked away all smile. The summer heat behind me. There is hope ahead, in Ka-li-for-nia.
Short Two
The downfall of the Gujadhur family goes back on one incident at La Rue La Poudriere in Port Louis that has survived the trappings of time. Mr Bisssoundoyal was the arch ennemy of the Oligarchic Gujadhur family. He had during one of his electioneering gathering/s talked about the deep rooted closeness of the family and the white colonialists of Mauritius. In my mind i picture this as a sunday morning, when my grandfather, his elder sons, and brothers would be outside sipping tea, eating 'di pain sardine'. Then Jawa raised hell. That Bissoun has been saying this and that about this and that. Fire was breathed in their hearts. They all went aflame. Reason lost. They cornered him at La Rue la Poudriere. Jawa gave the first blows then followed by the rest of the pack. It must have been strange to see several giants amongst man crushing a small gandhi-like personality. Ackbar did not lift a finger. He had a change of heart the second the hitting started. He sorely regretted being there. He wished to sit down caress Bissoun (unconscious in a ditch), pick him up, apologize, and cry. Like a malevolent wind, the gang pulled him away. At home, that night, Ackbar, had a dream, a long white haired man calling himself Arjuna, looked in his eyes and said, "you have raped dharma, nothing will last here".
Short 3
On the South-Western coast of Mauritius, lies Le Morne Brabant. It is said that during the early days of colonization, the runaway 'marons' laid their base in this then very dense forest of Le Morne. They stood on top of the mountain and looked towards Africa musing about the lost land, the sufferings caused by this sudden 'deracinement', uprooting. These were the early days of the birth of the "ravane-maravane" a disc-like cover that played the tam tam. Then again there were no other ways to express the deep sorrows, the exile, the alienation, the scars. Then when they were chased by the colons anxious to recover their 'floating' valued assets, our blood brothers, the 'marons', jumped over from the hill of Le Morne to their deaths 200 feet below. These were the first suicides of Mauritius. Suicide may not be the right word here. It is not like some suicide committed in a rich apartment in downtown Manhattan.
This was a liberation, the only true way they knew how to get back home across the Indian Ocean, across Madagascar.
Short 4
The best memories are the Saturday morning walks around Port Louis with my father. Setting out early, when Port Louis is asleep, except for the allure of Montagne Signaux, with looks scarred by the winding roads, but still keeping an identity that only time can erase. Human development has left its indelible imprint on Port Louis. It is seen everywhere we turn, as we set out. Colline Monneron behind, Signaux on our left and Citadel on our right. We were truly spoilt. Like sperm in the vagina, we are constantly surrounded in Port louis everywhere by these high slopes, protecting us against the winds of despair, and comforting our souls. We walk casually on Eugene Laurent, and pick up pace by La Rue l`eglise, with its cobble pavements that remind me (for strange reasons) of French colonial times. La Place Cathedrale, another vestige of France, opens up after Rue L`eglise, like a breath of cool air. Many coffins have left through this giant door of L`eglise cathedrale, onto this equally mesmerizing square. Whoever designed it that way, had made a genuine attempt to make this new journey easier for the souls (according to him) needed an open space to pounce skywards. Then we went deeper on crossing Desforges Street, now named SSR road, but who calls it SSR road anyway. This is his little shortcut to Wellington, and is a walk that leads us both to the Bank of Mauritius and Roger Faydherbe offices. The working place of his two brothers, Muna and Damodar. When queried about the reason/s behind this little symbolic circle of his around the buildings, he looks at me, and answers, "i do love these two very dearly, as i walk around i am tying their destinities to mine". This statement of his never left mind. A tying of destinies during a morning walk.
Short 5
The day he died
His family was at breakfast in Port Louis
He had a stent put in but knew from the language he spoke a day earlier,
during a family visit,
That death was stalking him. Death was imminent
Accidentally, in a flash, he had spelt out, 'i am sorry to you all', to everyone`s consternation. "Ki to probleme Beta, pas tracasser tout pou correct -What`s your problem Son, Don`t worry all will be fine", said his Father. All is fine. All will be fine.
The next day, alone in this decrepid room in L`hopital du Nord, filled with the stench of dettol and death, he suddenly lost control of his self and left.
Abolqasem ferdowsi, comes to mind: He raised us from the dust and scattered us in the winds.
Short 6
I start my write up on this day, absentmindedly without any real reason. I am sitting at home these days, in Port Louis without a care for the world. I spend my days, waiting for the races next Saturday, and on the actual Saturday bet my fistful of dollars, creating a small moment of happiness, in my life, otherwise, filled with death. Who am i? I am Diwa G. Let me introduce you to my small world. Being a nobody dear reader, i cannot promise that i will be up to the mark. You will find many mistakes, many parts where i would leave untouched, unfinished, parts where i will get bored telling things that surprisingly don`t even hurt me. So as i said, i now spend my days lazing around in the verandah room, looking at the TV, drinking super sweet chai that my old mother (She`s 75) makes for me. She cooks for me too, and drags her feet as she walks. She did finally get a stroke some years ago (i can`t even the date remember darn me), but till this day she is still the same mother, the same tolerant one despite all the shit i have exploded. She still sees me as this young boy...the young promising Diwa ! The light in the eyes of the great Gujadhur clan. Now i am a dark piece of dead wood, on my death bed. Waiting and writing. The story of Diwa G
There is one memory of my childhood what will tell you what really happened to me. How did i take the dark road to destruction ? Why do i now lie on the bed, waiting for death? At 7, i was a crown prince at home, and when playing around with 10 of my cousins, i was never the one who committed any crime. My father, a broad, moustached Bihari, a true image of a pathan. Heavy, pot bellied and with a temper like the regular cyclonic events that pass near or on Mauritius from January - March and flatten us from time to time, was not programmed to see me being bullied, to see me commit a mistake. The problem was always the other. When stealing Narendra`s toy one fine morning and dissecting it absentmindedly just for the fun, he turned violent, and caused a trabadour at home. Father came and like a pillar, pushed him away, without a bother in the world to know the why and the what. He was my shield. A perfectly blind one. Poor Narendra was slapped and kicked by him. Justice, Gujadhur style.
Diwa G
Short 7
I returned from Cambridge with a diploma in Environment and Development. I knew nothing much about environment nor development. I was an automatic polluter, in every sense of the word. Then went on to join Sigma, a structural engineering company in Port Louis, Church Street. Again, nothing in me was structural nor did i have anything to do with engineering. How i wish i had done a simple civil engineering degree, so that i got to exist as someone in the eyes of the society with the magic word engineer behind his name. Hi meet my son Rattan, a civil beep structural beep mechanical engineer. Nope i had to go and spoil everything by doing philosophy. Could i not have called myself a philosophical engineer for a change. I was young, immature (let us not be candid about it). Church street was the only strong point of going to this darn place every morning. I do not mean lazily because it was stone`s throw from my home, but i talk in terms of the aesthetics of la rie leglize. It was living, breathing history. La Place Cathedral on one end and Champ de Mars at the other. Here you go, God and nature on both sides what else could one possibly desire. The old bricks and colonial houses were a delight. Many times i would walk across frolicking the old walls. I think a Ghanty family lived on this road, and College Bhujoharry too was right there. Peddlars selling the best and more cholesterol rich du pain frire. They were buildings make for a different time, with a alternative vision. How lost they look in front of the new 'feelingless' structures (constructed by the same Company i worked for) that spranged like new bodies emerging from the ashes of the old. I would sometimes hear the dying whispers from these old pieces of Art, let us not die, we are doomed to die. Technically they were impractical in a so-called practical world. Yet there is one thing i reminiscence about during those days, that to date, refuses to leave my mind. The madness of Mr Harel. Harel was one of the directors at the company. His character was right off the French colonial period. He was reputed for his explosive anger. So the talk at the company was 'hey make sure you stayed in his good books'. Mr Harel got pissed off at the drop of a hat. So, the talk again, 'hey make sure you were nice to him'. To me here was a man who i am sure had a secret wish to go back in time to the days of Mahe de Labourdonnais, and the so-called founders of the Isle de France. He (according to me) dreamt at night of a time when the black folks (us) would be the happy slaves at the harbor, and the good old whites will be walking around with whips in one hands and their pretty ladies on the other. And all will be in perfect fucking balance. No i exagerate a bit here, but Harel was a bigot right off from the old books. And i had to confront him. I would knowingly go and ask him innocent questions, contradict him on spot, and stand in front of him to admire the spectacle of our man turning red, white, yellow at the sametime. Almost like the traffic light at la Rue Pope Henessy changing colors depending on its varied moods. Well it did not take very long for me to get kicked out for non-performance at work (Jokes apart !). I was a lot of Cambridge hot air but no practical use at all to the company. I would love to go out with the surveyor team, and whilst they busted their asses working, i would survey the beauty of the our unique Mauritian environment. I was lost in a strange wholesome way, to that thing called 'responsibility', almost begging to get kicked out everywhere i worked. The panic of having to leave the insipid sheltered life of Cambridge to move into a most disgusting, colonial racist company where the non-whites seemed to live in a state of trepidations (Fanon !) was a nightmare. Oh how i wish i had read Che in those days.
Short 8
Dinkar
On the fateful day, Dinkar awoke 15 minutes before the game. In a subconscious frenzy of having lost something precious, he got up, and in a breeze picked up the following sequentially: his shorts, his t-shirt, his shoes and socks. At the same time, he stole a moment and to made himself a quick cup of coffee, and munch on a biscuit marie. He has never ever managed to get up early for the game at Belle Vue Maurel. The game would have started by the time he rolled his engine and sped out of the garage. Belle Vue Maurel was about 45 minutes north of Quatre Bornes, and it was almost like a revengeful pleasure to be speeding on l`autoroute on a Saturday and reach his destination, which on weekdays would have been a gargantuan 2 hours. This morning he felt liberated in a strange boyish way as he pulled the window down, air splashing his hair all around, desi music roaring on Radio FM, rushing to his destin. It was always the same routine when he reached the field. The match was in full blow, and he managed, in his own bullish way, to push himself in the game without second thought. But to hell with balance, as this was his time, his game. The ‘losing’ of onself was thorough and complete. The rough language, "passe moi boule la ta gogot, pilon" - pass me the ball you fucking dick. The drama of falling down pushed by an opponent, the sheer exhaustion, was heavenly to him. He felt this urge to lose himself like this at least once a week. When for family or other reasons he could not make it to the game, then something did not seem to have clicked during that week. That is the urge that pulled him out of bed in a jerk, on that very fateful day. He did not think about daughter, son, or wife, as he sped off.
By 9.45 a.m, he had played for two blissful hours. At regular intervals during the game, he felt a pinch-like pain in the chest, which owing the fun he was having during the game, was quickly filed as a result of ‘point’, as it was known in creole. Point - A concentration of pain in certain parts of the body resulting from extreme tiredness, especially felt during a soccer game. “Ah mo pe gagne point Asraf’ - Oh I have point Ashraf. Ashraf gave Dinkar a two second notice and then was back on the ball. “Ta prend ene ti break” - Hey take a small break. Talking to Ashraf in this condition was pointless. His focus was the passion of the game. So Dinkar took a break, and threw himself on the sideline. The pain (point) suddenly spread to his left arm and the next minute he had lost the ability to shout, talk, and call for help. A shroud-like pain enveloped him. The small pain now felt like an arrow hitting his chest. He laid on his back, on the sideline, whilst the game went on next to him, in rapid very succession. The ball pulsing back and forth from one side to the other. Shouts: “passe boule”, “mo la mo la’, “ To aveugle Ashraf”? - Pass the ball. I am here, I am here. Are you blind Ashraf ?. Those cries resounded from afar in his ear, and the next minute he was deaf, blind, and could not talk. He saw Kamini`s face, as he got drenched in sweat, piss and faeces. His father Jawa, Sapna and Rahul`s face also flashed in his imagination, followed by a wave of an unimaginable sort of sadness. A sadness of leaving something undone, having failed an exam, being left out alone, seeing everyone promoted to the next round. The pain had overwhelmed him. After the sadness, came an unfathomable schizophrenic fear. A fear that forced the utterance of these words, ‘mo pe aller” “mon aller’ - I am now leaving. I now leave. Few seconds after this deluge, a sudden easing of the pain. The fear dissipated, the ‘point’ had dissappeared. Free of all burdens, he was forever gone. Two eyes hovered over his body. The corpse had now laid on the sideline for at least half an hour before someone noted its the very abnormal posture. It did not look like Dinkar was simply resting on the side. The corpse no more on his back, had its limbed curved in strange stances owing to the pain., almost like Shiva`s dance of death. “Hey Dinkar ki to problem” said Mohamed as he strolled to the corpse - Hey Dinkar what is the problem?. The game was on but was now slowly coming to an automatic end after almost three hours of non-stop action. The heat was becoming stifling and adding to everyone`s lethargy. Mohamed had raised the alarm, and now killed the game in one desolate shout, “E zot Dinkar pas bien”- Hey guys Dinkar`s not well. The corpse was encircled in an instant. Someone proposed to take him to l`hopital du nord. Another had his pulse taken, without much success as it was to be expected. But no one dared say he was gone, “Line tombe inconscient ta”- He must have fallen unconscious. A splash of water on its face did not give the much awaited startled awakening. Ashraf now felt a shiver in his right hand. He felt a uncontrollable feeling that something unspeakable, mysterious, cruel had stolen away his friend. In a moment, a flash, it had come and picked up Dinkar from them. He thought of Kamini, Rahul and Sapna, and that made him breathless. He did not give any advice, did not make any suggestions. He was oblivious to all around him. In the van, as the corpse`s head laid on his knees, he somehow knew what had happened. A flash. Did not Dinkar tell him about the ‘small’ attack he had several months ago at Champ de Mars whilst driving home? He had to stop the car, and call home. Few days later he was pulled by the collar by Kamini to South Africa, where the Dr Mckibbin had spotted a ventricular defect. A word of caution and a tacit agreement was made to avoid any game that might result to sudden ups downs, as if the doctors had avoide to say the word soccer, “Couma mone capave laisse li jouer’ ? - How could I have let him play?.
He was now a simple observateur. He was now two eyes and no body. His mind was eye and had an uncanny ability to focus…overheard all the murmurs of all that had surrounded the corpse, even the most passagere. The things people say just to look like they have contributed something, like the words, “give him some water”, when he was unconscious, did not have a pulse, and was clearly dead. Two eyes and vision this is all that now existed. Seem to have been given the gift, the chance of just being there. Just looking. The gift of focusing down to the two ants near the corpse, seeing the impulse as the antennae touched. The surrounding grass and shrubs could be dissected by the eye. The pores in the grass, dissected by the eye if he desired. Like a magnifying glass without feelings. Could not cry, could not talk, could only see. The eyes lost interest in watching the corpse, it now followed the 2x2 van to the hospital. It was there to ‘receive’ relatives when they came and some fell on their knees, hands to their faces, on being told he was gone. He followed his mother who was brought to the darkly lit corridor and was showed the corpse almost with great callousness by the nurse. She was being watch by an unknown, invisible entity of nature, her lost son. She broke down step by step. He saw how her limbs weakened, how her stomach turned. He felt nothing still and after an hour focusing and defocusing on the chaos, he left. He had lost interest in the corpse and the relatives whose faces he did recognize. The chaos had died down. Time had come to put a structure to this disaster. Few men were busy planning the transportation of the corpse to the van. He joined in, like a transparent butterfly. When he reached a gate, there was a huge crowd of people with gasping mouths and blank expressions. He ‘walked’, all over and was pulled towards Kamini, who was surrounded by a number of ladies in the living room. Room was made in the middle, as they awaited the corpse. Pictures of Niagara falls and El Capitan at Yosemite, had been covered with a white chadar. He approached Kamini. He focused on a mole on her right cheek. Her black eyebrows that seem to meet in the middle. Her black silky like hair. He wanted to have hands, a heart, feelings. Eyes was pouring out rivers of tears, that went unnoticed. He violently threw on Kamini, entered a corner of her heart and camped there. He totally refused to come out !. He fixed himself on a single point in her heart. Did not want to come out. If I cannot feel her, I will stay in her, seemed to be communicating the eye.
Outside all hell had broken loose. The corpse had finally come home. It had left Quatre Bornes this morning, an athletic machine, and came home almost 6 hours later, a corpse. Similar to the carcasses of goats they sold at Plaine Verte. Of no actual worth to life. They is why the eye had been repelled by the corpse. The body was now carried to the living room by the full soccer team, laid down on a white sheet, then covered with the greatest of compassion with one of saffron color. Body covered, showing only the head. All this time, followed by the incredulous wailing of women all around. Kamini lost in space carrying the eye in her heart sat motionless, unconscious with eyes opened. A chapter of her life had ended.
Short 9
Poste de La Fayette and Ton Roger
One of the things to avoid at all costs is to fall in grass emotionalism as you recount a time passed, a time lost. On NPR this morning they talked about Flaubert (his birthday today) and his journey in search of that one authentic way to say the most trivial things, like 'please open the door'. He roamed Europe and the Middle East in search of material and the one way to say, 'give me a glass of water'. O Lord allow me to proceed, i do not wish to massacre art.
Well glimpses continues, as we move to the east coast of Mauritius. Poste de la Fayette. As i sit in a living room, thousands of miles away, i close my eyes and see a stretch of coast about 10 miles long, occasional rock outcrops reaching out to sea like fingers outstretched to touch the icing on a cake. As a boy, i would spend hours roaming around this area alike to a stray dog, dirty and without morals. Then Ma brought me back to reality, calling, 'R Kana tayar hai' - 'R food is ready'. I would pick a rock, throw it out at sea. Dig out a crab out of his hole, and admire the panic of it having been discovered. Walk miles away to the monument where a small group of SMF men had died trying to land at Poste de La Fayette. Why would anyone in their right sense of mind try landing on a coast that always entertains the greatest swells, the most daring winds, the worst landing strips on the whole island? What a waste of young lives ! Anyway, let us move on? I`ll go back after lunch and start the build-up of illusory engineerings canals on the beach, channel water here and there, and dig abnormally huge holes (Freudian !). Then it happened one day, and this memory refuses to get deleted from the hardware. One saturday morning, in my periods of ecstasy on the beach, as i roamed around like a mad dog looking for cheap thrills, like bashing a crab with a piece of bagel-like little rock, and the other silence-of-the-lambs type experiments, i came across Ton Roger. Ton lived in the servants quarters with his wife Tante Olga and their kids, Clovis and the others whose names escape me. "Ki ou pe faire la jeune homme'. "Vin ici mo ava montrer ou bon kitchose'. I went with a fascination in my eyes, who was this black sage wearing shorts with open top out here in nowhere land. Ton was slim athletic but at the same time, he had true knowledge of this whole coast. Whilst he seemed to be able to talk to the sea, here i was infinitely fooling around, using the coast as a stage for my incessant mischiefs. He had a smile that instantly dispelled all fear. Ton was the Ocean on a good day, refusing to get angry, refusing to displease. He took me over over his arms and put me on the beach next to him. In his hand a black harpoon and a casier. Casier: Basket like labyrinth that is deposited at strategic parts on the ocean floor. As the fish entered in looking for a quick bite, they got stuck inside. A most humane way to bring out a kill. Compare this to what i have seen at other parts of La Fayette, where some would throw dynamites on the corals to 'fish' out the goods. Ton describes the science of the casier, in a patois with a sweet rhythm, 'apres ou tourne sa comme sa ek apres'. Twenty years later the creole he spoke to me on a deserted beach of Poste de la Fayette still rings in my ears. What happens to words, where do they go ? I stood their and listened to a master of the sea, the black Socrates, someone with 30 years of fishing at Poste de La Fayette recount his numerous exploits. The generosity that flowed from him was addictive. His wife Olga was the maid at our Bungalow. They both seemed to have been stuck in time, the descendants of slaves from Mozambique who seemed resigned to their fate (serve till death). I had often wondered during those days what would happen of them. Do they not worry about their kids? University, career, marriage, love? Did they worry about Clovis and the others, as they slept at night. I visited him one day in the hut. They all crammed in a one room tiny hut, chickens and goats running outside, but we lived in a 7 room bungalow that stayed empty all year around.
Even my tiny little immature head at that time, told me in whispers, that Mauritius was far from the paradise all the tourist magazines babbled about. All the pictures of smooth sunny beaches were a deep lie, a conspiracy to keep the world asleep. Behind the castles of Poste de la Fayette lie many other Tante Olgas and Ton Rogers.
