Ravi the Unknown Prince (4 page)

My father had done that for his parents, and I was going to do the same for my parents and two siblings.

We have our own private burial ground on our land; my grand-father bought the land from the white masters after he got married, for one shilling per acre.

A land that was already there before the British conquered it; they fought the Dutch and took it over, and then they sold it off to the settlers.

The white masters divided the land into acres and plots, with their own markings as they were being sold off.

My great grand-parents were buried in the first reef, and my grand-parents in the second reef, along with my parents and two siblings.

When I was dropped off at home, I thanked the Baccus family and said that I would see them on Wednesday, the day after tomorrow.

Maymun said “InshaAllah, and I replied back “InshaAllah.” I was getting the hang of the Arabic words and their meaning.

After I fed my chickens and ducks, and collected the eggs, I went to sleep and did not wake up until the next morning.

That day I went looking for my two school friends, a black boy named James and Ramnarine, a Hindu like me. They both lived in the next village.

When I called on them they were willing to help me to do the fencing of my loved ones.

After we had finished the fence work, we picked coconuts and sat under the wild berry trees drinking the water and eating the flesh of the coconut.

When Ramnarine asked, why only now I had decided to mark each grave and put some fencing around them.

I told them that I was leaving for America and that I had no one here or anything to keep me hanging on.

The ones I loved had left me a long time ago; eight years on and no relatives came to look for me, and that was the reason I decided to leave while I was still young.

My two friends understood, we all started school together and the two of them went on to High School, and were now looking for work, with their qualifications, where as I was leaving my home-land to better myself.

I told them that I was going to miss them, but I would call on them before I left the country.

When we left the grave yard, I felt sad and lonely. If one of my relatives had survived with me I would not have thought of leaving, but stayed behind and taken care of the other survivor.

That night I dreamt my parents; they were both standing together, and were the same ages when they had passed away and had not aged at all.

I was talking to them but got no response, I realised that the dead cannot reply back, or tell the dreamer anything.

I woke up frightened, I never dreamt of my parents before; and why only now? I visited them whenever I could, but had never once seen them in a dream.

The following day, I took my text books and notes and went to the Baccus’s house as arranged for 4pm.

I rode my bicycle and got there on time, Asma was waiting in the kitchen area downstairs.

They had placed a table and two chairs for me to teach her, and where her mother would be around doing her cooking and domestic chores.

Girls were well protected, especially Muslim and Hindu young ladies from the ages of puberty until they were married.

They greeted me on arrival; I did not see uncle Ismael or his son, Harun. I asked Maymun and she told me that they had gone to check on the cows in the field and should be home soon.

She gave me a cold drink, as I sat down with my text books; and Asma with her note pad.

I started from the beginning of my text book and explained to her, and then gave her some simple arithmetic to do. Once she got the hang of it I increased her work.

When her mother left the kitchen area to go into the garden at the back of the house, she grabbed my hand and took the pencil I was using.

“Why did you do that?” I asked, and I took the pencil from her.

“Did any girl ever tell you how handsome you are?” she remarked.

“Stop it, before I told your mother what you just said and leave,” I answered.

“You don’t like girls,” she asked.

“Did I say that?” I replied.

“Please don’t say anything to my mum,” she pleaded.

“Then don’t do it again. I said I am here to teach you and nothing else,” I told her.

Her parents were helping me out of the Country, and she was going to jeopardise everything for me.

If Ismael and Maymun saw me getting too friendly with their daughter they might changed their minds to take me along with them.

My only opportunity would end before it began, if I was not careful with this bossy girl.

I had to work out a strategy not to be in the same room with her. I would be spending three hours every Monday and Wednesday giving her lessons, until she took her Maths examinations.

I gave her some home-work before I left. When I returned for the Monday session I would correct her work, and give her another set of work to do, and what she did not understood or got wrong I would go over with her.

Asma was not stupid. She grasped whatever I explained to her quickly. She was still going to school and would be taking all her exams before we left the country.

Her father wanted her to have a career, on whatever she was capable of doing, and she was going to continue school in New York.

In the weeks that followed I sold my mother’s gold jewellery, with sadness in my heart, except for one gold sovereign which my father gave me before he died.

He said it was from my great grand-mother who came from India, she kept it as a sentiment.

To remind her of her home-land and who she was, and that I should keep it, before he could tell me the rest of the story he passed away.

My father’s working tools I sold also, and with the money I raised I bought a suit, some new clothes, shoes and a suitcase, and kept the rest for my ticket to America.

A month before my departure, I went to see Muna my school friend, to get her aunt’s address.

The old lady whose house they took over; I did not want to leave without saying goodbye to the old woman.

Muna’s brother had told me that she was learning shorthand and typing at a College in Bath Settlement a journey of five miles.

I could not go to their house, her mother was too strict, and I was afraid of her drunkard father.

I made the journey on bicycle, when I got to the school which was a big old house, I asked the woman at the reception desk if I could see Muna Khan for a few minutes.

“Are you a relative?” she asked.

“No, a school friend,” I replied.

She told me to wait, minutes later a short obese East Indian woman came out.

“Why do you want to see Miss Khan?” she questioned in a stern voice, “Boys are not allowed here. Well young man?” she asked.

I explained to her that I was seeking the address of an old lady related to Muna and I wanted to see her before I left the country.

“Wait right here,” she said as she moved her large figure around and went into another room.

Shortly afterwards, Muna appeared, “Ravi, she said, you looked grown up.”

I was about to say the same thing, that this ugly duckling grew into a beautiful swan like the fairy tale story.

I could not believe that it was Muna. She was smiling I never noticed that she had a dimple on her right cheek until then.

She was a very attractive young lady, slim and of medium height with a flawless light complexion.

I had not seen her around for two years, although we lived three doors away from each other.

She was a year younger than me, I used to help her with her sums home-work during our recess period; she was good at spelling and always spoke the truth.

After I got over the initial shock, I finally told her why I came to see her. She gave the number of the Village and said that I should ask for the Uddin family, when I got there.

“Why are you going to visit my aunt?” she questioned.

“I wanted to see her before I left the country,” I replied.

“Where are you going Ravi?” she asked.

“I am leaving for America next month,” I answered.

She was not smiling any more. “I wish I could come with you,” she said with sadness in her voice.

“Muna, you are Muslim girl.’’ I reminded her.

“What difference does it make? You were my best friend when we were growing up, and now you are saying goodbye,” she said with tears in her eyes.

“You won’t come back?” she asked.

“When I get my green card I will return to check on my property over here.” I answered.

I told her the date I was leaving and that I would come to see her the evening before I left, to say goodbye.

“Promise?” she asked.

“I promise,” I answered.

The large woman swaying her hips returned, “Miss Khan your time is up, no more talking,” she said.

“Young man, you got what you came for?” she asked as she gave me a long hard look.

“Yes madam, thank you,” I answered. Muna then said bye and I replied back.

When I left the big old house and rode out into the street. I kept thinking Muna had changed a lot since I last saw her.

She was slim and beautiful, her hair had a kind of reddish brown colour only on the bottom half of her head, like all her sisters and mother.

She once told me during our school days that they were descended from the Carib tribe Indians on her mother’s side.

I asked her whether her ancestors were cannibals, according to history they ate the white men that went there and discovered them.

Those that escaped wrote books about them, and how the sailors were eaten by this indigenous tribe.

“Don’t believe everything people write, Ravi,” she answered, “they have plenty of fish, and animal, why would they want to eat people?” she remarked.

The following day, I took some white paint and went to paint the rectangular shaped fence around the four graves.

After the first coat, I sat under the wild berry bushes waiting for it to dry, before I applied the second coat of paint.

While I was waiting I began to look at the wild life around me, there were lizards, mongooses, hare, foxes, and many other reptiles searching for food.

Over-head were dozens of scarlet and green Macaw on the fruit trees, they were making noises as they ate in a hurry and flew away.

As the heat of the midday sun intensified these creatures took cover from the sun and go into hiding for their moment of siesta.

Only the human beings and the working ants that carried cut leaves bigger than them-selves braved the heat of the sun.

This place where my people were laid to rest my father had brought me here when he was fencing and painting the wooden pickets of his parent’s grave shortly after my grandmother had passed away.

I had vivid memories of her as a five year old child. She was short and plump with a light complexion and had long white hair.

She would sing to me, and tell me stories of long ago and held me on her lap so I would not run away.

Grand-father chose this place to be buried, where the soil was sandy, and a sort of desert colour with the overhanging wild berry trees, cactus plants, and black sage bushes laden with red fruits near by.

My father and his father once sat at this very spot where I was now sitting, to watch their herd of cattle grazing in the meadow below.

This place was also used to heap the cut rice collected from the field, not far from here, tied in bundles and then placed like a pyramid with the stalk at the top and the grains hanging down wards.

Another process would take place, where the bundle would be scattered and two pairs of oxen yoked together would walk around it until the grains fell apart, and was completely separated from the stalk.

It was hard work in those days, an old and primitive method, until the combine harvester was introduced.

The entire landscape was open and breezy, trees were planted to mark each and every owner’s plot of land, which started from the main road and ran right down to the savannah.

One main dam was available for everyone and everything; tractors, cows, people and all living creatures.

The dam itself was made of mud, in the rainy seasons it would break down as the mud softened.

The locals would pile more mud upon mud, and in the dry seasons it would harden as it baked in the sun.

On the other side of this mud dam was a river, which collected rain water as far as the Savannah and other canals in between and emptied it out into the Atlantic Ocean.

Once the sun had gone down below the tall trees I applied the second coat of paint to the fence.

While I was painting I told my parents that I was leaving them and going to a distant land, but they would always remain in my heart.

I told them that if one of them had survived I would not have made this hasty decision to leave.

I do not know whether the dead could hear, but I said what was in my heart; according to Hinduism they believed in Karma.

A person’s action in this life would determine his or her next existence.

I simply did not understand that philosophy. I intended to return to say my farewell, before I left the country.

After I had finished my painting I rode my bicycle and stopped by the first reef where my great grand-parents were laid to rest.

In two unmarked graves next to a tree they called Peepar, but in fact it was a cinnamon tree.

The dried bark of that tree was used for cakes and other cooking products, it is an Asian Tree, but what was it doing here in South America.?

Did they bring it with them on that long voyage, or was it there when they bought the land.

I braced my bicycle on the tree and broke a piece of the dried bark and began to chew into it while I stood back and looked at the unmarked graves.

I was wondering which one was my great grand-father, and which one was my great grand-mother.

They were both born in India and travelled half way around the world to be buried at this spot next to that cinnamon tree; our life in it-self is a mystery.

As for her, my great grand-mother, if the sayings were true that she was from a royal house-hold, what brought her here; and what was she running from?