Above us the sky clouded. The nimbus were purple, swollen with rain. I was full, too. From all directions women sang kajari songs, songs pleading for their lovers to return to them, to save them from wasting away in anguish during the monsoons.
barsan lage
saiya gaile bides
bole lautbe saawan mein
kali badariya
dardwa na jagao
Rain begins to fall,
my love is gone abroad,
said he’d return come Sawan.
Black cloud,
do not wake this pain.
Aji used to sing these same kinds of songs. I wondered how many monsoons it had been since my family had returned to this balm, this cradle of song and peacock calls. Come the month of Sawan, the koyal bird begins her mourning. How those left behind must have called out for those who left. And when they didn’t return, how they must have smashed their empty clay vessels on the ground.
Did these very fields, flooded with rain, collect her songs and nourish the rice in her anguish?
We reached the village in Patranga. The walls of the house were low, made of dried mud and straw. The roof was thatched.
Prem called out into the house. “Gita-bhabhi! Aa jao, come see who has returned.” He grabbed for my shoulder and pushed me in front of him. A woman came out in a pink ghagra choli.
“Eh, Prem,” she greeted him without a smile. “Who has come?” Her eyes narrowed as they looked me up and down. She tightened her eyebrows and tilted her head.
“This is your son, come home after all of these years,” Prem beamed in Awadhi. “His name is Rajiv.” Gita-bhabhi looked me over again. The lines in her face looked like some strange language. I looked to see if her eyes were like mine. Her skin was fairer than I imagined it would be from living in this house and working outside—which I assumed she did. Her eyes betrayed nothing. We stood watching each other.
Prem continued in Awadhi, “American to see if you … from a long time ago with the British to Guiana … Brahmin …” Gita-bhabhi grunted in understanding every time Prem asked, “Samjhe? Get it? This Awadhi that they were speaking was too deep, too different for me to follow. As far as I knew, my grandparents all spoke Bhojpuri; this was an alarming twist to my story.
Prem looked at me. “I am going to go back to my shop, you stay here and Ashok-bhaiya is coming back just now.” He snapped his bike into gear off of its kickstand. Ashok-bhaiya was Gita-bhabhi’s husband. He was able to speak English, Hindi, Awadhi, and Bhojpuri. He was coming home from work to speak with me.
Prem drove off in a cloud of dust; Gita-bhabhi and I stared at each other wide-eyed. She motioned, “Come inside. Have some water … must … exhausted,” she spoke through her veil. We walked into the mud house and into the outdoor courtyard. It was a large square with a well pump in the middle. There were trees with wispy leaves in the center, a pile of stainless steel dishes piled up by the pipes, and a clothesline from one side to the other. Along the perimeter of the courtyard were rooms, four altogether, which opened out to this central hub of activity. The roof hung over the sides and provided shade in front of each room. The ground was cool. We sat down in the shade, I on a cot and she on the ground. Gita-bhabhi placed the glass in my hand and raised her palm and gestured for me to wait.
A man about my age ran into the courtyard. He wore a lungi and a polo shirt. Sweat dripped from his forehead. He looked at Gita-bhabhi. “Eh, Ma, is it true? Has he come back?” he asked, looking around until our eyes met. He ran up to me. I stood up. He threw his arms around my neck and kissed both of my cheeks. We introduced ourselves. No wife. Him neither. His name was Prashant and he had rushed back from a chai stand where he was hanging out with his friends.
“Do you know how we are related, Prashant?” I asked.
“We have to wait for papa to come to tell us exactly how we are connected.” His Hindi was like liquid. He sat next to me on the cot looking at my face and curling his lips into a smile. His facial hair had just started coming in and he kept a moustache—typical of young men in their early twenties. He placed his hand on my knee. I didn’t know exactly how to feel—my heart lurched as he continued to look at me. His mother watched us and smiled.
“You have another brother,” she said to her son. I didn’t ask how long we’d have to wait for Ashok-bhaiya to return from wherever he was. I wanted to sit in the shade of this home and to hear the wind against the thatched roof. The sound of footsteps and laughter. This mud, this courtyard must have heard so many songs. There was a knock at the door. Prashant rose to answer it.
“Yadav-sahib, you’ve come. Did you bring the wire?” Prashant’s friend had been asked to work out some issues he was having with his CD player. I was struck by the name Yadav. It was the name that came from Yadu—my mythological ancestor. An Ahir like my father.
Gita-bhabhi didn’t let him in. “He’s an Ahir?” I asked Prashant. To which Prashant answered, “Neech hai voh. He’s a low caste, a neech—he can’t come inside.” His Hindi was a dagger. Neech. It could also mean “lowlife” or “scum.” If they had known just exactly who I was, I doubt I even would have been allowed in the village. I had come so far to be here. I had lied. Any gain was ill-begotten. I was a mixed-caste bastard.
Into the village house walked a middle-aged man dressed in slacks and a dress shirt. His appearance was neat, his clothes looked well colored, unlike the clothes that hung from the line. He rushed up to me. “I’ve come quickly from work because I heard that you had come.” His English was flawless. “When did you arrive?”
I looked at my watch. It had been about an hour. “I just came, only,” I replied, approximating Indian English. I looked at my feet and picked at the skin on my thumb.
“Welcome!” He rushed to embrace me. I reached down to touch his feet—I was home, after all. He let me touch his foot and then my heart. It was a gesture of putting someone above myself. It was my submitting to his accounting of a familial history.
Ashok-bhaiya grabbed my shoulder, squeezed it and motioned for me to sit on the cot. Gita-bhabhi and Prashant looked on at us. Prashant’s teeth were straight and white. Gita’s nose ring looked like a little flower adorning her face in gold. The earth of the courtyard was gold. The sun sneaking through the paddy fields and into this mehfil, this gathering, was gold.
Ashok worked as a teacher in a school in Patranga, teaching English and math.
“So you’ve come here to learn about your family, no?” he asked, wiping the dust from his glasses.
“Yes. I am living in Varanasi for the year.”
“Ahh—Varanasi is a very good place. Your mother-father know you have come here?” he asked, crossing his legs and leaning in.
“Well—” I stammered. I hadn’t told my mother and father that I was going to search North Indian villages to find our kin. They had heard so many things about India—some good, most terrible. Their memories had been colonized into believing India was the backward cradle of plague.
“This is your nanihal, the place of your mother’s father. I am so glad that you have returned. We have waited a long time to hear from you.”
I was shocked that they even knew anything about me—that we existed in the United States.
He continued, “Your nana came here in the nineteen-fourties, yes? He bought a house in Allahabad and lived there with his family.”
I nodded, dumbstruck. My Nana had indeed returned to live in Allahabad in the late 1940s—or was it the early 1950s? He sold all his things in Guyana and moved his then nine children to India. My Mausi had stories in which monkeys stole the roti from their rooftops when they were in the kitchen. But my grandfather was second generation: the first to be born in Guyana—what did he really know of living in India?
“He was a pandit, a learned man who studied the Ramayan and knew Bhojpuri, Awadhi, Sanskrit, and English,” Ashok continued. I nodded excitedly.
“He also played the sitar and was an excellent musician.”
These
words echoed. This wasn’t in any family stories. Maybe my Nana had played the hand cymbals, the manjira, during puja, but he certainly didn’t play the sitar. I replied, “Actually, he didn’t play the sitar.”
Ashok-bhaiya furrowed his eyebrows. “Yes, he did. He gave great concerts in Allahabad and Varanasi.”
My stomach sank. I had just eaten a stone. What did he mean? This was no longer my story. Up until this point the stories had aligned to create harmony. Now, this dissonance. I had come all this way—no, I thought, there is a mistake. I chimed up, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, your Nana moved here from Georgetown. Hang on, I have a picture of him I will show you.” He got up and disappeared into the bedroom’s shadows. When he emerged moments later, he clutched a picture that faded into sepia tones. He placed it in my hands. I looked at the image and then at my face reflected in the glass. The picture was a man sitting cross-legged holding a sitar. He wore a pagri, a turban. This was not my Nana. He had neither my Nana’s dashing face with his chiseled jaw and almond eyes, nor his broad shoulders. What a waste. I had come so far, and for what?
“This is not my Nana,” I choked. Tears began to cloud my eyes. I couldn’t see nor could I think. Now what? Whose house was I in?
“Yes, it is,” Ashok-bhaiya insisted. “We are your family. Your mother is from Georgetown, so was your Nana from here. This is your home.”
I looked around. This meant that there was someone else whose family had crossed the Kalapani, bound by a contract of indentured servitude from the same zila that my Parnana had come. They lived in Georgetown. “Do you keep in touch with them today?” I asked.
“Yes, let me show you.” He returned to his bedroom and came back with an envelope with a name written on the front with an address. The name was Hema Mahraj. I didn’t know anyone by this name. I hung my head.
“This is not my rishtedaar—not anyone I am related to or know.” My voice trailed off.
“Yes it is. We are your family,” Ashok-bhaiya insisted, looking at me and curling his lips in a smile. “You should come and spend some time with us. Maybe even work the fields that you belong to. We have a rice crop to harvest. How long are you in Varanasi for?”
“I am here for at least another two months.”
“Come back and spend at least two months with us. We will do your janeo, your sacred thread, and you can begin learning the Vedas—I know someone who can teach you.” He looked over at Prashant. “Prashant would love it, too, to have a brother in the home.”
I looked at Prashant and then at Gita-bhabhi. Their eyes reflected sunlight. I could see my silhouette in Prashant’s eyes.
“Yes,” I replied. “I will come back soon, but probably not for another year and a half. I have to return and finish my studies before I can afford to come back this far.”
“That’s a good idea,” Ashok-bhaiya said. His face looked nothing like my Mamu’s.
“That makes excellent sense. You will stay at least for a couple nights, now, though,” he insisted.
“Well, I have to catch the last train to Barabanki this afternoon at five o’clock so I can be back in Varanasi before it’s too late. I have to be back to school tomorrow. It’s Monday and I am writing my thesis.” The truth was I could have stayed a couple of days if I had wanted to. My professors would have understood.
Prashant looked at me with wide eyes. Ashok-bhaiya looked at him and then at me. “Actually, there’s a bus that goes directly from here to Allahabad that you can catch. It’s better than taking the train because if one arrives late to the station you will miss your connection. Better to take less of a risk.” He was being helpful. I couldn’t tell if he was hurt that I wasn’t going to stay at least one night. I promised I would return, though. “Prashant will take you on his bike.”
We passed another hour talking about my mother and father. He sent gifts with me: a silk dupatta for my mother and a cotton gamcha for my father.
I touched Ashok-bhaiya’s feet and said namaste to Gita-bhabhi. She asked me to bring gold from America when I returned. I climbed on the back of Prashant’s motorcycle and held his waist. We zipped past acres and acres of rice fields where women worked with their mothers and daughters, draped in colorful cloth. I could hear a woman’s voice clearly as we stopped at an intersection. She was singing a song that begged her lover not to leave. I wondered about my great grandfather. Had anyone begged him not to leave? Did he meet this man, whose descendants I had just met, from Patranga in the shipyard at Kolkata or in Guyana? Surely they must have known of each other, coming from the same fields. Somewhere in all of this green was a village once called Patgana where I was from. Somewhere in time it slept, its women sang songs that welcomed men back from afar. Its courtyards witnessed the greatest of joys.
When the bus came, I boarded. I gave Prashant a hug. I would never see him again. He begged me to come back. He didn’t even really know who I was. Would he have begged me if he knew that I was a neech, lower than the Yadav who wasn’t allowed in his house? I turned to look at him. Prashant fell to my feet and touched them. From the bus window I watched him slowly disappear as we moved along, the bus creaking rhythm as it bounced over potholes and stones.
Ganga Water
MY TIME IN India was ending and I still had so many questions. There were stories that I wanted to learn, more songs I wanted to record and sing. I had spent the rest of my time since returning from Patranga collecting as many Bhojpuri songs as I could about the Ramayana.
I went to Assi Ghat’s pilgrims, to the local folk singers like Pintu Rai and Hiralal Yadav. I sat at the feet of the Dalit cook Shamma-Mayi who prepared food for the students and teachers at the University of Wisconsin program house. Everywhere I went there was song. Anytime I heard music I withdrew a blank cassette and the recorder I kept in my bag. I wanted to recount the ballads in the ways in which folks retold them. These unlettered people were keepers of vast poetic knowledge. Their morning prayers streaked the sky red as the sun rose daily over the Ganga ghat.
The story of Ram and Sita, of Lakshman and Hanuman, of Dasharatha and Ravan, had so many iterations. There were specific parts of the story that my Aji told and sang about that only exist in Bhojpuri songs by women. I wanted to somehow connect the songs my Aji sang in my own living room in Florida to those in Varanasi.
As the story goes, the evil queen Kaikeyi asks King Dasharath for two boons that he had promised her. I was interested in this Kaikeyi and whether or not she was really evil. Wasn’t she just fulfilling her duty? If she hadn’t asked for the boons, would the Ramayana ever have been written? In the folk songs, King Dasharath is ill—his finger is infected from a splinter. He sends for his favorite queen, who comes and tends to his wound. The king is so pleased in his fever that he promises to fulfill two wishes for the queen. Kaikeyi is more interested in her husband’s health and says that she will make them later. It is later that she asks for Ram, the king’s first son, to be exiled.
On one of the last mornings, I turned in a 179-page thesis with an appendix of songs I’d collected. I titled it Bhojpuriya Lok-Git Mein Ramayan—The Ramayan in Bhojpuri Folksong: The Colloquial Interpretation of the Ramayan Narrative in Varanasi. The title in academese was suggested to me by the program director. I wanted to title it something more exciting like Exile / Banbas.
Assi Ghat was a hum of activity. Vendors selling marigolds, neem sticks, gutka, and chai pleased their pilgrim customers. Mae, Jegga, and I met here for the best chai on the ghats.
“I’m drawn to the Ramayan story because it speaks to how my family has been separated from our stories and culture because of colonization. Sometimes I think of the demon as being all the bad things that face me,” I said to Mae and Jegga. “Like if Ravan were homophobia or racism—demons to be defeated by the brave. Sometimes I imagine the story is about standing up to fear—like a David and Goliath story about empowering people.”
“Yes, Rajiw, it’s interesting, but also it’s too bad how the Ramayan is used agai
nst Dalits and Muslims as though Ram’s return to Ayodhya brought joy.” Mae took a sip of her chai as we sat on the steps of Assi Ghat looking at the river. It was true—the Ramayana was used by religious conservatives to justify caste-based dharma: that the rightness of a person’s actions was dependent on caste identity. In this way people were trapped in their statuses, which they could never really change, despite the Indian constitution’s provisions for Dalit people. The Ramayana traded in caste identity: it could never be unproblematically liberating.
“Not to mention the Babri Masjid,” Jegga said.
“Yes—true. Ram janambhumi—the whole idea is just ridiculous,” I said. “These RSS-BJP assholes want to say that the Babri Masjid was on the birth-ground of Ram. Give me a break.” The Babri Masjid was believed to be built in 1528 by Mir Baqi to honor the Mughal emperor Babur. This Ayodhya dispute was the cause of the 1992 riots across the country in a right-wing nationalist fever that threatened to burn India to the ground. Mobs of Hindus hunted and hacked Muslims to death.
The geopolitics of India could not be neatly separated from the contemporary practice of Hinduism. For me, the practice of Hinduism in the Caribbean—particularly in my family—felt anti-colonial and radical. It meant not venerating a white, British, blond-haired blue-eyed murti of Jesus. It meant honoring my name, Mohabir, as complicated as it was.
I laughed. “I mean look at the Ganga. It’s filthy with human waste and dead animals. Also the ashes of everyone being cremated on Manikarnika Ghat and also Harishchandra Ghat. No wonder the dolphins are blind.”
“Damn, that’s harsh. Isn’t your Aji named after the river?” Jegga asked. She was right. I couldn’t explain my cognitive dissonance. I loved the river as I reviled it.
Mae, Jegga, and I finished our chai and smashed the red clay cups on the stone steps. The river was low today as it bore the ashes of countless people off into the sea and into the next world.
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