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Ravindra
CFR
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Posted: Fri Apr 7th, 2006 05:24 am |
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Dear Friends, the following is the 3rd and final part of a virtual journey back to Anna Catherina. Parts 1 and 2 are on this website's homepage here http://www.cornelia-ida.com/Anna%20Catherina.htm
This final part of my virtual journey is one of deep reflection and I hope you enjoy it, although you may not relate to all the details. Cheers Ravi
Anna Catherina: Reflections from Afar© Part 3
The New Migrants
The Anna Catherina south east housing scheme was created out of a pasture in the late fifties/early sixties to accommodate the overflow of displaced CI logie residents. Alas, after working the lands of Cornelia Ida estate, and participating in the growth of a tight knit estate community, there was no land at Cornelia Ida to accommodate all the logie people. The residents of Anna Catherina south east housing scheme, CI’s eternal loss, were to refuge themselves out of this pasture.
The former logie residents set about to forge a different architecture for this housing scheme. It was to be mostly concrete bungalows, as opposed to the wooden houses that were being built by their compatriots at Cornelia Ida. Probably inspired by the houses of supervisory and managerial personnel on the Estates, these were to be trendy new modern concrete bungalows with polished hardwood floors and inside kitchen sinks, amenities foreign to the people at that time. A total of fifteen contracts were signed by George Macey for construction of the concrete bungalows but Macey absconded after partial completion of only three houses. The art of concrete residential construction was not quite developed among the local artisans and soon enough the south east housing scheme only had three concrete bungalows, for people reverted to the common wooden homes.
Churchill to Gandhi
Two of the concrete bungalows greet me as I enter the head of the scheme off the middle walk dam. Aunty Gladys’s house on the south side is a model of good plant husbandry; well laid out bajee beds, laden with chowrai and poi bajee, adorn the front, side and back of the house, for street consumption. Her lone chameli flower plant, wanting for a drink, competes for real estate space and Mr. Gladys’s attention. On the north side next to the temple is the second concrete bungalow in its usual quiet self, for the low keyed brothers Chiney and Japan are ‘busy’ minding their own business. Across the street, the more robust and out-and-about brothers Churchill and Hitler are vociferously engaged in a matter of great urgency which could soon require arbitration and the questionable dispute resolution services of their neighbor Mr. Gandhi.
Mr. Gandhi, a.k.a. Violence, formally recognized as Mr. Harry James, estate laborer, part-time carpenter, part-time Hindi school teacher, local tool lender and negotiator, and proprietor of the famous dunks tree was generous enough to loan his tools to many a people during the initial years of street settlement. Mr. Gandhi also rode his bike to Cornelia Ida to help teach Hindi to young kids at the Temple School and was ably assisted by his partner in life, Aunty Jane, a proficient bhajan singer and goja maker. Perhaps more than anything though, Mr. Gandhi enjoyed his dialogues at The Shop, which was akin to the School of Athens.
The School of Athens
Today, the host of the School of Athens, Uncle Sugrim, a.k.a. Suzie, a.k.a. Diplomat, of strong Socratic disposition from the days of CI Line-Top, is busy preparing for the evening’s session where he will manage court. Against the backdrop of the Russian Bear Bar, amid nostalgic Hindi tunes of well worn 78’s, 33’s and 45’s, off his neatly manicured lawn, and from his newly constructed home made lawn bench, Uncle Sugrim will engage Mr. Gandhi, Mr. Brukup, and Mr. Badrinath a.k.a. Lullabai along with out of town guests Mssrs. Shivmangal Seewah Persaud a.k.a. Bhaijee and Mr. Ghir a.k.a. Kakoo on topics ranging from the virtues of Hinduism to the solution of the country’s political problems. A young extended family member Prem interrupts with an intrusion and Uncle Sugrim is keen to demonstrate his diplomacy in the absence of Violence!
Perched on the back rest of the newly constructed lawn bench with both feet resting on the seat, twelve year old Prem taps away gently with the dull side of his cutlass. Uncle Suzie rises to the tap and approaches almost disinterestedly, “bai, yu nah Prem?” “Yes, Poopah”, says Prem. “Bai yu nah live ovah dey?” “Yes, Poopah” the bemused young man replied. “Bai, when mi ready fu bruk dong dis bench mi go call yu.” Prem, not sure what wrong he could have done, departs quietly to his house next door.
Another interruption comes from around the corner and the elderly Mr. Nakas, severely inebriated, captures the eternal pain of the indentured estate Indian in his wailing. “Mi bai name Nakas and me wuk haad; mi drink and mi happy; mi bai nah gat nobady; mi bai nah gat nobady; when mi bai dead, nobady na go remembah mi…” Nephew Cyril walks over; with one eye on Mr. Nakas’s well gardened domicile, and another on his aged cha cha, Cyril offers some comforting words, “Ow chach mi nah dey hey fu yu?”
The Animal Kingdom and My Bungalow
Cyril’s session is mirrored across the street where Plimpah Hag is being comforted for the mysterious disappearance of her biggest Fowl Cack. The search continues but Mrs. Hag is distraught over her loss for the upcoming Xmas holidays. Neighbour Tiger a.k.a. Labah continues to offer warm words of comfort, “nah worry, di fowl cack mussi just get last fu now.” A cold waar seemed in the making!
As I progress along the Animal Kingdom, I come to the abandoned cross-street just before my concrete bungalow; it is clean as usual. A heavily worn rectangular patch stands out at the head waiting for men to return and play trup chaal or sit and listen to cricket or Tigah’s shelf radio. A well worn track leads to my side gate. Beyond the gate stands my concrete bungalow, small but majestic for the heads that it has sheltered. The wire-mesh fence looks a lot lower than in 1966, when the British soldier, enforcing a curfew of the scheme, had leapt over in one motion to accost my father in his quest to get water from the front tank. The crotons, quite mature beyond the pieces “donated” by the manjah yard’s gardener, have procreated beyond my fence and introduced themselves to the scheme’s residents. The pongramah tree, a provider of many a cool fruit to hot sweaty workers who laid the electricity line for the scheme a long long time ago, sits proudly but alone from the twenty other fruit trees in the backyard.
The golden apple tree stands tall in the centre of the back yard and shelters the cricket pitch which bears its signs of overuse. Here, one time Guyana’s, Surrey’s and England’s cricket player Monty Lynch was initiated into the national passion, learning to face Jahn Snow a.k.a. Ravindra, while ensuring that he kept in his base to avoid being stumped by Keith Prince a.k.a Ping. Here too is the site of the initial experience and excitement that inspired the formation of Anna Catherina lil-boys club with the charismatic Jagnarine Mohan as Captain and Sakand Punch as fast bowler. No flying saucer is visible over the cane field behind my bungalow on this day, but it is minus a few stalks of sugar cane as Bringle and J.J. Slacks jump the fohfoot onto the cross-street and move northwards towards the scheme. At its appointed time, Big-bilah will draw and redraw the same line some kilometer away until 1973.
A healthy plantation of carrion crow bush graces the cross-street’s northern fringe. Black malibunta whiz among brilliant yellow “flowers” and occasionally deviate into Buddy Sunny Bezze’s yard to disturb Sister Shakun from beating clothes at the shed as if she gon kill dem. Beyond the carrion crow, large black sage bushes spread randomly along the decrepit Willie Jodha factory fence to provide ready made tooth brushes for the street community. A lone jumbie bird sits atop Sholo’s saijan tree close to the cross-street. Khemchand and Kakhai, slingshots in hand, are having a spirited debate as to whether this jumbie bird really gat wan jill in hi head.
A call comes from Shunk to Khemchand, “wah happen dey nah swah, come le abbi go walk a sideline side nah?” Khemchand a.k.a. Tellel a.k.a. Bazar, brother of the indomitable Dato, joins Shunk, Bringle, J.J. Slacks, Crappokak, Maaga and Gully towards the sideline journey. A pensive J.J. Slacks gets a negative nod from Gully over the edibility of neighbor Sunny Bezze’s pet turtle. Buddy Anand a.k.a. Buddy Ano joins the Shunk posse despite a stern watch from Kadan Ajee. Aja, sitting over the draft board and manning the cake shop, joins Ajee in a joint warning “Ayu nah go thief none baddi mango now.” Pet Ajee observes in silence.
The Cake Shop and Mobile Vendors
The five long shelves in the cake shop have an overgrown population of dry goods, shak-shaks, rack-an-roll, Chico sweetie and bladdah at this time, in anticipation of some Christmas shopping. After all, the Chee-a-tows do not come anymore with their van to sell goods and Aunty Maary will not take away customers or give away sweetie to children in the scheme! The tired, aching, dust laden exotic items of macaroni and mustard, long past their shelf life, sit in anticipation of ending their misery this Christmas season. A lone bunch of over speckled sweet fig bananas hangs tall from an oversized rope that might have once pulled a punt. The glass case sits atop the moat of four saddin punt, half filled with cooking oil; brave black ants return to their maker as they attempt to get past the moat. Others are drooling over the newly baked, Dayman salara and buns, beyond the spotless glass case.
Down the scheme, Rabi and Ramesh are drooling over their newly acquired blow-blows from mobile vendor Farouk. Farouk’s cart, canopy on top, is dressed for the festive season. Long sheets of multicolored maaroh paper drape the handle and canopy of the rubber wheeled donkey cart. Farouk, dressed as Father Christmas, sits behind the cart jingling the bells from his well worn but spotless long boots as the lil grey-brown donkey trudge on through the Animal Kingdom. A stop is made in front of neighbors, Uncle Kumar, a.k.a. Kownahkam, a.k.a. Watrash and Mr. Buffalo. Uncle Wattie turns up the juke box to match the excitement as children peek in Farouk’s cart to see a toy density not unlike Bookers or Forgaty’s. Small toy soldiers, blow-blows, whistles, cap guns and click-clicks jingle in unison from the makeshift garland along the canopy’s top. Ruby Cha-Chee subtle deliberations over finding something for her girls is quickly put to rest with choices by neighbor and friend, the gregarious Ms. Khatijan; Mrs. Buffalo makes a modest investment in a cap gun for young son Beesham a.k.a. Shittah with the agreement that he will wear pants during the festive season.
The Buffalos and Whites
A look beyond the Buffalos’ “fence” reveals a state of commotion at their bottom house. Aja Bakar is brandishing a shortened well edged twenty-two over the mysterious disappearance of two brooms from his room. The industrious old man journeys weekly to Hague Back Dam to pick up old coconut branches for his broom production. Locked securely behind closed doors, with bedroom window half open, the old man leaves his inventory and makes his way to the Leonora market to peddle his product at twenty five cents a piece. This day, grandson Ramchand Mahase better known as Kakhai, has infiltrated the security system via the gap in the window and the skillful improvisation of a grass knife and long bamboo. A timely visit at the Buffalo gate by neighbor Lily a.k.a. Mrs. Lily White, breaks the tension, as she offers to buy two new brooms from Aja Bakar.
Two doors down from the Buffalos, neighbor Mahadeo, a.k.a. John White is tending to the hibiscus hedge that borders his front fence. The battle scars of working the back dam cane cutting shows on his aged face. The once fair complexion has retreated to hide under his khaki pants and plaid shirt. The coarse hands, strong enough to carry the cane bundle, are gentle in swiping the doubled-edged cutlass back and forth to make the perfectly symmetrical hibiscus arch over the gate. The mathematical precision of the arch is tribute to a talent gone waste because of the injustices of his parents’ financial limitations to provide educational opportunities for a once bright and intelligent young man. The bare feet, strangers in companion of shoes, delicately balance on the edge of the raised peerhah to make the final touches on the arch. A gentle call comes, “Lilly, you cyan use the new broom now fu sweep up the leaf dem. Muss put am a front a Sadhu so his sheep cyan eat am.”
Neighborly and Natural Justice
“Gg-waaa-an Gg-waaa-an,” comes the almost unintelligible call from the scheme’s most visible disenfranchised and handicapped citizen, Sadhu, false-named Pakaakee, as he guides his family’s cows through their narrow gate and over the slanting one meter wide bridge. A low keyed distinct whistle guides the flock of sheep towards the pile of hibiscus cuttings, recently deposited beside the rubbage heap in front of the yard. A count is made to confirm that no sheep fell prey to the estate cow catcher’s antics; today the news is good for Dougla the estate cow catcher has not paraded the sideline dam where the local cows and sheep graze. Sadhu remains with his flock as they are having dinner, when the call comes, “hey Pakaakee yu muss keep yu cow a canah; look how he mess abbi taaga game.”
If neighborly and human justice did not exist at all times to stand up for Sadhu, natural justice prevailed on occasions, like today; Balram stands pondering over the retrieval of his favorite taaga from the recently deposited gobar! Devo, a.k.a. Sakand Punch, ahead in the taaga game, provokes with advice, “wah yu nah pick am up and wash am out a di well pipe” only to get some bad words. Balram’s frustration comes out with another “Pa, Pa, Pa, Pa—Kaaakh” to which Sadhu attempts a feeble defense. Aid finally comes from Aunty Caafee, “a wah ayu a fatigue dah bai fa?”
Pusur Pusur and Ovaltine Cans
Auntys Caafee, Dookhie and Bipti, recently returned from hauling shrimps a sideline, are in the middle of the road chatting away pusur pusur when Ole Man, a.k.a. Graphic, a.k.a Homan Crosbie comes along with “eh, sisee a wah ayu a talk?” Some wild cusses are dished out liberally, along with some name calling that sends Ole Man dashing for cover. Another person is running for a cover, as Shabir runs on command from elder brother Feroze to retrieve the ovaltine can’s missile, projected from the explosion of spit and carbon.
A call comes from Feroze’s mother “Feroze and Shabir?” “Ji?” is the one word unusual but dignified Urdu/Hindi response, as the boys scramble to hide the ovaltine can with its precious twenty five cents of carbon. Scrambling in a hurry is a not a problem for Feroze today as he has always been an active and swift chap. In earlier days, his swiftness and his childhood folly of skulking from school to engage in his favorite pastime of playing bumpah ball had led to some curtailment in the form of an ovaltine can and chain around his ankle. While many were amused, and some indeed sympathetic, the elder Mr. Khan, felt it was in his son’s best interest to padlock the can around his son’s leg and restrain him from running away from school. Today, my childhood friend Feroze explodes the ovaltine can with great joy.
Dholi Chalde Dhulan Sasuraal
The joy of live public singing is on show down the street as Mr. Haniff, a.k.a. Mukesh renders Mahendra Kapoor’s dholi chalde dhulhan sasuraal for his young son Rafeek, a.k.a. Feek. The elder Mr. Haniff eases into his more comfortable zone of Mukesh renditions upon a prompt from Buddy Freddy next door. Mr. Haniff’s Hindi/Urdu diction is exceptional among the scheme’s residents having inherited great knowledge from his father and other elders from the days of living at the logies at Cornelia Ida estate. Young son Feek, a naturally gifted artist, soaks in the tunes in preparation for a mighty Mukah double of Diwana and Awara tonight at Monarch and fends off his sister’s call to play choor next door.
The sisters Kamla, Mona, Tara, Shanta and Gita are in the middle of wrapping up their bun house and nancy stories and want to start a game of choor. Their mother Aunty Pong, sitting on the front step, behind the ranch styled fence, recognizes me and calls out, “how you do baab. You come walk?” “Yes Aunty. How ayu a do? All baddi get big now. Walter get big now and he does always thank you for jumping in the high sideline and save am from drowning. Thank you Aunty.” My feeble attempt to repay a mother of seven, who risked her life to save my brother’s life, is “aright me go call Balchand and Tulsie and abbi go play the game of choor.” Aunty Pong nods in appreciation as she looks at me and then at the sideline next to her home. The sideline is not too high today!
Sweet Chameli and Rubbage Heap
An invitation comes from the Shunk posse who are gathered at the sideline bridge next door. The bearer of the invitation, Khemchand, replaces me on the choor team, much to the dismay of my partners and I head over to the sideline bridge. A healthy accumulation of genip and green mango skins are in the middle of the posse and a warm greeting is extended in the form of tun mango and salt and pepper. The boys are planning an attack on Mrs. Plimpah Hag, where the skins mixed with sweet smelling chameli, hibiscus and carrion crow yellow flowers and a smoky dry coconut shell will be deposited in front of the innocent lady’s gate, with intent to say that one of her neighbors wants to put jumbie pan she.
An over-powering smoky smell from the humongous rubbage heap at the head of the sideline draws my attention and I excuse myself from the Shunk posse, with a promise to return after a stroll on the now dark sideline dam. I stop to have a look at the cricket “pitch” where many battles of bumpah ball were fought between scheme and roadside and which Hameed a.k.a. Bougs had once threatened to faak if he didn’t get game. The jumbie and carrion crow bushes densely cover the mounds of dirt left by the dragline and provide ample hiding spots for gun shooting during this Christmas season. Across the Cornelia Ida sideline, I can see that people are eyeing up the bandin which will be opened at 4 A.M., to the joy of all who will go hauling for hassar, hoorie, yarrow and the occasional alligator! I look further down backdam side by the Dutchman tree but tonight the Dutchman jumbies are resting amidst the fireflies. I proceed towards the rubbage heap, where the Leonora Estate is burning a temporary accumulation of dry clay to make red bricks for local street pavement. A rattling noise followed by “bai wey yu a go?” makes my skin grow and I peek over at the ominous calabash trees amid the coconut plantation of the Fellow Yard to see Daling jumbie is about to attack. Relief comes in the form of Mr. Jadoo’s son Baboo!
Socrates to Plato
The mild mannered Baboo, a once strong and powerfully built young man, hurriedly exits through a jumbie bush off makeshift crutches to greet me. A gentle rub of my head reminds me of the days when he came over to my home and cut my hair as a favor to my father. Today he stands, still strong in upper body, but visibly weakened by skinny legs and major spinal injury. My emotions get the better part of me as I look at him and I glance at the tall coconut trees in Fellow’s Yard; the cruel fall from one of those were to leave this humble man disabled for much of his life. But Baboo’s robustness and cheery attitude lifts my spirits and we head over to watch the rubbage heap. Our dialogues are long and far reaching and before long I conclude that Baboo has made the most of life despite his disability. If Uncle Suzie led the School of Athens as Socrates, then Plato was certainly standing in front of me.
The Pantheon
The School of Athens is in session as I get back near the Shop. A debate is in progress and Bhaijee is making a case about the shortcomings of the English Language: “The Language is incomplete, I say. If one a dem bai ovah dey call out and sey “Uncle come over hay lil bit nah, which one ayu go get up?” Mr. Kakoo nods in agreement but Mr. Brukup says “well all the young man gat fu do is say, which uncle or he cyan say Mr. so and so.” The debate rages on over the subjunctive mood, the split infinitive, passive modals, etc. and Uncle Suzie momentarily eases away and singles me out from the Shunk Posse with the gentlest of nods; I move closer to the elite panel of scholars: uncles Badrinath, Bhaijee Seewah, Brukup, Kakoo and Gandhi. A small lemonade and a salara is presented to me and small talk is made. I ease away back to the posse only to hear Uncle Suzie lauding the value of education, “ayu see dah bai come back from Calgary; dem prapah wok hard and get wan good education.” Mr. Bruckup responds “well mi hear he say dat dem does drive pan ice ovah deh.” “It is not ice, it is snooow!” comes the response from Bhaijee. Mr. Gandhi interrupts “well ice and snow are the same thing; they are just in different forms.” Uncle Suzie adds “well the proper thing to say is that they are in different states.” Mr. Badrinath pitches in “yes, all a dem a watah” and then wonders aloud “a wah kinda song Wattie a play deh?”
Uncle Wattie in a more somber mood tonight has deviated from the regular Mukesh rendition of saawan kaa mahiinaa pawan kare sor for local renditions of oh maninja oh maninja cane a cut and price nah pay a tall and oh my mother you dead and gone brothers and sisters must live as one. Shunk and the posse of Chaparchat Jr. Maaga, Bringle, and Gullie have planted the chameli concoction at Mrs. Plimpah Hag’s gate and are now vigorously protesting on the merits of the Mukesh and the maninja song. An argument breaks out and Mr. Gandhi, a more subdued philosopher tonight, is beckoned over from the Shop to bring resolution to the proceedings, without violence.
The Departure
It is quiet and calm now; silence has regained its empire; the philosophers have retreated to their domicile. Uncle Wattie has toned down his oh my mother you dead and gone rendition and I return from The Shop, well fed in the philosophy and mechanics of diplomacy, logic, and the value of intonation and accentuation as court theatrics. I sit on the bench in front of my concrete bungalow; a lone light burns at the house next door; a young man studies. Soon the cocks will crow and he will retire for another day’s journey to Zeeburg Secondary. Uncle Wattie’s oh my mother tune lingers on and leads me to the head of the scheme, across the middle walk, to make my visit. The legs are lead-heavy now, the palms sweaty and my heart pounding for the poignancy of the moment is upon me as I near my journey’s end. I look far and deep in the burial ground and the smile brings me comfort, eases my heart and gives me strength to go forward. “Be strong my son, travel well for I will always love you.” I look and I smile and I cry for here I walked as a little boy with my mother some three decades ago, only to return to my concrete bungalow without her. Thirty years have gone and Anna Catherina remains a part of me.
The author, D. Ravindra Persaud of http://www.cornelia-ida.com limits commercial reproduction and/or publication of this article unless a donation is made to a charity of his choice. Ravindra is a native of West Demerara and writes from Calgary, Alberta, Canada. He can be reached by email at cornelia@cornelia-ida.com
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tinabansi
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| Joined: | Sun Aug 10th, 2008 |
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| Posts: | 2 |
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Posted: Mon Aug 11th, 2008 03:04 am |
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This is so well written. I, myself did not live on CI, but like growing up in Guyana it sure sounds like fun! Keep it coming!
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Ravindra
CFR
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Posted: Mon Aug 11th, 2008 05:39 am |
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It is a 3 part essay. Here is the link where you can read all 3 parts.
http://www.cornelia-ida.com/Anna%20Catherina.htm
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tinabansi
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| Joined: | Sun Aug 10th, 2008 |
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Posted: Mon Aug 11th, 2008 06:02 am |
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| ok..thnx..I'll check it out.
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