The Seasons of Life

Today, the sun shines and excitement is fresh in the air

You are brimming with joy and the world is brilliantly fair

For nothing can match the gleaming glory in each eye

As you, on the fluffy clouds of achievement, blissfully fly

Yes, all is right with the world and why shouldn’t it be

For the sun’s rays twinkle and sparkle on all you can see

As you revel in your triumph as a person and a class

For it is another rite of life that today, you joyfully pass

And days like this one are bound to come again and again

For sunny optimism might peal a most joyful refrain 

But just remember that with the yin also comes the yang

So enjoy these days with all the smiles that you can

For the seasons of life; they can quite abruptly change

And summer’s sun can give way to a wintry wind that can range

From bitingly cold blasts to blinding snow and rain

And where once there was such pleasure, now there is pain.

And lonely days draw out in a ghastly gloom of despair

When through the storm you might cry, “Life, you are not fair!”

When you battle through and weather the storms that are thrown

As you are tossed, thrown and turned by the fierce gales blown

By this tempestuous tornado that whirls in our world

And makes some days a battle with life cruelly unfurled. 

But just remember that with the yin  also comes the yang

So battle these days with all the willpower you can

For just remember: if winter comes, can’t spring be far behind?

And if autumn falls, we can deal with summer’s scorching grind!

Yes, in these seasons of life we need to go with the flow

 And treat equally, autumn’s gloom and summer’s lustrous glow

So, when heavenly hibernation beckons, you can proudly say

I have enjoyed it all, each and every season-changing day

From the sunniest of smiles and the most stormy strife

I have enjoyed and endured: all the seasons of life!

Paralysed

My bones are shattered, my eyes can't see
A cancerous growth spreads all through me

I am pale, feel weak, there's just no energy
I think about my life, I don't feel me

My stomach, it is cramped, my feet, they are sore
The aches, the pains, they just continue to grow!

My pressure is high, I am in a dizzy spell
I have never in my life felt so unwell

I am weak and these words are uttered in pain
For every little breath is just such a strain

I lie in this bed, confined to a life I can't live
I feel so wasted, there is just nothing to give

I twitch in convulsions, horrid and bad
My body is gone, my mind is just mad

And, thus paralysed, I lie sadly insane
Fighting each moment in a life full of pain

Who am I, you may ask, quite rightly so
Because my laments they just grow and grow

I will tell you, my friend, because I have little to give
I am this planet – the world in which you live!




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Staying behind, sailing away.

 India 1960s. A new nation had entered the inevitable troubled teens in her young life. There was expectation and there was fear. There was desire and there was doubt. There were people looking ahead and there were people looking behind. Yes, at opposite ends of the spectrum of every human emotion conceivable, there were two communities:Indians galvanised by freedom;  Anglo-Indians chained by uncertainty.
The Anglo-Indian was worried. His place in the social hierarchy was now a questionable one. This was a new India. Not the one that he was so used to. Not the one he was born in, not the one in which he grew up, not the one in which he worked. In fact, the last aspect mentioned was of dear concern, especially to the bread winner of the family. You see, in quite a few cases, his junior had been promoted just over him.
Conversations at dinner tables, railway institutes and work places were peppered with doubt and uncertainty. Will we now be marginalised? What is going to happen to us? Should we go away or stay behind? Once again, the final question was traded in conversation more often than not. Should we return, to England, the then motherland, to the anglophone nations of Canada or Australia; or should we stay behind, a citizen of India, the new motherland.
The doubt was certain, the fear palpable.  You see, some angloindians were losing jobs, some were overtly sneered at in varying places of social contact, some were mocked for their conversational and written inability with varying local vernaculars.
When India attained independence its political geography mostly constituted of its people divided into local States based on one criterion: language. The Tamils had Tamil Nadu, the Bengali had West Bengal, the Malayalee had Kerala: just a few examples to illustrate the point. The Anglo-Indian, though, had English! And he was scattered all over the country. You could find him at the foothills of the Himalayas, in the backwaters of Kerala, in the conclaves of Lucknow, in the coffee houses of Calcutta, at railways stations. In; well, at every railway station that existed at that time! Could he be placed in a state of his own? Anglo India, perhaps? There were, apparently, talks of giving the community the option of the Andaman Islands, but that fizzled out. So, the doubt lingered, the fear festered and the uncertainty grew.
Yet, there were some within the community who felt more at ease with the status quo. The railways needed the Anglo-Indian to man its trains, monitor its stations and look after their engines, schools across the country needed their teachers, offices preferred their services and communication skills, and sports, their athletes, especially the hockey players. These people were more secure and their future seemed brighter. Why go away; we'd rather stay behind!
And it was this topic that was bandied about in every household across the sub-continent. A tug of war. Go away to the motherland; stay in the land of our birth!
This is where the general ramblings end and the writer's personal narrative begins. For, you see, he is an Anglo-Indian whose own family had played out the trauma of that decade mentioned in the opening sentence.
On a warm August evening, walking across a pleasant London garden, the writer put in a call to a number he had never dialed before. "Hello, may I speak with Mrs Jacobs? I believe she is my grandmother's sister. In this day and age of prank calls, one can assume that the receiver was apoplectic. I quietly cut the call to a few expletives that shall not be repeated here.
Eventually, though, I got to meet Mrs Jacobs, now an octogenarian, Auntie Noreen to me. She had left Flora, her sister and my grandmother, over five decades ago!  My grandmother had died when I was a wee lad of four, so i did not know much of her. Auntie Noreen regaled me with stories of their childhood, and in exchange I told her about the India she last saw: Madras then, Chennai now! Flora had stayed behind, Noreen had sailed away!
I thought back in black and white: family disbanded. I looked across the dining table and smiled: family reunited!
Another sister had sailed away too, Auntie Bina, with her husband Denzil, now a widower. My young family and I met up with him in another part of London two weeks later. The most remarkable aspect of this meeting was this: a conversation about Moore Market, his old school, his house in St Thomas Mount and so on. He was trying to recall the Madras of his youth; I was telling him, in turn, of the Chennai I was familiar with. And, I had scarcely made mention of my railway rides to college, when he rattled off the names of every railway station between Madras Beach and Tambaram .
Gobsmacked, I smiled and asked him why then did he leave it all behind. "I was ignored of a promotion that was supposed to be mine" was the reply.
Introspective, I wondered why both my grandfathers had stayed behind in India with their wives. As we trundled our way home on the tube from Tooting to The Oval, I looked at my reflection in the window and smiled. Norman Charles White and Joseph Eugene Renaux were railwaymen, both of them. Perhaps many of the railwaymen stayed behind, secure enough to nurture another generation of railwaymen from the community. Those less secure about their prospects led to the diaspora .
It was after these two meetings, which have had a great impact on me, that I reflected on the partition. No, not the historical separation of two new nations whose relationship is news fodder for perpetuity, but the more personal one: the partition of the Anglo -Indian family; of sisters leaving each other, of brothers breaking away; of one half of a family sailing away with trepidation to a new life; of the other half hanging on stoically to familiar faces and places. It was the story of my own family! A family I grew up with; a family of whom only stories were told.
Born in 1976, India would be my home for nearly 22 years. A voracious reader, I often saw the western world through the pens of diverse writers, from Enid Blyton to Charles Dickens and Agatha Christie to Jeffrey Archer. Did my experiences, vicarious as they were, make me feel bitter that my family had not sailed about to small picket fences and rolling gardens, and all things fantastic?
Not in the least! While I have seen much of this world, I will always remain Anglo-Indian - and, Indian - at heart. Yes, I have often had strangers puzzled about my name and nationality combined: Alister Renaux is just not Indian, they say! But, trust me, reader, I am Indian who visits family in Mumbai, Chennai and Kerala every year from my abode in Zambia. I can still speak passable Tamil on my return every year, I wear a lungi in the evenings, and I visit Kerala because my Malayalee wife has family there! Of course, there is the Anglo-iIndian as well: Bryan Adams, Charley Pride and Jim Revees entertain me on my way to work every morning;  coconut rice and ball curry makes for a nice Sunday lunch; ballroom dancing whenever we have a dance at school; and the eternal love for a good old railway journey.
In this day and age, when internet technologies like Facebook and whatsapp have brought people closer, families are reuniting. You no longer have to sail away; you can jet in and out. Which is what my parents, Robert and Dawn are presently doing. They flew into London two weeks ago; they fly out to India tomorrow. Yes, reunion balls are now being held in the UK, Canada, Australia and India, bringing old friends together and getting families reunited. They did not travel,for a ball; they went for a wedding in London. This has given them the opportunity to meet Auntie Noreen, now a nonagenarian, as well as cousins they had never met before. The cousins sat back and spoke of their own children and grandchildren!  The ones that sailed away spoke of mutual interests to the ones that jetted in.
Tomorrow, on 68 years from the day the British left India, two Indian visitors leave Britain. Having seen family that sailed away, they now fly back to the motherland.
This article, therefore, on India’s Independence Day, is a tribute to the India I know and grew up in; and to the Anglo-Indian family all across the world. To those who sailed away, and those who stayed behind, to those lucky enough to have had the opportunity to meet again or even for the first time, to those who are still apart for diverse reasons. To the nation I grew up in and the community whose legacy I am determined to etch on the pages of history. Jai hind and cheers, Anglo-India!

An Open Letter to the People of the World.

Dear People of 2013,

                It is now time to say farewell. It is time to leave you to your varying agendas as I slowly look back  in retrospection and try to place myself in some perspective in a minute corner of your lives. It is now time for me to sit back and make notes that can help me stake a claim on my rightful place in the history of this world.

                Pardon the interruption on your celebrations into bringing in the New Year, but my introspective nature requires some objective – perhaps, subjective, even? – assessment on the value my 365.25 days has added: to lives, old and young; to projects, big and small; to people, far and wide; and to dreams, simple and fantastic.

                With fairness, I admit that I come nowhere to being History’s pin-up boy: 1914, 1945, or 1963 would probably vie for top honours, and, to be honest, I would not want to be counted amongst those guns. They snatched innocence and turned boys into men far too long before their time. True, they changed and shaped history, but of greater certainty, they stigmatized and deformed humanity.

                Will I be remembered with fondness? Remembered with a smile on your faces when you are fondly nostalgic and say, “I remember where I was when I heard the news!” Like perhaps 1953, 1969 or 1989 when peaks were scaled, giant leaps where made and a wall came tumbling down? These were Eureka and breakthrough years – encapsulating in significantly microcosmic moments the ultimate spirit of human endeavour; moments that radiated the multi-fold magnificence of humanity. Dare I see myself in such splendour? Most certainly not! If anything, History might just record me as the year which took away with it an icon of global history, ushered in the birth of a royal baby, elected a New Pope and brought down sportsmen from the heights of glory.

                Looking back, I see myself as the journeyman, the everyman, the common man – the foot soldier, the man on the street. Likewise, I would like to be remembered by you, by each one of you – the ordinary man, the commoner whose life is not chronicled by an ever-hungry media and I would like to be remembered for what I mean or have meant to you on an individual level, on a level that you can understand and relate to. On a level that you can look back and hold me in reasonable value in the space of your own life, be it personal and private and/or professional and public.

                In retrospect, empathise with me. I wasn’t even supposed to be born. Remember your fascinations a year ago about Mayans, ‘safe’ bunkers and the end-of-the-world mantra which went viral? So, to have arrived on the back of such speculation was unnerving indeed! Now, that I have spent my time and have almost breathed my last days, I have one request of you, the people of this world and the custodians of 2014.

                2014 is another year in your lives, still very innocent and lacking in prejudices that might creep up as it grows older. 2014 is another 365.25 days in which you can add value to your own talents and lives, as well as the lives of those around you. 2014 is another step forward in your individual and our collective humanity. Give it a go! You are now the custodians of 2014. If you can cherish its value, learn its worth and create moments to remember, perhaps 2014 can be a better year for humanity as a whole. It might be a year that can surpass the collective brilliance of ’53, ’69 and ’89. It can possibly be a year that can make amends for the combined shame  of ’14, ’45 and ’63. But, remember this: it is your year and thus it is in your hands that the fate of 2014 rests. One hundred years ago, a war began: a war that was to end all wars. Unfortunately, it did not. Is it possible that one hundred years later, in 2014, can a peace begin: a peace that will be one that heralds all peace?

Idealistic, isn’t it? But, then 2014 is young enough to be idealistic; young enough to burn with the passion and fire of one who hasn’t yet been tarnished by the pangs of prejudice and the rancour of reality. Give it a go: give it all you have got. And perhaps then, 365.25 days from now, 2014 can look back and bask in a much more gratifying smile than I do.

All the best and cheerio to you.

My best wishes,

Yours in the years to come, 2013. 

Nothing Can Replace

My last article on the chest of drawers was not just the proverbial trip down memory lane; it prompted questions on Hollywoods itself, a place I called home for nearly 22 years of my life. When I was growing up, Hollywoods, with its high ceilings, tall windows, trellised doors and spacious surroundings was a veritable mansion in the eyes of a child. When I last saw it in 10 years ago, it seemed to have shrunk in size, was worn down by over 60 years of use and was a far cry from the very first images I have of this place I once called home.
I have been researching my family tree for nearly four years now and the experience has been an interesting one, leading to the discovery of a possible fourth cousin living in Bangalore, a Renaux far removed, but probably related by blood, living in England and even visits to cousins I never knew existed! In the course of these discoveries, I came to learn that my great-great-grandfather was Samuel Charles White, a reputed surgeon in the Madras Presidency who once had an estate called El Dorado, in Madhavaram, Madras,. This discovery led to a lot of further thought and I pondered on the possible birth of Hollywoods. Questions rained. “Why did Samuel White’s son, Archibald, leave the luxury of El Dorado for obscure Arkonam?” The Anglo-Indian, even in India of those days, was a migratory bird. “Was it, perhaps, because of a job on the railways in a developing railway junction?” “If so, why Hollywoods? Why not a house in the newly established railways quarters?” These are but some of the questions that haunted me as I foraged into the past. Interestingly enough, during these forages I made quite a few possible “family connections” one of them being a Michael Ludgrove, the fourth cousin in Bangalore., but that is another story for another day.
Back to the questions on Hollywoods. At this juncture, I would like to warn the reader that the content hereafter is pure surmise and imagination on my part. Perhaps, I was told the story about Hollywoods a long time ago and if that was the case, I must have been too young to remember: so, after I made the connections between Samuel Charles White and Archibald White (my great-grandfather), I started on the process of premise and surmise. There are only three things I know about Archibald White: whenever he was mentioned, he was Archie Papa; he was a fine fencer; he was fluent in English and Telugu. He had died a long time before I was born; therefore when I unearthed his link to Samuel Charles White, I tried – given my knowledge of Norman Charles White (my maternal grandfather) – to put together some sort of character sketch of Archibald White, the creator of Hollywoods, 76 Mosur Road, Arkonam.
Hollywoods has absolutely no connection with its singular relative in California. At the time of its creation, the house was built in a wooded area in Arkonam and Archibald White named it after his second wife’s pet-name. Back to the surmising. It is possible that Archibald wanted to forge a name for himself just as his imperious father, Samuel, had done. It is possible that Archibald had visions of grandeur much bigger than his father’s. It is also possible that, like all men, Archibald wanted to build, live and bring up his children in his own home and not his father’s.
I have seen one or two pictures of Hollywoods in the 50s and/or 60s. Those dated and now blurry pictures, along with the hazy pictures formed by a vivid imagination that ran along with my research, led to further surmise. Perhaps, also, Archibald wanted to create his own El Dorado in Arkonam and that is why he bought a huge plot of land with woods all around and built – for those days, and in that small town – this mansion in the middle of the woods. And, in doing so, perhaps he had created a romantic, lushful and very English-countryside atmosphere for his children and his grandchildren, thereafter. I say so, because the one picture I have seen of Dawn Renaux (my mother) against the backdrop of Hollywoods, shows a six-year-old with lush trees stretching into the distance in the background. I am sure she, her sister, Mary and their many friends enjoyed walks in the woods and many other interesting games in a place and age that had yet to see the advent of television.
It must have been beautiful, even romantic and I am sure Archibald White beamed with joy and pride as he took his wife and young children to their new home. I am also sure a thirteen-year-old Norman’s eyes gleamed with joy and his mischievous mind might have already devised many naughty schemes in this huge house and even bigger woods! The girls, his sisters, I am sure would have started dreaming up tea parties and evening walks as they entered this lovely piece of “English” countryside. And what of Archibald White? He must have lived the life of the typical English squire, lording and surveying all before him. At the same time, he must have been quite popular with his fencing and his ability to converse extremely well in the vernacular. He must have also been quite a sturdy and swarthy man, for Norman Charles White definitely inherited those attributes.
What of Holly, his wife? I had the privilege of knowing her, if the knowledge of a three year old is worth anything to the reader. There are only two memories I have of this grand, but diminutive old lady: holding her by the hand and walking her to lunch or tea one afternoon and her funeral. I remember the wails and cries of the many ayahs and other domestics who must have worked under her as her body lay in the room she must have slept in for over a good part of forty years. She was a gentle old lady and the reader would agree once s/he realises that a widow herself, she married Archibald, her dead sister’s husband so that she could look after his then very young children, the eldest of whom was only ten at the time. Perhaps, then, Hollywoods, was Archibald’s tribute to this valiant and generous young woman?
What then, happened to the pomp and grandeur of Hollywoods? Perhaps its story is the narrative of the Anglo-Indian in general. By the time I was born, in 1976, Hollywoods was still impressive and spacious, but the veneer was slowly fading. The expansive woods had gone, much of it sold to other Anglo-Indians wanting to build their own homes, but there was still sufficient space – maybe even an acre or more – of land that belonged to Hollywoods. And, I remember climbing up custard-apple trees, hiding behind bushes and even taking the “back route” to the sugarcane fields behind Hollywoods, but it wasn’t as impressive as it must have been decades ago. The Anglo-Indian was perhaps no longer as privileged as he used to be and the same must have been the case with the White family. This slowly eroding level of status must have meant that something like Hollywoods was too huge to maintain, especially when the Anglo-Indian’s position was trending towards the tenuous. While Norman had a steady job on the Railways, perhaps it wasn’t one that could be accorded the same level of respect that was given to his grandfather, Samuel, whose photograph was once supposedly on display at the Egmore Town Hall in Madras. The Anglo-Indian’s lot was on the wane and I suppose that was reflected in Hollywoods as well.
I am not saying that I grew up in a dilapidated house. Far from it! It was wonderful, roomy, airy and spacious enough for a lot of hide-and-seek. Seven spacious rooms made for a lot of fun and my brother, Mark and I, enjoyed ourselves tremendously especially in the evenings when Norman White regaled us with stories. I must have forgotten much of what he told us, otherwise I am sure I would not be on this journey of premise and surmise! It is just that we could no longer maintain the grandeur that Archibald must have had in mind when he first crossed the thresholds of Hollywoods.
Today, Hollywoods is no more. There were moments when I felt I could buy it off my Mum and Aunt when they put it on sale, but my remoteness – all the way here in Zambia – meant the possibility of even further neglect. So the question is: “Should I be another Archibald White, and create my tribute to Hollywoods, here in Zambia?” That would be an idea, but the real problem will come when I have to give a name to the place for nothing can replace Hollywoods!

A Chest of Memories

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.

THE MEAT SAFE

THE MEAT SAFE

Memory is a funny thing. It takes you back into the past and more often than not, evokes a strain of nostalgia that harks back to days of innocence and wanton abandon, days when everything looked big in the eyes of a child, days of simple needs and even simpler technology.

Memory quite stealthily surfaced upon me this morning and from somewhere within the deep recesses of my mind, from somewhere in the quiet country air of three decades ago, from somewhere in the psyche of an Anglo-Indian childhood, memory brought unto me the word “meat safe’ as I tossed and turned in bed trying to catch a little more shut-eye.

The tossing and turning might have partly been due to the fact that two days ago, in a fit of impatient defrosting, I quite adeptly managed to puncture the tubing in our fridge causing the refrigerant to leak with a viciously serpentine hiss. The luxury of refrigeration would now have to wait for Monday morning as sleepy little Ndola does very little over the weekend. And as I wondered about food storage for the next day or two, the image and the word floated in on the wings of memory.

“The meat safe: must be an Anglo-Indian thing,” I said to myself. “Can’t be exclusively Anglo-Indian,” another part of me replied. “But, I have seen it mostly – only?  - in Anglo-Indian homes”, the alter ego replied almost immediately. “Perhaps it is a colonial thing,” retaliation was instant! This mental “tossing and turning” far more strenuous than the physical one, and with much greater force as well, had tossed me out of bed and propelled me straight to the laptop.

Why not do the obvious? Let’s google the word. And I immediately went to the world’s most trusted source of information since 2001, hoping to see the ubiquitous Wikipedia rank high on the list in response to my query.

How disappointed I was! No Wikipedia entry. But, wait the images offered did strike a chord and I scrolled down the page with some anticipation. Disappointment again. “Is meat safe when I am pregnant?”, “Is red meat safe for children?”, “Detect DNA in horse meat!” are some of Google’s responses on its first page!

There was one reference though, near the top of the page: the free online dictionary which stated that it was a safe for storing meat. How mundane and unimaginative, but then, dictionaries do not offer you imagination. They offer straightforward definitions, in black and white. Life – and experiencing it as much as you can – offers imagination in a plethora of colours! And with that, I abandoned any queries on the meat safe and decided to put myself to memory’s mercy and conjure up my real meaning of the meat safe.

Tucked in the left-hand corner of our dining room, it stood there proudly, its legs nicely balanced on four square cement blocks that carried moats of water within them. The wood always smelled warm and delicious while the mesh provided a nice view of the different goodies in its three tiers of fresh warmth. I remember my brother and I taking turns to fill the moats of water around all four legs.

“Don’t spill the water, now,” Mum-Mum would say.

“But, why do you fill these holes with water?” I would ask, curious as usual.

“So that the ants and insects don’t climb up and eat the food,” Papa would say gently.

Knowledge would dawn on our faces and we’d continue eagerly. Today, as memory brings back that conversation, I can smell the dankness of the water as it filled up the moats. That is my meaning of a meat safe.

The mesh, I was later told, was not actually meant so that wide-eyed children could come back from school and gaze into the meat safe to see what goodies were in store for the night. It was meant to circulate air inside and ventilate the meat safe so that it was cool enough. It also prevented flies and other insects from flitting about those delicious treats. That is my meaning of a meat safe.

Memory now reminds me of those Sunday afternoons when all was quiet and the household would be having a little lie-down. Quietly, my brother, Mark and I, would sneak up to it and open it up to dig our hands into the jars of jaggery stored on the bottommost shelf. That was as far as we could reach back then. Often, someone else would join us on these afternoon quests: Papa. More stealthily than we imagined ourselves to be, he would dig into those jars and hand over chunks of jaggery quietly whispering, “Don’t tell anyone, ok?” Happy and excited to have an adult partner in crime, we would nod vigorously. That is my meaning of a meat safe. (Eventually, a key went into it and Memory is presently not forthcoming in letting me know if we ever found that key!)

The fridge was there, of course. I do not know when it was acquired, but I was still a very wee lad, for I remember it was on the opposite end of the meat safe. Still, for all its ‘luxurious’ properties the fridge could not rival the meat safe. For on top of that antiquated piece of furniture were tins: bread tins, cake tins, biscuit tins, all types of tins. The tin that received a lot of attention from yours truly was the “appalam” tin. Just before lunch, now and then, I would get a little stool and jump up to grab an appalam or two when no one was around. Getting to it was a tricky business, for if only the tin slipped out of my hands as I stood on tip-toe there would be scattered evidence of my crime. And that is something I did not want, did I? That is my meaning of a meat safe.

Christmas time was extra special. Memory informs me of eager little children licking empty bowls of cake mixture that had just been sent to the baker or, later on, put in the oven. And as she (memory) brings such a warm family picture to mind, she also reminds me of those cul-culs, rose cookies and marzipan that the meat safe would proudly store ready for guests who dropped in for a visit during the Christmas season. Yes, Christmas was always busy and as I remember the neighbourhood uncles and aunts who visited us during Yule Tide, I also remember trips to the meat safe to fill up plates and bowls of festive cheer. That is my meaning of a meat safe.

As I grew older, the meat safe became a place for coffee and tea. It became a place of more modern mass-marketed crisps and cookies. It became a place from which we would serve ourselves lunch and dinner. It became a place from which I would serve my now aging grandmother lunch, dinner and soup. Of course, trips to the fridge became more frequent and slowly, the meat safe wasn’t as exciting as it used to be. Yet, it still stood there, an antiquated, but proud piece of furniture. That is my meaning of a meat safe.

The meat safe, I am sure, was definitely a part of Anglo-Indian iconography during my generation and preceding ones as well. Given the modern technology around us, though, it is close to, if not already at extinction. Whether the meat safe offered others like me some sort of meaning in their childhood, I do not know. Whether it has now become a repertory of childhood memory spontaneously recollected in adulthood, I do not know. Whether the meat safe that I have alluded to throughout this piece still exists, I do not know. Whether it has been confined to the scrap heap is also a question I cannot answer, for since I left home nearly two decades ago to forge my own life, the pressures and concerns of adulthood put that childhood love affair far away from my mind: until today. One thing I do know: it will continue to be a tangible part of my life! Why? Simply because today, it is the ‘safe’ of an enchanted childhood, one that I was privileged to receive from doting grandparents in quaint and quiet little Arkonam. That is my meaning of the meat safe.

For an hour now, I have been consumed with the meat safe; a significant amount of time, I’d say given my last encounter with it was ages ago. But, then memory does funny things, doesn’t it? It looks at childhood experiences from an adult perspective and offers a sense of warmth and comfort. No, I do not want to go back into the past and yearn for the good old days; no, I do not want to go out and acquire an antiquated meat safe; no, I do not want to become a child once more. I want to walk around today and conjure up images of the meat safe as I go about my daily chores. Why, you may ask? Simply because, the meat safe informs the adult me about the child I once was. That is my meaning of the meat safe.

Glossary for words that might seem strange:

Mum-Mum: Our word from grandmother. Given the double Mum it makes sense!

Papa: The Anglo-Indian term for grandfather.

appallam: A fried snack. Often called a Pappadum.

cul-culs, rosecookies: Anglo-Indian snacks made at Christmas time.

The Theatre of Dreams

Here, in the theatre of dreams, you proudly stand

With visions great and ambitions grand

Eager, of course, for the curtains to part

And for the play called Life to quickly start

You are nervous, of course, as you stand on the stage

Wondering whether your audience will truly engage

With the roles you play and the things you say

As the curtains rise each new day.

“Will they applaud?” you are bound to wonder

Or will they heckle should you blunder?

Will you be up to this theatrical task?

These questions, yourself, I am sure you ask.

It is only natural, for the theatre of dreams

Strains the fabric of fancy at its widest seams

As you strut and stride on the stage called Life

Playing diverse roles with the passions rife.

Of glorious entrances, I am sure you yearn

And of deserving exits once you’ve served your turn

Of standing ovations and the applause of praise

That accompany all of your dramatic ways.

And so, I wish you play your part; play it well

That the audience will have a tale to tell

Of your heroic deeds and characters fine

Of how you did, upon this stage, star and shine

Of how, in Seven Ages, you played many parts

And in doing so, stole your viewer’s hearts

With acts astonishing and speeches sublime

With crafty wit and touchingly tuneful rhyme.

So, do go ahead, go … do your best

Put every talent to its most strenuous test

Raise the bar with each new role

And play your part with both, heart and soul

For here, in the Theatre of Dreams, as fancy flies and ambitions roar

You go as high as your aspirations soar

And as the drama unfolds, you will attain and achieve

As long as you do, in your dreams, believe.

Words are all they have...

Words are all they have…

The artist has got a brush, canvas, as well as a diverse range of colours and mediums with which to work and produce a piece worthy of marvel in Le Lourve.

The musician has got his sounds, vocal and instrumental, his sense of tone to create rhythms ad lib.

The photographer has lens and light, a fancy device to play with and thus manipulate a ‘thing of beauty’ into print forever.

And the writer, What of him? Where is his palette, how does his work with his instruments and what technology can he avail to creation a masterpiece, to create art that is as deserving of fame, history and memory as those of the artist, musician or photographer?

Alas, he possesses no such tangibles; only words and the amorphousness of imagination.

Yes, only a repository of words and the resourcefulness of a fertile imagination. And they are fuelled by a confident conviction of thought and a fervent desire to etch - with words – the many conundrums of life across age and space, beyond culture and geography, yet within the universal realm of a common, but diverse human experience.

And thus – with imagination and words, with thoughts and questions, the writer produces a work of art that offers us a diverse gamut of landscapes, a painting that captures the multidimensional canvas of our humanity and the sculptures of characters that have been etched in Literature for time immemorial.

And thus – with imagination and words, the writer chooses carefully, sometimes on instinct, sometimes with more careful thought, the words to use and the effect to create, how to arrange his choice of diction on the canvas of mere paper so that the words chosen and their manner of juxtaposition reveal the savageries of war or the debaucheries of youth, throw light on a soul searching for answers or a complex character immersed in thoughtful deliberations or simply prompt questions which propel the minds and the hearts of our humanity.

And thus – with a fertile imagination and choice diction, we are introduced to the staccato of suppressed anger, the pitch of exaggerated excitement, the majestic beat of ambition and the distinctive peals of liberty. Thus, with an imagination that transcends reality and an array of words concocted to question convention, the writer brings to the observant reader and the discerning mind the diverse rhythms that exist in the soulful music of our humanity.

And thus – with virile words and intellectual imagination, we are introduced to a snapshot in time, a colourful image of a landscape lost in history, a bleak picture of present circumstance, a slide of childlike joy or aging misery or an image that mirrors our own. And by doing so, by adjusting the lens of perception, considering the colour of emotion and capturing the essence of an occasion, the writer, with words being all he has, throws light on the vibrant mosaic of our humanity.

And thus – in the writer we have the artist and the musician, the sculptor and the photographer, the caricaturist and the cinematographer - the ultimate artist – the creator of character, the sculptor of emotion, the melodious lyricist, the lampooning humorist, the artist who directs people and places to walk across the territory of our mind and find a special place somewhere within its profound geography.  And, words are all they have…

With My Thoughts

Alone with my thoughts, I wander

Sometimes aimlessly, at times, with purpose

Often, with thought leading on to thought

Or with action the consequence of mental amblings –

Alone with my thoughts, I wonder

At worlds unseen, the by-lanes of inexperience

Places unexplored, territories yet to be charted

And I amble on, a solitary face amidst a sea of people – 

Alone with my thoughts, I trot along

Studying the nuance in a fellow traveller’s countenance

Ruminating the possible reasons for his expressions

And I pause, hesitant; before I pursue further –

Alone with my thoughts, I cease

Trapped by the shifting tides of nostalgia

With its momentary ebbs and flow, peaks and troughs

And I counter the future, by reaching out for the past –

Alone with my thoughts, I venture

Into a landscape of future possibilities

Into the purposeful realms of ambitious hope

And I surge forward, driven by notions of success –

Alone with my thoughts, I meander

Into caves where monsters grasp and groan

At superstition, perdition, and uncertain horrors

And, I plunge, anxiously into an abyss of anguish –

Alone with my thoughts, I fly

Into and past the nebulous clouds of fancy

Creating worlds and characters, forging inventions

And, I saunter, confidently, into a future I’ve created –

Alone with my thoughts, I am the human itinerant

Probing the possibilities of my existence, and

Crafting my own chance and circumstance

As I wander on,…alone with my thoughts - 

Thoughts of a student in an examination hall

(This is a stream of consciousness attempt to empathize with students writing a tough Literature exam.)

This is tough …this word…insidious

What does it mean? Let me think…

Ah! Think? That is what I have been doing

Thinking…thinking…thinking for the last two weeks

Thinking…using my imagination

For that last English paper

Now, tell me, why would I need to write a story

If I am going to study medicine.

Think…imagine!

Thinking…using my memory

To remember that math formula

Now, tell me, is memory the sign of intelligence?

Oh no! My poor memory now hides a discerning mind.

Memory…forgotten!

Thinking…using my reason

To formulate that economics essay

I remember discussing this concept so vividly in class

But now, my writing skills….they belittle such discussion

Demand…supply!

Thinking…using my luck

Guessing the possible answer

To those tricky multiple choice questions

Where all the choices seemed the right answer

Guess? Right?

Right? Write!

O my god! See what this one word has done!

Gradually taking me on treacherous thoughts

Insidious? My mind is blank…

Let’s continue this essay anyway…Write!

Yeah, everyone seems to be writing

And look…look at that moron staring

At all of us with that smirk on his face

I wonder if he knew ‘insidious’ when he was my age

Wait! I wonder if he knows it NOW!

Anyway, that is my fate…

A future shackled by ‘marksism’

An intelligence deranged by memory

A rationale let down by writing

And choices hinging on luck.

A futile attempt this…another failure

On examining – trying to – an examination!

The Elves' Song

We are Santa’s little helpers, here today

To bring a little Christmas along your way

It’s time for cheer and for Santa, you know

Time for a little, “Ho, ho, ho!”

We are Santa’s little helpers, and here we sing

As reindeer fly and the sleigh bells ring

And we hope that wherever we sing and go

We’ll leave behind a little “Ho, ho, ho!”

We are Santa’s little helpers, with toys we come

To bring a little Christmas cheer and fun

To bring some gifts and tell you to pause

And spend some time with Santa Claus

Ho, ho, ho, little gifts we bear

Our time with you we’d like to share

Ho, ho, ho, let this Christmas be

A time of joy for you and me!

Ho, ho, ho, here’s Santa Claus

Let’s clap for him, hear the applause

For, he is, indeed, the symbol of joy

Found in the heart of every Christmas toy.