Sometime in the middle of last night, I found Elizabeth, Calvin and myself sleeping in the right wing bedroom of Hollywoods in Arkonam. The dream was so atmospheric that I could feel it in every fibre of my being. I could smell the dark night, hear the rumble of a train in the distance, feel the coziness of the room as the fan twirled overhead, taste the custard apples on the rustling trees just outside those windows and, most important of all, open my eyes just enough to see shadows of the furniture around the room. So content was I that I could feel the glow of the dream and longed for it to continue! As the reader should know, dreams have a tendency to come to an abrupt end and mine was no exception. Long after the visions had faded away from the drowsiness of sleep, I kept closing my eyes tighter than usual hoping to get a glimpse and feel of such nostalgic magic at least once more for the night. And therein lies the irony: in trying to fall asleep to replicate the dream of a moment ago, I stayed awake and ‘dreamt’ of a bedroom I shared with my grandmother for the last four years of my life in sleepy but wonderful AJJ.
And as I dreamt, faces and moments came to life. It was in that very room that Norman and Agnes White told a curious eight-year-old that babies were sent by Jesus from heaven. It was in that very room that I began a lifelong love for reading: in fact, last year when I visited the JFK assassination site, did I remember the Warren Commission report which I had read over a couple of warm afternoons in that room. It was in that very room that wrestling matches would be held by four cousins every summer holiday, supervised and refereed by an equally, if not more boisterous, grandfather. It was in that very room where I sat and listened to J E Renaux’s stories as he lay in bed after fracturing his hip. It was in that very room one afternoon where I read an article that would create an enduring passion for travel: a Reader’s Digest dissection of the Serengeti.
Thus Memory began inundating my mind by creating a collage of timelessness! Past became present and present became past. The past was even engulfed in a future it had already achieved; the future was being mapped out by a past so sure of itself. So Memory propelled me on a journey beyond time and space. One moment I was in the quiet calm of an Arkonam evening and in the next I found myself in the hectic rush of the New York minute. I found myself finishing Archer’s Kane and Abel on the doorsteps of Hollywoods just moments before reading Silas Marner as trucks chugged up break-down hill in Ndola. Coconut rice and ball curry tickled the taste buds to instantly give way to black pudding on a balmy August morning in Hexham, England. I smiled ironically: Memory was giving me a globetrotting workout!
The last time Memory had me in her grasp, I had produced The Meatsafe, and as different voyages traversed my mind, I wondered what could possibly result from this particular adventure! I glanced around the room – the vicarious and nebulous one, not the real and tangible one – and those shadows of furniture became clearer and clearer until I could see another item of colonial and Anglo-Indian antiquity: the chest of drawers. There were two in that room, both running parallel to the bed and each on either side of the passage to the ‘dressing room’.
“I am sure we had around three in the house,” I tell myself, “perhaps the other one is in the left-wing bedroom.” Memory takes a rest now as I ponder on and roll the words off my tongue: chest of drawers. Is it uniquely Anglo-Indian? Surely, people from other cultures can identify with such a piece of furniture? With such questions nagging me, I decided to spend much of my morning doing research alongside my regular day job in the Deputy Head’s office of Simba International School. Between mandatory phone calls, visits by parents, clerical work and letters, I managed to dig through worn encyclopaedias, my on-going research on Anglo-Indians and the ubiquitous Internet to put a historic and personal perspective on the chest of drawers.
While the chest of drawers is not exclusive to any single group, it does have a rich colonial heritage and it is little wonder that it is most often associated with the British Raj. It actually evolved from campaign furniture that British officers used to transport their goods and perhaps that is why it is a sturdy, shoulder-height piece of furniture containing a range of horizontal drawers stacked one on top of the other. The British Raj and the chest of drawers developed an elective affinity for each other and by the end of the Raj, campaign furniture was evocative of the days of luxurious travel by the officers of the British army and navy. No wonder, then, that the 3 chests of drawers that graced Hollywoods, 76, Mosur High Road were sturdy, smelt of old wood and, though the sheen had since gone, were graced with ornate handles that pulled the drawers out. Three quarters of them consisted of three large rectangular drawers of little more than a metre long, while the top quarter had two smaller, square drawers that could be pulled out separately.
Memory, not to be held at bay for long, demands more of my time; and I acquiesce. After all, it can only offer my personal narrative on the chest of drawers. It is rather strange that inanimate objects, by mere association alone, can stir emotions, start conversations, become part of a family’s legacy and even forge one’s personal identity: but such is the character of these objects which are a part of my Anglo-Indian heritage! They tell a story, weaving a narrative that defines me and my growth from boy to man.
The unknowing reader might ask: “What narrative can be told by pieces of wood put together so as to conveniently store undergarments, curtains, bedspreads, cushion covers, assortments of medical supplies and sometimes, photo albums, diaries and books?” But aren’t they all little items that we use in our day-to-day lives, insignificant items that are essential to our well-being and life in general? Now and then, our associations with these obligatory articles of clothing or furniture create situations, events and conversations that linger in moments of nostalgic solitude or dominate the banter at family reunions. I am sure the reader can relate to the following lines of thought: “Remember the time you hid in the almirah and locked yourself in?” “You should have seen the look on Jack’s face when we caught him with his hands in the cookie jar?” “The most hilarious of all was the time Jill’s hair caught fire at the stove!”
Likewise, the chest of drawers provides me with such wonderful moments that continue to define my character. For instance, I remember helping Mum-Mum put away Papa’s vests and house-shorts in those drawers. He had a uniform set of white vests and baggy grey shorts which he would always wear at home. When those vests and shorts come to mind, I vividly picture him sitting at the writing table in our “front room” in those very vests and baggy greys composing another ditty and writing another piece. The writer I am today takes inspiration from those moments in time; moments that will forever be a part of my psyche.
On top of the chest of drawers or in one of the top drawers, one would find items like brushes, combs and sometimes candle stands. Growing up with two sexagenarian grandparents, I remember standing up in front of those chests and having my hair combed just before we set off for school. The pat-pat of the powder puff still resonates against my cheeks as Mum-Mum or Papa told us umpteen stories each day as we got ready for school.
And then, there was THAT day! Naturally inquisitive, I had been harbouring suspicions about a rather burning affair for some time now. It had started around four months ago and events of the recent days had me more doubtful than ever. I had decided to investigate. Someone had hidden something of value in one of those drawers! So, on that eventful day when all the adults were having their afternoon nap, I played stealth with stealth and slowly opened one chest after another. Imagine my feelings, when I discovered what I had been looking for: elation nudged regret, consternation grappled with assurance. I had made an important discovery, for there, hidden in the recesses of the second drawer from bottom was enough evidence of my sleuthing: a green, gold and red package screamed at me, “There is no such thing as Santa Claus!” Ten years of an ideal world was slowly giving way to reality. Boyhood was changing and I had made a seminal discovery that almost all of us make at some point in our lives.
With much of the family abroad, those chests – at least the top drawers – would be loaded with albums and come holiday time, those albums would come out and stories would be told and retold, sometimes garnished with the Anglo-Indian flair for exaggeration. New photos would be taken and new albums, meticulously made, would add to an already burgeoning collection. The fact that Mr Ralph Renaux is now posting photographs taken over two decades, even three decades ago on this new-fangled digital repertory called Facebook is testament to the kind of history those chest of drawers held. They held the history of boys who would become men and of a family that would stay together no matter how far apart they were in reality. The history of a microcosm of the Anglo-Indian story was securely maintained in those drawers: the poor Scottish shoemaker, the reputed Irish surgeon, the philandering Frenchman and the Portuguese sailor would never have realised, when they left the shores of their respective countries, that they would one day be the creators of a legacy that can today be called Anglo-Indian.
As time went on, I began to use one of the top drawers for school books and college records. For three years that drawer held evidence of a truly life-changing experience for me: my period of scholarship study at Boston College. That simple drawer held the aspirations and ambitions of a small-town boy who dared to dream big. Every time I opened that drawer for something or the other, there was this document – a sheet of my time at BC – that told me I had the character to meet my ambitions. That chest of drawers held not only where I came from, but held on to evidence that could spur me on to where I could possibly go. At one time, in fact, just before I left the shores of India for overseas occupation, one of those top drawers held together the romantic correspondence of four years!
I suppose I am, in true Anglo-Indian fashion, over-romanticising a simple piece of furniture, but in doing so I am trying to keep alive – at least in my writing – a time and place when simple things gave great pleasures. Today, Anglo-Indian railway colonies all around India are dilapidated versions of their former glories as are the many plantations, barracks and gold fields that were always filled with an Anglo-Indian aura. My efforts are to re-create – in writing poetry and prose – those good old days. In this piece, I hope I have created an atmosphere of what those chests meant to Anglo-Indian families and to make any Anglo-Indian reading this piece re-create his or her own personal history, a period of life when the legacy of colonialism was slowly fading away and the Anglo-Indian was trying to find his own place in a new India; and it is but ironic that such quirky pieces of furniture like The Meatsafe, the Easy Chair, the chest of drawers did, to some degree, help him maintain an identity proudly Anglo-Indian.
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