* * *
—
March 12, 1968. Independence was proclaimed and celebrated at the Champ de Mars, in Port Louis. The oldest racetrack in the Southern Hemisphere, the parade ground of the sugar magnates and their thoroughbred horses, was, for the day, the place where more than a hundred thousand descendants of slaves and coolies saw the Union Jack pulled down and the national flag raised.
Duval called on his supporters to boycott the celebrations by staying home but promised not to organize counterdemonstrations.
No boatload of dhotis sailed into Port Louis Harbour.
We were watching the flag-raising ceremony on our new TV when we heard laughter from the street, followed by hand clapping. I ran to the veranda and looked. The neighbors were out, some grinning, some chuckling, others giggling, quite a few nonplussed and speechless. Walking towards our house was Tonton George, wearing a dhoti! He was smiling and waving at the onlookers, basking in the acclaim of some, daring those who disapproved. His was not your run-of-the-mill dhoti that Gandhi wore to identify with the Indian peasantry. No. Tonton George’s was a red dhoti complemented by a blue blazer. A white rosebud in the lapel of the blazer softened the look. I had never seen, in Mauritius or in the Bombay movies, anyone look so dapper in a dhoti. It was a dhoti worn with aristocratic flair.
A Creole fisherman in a bastion of the Parti Mauricien showing up in the dreaded dhoti. This was a coup de théâtre—panache of the highest order.
Fringant and Kalipa stood in front of Chung Fat’s bar. Were they here to protect their father in case matters turned awry, or to admire his audacity? I asked myself.
I opened the door of the veranda as Tonton George entered the gate.
My father, dressed as usual in his suit and tie, came out and extended his hand. Tonton George did not shake it. Instead, he joined his palms together in front of his chest, fingers pointing up, and uttered the Hindu greeting “Namasté.”
“We must celebrate!” he added.
“Mauritian rum or Scotch whisky?” Papa said as they embraced.
XIII
Reincarnation
1968
The shop opposite the pharmacy
smells of resin and sawdust.
The muscular carpenter
planes, assembles, varnishes
the coffins, which his plump wife
displays with dignity.
As we pass by, Mama asks Papa:
“Do you wish to be buried in a dhoti?”
“I love my suit and tie.
I don’t want to be Gandhi in his loincloth.”
“But you got married in a dhoti.”
“If that’s your wish, dress me in a dhoti.
But place a suit next to me.
If I wake up, I’ll put it on.”
XIV
The Man with the Glass Eye
Never seen in our seaside town,
he knocked on the open tin gate
and walked towards the veranda,
palms joined at his chest.
We put our books aside.
“Daya karo malik, daya karo malik,” he said.
Hindi words I didn’t understand.
He bowed,
handed my father a piece of paper.
It looked official.
“How much will the new eye cost?” Papa said.
“Expensive—two hundred rupees.
More durable, more comfortable.
God will pay you back a thousandfold,
malik.”
He removed his right eye,
a brown marble,
placed it in Papa’s hands.
It threatened to slide through his fingers.
From his coat pocket Papa took out a fifty-rupee note.
Mama walked in.
“The prescription is from Dr. Curé,” Papa said.
“We need to save money
for Vishnu’s education,” she said,
and stared at the stranger’s empty socket.
XV
Six Pounds of Fish
1969
On the morning of my interview with the Scholarship Committee, Papa insisted on accompanying me to the Mahébourg bus terminal, a five-minute walk from home, by the seaside. It was unseasonably gusty and the whistling of the winds through the filao trees on the beach was particularly shrill. Though the previous evening he had coached me through a mock interview, our conversation was punctuated by awkward silences, which had grown more frequent ever since I’d sided against him at the family intervention Papa sneeringly dubbed “the conclave of goons.”
When we reached the terminal, Papa said, “This is an important day. I know you’re disappointed that you didn’t make it to the top two and that your name won’t be inscribed in the Royal College Laureates’ Hall. But you’ve graduated, came out a brilliant fourth, and a Commonwealth Scholarship will be yours after this interview.”
Historically, the top two students in the Arts-and-Humanities track and two in the Science track at the Oxbridge A-levels were automatically awarded scholarships financed by the Government of Mauritius to attend universities of their choice, and the next ten obtained scholarships financed by the Commonwealth to attend universities in the United Kingdom.
“I’m over it now, Papa. Too busy to wallow in disappointment,” I said. A month had elapsed since publication of the results, and I was working as a secondary school teacher.
“That’s the right attitude, Vishnu. Best to let go of unpleasant things of the past.”
For the first time since the conclave, Papa shook my hands. “We should spend more time together.”
I nodded, but it was a weak nod.
Papa strengthened his grip. “You’ll be off to England before you know it.”
The bus driver started the engine.
“Time for you to go. Good luck! All the Bhushans are thinking of you and wish you well.”
As I waved good-bye from my seat, images of the Bhushan clan ran through my mind. A clan that had so far produced two primary school teachers, including my father; a railway stationmaster; one discharged policeman, who found redemption as an industrious sugarcane laborer and success as a planter; a tailor whose activities as a foreign exchange counterfeiter would come to light ten years later when he was caught and sentenced to five years in jail; and a few self-styled “small proprietors.” “Small proprietor”: a fancy phrase for laborers who over time acquired small plots of land to grow sugarcane and vegetables, and who were eager for their children to get an education that would land them white-collar jobs.
* * *
—
When I got off the bus in Port Louis, the salty breeze filled my nostrils with the smell of algae. It was around ten o’clock, and I had about an hour to spare. I had read in the newspapers that the era of the passenger ship was soon to vanish from Mauritius: the Ferdinand de Lesseps, starship of the fabled French shipping line Messageries Maritimes, was anchored in the harbor and was to embark passengers on its last voyage to Marseilles. So I walked to the harbor. Most of the other passengers, preoccupied with tasks to accomplish or errands to run, hurried in other directions, along the bustling streets that led to government or business offices, the bazaar, the hospital, or the Champ de Mars racecourse, at the foot of the hills overlooking the city.
On the way, I silently rehearsed the interview: What did you learn from your extracurricular activities or community service? What is the most pressing problem facing Mauritius? Why do you want to study law and economics? What do you plan to do after you graduate? What are your strengths and weaknesses? What real or fictional person has influenced you most?
When I saw the Ferdinand de Lesseps, I remembered my secondary school teachers telling me how they were both elated and anxious when they b
oarded this ship or its sister ships, the Pierre Loti and the Jean Laborde, how exotic they found the ports of call—Port Said and the Suez Canal—and how sad they felt in Marseilles as they parted company with other young passengers taking the train to different destinations for university study, mostly in the cities and provinces of England and France. I imagined the ships carrying the hopes and dreams of previous generations, and thought of my own dreams of going to Oxford or Cambridge, and my heart swelled.
For a few minutes, I gazed at the vessel’s promenade deck from afar, then proceeded to the Hotel du Gouvernement. A stately plantation-style mansion that faced Port Louis Harbour, it housed the offices of the speaker of Parliament and members of the cabinet. Leading to it was a boulevard lined with flamboyant trees and statues of eighteenth-century French governors of the island. A statue of round-faced, dour Queen Victoria welcomed visitors at the wide entrance. I went through security with surprising ease: the policemen who waved me in were polite, even deferential.
I entered the interview room, ready to be tested.
The Scholarship Committee, comprising seven members, was chaired by a retired senior Member of Parliament, Sir Pralad. He had the reputation of being “un homme cultivé,” the descendant of Indian coolies who had grown into a connoisseur of opera, poetry, and art and who moved with ease in high society. He defied Hindu convention and the hermetically closed Franco-Mauritian community by living with a local white woman who was an accomplished writer.
“Coming home with a foreign wife, that’s easy—every other Mauritian returning from Europe or India with a medical degree is doing it,” Jeewan the barber said of Sir Pralad when I went for my pre-interview haircut. “But a local white mistress, a poet: what a prize! Imagine the pissed-off white men in the sugar estates turning red like a carrot!” The clients in the barbershop concurred.
During a school visit to Parliament a few years earlier, Sir Pralad had impressed me and my classmates. He had presided over the Parliamentary proceedings with gravitas, and so his first question to me was odd:
“Vishnu, where do you live?”
A question for first and second graders, at an interview for a coveted university scholarship. Sir Pralad could read the answer on the second line of the Scholarship application form, but I could ill afford to offend him. I gave him the address in Mahébourg and told him that our house was at a street corner, walking distance from the sea, the District Court, and the bazaar.
“Can you describe your house and its surroundings?” Sir Pralad asked.
I looked at the other members of the committee. Their eyes were blank.
“My parents’ house is located in a neighborhood of fishermen, and the surroundings reflect their economic status. Our house is quite sturdy and built of wood, with four rooms and a veranda, a small yard with mango and papaya trees. Our neighbors’ houses are smaller. Many of them need repairs and a coat of paint.”
I paused for a reaction. There was none.
I continued. “The neighborhood retail shop and bar is very close, about two minutes’ walk from our house. One can see the butter-colored bell tower of the Catholic church.”
Another pause. No reaction.
To give a distinctive flavor to my reply, I said that the previous owner of our house had affixed a nameplate that read city of bombay on the front door, but my father, thinking it was presumptuous to give the name of a large Indian city to his modest house, had removed it.
Sir Pralad nodded his head but said nothing.
None of the intelligent questions I had prepared for came up. Instead he was subjecting me to the humiliation of having to answer such basic stuff! The other committee members were impassive.
The sole foreigner on the committee, the head of the local British Council, finally asked the one relevant question: “Why do you want to study economics and law?” The others half-closed their eyes, as if they wanted to avoid the burden that my answer—any answer—would impose on them.
“Economics and law are useful tools for problem solving in a range of situations. In government, knowledge of these subjects can—”
“You can stop here,” Sir Pralad said. “We’ll let you know our decision in a month, after all candidates have been interviewed.”
At home in the evening, I told Papa what had happened. “They must think your results speak for themselves and there was no need to test you. The interview was mere formality. Let’s wait,” he said.
Two days later, a classmate told me that he’d been selected. He was not among the top ten in the National Scholarship Competition.
“Papa, what’s going on? Decisions were going to be made in a month.”
My father was relaxing in his armchair. He straightened his back, thought for a few seconds, and got up. He put his arm around my shoulders.
“There’s more than one scholarship to be awarded, Vishnu. They can’t ignore the fact that you came in fourth.”
My father’s words were clear. But the tremor in his voice was not convincing.
My rejection letter arrived a month later, and my first impulse was to crush it into a ball. I controlled my anger and showed the letter to my father.
“Those who thought Mauritius was granted independence prematurely by the British were right,” Papa said.
Over the next week, my father voiced to friends and family his view that the way my case was handled was yet another proof that the new rulers of Mauritius were not different from their counterparts in Africa and Asia. “Nepotism and corruption,” he said.
With his meager teacher’s salary, and his savings depleted by the Supreme Court case, he could not finance my university studies.
* * *
—
So when, two months later, in June, I was awarded a French scholarship and was told I would be attending the University of Paris or Nice, the family as well as the clan were happy. The interview at the French embassy was unmemorable: the questions were more intelligent than those asked by Sir Pralad, but they didn’t tax me; they were manageable. To prepare for my trip to France, I read books on etiquette, having heard the French are quite particular about le savoir vivre. (“Wipe your mouth before raising the wine glass to your lips,” one book said. “The sight of food stains on the rim is unpleasant for your dinner companions.”)
I went to pick up my French visa on a sunny afternoon in late August.
“Il y a eu un pépin à propos de votre dossier,” said the young Cultural Attaché with a crew-cut. There had been a bureaucratic foul-up. A serious and unforeseen problem with my file. “Neither Paris nor Nice got your documents.”
“How can that happen?” I asked.
“I don’t have the answer to that question. Only the Ministry would know.”
He offered a consolation prize: Go to the University of Madagascar. An institution that did not have the reputation of a French university. Furthermore, I had read that young Malagasies were grumbling about President Tsiranana’s subservience to France and that a coup d’état was brewing there.
I went to the Ministry and knocked on the door of the top civil servant. His secretary came out and told me that her boss and two other Ministry officials had gone to the Hotel du Gouvernement for a meeting with the minister, a meeting that would last all afternoon. When I told her the purpose of my visit, she took me to another official. “We cannot fix a problem caused by the embassy. We did our paperwork and submitted the file to them for action,” he said.
I walked back to the embassy and related what I was told to the Cultural Attaché. “Monsieur, who or what caused the pépin does not matter to me. I would appreciate your fixing the problem.”
“That’s not within our jurisdiction,” he said. “The Ministry is responsible.”
The sun, now a bright orange, was heading down towards the sea; dusk was approaching. I rushed to the Ministry before the office
s closed, for another try. I asked the secretary who had helped earlier to refer me to a more senior officer. The official she took me to looked up from the stack of papers he was leafing through, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. He was nasty.
“You’ve already got an answer from my colleague. Why are you wasting our time? Only the French embassy can unblock the situation.”
I was upset but didn’t know what to do, where to seek advice. Our town was a fishing town with only one university graduate. Papa reacted the way he always did when he was furious and felt he would lose his temper: he quietly left the house and walked towards the Pointe des Régates beach, facing Grand Port. The sight of the Mouchoir Rouge, an islet half a mile from the beach, with its red-roofed bungalow, always soothed him. Mama got worried when after more than two hours he hadn’t come back.
“Vishnu, you have to go get him.” My mother took my hands in hers and continued, “Beta, you must overcome your anger towards him. The court case is over, and in time Papa and your Auntie will be reconciled. You have to reconcile as well.”
I found him at his usual spot, the foot of the monument commemorating the Battle of Grand Port. “The only naval victory scored by Napoleon’s fleet against the British. Inscribed in the Arc de Triomphe,” he would tell visiting relatives or friends, as if he had won the battle himself.
“I suppose Mama sent you,” he said as he rose. “I needed time to think. We can’t allow all your hard work to go to waste.”
“Who cares?”
“It’s not the time to give up. We’re proud of you.”
“Maybe I should join the Young Communist League. They offer scholarships to the Soviet Union and Czechoslovakia.”
He put his hands on my shoulders and straightened my frame. “Vishnu, tomorrow we are seeing the minister.”
Silent Winds, Dry Seas Page 14
