KALA PAANI—THE BLACK WATERS
by
Ashram B. Maharaj
‘When you reach to Chinidad (Trinidad), all you have to do is sift sugar. I tell you that the place is like Vaikunth (Heaven) and anyway, is the same Dharti Maataa (Mother Earth) everywhere. After three years, you will be coming back with plenty jewels and gold,’ the arkatiya (recruiter) assured the gathering.
Dookhee was absorbed with the arkatiya’s promises. He had always considered his future to be in Bharat. But if he stayed in India, he would have to continue paying rent to his landlord, Lallaji, for the plot of land he was cultivating. Paying rent seemed futile since the land was not yielding as bountifully as before. Besides, his bullock that he used to till the soil had recently died. He could not ask his brothers for assistance since they were also struggling to survive.
‘Are there any questions?’ the arkatiya was enquiring.
‘In three years I could come back?’ Dookhee asked.
‘Yes. You coming back rich like Lallaji,’ the arkatiya promised. ‘And if you don't want to stay when you reach Chinidad, you could come back at once. I guarantee that.’ Dookhee thought about leaving his doolahin (bride), his brothers, and the rest of his family for three years. He felt sad, but he knew that he would not have enough rice to pay Lallaji. From the look of the field, clearing his debts seemed impossible without a miracle.
Dookhee believed God came in many forms, and that in the arkatiya’s offer, God was speaking to him. Besides, the arkatiya had given his word, and he was an Indian like himself, so chances were that he would not deceive him. Still, Dookhee churned the idea in his mind. In three years I could be rich like Lallaji. I could even help my brothers with the wealth I earn in Chinidad, and is only three years. Dookhee knew that he only had a short time to decide. Finally he took a coin from his vest pocket. ‘This coin will decide my karma (fate). Let me see what saguna (omen) I go get,’ he said aloud. ‘If I get head, I heading for Chinidad. If I get tail, I staying here and catch me tail.’ Dookhee tossed the coin, caught it and slapped it on his wrist. It was settled. The head was on top. His destiny had been determined by the flip of a coin.
Dookhee knew that his dharma patni (wife) and brothers would discourage him from taking the trip. That night he pondered whether he should tell them about his decision. His dharma patni would want to accompany him. He remembered his vow to her when they married and wrenched at the thought of breaking it, but what choice did he have? If he took her on this unknown journey and she met hunger, sickness or even sexual abuse, he would break his vow to protect her. If he left her, she would be emotionally crushed and, as a single woman, subjected to village cruelty. She would have some protection from his brothers who had regarded her as a mother since their mother passed away, following the tradition that the daughter-in-law assume the role of mother in her absence. Dookhee’s dharma patni had accepted this role unhesitatingly and ensured that his brothers always had meals, clean clothes and neat surroundings, and she even gently scolded them whe n they had a few drinks and were loud or unruly. Taking her from them would be devastating. He could not cause them the pain of losing two loved ones at the same time. The more he thought about it, the only solution was to tell no one. He would leave alone and in three years return a wealthy man.
Next morning, before daybreak, Dookhee silently packed his clothes and those belongings which he thought would be useful on his journey including his Ramayana (holy text) which he carefully wrapped in a piece of red cloth. Finally Dookhee tiptoed to their bed to gaze at his wife who was still asleep. He whispered, ‘Forgive me, doolahin. I must do this.’ Softly he stole from his dwelling to search for the arkatiya.
Finding the arkatiya was easy as he was still searching the village for volunteers. He was under the peepal tree trying to convince other villagers to make the trip. The arkatiya was a short, stocky man with a large moustache. Though Indian he dressed as an Englishman. Around his neck he carried a piece of cloth which he used as a towel to mop his brow. As Dookhee approached, the arkatiya’s two escorts, who served as guards, stepped forward.
‘I am willing to make the trip,’ Dhookee said.
‘Congratulations!’ the arkatiya exclaimed loudly as the guards retreated. ‘You have made a wise decision.’ Others appeared tempted but did not budge. ‘You will have to be examined by a doctor,’ the arkatiya said, unrolling a scroll. ‘But first, place your thumbprint here on this document.’
‘What document is this?’ Dookhee asked doubtfully, scanning the paper the arkatiya had produced.
‘It’s merely a formality,’ the arkatiya said hastily. ‘All it says is that you have not been forced,’ he explained, ‘that you choose to make the trip of your own free will.’ Dookhee hesitated, then remembering the coin, head on top, pressed his thumb to the blend of soot and walnut oil and then to the document. Immediately he was taken to the doctor’s where he was examined and certified to be in good health. Then he was carried by an ox-drawn cart to the train that would transport him from his village of Janpur to teeming Calcutta where the ship would set sail for Chinidad.
Some days later, Dookhee was wandering about the port in Calcutta, scanning the many strange faces of countrymen also bound for Trinidad. He tried to converse with them, but it was difficult because they spoke different dialects. Because of the chandan (forehead mark), he recognized that other passengers came from different castes. Dookhee even identified some of the passengers as Brahmins. Brahmins were normally responsible for teaching and spiritual guidance. He knew it was extraordinary to recruit persons of the priestly Brahmin caste for menial or laborious work. They had to be running away from something or someone.
Now Dookhee was frightened. What lay ahead? First, a long and dangerous trip across a huge ocean with people from different castes who spoke in dialects he could not understand.
And then what? Dookhee desperately wanted to return to Janpur and his doolahin, but he had placed his thumbprint. Besides, he was not alone, and that was some consolation. About five hundred others were making the trip, including a few women. If these women could do it, so could he.
Finally the day to set sail arrived. Dookhee and the others were herded to the port and led along the dock to the ship. The leader stopped. Dookhee stared. Before him loomed the Akbar, the ship that would take them to Trinidad. Ironically he noted that the ship did not look “greatest” as its name implied, but rather appeared to have gone through the ravages of time. Still the Akbar looked sturdy. He also noticed there were many gorawalas (whitemen) aboard. They spoke strangely and behaved oddly with each other. Dookhee sighed. He boarded, found space in a corner of the Akbar, and prayed for a safe journey.
Aboard ship, the strange faces that Dookhee had seen in Calcutta began to single themselves out. The emigrants were assigned various tasks such as cleaning, washing and waiting tables. Dookhee was assigned the task of preparing food since he was an accomplished cook. It was in the kitchen that he met Rahaman and Sharma who were also cooks. They became good friends and often consoled one another in times of depression. So, too, many other friendships were formed and bonding took place. Names were not important. Everyone referred to each other as jahaji, fellow voyager.
The crossing aboard the Akbar was rough. The first week was the worst. Dookhee was unable to keep food down and wished he would die. Lurching from side to side as the ship tossed, he would stagger to the vomit bucket. Vomiting was the predominant illness among the indentured immigrants. Scurvy was next. Those who did die on the trip were simply thrown overboard.
In the evenings after dinner, the three cooks shared stories. ‘There’s a price on my head,’ Rahaman confided. ‘I was in the British army. I fled after the 1857 mutiny, and so I had to leave behind my wife and three children. I had no choice,’ he added sadly. ‘If I had stayed in Bharat, I would have been prosecuted.’ Dookhee and Sharma nodded. They knew the loneliness of missing loved ones. ‘If life is good in Chinidad,’ Rahaman brightened, ‘I will try to get my family to indenture themselves so that they we can all be together.’
‘The arkatiya tricked me into making the trip,’ Sharma said bitterly. ‘He assured me that he would take me to Benares. I am a Brahmin,’ he explained, ‘and I wanted to go to Benares to study for the purohita karma (priesthood). It was only after I had placed my thumbprint that I realised I had been tricked.’ Dookhee, too, shared his misfortunes with Sharma and Rahaman.
Despite these hardships, the indentured immigrants still found time to make merry. Dookhee was a good singer, and he knew many folksongs. Along with his other jahajis, he sang and danced and played music. This revelry temporarily distracted them from their burdens. The entire journey took approximately eight months, including a stop at Madagascar, where other emigrants were loaded.
Finally, the island of Trinidad was sighted. Dookhee gazed at the dark blot on the horizon. As the Akbar sailed closer, he could make out the three peaks for which Trinidad was named. Despite his tiredness and sadness, he was able to smile—a smile that reflected a million dreams. It was just a matter of time before he would finish his contract and return to his dharma patni and brothers a wealthy man, assuming his rightful place as head and provider for them. That feeling of belonging and worth warmed his heart, dissipating the chill and depression of the entire grueling trip. Soon the Akbar landed off Trinidad’s west coast in the Gulf of Paria. On arrival, all immigrants were quarantined at Nelson Island for three weeks.
Before being assigned to the various estates, the immigrants were briefed by the Protector of Immigrants who had been appointed by the British government to see that the terms and conditions of the contracts were adhered to—at least in theory.
‘You will be given a three week rest period in which to acclimatise,’ he announced.
‘I will now read your names and postings.’ Dookhee was assigned to the Petit Morne Estate. He listened for Rahaman’s and Sharma’s names. Unfortunately they were being sent to different estates, so the three jahajis would be separated.
The Protector of Immigrants finished reading the postings and shouted for their attention. ‘From now on all indentured immigrants will be called bound coolies. Assemble in your new groups!’ The bound coolies sorted themselves into clusters. ‘You coolies assigned to the Petit Morne Estate in the southern part of the island will work for a period of five years,’ the Protector of Immigrants barked. ‘Then and only then will you be free.’ Five years? But the arkatiya had said three. There must be some mistake. Dookhee made his way through the crowd to the front. He tried unsuccessfully to explain to the Protector of Immigrants what the arkatiya had promised. The Protector of Immigrants just laughed.
Dookhee realised that he had been deceived. The arkatiya had lied. Dookhee could not return to India immediately or even after three years. Soon he was on his way to the Petit Morne Estate where, along with the other coolies, he was placed in the barracks.
Inside the barracks was a chulha (fireside) for cooking and pals (jute bags) for sleeping. Dookhee removed his Ramayana from its red cloth, and placing it to his head and heart whispered, ‘Bhagwan Ram. I done come here. Please help me make through this five years so I could return to Bharat and be reunited with my family.’ The Ramayana text seemed to give Dookhee strength. He saw himself as Rama in the forest, and saw the five years as his exile period to be served before returning to his ayodhya (homeland). He still believed that ultimately he would be greatly rewarded.
Work on the estate was tough, but Dookhee managed. It was true that his work involved sugar, but producing sugar was very different from sifting sugar. Daily he labored from dawn til dusk tending the fields and sugar cane to ensure a bountiful harvest. This work was definitely harder his work in Bharat. He was constantly supervised, and there were few rest periods.
The bound coolies were provided with scant rations. If they rebelled they were whipped and jailed. Often Dookhee felt the walls of his stomach caving in, grating from lack of food. He felt like vomiting when this happened, but only sour, frothy mucus came up, its acid leaving his throat sore.
One afternoon, weak and shaking in the hot sun, Dookhee pleaded with the overseer. “I beg you, please give me some more food, or even a sip of water—” Before he could finish, he fainted. The overseer regarded Dookhee scornfully. The other indentured immigrants watched helplessly.
“Get back to work!” the overseer shouted. He strode to Dookhee. Dookhee felt the force of the whip on his back and heard the sickening sound of its leather scraping the flesh from his shoulders. The overseer left him wrenching in pain, the welts across his back too numerous to count and too painful to touch. He would have to rest on his belly until his bruises healed.
On more than one occasion, Dookhee was beaten so badly that he had to be taken to the infirmary. This gave him time to reflect. Reliving the whippings, he would involuntarily twist on the bed, feeling the pain all over again. The situation was hopeless. The Protector of Immigrants, himself a British Colonial, fraternized with the plantation owners and was unconcerned about the bound coolies. Dookhee wondered what bad karma he had done to have brought such undignified and inhumane treatment upon himself. He could only think it was punishment for hurting his wife and neglecting his family.
In the beginning, Dookhee counted the days he served on the estate, but each day of torture seemed like an eternity, and he ceased counting. It did not make sense to subject himself to this seemingly eternal disappointment of another day in Trinidad. Since he hardly ever slept, Dookhee resigned himself to being awakened from his daze by the bell, to bathing with a half bucket of brown water collected from an almost dry spring, to ingesting food then shuffling to the field for another day of back-breaking labour. He would stop only for lunch, after which he continued fertilizing, trashing or cutting sugarcane, this routine unchanged unless he was sent to dig drains which left him so tired at the end of the day, that he could hardly stagger to his barracks where he regularly fell asleep under the tree without bathing or eating. This ritual repeated itself interminably. It was only each Divali that Dookhee was able to calculate how much time had elap sed on his contract. What kept Dookhee from despairing was his dream of the day he would return to Bharat, the day he would see his wife again and be reunited with his family. This hope kept him alive throughout the endless scorching days, weeks, and months that he slaved and saved.
When his indentureship contract finally terminated, Dookhee prepared to return home to India. From his earnings, he purchased a pair of gold earrings for his doolahin which he carefully secured with his gold to take back with him. He gave his Ramayana to one of his friends on the estate. Then it was time to leave. The Protector of Immigrants asked Dookhee whether he would like to re-indenture himself.
‘No, Sahib (master),’ Dookhee replied. ‘I am going back to India and to my village.’
Carrying fewer passengers than the Akbar had brought to Trinidad, the Koomar set sail from Port-of-Spain, and Dookhee did not look back. He was on his way to India! He imagined how happy his wife and brothers would be to see him again. He was sure they thought he was dead. When he presented his accumulated wealth, they would be amazed and happy to see how much he had earned. The joy Dookhee felt at the prospect of returning to Janpur was overwhelming, and the journey seemed never-ending.
After several months the Koomar finally docked in Calcutta. Upon arrival, Dookhee knelt, kissed the earth and thanked God for his safe return. He noticed that his countrymen seemed to regard him suspiciously. Somehow there was venom in their eyes. He thought perhaps it was envy since he had returned aboard a ship after having been to a foreign land. He decided to ignore their apparent hostility.
From Calcutta he found his way back to his native village retracing almost the same roads as when he had left. Little had changed. The land was still barren, parched for water. The villages were unaltered. Finally he approached Janpur. The excitement at being back in his village was almost too much to bear. There was the oxcart that had carried him to the train station, an ox nearby grazing on dried bits of vegetation. Dookhee’s heart pounded and he had to pinch himself to realize he was actually in Janpur and not dreaming. Even after six years the village looked exactly the same, untouched by time. Eagerly he went in search of his wife and brothers.
As Dookhee passed a familiar cow that belonged to Lallaji, he suddenly stopped. Ahead, its light grey bark peeling in patches was the peepal tree where he had made his commitment to the arkatiya to go to Trinidad. As he stared at the tree, its heart-shaped leaves rustling in the breeze, images of his hardships in Chinidad flashed through his mind. He was thankful to be home, thankful that his village looked the same after more than six years.
He walked on until ahead was his house. He surveyed its surroundings. Everything was as he had left it. He could not recognise any changes except that the once colourful rangoli (decoration), adorning the doorway was now faded. Trembling, Dookhee called out to his wife.
‘Aai, doolahin! Aai, doolahin!’ he called. Most of the elders in the village also called her doolahin, this was a sign of love and respect. A frail -looking woman holding a clay pot emerged, dressed in the white sari worn by widows. She stared at Dookhee. The pot fell from her hands.
‘Arey Bhagwan! (Oh, God!)’ she gasped.
‘That is really you?’ whispered. Dookhee noticed that she had lost a lot of weight ‘Yes, doolahin,’ Dookhee and looked a lot older than she was, it pricked at his conscience because he knew it was all because of him she was in this condition. He silently swore to take care of her and bring her back to her radiant look. ‘Come and see what I bring for you.’ Doolahin continued to stare at him.
‘I thought you was killed in the mutiny.’
Dookhee did not answer. With tear-filled eyes, Doolahin hurriedly prepared the thali (brass plate) and deya (earthen vessel) to perform aarti (adulation) for Dookhee. By this time, word had spread and Dookhee's brothers arrived. Dookhee ran quickly to embrace them, but to his surprise they turned their backs. The eldest spoke.
‘After all these years, you return from crossing the Kala Paani (Black Water), but you are no longer wanted in this gaon (village).’ He added sadly, ‘The Panchayat say so.’ Dookhee was stunned.
‘The Panchayat say so?’ he repeated dumbly.
‘Yes.’ From outside Dookhee recognized the loud and authoritative voice of the pahalwan (village chief). Dookhee opened the door.
‘You are to leave ek dam se (immediately),’ the pahalwan ordered. According to tradition he was considered contaminated having deserted the village and gone to a foreign land. Dookhee looked at his wife and brothers. Miserably they nodded in approval at the pahalwan’s command. Dookhee realized that his wife and brothers were devastated, but they were helpless. When the panchayat made a decision, it was irrevocable. Dookhee had been declared a kujat (outcast). He could no longer remain. It was futile to resist. His life in Janpur had come to an end.
Dookhee threw his gold and jewels on the ground. He took a final glance at his wife, brothers and fellow villagers, and his eyes brimmed with tears. Then he took water in his hands and threw it over his head saying, ‘Ram naam satya hain (Only God knows the truth).’ His wife shrieked, the pain of this act seem to resonate throughout the village, she fully understood the meaning of this action. Even though she live like a widow before his return this was just an exterior show, somewhere deep in her soul she never lost that unexplained bond of attachment that can only be experienced between a husband and wife. She felt like a corpse herself, she thought to herself at this time that she should perform the suti ritual of jumping into the pyre with her husband’s body but there was no body or pyre. She now felt like a light -headed with this confusion He had severed his familial connections in the presence of all. For him they no longer existed. Choking on his sadness, he turned and staggered away.
It was the arkatiya who had brought this misery on me, he thought. If only I had never met him. If only the arkatiya had not tempted me, lied to me. Dookhee walked aimlessly until he reached the peepal tree. He wondered what he should do now. If I ever see that arkatiya again, I will strangle him with my own hands, he vowed. Exhausted, his dreams and hopes shattered, he fell asleep under the peepal tree.
‘Get out from here at once! Kujat!’ a voice screamed. Startled Dookhee awakened to behold an angry villager. Then he remembered. He was outcast. With a heavy heart he arose and left Janpur.
After a few hours, tired and hungry, he arrived at another basti (village). He sat resting in the shade of a tree when he heard voices approaching. ‘After just three years, you will be coming back with plenty jewels and gold,’ the voice was saying. To his amazement it was the arkatiya, still recruiting volunteers to make the trip to Trinidad.
Dookhee was tempted to jump up and attack him, but his inner mind told him there were too many witnesses. He decided to trail the arkatiya instead, waiting for the opportune moment to kill him. Maintaining a discreet distance, Dookhee followed the arkatiya.
The moment he awaited did not take long. While the arkatiya rested under a Neem tree, his escorts abandoned him to use the outhouse. Swiftly and silently Dookhee approached the dozing arkatiya. He placed his hands strong from squeezing cane stalks around the arkatiya’s neck. ‘Sala (bastard), you remember me,’ he said softly, choking the arkatiya. ‘Only now I am kujat. The life I had is dead, and you are the cause of my misfortune.’ The arkatiya’s eyes bulged, then he stopped resisting.
‘You dead now, Sala,’ Dookhee whispered. Then he ran away.
Matters were complicated for Dookhee. Not only was Janpur no longer his home, but now he was a murderer. He had to flee, to get far away. Dookhee remembered his jahaji, Rahaman, who fled Bharat to escape prosecution. Some months later, at Calcutta, Dookhee boarded the Sevilla bound for Trinidad.
