It was customarily for the yard to be filled with sugarcane leaves, grass, few bullock carts, yokes, plough, sickle, gunny bags, the bemused eyed cattle who were looked after with a sense of reverence, and the hens and roosters whose crowing we woke up to. Scarred with the sounds of bullets piercing through the corrugated iron wall partitions, and mended with the love of grandparents, my childhood memories often prowl about the curtilage of our ancestral home – in search of the same warmth and shelter that had received my ancestors with open arms.
My great-great-grandfathers were planters. Their sons followed in their conventional footsteps. Call it their misfortune or fortune, but this is what qualified them to sow their seeds into the furrows of a foreign land, which is now our homeland.
The officials then were notorious for distorting names and for taking least interest in knowing anything more than the fact that people coming from India were coolies or indentured labourers. After slavery was abolished in Mauritius in 1835, it was illegal to call labourers bound by a forced contract, slaves. So, my great-great grandfather’s first name was recorded as Bhojpuri.
I assume that when he was asked to give his first name, my great-great grandfather may have tried to make the officials understand that he speaks only Bhojpuri. On hearing him repeat the word ‘Bhojpuri’ they may have noted down his first name as Bhojpuri. And then the officials may have asked for his surname. And I assume he may have uttered ‘Bhojpuri’ again, struggling to comprehend their thick accent and perhaps out of sheer nervousness on witnessing their impatience.
And so, his name was registered as Bhojpuri Bhojpuri. I feel relieved that it wasn’t treated as pitiably as the registered name of someone I know. His family name Ramphul was registered as Rumfool! So, Bhojpuri became our family name and today, the 6th generation in my family continues to use it.
My great grandfather had first stepped foot on this soil in the year 1865 along with his father, mother and one sister. They had left behind their small settlement near Patna (state of Bihar), which was then a part of Bengal Presidency of British India, and boarded ship Clara, perhaps unaware that their first sea journey would last for over a month and that they will never get to see their home again.
I have heard that many labourers who were considered unfit for the job or fell ill in their lured or forced voyage, were thrown overboard. Thus, I can only assume that our ancestors were happy about finally stepping foot on land and climbing the historical 14 steps in Aapravasi Ghat on the bay of Trou Fanfaron, in the capital of Port-Louis.
The Aapravasi Ghat prevails as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, perceived as a manifestation of the greatest migrations in history and resonates the sacrifices, cultural values, hope and faith of our ancestors. As per records, between 1834 and 1920, almost half a million indentured labourers arrived from India at Aapravasi Ghat either to work in Mauritius or be transferred to Reunion Island, Australia, southern and eastern Africa or the Caribbean.
The photographs of the early migrants and their guarded portraits come alive the moment you set your eyes on them. It seems like their eyes have transcended fear and sadness and are filled with gratitude for their daily bread. Their expression reveals a sense of pride they felt in their surrender and acceptance. The group photos usually depict all of them standing close to each other dressed in their Indian attire, staring at the camera lenses, unpretentious, without a frown or smile, feeling secure and content about wearing their identity and yet be willing to take orders from the colonial bosses. I am the 4th generation of this Indian diaspora, whose identity and history in the country of their origin, Mother India as we call her, is almost forgotten.
The Indian labourers had relentlessly worked on the sugarcane plantations and continued to dream of a better future, which they had hoped would flourish in their homeland, India – when their colonial owners keep their promises and pay for their journey back home. The contracts had bound them for a minimum of five years. But the success in sugar experiments and boom in the economy motivated the colonial power to preserve the labourers for as long as they could and for as minimal wages as they could. This is the story of all of our ancestors who made ‘the great experiment’ of the British a success story and bequeathed us our identity.
My great grandfather grew up as a village boy in a sugar camp at Mont Choix in Piton and had four sons. My grandfather, Khesari Bhojpuri, joined him when he was four years old and through his life worked on the plantations. My grandfather had one son and two daughters. My father was the youngest. He and my aunts were all equally responsible for a good sugarcane harvest and to carry forward the lineage. It is the generation after theirs’, which could risk thinking beyond plantations, demand justice and fight for it, in a Mauritius that became free from the British Colonial Rule and came to be known as the Republic of Mauritius in 1968.
Two years before my birth year, the diplomatic relations between Mauritius and India were established after India was declared an independent Nation in 1948. Around this time in Mauritius, new hope and desire for freedom had become one line of thought while the other was to explore and establish a new and strong identity for themselves. The new generation was almost looked upon at like a reward for all the sacrifices and endurance of the older generations.
The first Prime Minister of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, had broadcast a message for all non-resident Indians across the globe, urging them to accept the land that their ancestors had stepped foot on, and strive to become true citizens of the country that unified them as one diaspora and to remain loyal to the government and people of their homeland.
Mauritius was now home to a grand assemblage of diverse groups of people that had their ancestral roots in at least five to six different states of the new Republic of India. However, the sugar dipped and fertile soil of Mauritius was birthed by a mindset that was free from political divides of culture and language and identified themselves as sons of the same soil, Bharat Mata. Majority of the early immigrants spoke Bhojpuri; yes, our surname, Bhojpuri, is actually a language widely spoken in the state of Bihar.
“What is your mother tongue? How many languages does a Mauritian speak in? Which language is widely spoken in Mauritius?” It is not uncommon to find someone bewildered with such questions. A Mauritian is bound to be trilingual, if not a polyglot, a common qualification of a Mauritian who had the opportunity to complete school education.
Most of us in villages had grown up speaking Bhojpuri fluently, regardless of whether it was their mother tongue or not and then we would also speak in Hindi. There were others who apart from Bhojpuri and Hindi, also spoke in their mother tongue which could be Tamil, Telugu, Marathi or Urdu. For non-Indians, it could be Mandarin or Arabic.
After independence, Mauritius remained a member of the Commonwealth of Nations and a member of the organisation of French-speaking countries, La Francophonie. Thus, English and French remained the primary languages taught in schools along with other options of learning any ancestral languages, including Sanskrit and also French-based Creole, a widely spoken language across the island of Mauritius.
I remember our village being a small peaceful potpourri of cultures, which included five Muslim families amongst the majority who were Hindus from Bihar and South India. We also had a Chinese shopkeeper. Our village had only four shops and out of this, one was owned by the Chinese. Being the only Chinese in a village populated by people of Indian origin had worked rather well for him until 1962 when China had declared a war on India.
The Sino-Indian war as it is politically referred to, galvanised the patriotic spirit in people of Indian origin. They took to the streets in support of India, attacked the shop owned by the Chinese and forced the shopkeeper to leave the village for good. Seeing his shop reduce to ashes appeased the angry crowd and things returned to normal soon after.
After marriage, my parents had come to live with my maternal grandfather, Bishnu Patna. I remember that the roof of our house was made of sugarcane leaves and the floor was covered with cow dung. The village of 600 to 700 people was filled with such similar straw houses, but our property was one of the biggest, located at Royal Road in a village called Poudre d’Or Hamlet. It’s not just the road name, it’s also the name of the village, which meant golden powder that had added a certain amount of richness and colour to our address, I’d like to think so!
In his time and in his village, my grandfather was the most sought-after man who had more than a hundred people working as planters under his command. He was an overseer and a rather powerful man in the village. People had addressed him as Pradhan, meaning President or called him Sirdar, referring to him as a leader worthy of being followed.
My grandfather’s yard was camouflaged during celebrations with colours, savouries, idols, flowers, and large gatherings of people dressed in colourful Indian attires who came together to celebrate festivals like Holi, Ramlila, or even week-long festivals like Baharya Pooja. I don’t think these festivals were celebrated merely to mimic the ancestors or pacify their souls. The people truly believed in the stories and wanted it to leave an impact on their children. Else the celebration of Holi would have stopped with throwing colours on each other. But it always ended with the burning of the effigy of the lady demon, signifying the victory of good over evil and the power of devotion of a true devotee.
We had also celebrated Maha Shivratree in all its grandeur by covering a distance of 40 km on foot to Ganga Talao, considered as Lake of Ganga, the most sacred place for Hindus in Mauritius. Apart from this, we also had our daily rituals that were followed with much devotion. Almost every day at around 6 PM, I used to accompany my parents and cousins to the Kalimaye temple to light the earthen lamp and pray to Goddess Kali.
There were occasions when sacrifices of goat and buffalo were made to Kalimaye. It is believed that those days, devotees yearned for sons. Thankfully, my generation thinks differently. Kalimaye and her avatars continue to be the main deities of our villages. But no life is sacrificed and all we ask for is that she blesses us with courage and inner strength.
Initially, the idols were resurrected by the early immigrants in the form of eight stones, representing the eight avatars of the Goddess, installed around a tree or a common site where the villagers could come together to offer prayer and offerings. Over the years, the prayers culminated in temples of various deities, in Ganga Talao which was earlier known as the Grand Basin, in pilgrimages to the holy crater lake, in official holidays for labourers to celebrate festivals, and in the mild fragrances, tastes and colours of Mother India.
The British had not created a fuss about conversion and faith (unlike the Dutch and French), which gave people the freedom to follow the culture, speak the language and dress up as their ancestors. My name, Devesha, or my Mother’s name Sivanya, or that of Kalimaye … it is all Indian but with a French accent, unlike the British influence on Indian names in India. But the essence is intact…same as that which exists in Ram and Rama, Bharat and Bharata, or Ravan and Ravana in North and South India.
The main season for sugarcane harvest was from June to December. It was rare for anyone to get an off during this peak season. Women were never far-behind in daily agricultural chores, so it was common to see both men and women work in the fields, at times accompanied by their young children. Women were often seen with a sickle, busy fetching grass for the cattle and walking down the narrow lanes carrying loads of grass on their head.
I was told that I was born during the harvest season. My grandfather was adamant about visiting a Pundit who would decide my name as per the age-old Hindu tradition of ‘Naam Sanskar’ or naming ceremony. Things taken into consideration by the Pundit were the birth star or nakshatra of the child, the planetary positions at the time of birth, the moon sign and at times the family deity. It was believed that a name carefully chosen by the Pundit would further fortify the positives in me and bring good luck.
By now, the village had temples that were looked after by Pundits or Hindu Priests. The Pundits were expected to be well versed with Sanskrit shlokas, and Vedic rituals. After carefully making my birth-chart, the Pundit gave me my names. Yes … names! He decided that I should be given two names, one after Lord Indra who was known as the King of Gods, Devesh, and the other name that of the Sun, Pusha. This is how Devesha, became my official name, and for my family, I was always Dev.
The rather grand ceremony took place at my grandfather’s property. Food and drinks were served to all attendees and at least half the village had attended this ceremony. This wasn’t all. I am told that when I had turned four, my grandfather’s courtyard was yet again filled with cheer because of me. The entire village was invited to be a part of another grand ceremony called ‘Mundan Sanskar’ – a ceremony in which my head was shaved for the first time and my hair was offered to the Gods. It is believed this helped get rid of any evil eye.
This was followed by another religious ceremony known as ‘Rambahjun’ – a celebration of Ramayana, chanting songs in praise of Lord Ramana and reciting Ramayan. It was a night-long celebration and villagers longed for such enchantments and gaiety that got them a little closer to Mother India.
It wasn’t just the ceremonies and occasions that got me my grandfather’s attention and affection. From what I remember, he had actually enjoyed my company or maybe it was just because I was not just the first grandchild, I was indeed lucky, a boy! He would take me along with him everywhere. I especially remember the weekend visits when he and I visited the natives in Ferney Sugar factory and the Ramaswamy family in the sugar estate of Reunion.
I looked forward to boarding the train, our main mode of commute. Our village, Poudre d’Or Hamlet was famous for its railway station, which attracted people from the neighbouring villages who took the train to travel to other cities. The same train was also used to transport sugar to Pout Louis, the central point from where it was shipped to the United Kingdom. Apart from the railway station, it was the post office, civil status office and the primary school that also attracted people from neighbouring villages.
My grandfather had also frequented Port-Louis Racecourse, also known as Champ De Mars. Apart from witnessing the theatrics of the racecourse, he at times had also indulged in it and had bet on the horses. Later he would buy wooden toy horses for me as a reward for sitting through the race like a good companion. I was so enthralled by the wooden toy that I rarely complained about the wait. I would carry them back, eager to show it to the other kids.
Then came the special weekends, a chance to meet my cousins and indulge in some mouth-watering dishes like sardines and prawns. Whilst my grandfather got busy visiting the liquor shops, and eating and drinking with the relatives, I would enjoy visiting their places, playing with the cousins and relishing the special dishes. My grandfather’s cousin owned a shop known as Le Maison, which was located right opposite the railway station. Conveniently located, it had become a meeting place for my grandfather and his brother.
The same La Maison shop was later bought over by my father and was converted into a small guest house. Today, it stands as one of the Bed & Breakfast options. It is one of our properties with a history that has witnessed the good old days of indefinite changes.
My younger brother was born when I was two and a half years old. A couple of years later, my sister was born, followed by two more brothers. A total of four boys and one girl, all born with a rather meticulously calculated gap of two and a half years. My mother was considered very fortunate and this made my maternal grandfather very proud!
My mother’s second sister, Gowrisha, had left her husband due to the constant quarrels. She had also come to stay with my grandfather along with her two children. My grandfather’s place could comfortably accommodate all of us. Our house did not have concrete or wooden walls and was made and partitioned with corrugated iron sheets. But the space was massive and each room had its privacy. I was around six years old then and my younger brother, Rama, was around three and had needed mother’s attention most of the time. Thus, I used to sleep with my father in the storeroom – surrounded by many tomatoes.
My father had a big plantation of tomatoes, potatoes and other vegetables. Every week, on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays we had to send tons of tomatoes to the main market in Port Louis. This had kept my father and mother, on their toes the previous nights as they worked hard to fill up as many baskets as they could with the best quality tomatoes. They had to be up again by 4 am when the transport vehicles would stop by our place to collect the stock.
One night, the sorting and packing of tomatoes went on until after midnight. The exhaustion had taken over my parents and that night I insisted that mom sleeps with us in the storeroom. At around 2 am we heard loud sounds of bullets piercing the iron sheets. At first, we stayed put in absolute shock. The shooting must have gone on for not more than 5 minutes. It seemed like an eternity with the racing heartbeats. When it had stopped, my mother screamed but the uninterrupted sounds and echoes of the bullets had deafened us and I could only see my mother panic and scream but not actually hear her.
By now, Rama was in tears and was held on to tightly by my mother. My father had asked me to back off as he had decided to open the door and step out to assess the situation. Slowly, I could feel the sweat dripping down my forehead and hear my heavy breathing sound. I turned back to look at mother and could now hear her cry. We then heard screams coming from the main house. My father had left the door open, suggesting us to step out.
When we had stepped out, we noticed hundreds of bullet holes on the iron sheet of my parent’s room, which is where mom would have slept with baby Rama. By now, my grandfather, aunt, cousins, everyone was out in the yard, chattering and crying. Except for my grandfather and father. They knew who was behind all this. The tension and frustration were visible on their faces. My mother hugged me and said that I am very lucky. Both she and Rama were given a second life. Had she slept in her room like she usually did, it was unlikely that either of them would have survived these many gunshots.
Within a couple of hours, at sunrise, the police from Piton Police Station had visited our house to inspect the house and ask questions. They spoke to each and every family member who was present on the premises that night. I remember that they spoke to me with kindness and concern and at the end of it all, took down the statement from my parents, sympathized with them, and even after collecting enough evidence on who the culprit was, they did not arrest him. The culprit was only acting as per my aunt, Gowrisha’s husbands’ orders. Ever since my aunt had left him, the rivalry between him and my father, between their family and ours, had only elevated and he was hell-bent on destroying my father.
After committing a flagrant violation of the law, we had thought that Gowrisha’s husband will not risk coming under police scanner the second time around. So, we went about our regular routine. A month later, that which our family valued the most, was set on fire. The storehouse that had kept us safe during the shootout was now enveloped in smoke and ashes. The roof made of sugarcane leaves and all the vegetables that were stocked over it were completely burned.
The goods were worth thousands of rupees and we could do nothing to save them. My father had made up his mind to move out and spare the family the harassment. My parents had thought that not living with my grandfather in the same property may bring an end to the jealousy. My grandfather had supported their decision and had gifted a piece of land to my parents to build a house. It was built to be one of the finest houses in the village – a colonial-style structure with wooden flooring, 4 bedrooms, big veranda, saloon and kitchen.
The fact that my parents had worked hard all their life to support the family was clearly overlooked by the haters. They had hired goons to attack our new abode, throw stones and break our glass windows. My parents were finally forced to take the decision of leaving Poudre d’Or Hamlet and move back to Piton, my father’s hometown, which was just about 3 km away. The same contractor was commissioned to dismantle our house and rebuild it in Piton. The house still stood as one of the finest houses in the village but nothing else was familiar. None of the people I was so used to seeing day in and day out was around. At six, I did not understand the difference between 3 km and 10 km. What I had known then is that someone is out there trying to kill my parents and that the only way I could ensure their survival was by giving up on all that I had loved dearly, the place of birth, my friends, relative and cousins.
That feeling of separation never really left me. Even today, we continue to follow the age-old Indian tradition of observing Pitru Paksha, “the fortnight of the ancestors” in this month of Shradh, and together chant Om Shanti Shanti Shantih as we offer prayers and blessings to those who have passed on. That feeling of separation that almost feels like death, that look in the eyes of all our ancestors which was well captured and framed many many years ago, it all seems to invoke this sense of gratitude for all that was endured, for all that was passed down and for all that we and the generations to come will continue to receive in the form of blessings.
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color. – Separation, W.S.Merwin
Note de moi: As per the Vishnu Purana, those who, with faith, offer prayers for their ancestors, make the whole world content. Thus during Pitru Paksha (2020 dates 2nd to 17th Sep) Siddha Yogis choose to dedicate their svadhyaya and prayers to ancestors and some perform charitable works, donate food/money or plant trees. It is basically a practice to honour and offer gratitude to all those who have come before us and have left us a legacy of their wisdom. Yogis use this auspicious time to reflect on the bond and love that exists among all living beings. It is an opportune time to realise the Self that is present in each one of us. I had penned down this chapter for Mr.Utchana (diplomat from Mauritius). It was only after meeting him did I get to know (in detail) about the struggle of their ancestors, the indentured labourers of 1800s when India was under the British Raj. I had penned a rather brief story to summarize their arrival in Mauritius and how their children carried forward their legacy and continue to celebrate all things that were dear to their ancestors (all things Indian), with much grandeur and faith. Thought this is a good time to share this, as Indians around the globe observe Pitru Paksha for these 16 days.
All the images used here are from the Aapravasi Ghat Trust collection.
Disclaimer: “all persons fictitious”
Puja Sharma 