by Dohra Ahmad
Someone knocks at the front door.
‘Who is it?’ she shouts, still furious.
She leaves the room and Majid flops down on the bed, reflecting that for a long time he’s been neither French nor Arab. He’s the son of immigrants—caught between two cultures, two histories, two languages, and two colours of skin. He’s neither black nor white. He has to invent his own roots, create his own reference points. For the moment, he’s waiting . . . waiting . . . He doesn’t want to have to think about it . . .
(TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY ED EMERY)
JOSEPH BRUCHAC
ELLIS ISLAND
Beyond the red brick of Ellis Island
where the two Slovak children
who became my grandparents
waited the long days of quarantine,
after leaving the sickness,
the old Empires of Europe,
a Circle Line ship slips easily
on its way to the island
of the tall woman, green
as dreams of forests and meadows
waiting for those who’d worked
a thousand years
yet never owned their own.
Like millions of others,
I too come to this island,
nine decades the answerer
of dreams.
Yet only part of my blood loves that memory.
Another voice speaks
of native lands
within this nation.
Lands invaded
when the earth became owned.
Lands of those who followed
the changing Moon,
knowledge of the seasons
in their veins.
DAVID DABYDEEN
COOLIE MOTHER
Jasmattie live in bruk-
Down hut big like Bata shoe box,
Beat clothes, weed yard, chop wood, feed fowl
For this body and that body and every blasted body,
Fetch water, all day fetch water like if the
Whole slow-flowing Canje River God create
Just for she one bucket.
Till she foot bottom crack and she hand cut up
And curse swarm from she mouth like red ants
And she cough blood on the ground but mash it in:
Because Jasmattie heart hard, she mind set hard.
To hustle save she one-one slow penny,
Because one-one dutty make dam cross the Canje
And she son Harilall got to go to school in Georgetown,
Must wear clean starch pants, or they go laugh at he,
Strap leather on he foot, and he must read book,
Learn talk proper, take exam, go to England university,
Not turn out like he rum-sucker chamar dadee.
COOLIE SON (THE TOILET ATTENDANT WRITES HOME)
Taana boy, how you do?
How Shantri stay? And Sukhoo?
Mosquito still a-bite all-you?
Juncha dead true-true?
Mala bruk-foot set?
Food deh foh eat yet?
Englan nice, snow an dem ting,
A land dey say fit for a king,
Iceapple plenty on de tree and bird a-sing—
Is de beginning of what dey call “The Spring.”
And I eating enough for all all-we
And reading book bad-bad.
But is what make Matam wife fall sick
And Sonnel cow suck dry wid tick?
Soon, I go turn lawya or dacta,
But, just now, passage money run out
So I tek lil wuk—
I is a Deputy Sanitary Inspecta,
Big-big office, boy! Tie roun me neck!
Brand new uniform, one big bunch keys!
If Ma can see me now how she go please . . .
SHANI MOOTOO
OUT ON MAIN STREET
1.
Janet and me? We does go Main Street to see pretty pretty sari and bangle, and to eat we belly full a burfi and gulub jamoon, but we doh go too often because, yuh see, is dem sweets self what does give people like we a presupposition for untameable hip and thigh.
Another reason we shy to frequent dere is dat we is watered-down Indians—we ain’t good grade A Indians. We skin brown, is true, but we doh even think ’bout India unless something happen over dere and it come on de news. Mih family remain Hindu ever since mih ancestors leave India behind, but nowadays dey doh believe in praying unless things real bad, because, as mih father always singing, like if is a mantra: “Do good and good will be bestowed unto you.” So he is a veritable saint cause he always doing good by his women friends and dey children. I sure some a dem must be mih half sister and brother, oui!
Mostly, back home, we is kitchen Indians: some kind a Indian food every day, at least once a day, but we doh get cardamom and other fancy spice down dere so de food not spicy like Indian food I eat in restaurants up here. But it have one thing we doh make joke ’bout down dere: we like we meethai and sweetrice too much, and it remain overly authentic, like de day Naana and Naani step off de boat in Port of Spain harbour over a hundred and sixty years ago. Check out dese hips here nah, dey is pure sugar and condensed milk, pure sweetness!
But Janet family different. In de ole days when Canadian missionaries land in Trinidad dey used to make a bee-line straight for Indian from down South. And Janet great grandparents is one a de first South families dat exchange over from Indian to Presbyterian. Dat was a long time ago.
When Janet born, she father, one Mr. John Mahase, insist on asking de Reverend MacDougal from Trace Settlement Church, a leftover from de Canadian Mission, to name de baby girl. De good Reverend choose de name Constance cause dat was his mother name. But de mother a de child, Mrs. Savitri Mahase, wanted to name de child sheself. Ever since Savitri was a lil girl she like de yellow hair, fair skin and pretty pretty clothes Janet and John used to wear in de primary school reader—since she lil she want to change she name from Savitri to Janet but she own father get vex and say how Savitri was his mother name and how she will insult his mother if she gone and change it. So Savitri get she own way once by marrying this fella name John, and she do a encore, by calling she daughter Janet, even doh husband John upset for days at she for insulting de good Reverend by throwing out de name a de Reverend mother.
So dat is how my girlfriend, a darkskin Indian girl with thick black hair (pretty fuh so!) get a name like Janet.
She come from a long line a Presbyterian school teacher, headmaster and headmistress. Savitri still teaching from de same Janet and John reader in a primary school in San Fernando, and John, getting more and more obtuse in his ole age, is headmaster more dan twenty years now in Princes Town Boys’ Presbyterian High School. Everybody back home know dat family good good. Dat is why Janet leave in two twos. Soon as A Level finish she pack up and take off like a jet plane so she could live without people only shoo-shooing behind she bark . . . “But A A! Yuh ain’t hear de goods ’bout John Mahase daughter, gyul? How yuh mean yuh ain’t hear? Is a big thing! Everybody talking ’bout she. Hear dis, nah! Yuh ever see she wear a dress? Yes! Doh look at mih so. Yuh reading mih right!”
Is only recentish I realize Mahase is a Hindu last name. In de ole days every Mahase in de country turn Presbyterian and now de name doh have no association with Hindu or Indian whatsoever. I used to think of it as a Presbyterian Church name until some days ago when we meet a Hindu fella fresh from India name Yogdesh Mahase who never even hear of Presbyterian.
De other day I ask Janet what she know ’bout Divali. She say, “It’s the Hindu festival of lights, isn’t it?” like a line straight out a dictionary. Yuh think she know anything ’bout how lord Rama get himself exile in a forest for fourteen years, and how when it come time for him to go back home his followers light up a
pathway to help him make his way out, and dat is what Divali lights is all about? All Janet know is ’bout going for drive in de country to see light, and she could remember looking forward, around Divali time, to the lil brown paper-bag packages full a burfi and parasad that she father Hindu students used to bring for him.
One time in a Indian restaurant she ask for parasad for dessert. Well! Since den I never go back in dat restaurant, I embarrass fuh so!
I used to think I was a Hindu par excellence until I come up here and see real flesh and blood Indian from India. Up here, I learning ’bout all kind a custom and food and music and clothes dat we never see or hear ’bout in good ole Trinidad. Is de next best thing to going to India, in truth, oui! But Indian store clerk on Main Street doh have no patience with us, specially when we talking English to dem. Yah ask dem a question in English and dey insist on giving de answer in Hindi or Punjabi or Urdu or Gujarati. How I suppose to know de difference even! And den dey look at yuh disdainful disdainful—like yuh disloyal, like yuh is a traitor.
But yuh know, it have one other reason I real reluctant to go Main Street. Yuh see, Janet pretty fuh so! And I doh like de way men does look at she, as if because she wearing jeans and T-shirt and high-heel shoe and make-up and have long hair loose and flying about like she is a walking-talking shampoo ad, dat she easy. And de women always looking at she beady eye, like she loose and going to thief dey man. Dat kind a thing always make me want to put mih arm round she waist like, she is my woman, take yuh eyes off she! and shock de false teeth right out dey mouth. And den is a whole other story when dey see me with mih crew cut and mih blue jeans tuck inside mih jim-boots. Walking next to Janet, who so femme dat she redundant, tend to make me look like a gender dey forget to classify. Before going Main Street I does parade in front de mirror practicing a jiggly-wiggly kind a walk. But if I ain’t walking like a strong-man monkey I doh exactly feel right and I always revert back to mih true colours. De men dem does look at me like if dey is exactly what I need a taste of to cure me good and proper. I could see dey eyes watching Janet and me, dey face growing dark as dey imagining all kind a situation and position. And de women dem embarrass fuh so to watch me in mih eye, like dey fraid I will jump up and try to kiss dem, or make pass at dem. Yuh know, sometimes I wonder if I ain’t mad enough to do it just for a little bacchanal, nah!
Going for a outing with mih Janet on Main Street ain’t easy! If only it wasn’t for burfi and gulub jamoon! If only I had a learned how to cook dem kind a thing before I leave home and come up here to live!
2.
In large deep-orange Sanskrit-style letters, de sign on de saffron-colour awning above de door read “Kush Valley Sweets.” Underneath in smaller red letters it had “Desserts Fit For The Gods.” It was a corner building. The front and side was one big glass wall. Inside was big. Big like a gymnasium. Yuh could see in through de brown tint windows: dark brown plastic chair, and brown table, each one de length of a door, line up stiff and straight in row after row like if is a school room.
Before entering de restaurant I ask Janet to wait one minute outside with me while I rumfle up mih memory, pulling out all de sweet names I know from home, besides burfi and gulub jamoon: meethai, jilebi, sweetrice (but dey call dat kheer up here), and ladhoo. By now, of course, mih mouth watering fuh so! When I feel confident enough dat I wouldn’t make a fool a mih Brown self by asking what dis one name? and what dat one name? we went in de restaurant. In two twos all de spice in de place take a flying leap in our direction and give us one big welcome hug up, tight fuh so! Since den dey take up permanent residence in de jacket I wear dat day!
Mostly it had women customers sitting at de tables, chatting and laughing, eating sweets and sipping masala tea. De only men in de place was de waiters, and all six waiters was men. I figure dat dey was brothers, not too hard to conclude, because all a dem had de same full round chin, round as if de chin stretch tight over a ping-pong ball, and dey had de same big roving eyes. I know better dan to think dey was mere waiters in de employ of a owner who chook up in a office in de back. I sure dat dat was dey own family business, dey stomach proudly preceeding dem and dey shoulders throw back in de confidence of dey ownership.
It ain’t dat I paranoid, yuh understand, but from de moment we enter de fellas dem get over-animated, even armorously agitated, Janet again! All six pair a eyes land up on she, following she every move and body part. Dat in itself is something dat does madden me, oui! but also a kind a irrational envy have a tendency to manifest in me. It was like I didn’t exist. Sometimes it could be a real problem going out with a good-looker, yes! While I ain’t remotely interested in having a squeak of a flirtation with a man, it doh hurt a ego to have a man notice yuh once in a very long while. But with Janet at mih side, I doh have de chance of a penny shave-ice in de hot sun. I tuck mih elbows in as close to mih sides as I could so I wouldn’t look like a strong man next to she, and over to de l-o-n-g glass case jam up with sweets I jiggle and wiggle in mih best imitation a some a dem gay fellas dat I see downtown Vancouver, de ones who more femme dan even Janet. I tell she not to pay de brothers no attention, because if any a dem flirt with she I could start a fight right dere and den. And I didn’t feel to mess up mih crew cut in a fight.
De case had sweets in every nuance of colour in a rainbow. Sweets I never before see and doh know de names of. But dat was alright because I wasn’t going to order dose ones anyway.
Since before we leave home Janet have she mind set on a nice thick syrupy curl a jilebi and a piece a plain burfi so I order dose for she and den I ask de waiter-fella, resplendent with thick thick bright-yellow gold chain and ID bracelet, for a stick a meethai for mihself. I stand up waiting by de glass case for it but de waiter/owner lean up on de back wall behind de counter watching me like he ain’t hear me. So I say loud enough for him, and every body else in de room to hear, “I would like to have one piece a meethai please,” and den he smile and lift up his hands, palms open-out motioning across de vast expanse a glass case, and he say, “Your choice! Whichever you want, Miss.” But he still lean up against de back wall grinning. So I stick mih head out and up like a turtle and say louder, and slowly, “One piece a meethai—dis one!” and I point sharp to de stick a flour mix with ghee, deep fry and den roll up in sugar. He say, “That is koorma, Miss. One piece only?”
Mih voice drop low all by itself. “Oh ho! Yes, one piece. Where I come from we does call dat meethai.” And den I add, but only loud enough for Janet to hear, “And mih name ain’t ‘Miss.’”
He open his palms out and indicate de entire panorama a sweets and he say, “These are all meethai, Miss. Meethai is Sweets. Where are you from?”
I ignore his question and to show him I undaunted, I point to a round pink ball and say, “I’ll have one a dese sugarcakes too please.” He start grinning broad broad like if he half-pitying, half-laughing at dis Indian-in-skin-colour-only, and den he tell me, “That is called chum-chum, Miss.” I snap back at him, “Yeh, well back home we does call dat sugarcake, Mr. Chum-chum.”
At de table Janet say, “You know, Pud [Pud, short for Pudding; is dat she does call me when she feeling close to me, or sorry for me], it’s true that we call that ‘meethai’ back home. Just like how we call ‘siu mai’ ‘tim sam.’ As if ‘dim sum’ is just one little piece a food. What did he call that sweet again?”
“Cultural bastards, Janet, cultural bastards. Dat is what we is. Yuh know, one time a fella from India who living up here call me a bastardized Indian because I didn’t know Hindi. And now look at dis, nah! De thing is: all a we in Trinidad is cultural bastards, Janet, all a we. Toutes bagailles! Chinese people, Black people, White people. Syrian. Lebanese. I looking forward to de day I find out dat place inside me where I am nothing else but Trinidadian, whatever dat could turn out to be.”
I take a bite a de chum-chum, de texture was like grind-up coconut but it had no coconut, not even a hint a coconut taste in it. De thin
g was juicy with sweet rose water oozing out a it. De rose water perfume enter mih nose and get trap in mih cranium. Ah drink two cup a masala tea and a lassi and still de rose water perfume was on mih tongue like if I had a overdosed on Butchart Gardens.
Suddenly de door a de restaurant spring open wide with a strong force and two big burly fellas stumble in, almost rolling over on to de ground. Dey get up, eyes red and slow and dey skin burning pink with booze. Dey straighten up so much to over-compensate for falling forward, dat dey find deyself leaning backward. Everybody stop talking and was watching dem. De guy in front put his hand up to his forehead and take a deep Walter Raleigh bow, bringing de hand down to his waist in a rolling circular movement. Out loud he greet everybody with “Alarm o salay koom.” A part a me wanted to bust out laughing. Another part make mih jaw drop open in disbelief. De calm in de place get rumfle up. De two fellas dem, feeling chupid now because nobody reply to dey greeting, gone up to de counter to Chum-chum trying to make a little conversation with him. De same booze-pink alarm-o-salay-koom-fella say to Chum-chum, “Hey, howaryah?”
Chum-Chum give a lil nod and de fella carry right on, “Are you Sikh?”
Chum-chum brothers converge near de counter, busying dey-selves in de vicinity. Chum-chum look at his brothers kind a quizzical, and he touch his cheek and feel his forehead with de back a his palm. He say, “No, I think I am fine, thank you. But I am sorry if I look sick, Sir.”
De burly fella confuse now, so he try again.
“Where are you from?”
Chum-chum say, “Fiji, Sir.”
“Oh! Fiji, eh! Lotsa palm trees and beautiful women, eh! Is it true that you guys can have more than one wife?”
De exchange make mih blood rise up in a boiling froth. De restaurant suddenly get a gruff quietness ’bout it except for a woman I hear whispering angrily to another woman at de table behind us, “I hate this! I just hate it! I can’t stand to see our men humiliated by them, right in front of us. He should refuse to serve them, he should throw them out. Who on earth do they think they are? The awful fools!” And de friend whisper back, “If he throws them out all of us will suffer in the long run.”