India Arrival Day May 31
“Some lesser husbands built a latrine on the hillside.”
V.S. Naipaul, A House for Mr. Biswas
My outstanding prayer from Hindu Divali, October’s festival of lights, was finally answered last week when a rogue box of Cheerio’s miraculously showed up in The Falls Mall, keeping slender hope alive. And the blessings only continue, as today is yet another national holiday—India Arrival Day—commemorating the “the second emancipation“ and providing yet another reason to close schools, banks, and, naturally, government.
On May 30, 1845, the Indian ship Fath Al Razak docked in Port of Spain, signaling the arrival of the first immigrants from the subcontinent, 225 of them, destined for the sugarcane plantations. Their voyage lasted 103 days, over 14,000 miles, to the opposite side of the earth. They were offered 5-year and 10-year contracts, followed by a free trip home, but most (75%) stayed and continued working the estates, in exchange for small pieces of land.
The colonial estate system did not end until 1917. By then almost 150,000 East Indians had arrived. Today thousands of tiny properties remain in constant dispute, with each plot signifying generations of toil and blood. One peculiar tactic for contesting a family claim is materializing a Buck, a Guyana demon with misshapen limbs and malice aforethought, who still seems to thrive on the old dismantled estates.
In the wake of Emancipation, the Empire needed to fill a cheap-labor void in the West Indies, but especially Guyana and Trinidad, and the subcontinent presented an opportunity. Indeed 44% of Guyana citizens trace ancestry to East India. Smaller percentages also celebrate Arrival Day in Grenada and Saint Lucia, but the first nationally designated Day is reported to be Trinidad’s, although our self-reporters are prone to slight exaggeration.
“Meesta Show!“ Naipaul’s arm waves like bamboo, as he runs me down in the parking lot. He has replaced his black Nehru shirt and sturdy boots with a crisp button-down with polished brown shoes. Clearly he is finished work at the gate and ready to go someplace nice, maybe for a family dinner of curry goat. Like a forensic analyst, he once told me the favored dish was a way he could distinguish a Guyanese, who calls it “goat curry,“ not “curry goat,“ which apparently makes all the difference in the world to an Indo-Trini.
“Happy holiday,“ I say, feeling the weight of my yams and potatoes in my sagging Massy bag. I prefer to avoid problems, and I fear Naipaul, however cheerful, may be presenting me with one.
“T’ank blessin’s. Yuh tile huv arrived!“ Three months ago, some one on staff with a drill made a nickel-size hole through the wall of my shower, accompanied with copious apologizes from Ali, the apartment manager. He promised a prompt repair. Many months later, a ceramic bathroom tile joins my box of Cheerios as another prayer answered.
“That’s great news,“ I lie. In truth, I have no expectation of seeing my tile replaced before I leave in five weeks. “Do you have special plans for the long weekend?“ I am wondering if Naipaul’s large family might recount their famous uncle’s tales of a country torn by “a million little mutinies“—or, of a “paradise further away from India but a little bit closer to hell.“
“No,“ says the beanstalk. “We go watch Harold and Kumar (Go To White Castle).“ An Indo-Trini classic. As cousin Vidia would say, nonfiction can distort, and facts can always be realigned, but fiction never lies.