‘Could we please talk about your grandson?’
‘What’s he done wrong?’ Sirdar asked, scowling at the boy.
‘Nothing! Quite the contrary, he’s done so many things right that I want to talk seriously about his future.’
‘Future? Here’s his future,’ and he spread his arms outward to encompass his shop.
‘Could we, perhaps, ask his mother to join us? These are matters of great importance, Mr. Banarjee.’
‘Matters of great importance are settled by men,’ he said, stressing the word, and he led Carmody and Ranjit into his cluttered office, where he said, with hands spread on his desk: ‘Now tell me the problem, and reasoning together like sensible men, we can solve it.’
‘Your grandson here is a boy of dormant ability.’
‘Dormant means sleeping?’ When Carmody nodded, Sirdar cuffed his grandson: ‘Wake up!’
‘It’s really you, Mr. Banarjee, who must wake up.’
‘Me? You don’t run a shop like this in Trinidad by sleeping.’
‘Where’d you get the name Portugee?’ Carmody asked, seeking to placate the man.
‘When the Indians came here in 1850 or thereabouts to work the cane fields, most of the shops were owned by Portugees, and since they had the reputation of offering the best bargains, anyone who started his shop, like my grandfather, called it a Portugee.’
‘Very practical, and now I want you to be practical.’
‘This is going to cost me money, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I want you to send Ranjit on to the university. He deserves it.’
‘University? Where?’
‘I feel sure he could win a bursary in almost any of the finest. You have a very intelligent grandson, Mr. Banarjee. He deserves an opportunity.’
Carmody saw at once that he had used effective words: bursary, intelligent, finest and opportunity. The conversation had been elevated to a level that the grandfather recognized and appreciated.
‘That word bursary. Does it mean what I think?’
‘That the university will pay most of his fees? Yes.’
‘Like what university?’
‘Cambridge, Oxford, our own Caribbean university in Jamaica.’
For the first time Ranjit entered the conversation: ‘Columbia in New York.’
Sirdar leaned back and smiled, first at Carmody, then at Ranjit: ‘You mean that this boy could go to those places?’ and Carmody said with vigor: ‘Yes, if you help him financially, and if he directs all his efforts to accomplishing something specific.’
‘What’s he failing in?’ and when Carmody explained that in little things Ranjit was doing well but that in big ones like the direction of his life or preparation for some major contribution he was accomplishing nothing, the old shopkeeper showed no anger: ‘I’ve known for some time that Ranjit would never be satisfied with taking my place. I’ve laid other plans … one of his cousins who is working in a sugar mill. That boy has desire.’ Then he turned to Ranjit and said: ‘Time is a fleeting chariot across the sky. So quick it sets at dusk behind the clouds. Talk with Master Carmody. Find out what you can do, and if you really have promise, as the master says, we can find the money to help. Oxford! My goodness.’
On the trip back to school Carmody spelled out the agenda: ‘You’ve proved you can write, but you haven’t proved you can tackle a subject of some importance and stay with it. If you demonstrate that ability, I’m positive I can land you a major bursary, because remember this, Ranjit, all universities are searching for really bright boys. The average, they can get by the bushel.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I don’t want you to do anything. I want you to settle upon some project of substance and show me what you can accomplish.’
The boy did not answer, but four days later Carmody again found on his desk a single sheet of paper, once again labeled Master Carmody, but this time it covered a sheaf of nine pages. The general title of the essay was “Teachings of My Grandfather Sirdar,” and before Carmody had read the fourth page, so Indian in subject, so mature in observation, he muttered: ‘He can do it. My God! This Indian boy out of nowhere can do it!’
Who are the Trinidad Indians? In 1845 the white plantation owners of Trinidad finally awakened to the harsh facts: ‘Because the Sentimentalists in England have outlawed slavery, we are allowed no more African Negroes, and the ones we already have prance around shouting: “We’re free! Work no more!” ’ So the owners sent ships to Calcutta to import huge numbers of Indian peasants, who, when they reached here, were described in whispers as ‘our light-skinned slaves’ and treated that way.
My ancestor, the first Sirdar. In one of the ships bringing Hindus to Trinidad was a young man of clever mind and unknown caste. Seeing that the British owners of the ship needed someone to keep the Hindus in order, he announced himself as a former Sirdar of distinguished caste, a kind of general manager of everything, and he made himself so helpful that those in command accepted him as their Sirdar, and he liked the title so much he kept it, and we Banarjees have used it ever since. Late in life, when his Portugee Shop was making lots of money, he provided his grandchildren a statement which they treasured but kept secret: ‘My name was not Banarjee. My caste was the lowest. I did not come from Calcutta. And I learned French when I was exiled to Reunion.’ And my grandfather told me that when he heard our first Sirdar, his grandfather, tell the story, the old man ended: ‘And I’m the best trader ever to reach Trinidad, no matter what color.’
Carmody was delighted to think that in two paragraphs Ranjit had succintly defined his ancestry, but he was far more impressed by what the boy revealed about the Banarjees of this century.
Chooosing a wife: One of the first things my grandfather taught me was the importance of finding the right wife: ‘No Indian man can marry a black woman. It would be impossible.’ And in all the years since 1845, when the first Indians arrived in Trinidad until today, this has never happened among the Indians we know. But he said the same about Chinese women, and Portuguese, and especially white English or French women: ‘The Indian man can marry only the Indian woman. That is the one law before all others.’ And men like him have waited years to marry till proper Indian wives could be imported from India.
Jewels as a proof of love: Grandfather said that if an Indian really loved his wife, he gave her jewels to prove it. I found a diary of a French traveler who wrote in 1871 of my great-great-grandfather’s wife: ‘In Port of Spain at the well-known Portugee Shop I met Madame Banarjee, a woman of great charm who wore on each arm some twelve or fourteen big bracelets of solid gold or silver. Around her neck she wore chains of the same metal on which hung large disks of silver embellished with precious stones from Brazil, while in her nose she wore an immense diamond. Her worth as she walked to greet me must have been tremendous.’
How to treat grave robbers: When the wife of my great-great-grandfather died, he buried her wearing all her gold and silver, and an English official protested: ‘But you’re throwing away a fortune,’ but he replied: ‘She brought me a fortune, and I would not like to see her in another world poorer than when she came to me.’ Three days later, when the police came to the Portugee Shop to inform him that grave robbers had dug into her coffin and taken all the precious metals and the jewels, he said: ‘They were hers. She spent them as she thought best.’ But when some of the jewels surfaced in the Trinidad bazaars sometime later, he made careful note of who had them and of how they had obtained them, and shortly after that several men were found dead … one by one.
Carmody read these glimpses into Indian life with growing interest, satisfied that Ranjit had not only a grasp of his heritage but also understood the fascinating complexities and contradictions of Trinidad life.
Muslims: In Trinidad three Indians out of four are Hindus, the others are Muslim, whom Hindus do not like. When you hear of an Indian husband who has cut off his wife’s nose or ears, you can be sure it’s a Muslim who has caught her lookin
g at another man. He disfigures her so she’ll not be pretty enough anymore to attract other men. Hindus act different. My grandfather’s brother fancied that his wife was taking an undue interest in another man, and chopped her across the throat. When arrested for murder he could not understand what all the noise was about, and when the English judge ordered him to be hanged, he told the judge in a loud voice to go to hell. I think the Muslim way is better, for the husband still has his wife, nose or no nose, while my grandfather’s brother lost his wife and his life, too.
Carmody was eager to see what Ranjit had to say about the Indians’ capacity to excel in business regardless of where in the world they emigrated, and the boy did not disappoint:
Managing a shop: Grandfather told me: ‘Since white people have most of the money, you must be nice to them no matter what happens, no matter what complaints they make. If they say the cloth is no good, take it back. And keep on taking it back until they’re satisfied. But remember that there aren’t too many white people on the island, so you must also be attentive to the former slaves, because although they spend only pennies, if you can encourage enough people to spend their pennies, you can earn a lot of money. Muslims are never to be trusted, but their money is good. And people who get off the ships even for a few hours are to be treated with special care, for such people move about and tell others. And sometimes you’ll get a letter from people you never saw, because you were nice to somebody who told them about us. And such letters often contain big orders.’ Grandfather has told me and all his grandchildren: ‘Integrity is everything. Live so that people speak of you as a man whose word is his bond of honor.’
When Carmody read that excerpt he had to smile, because he had heard two lawyers and a judge affirm in his club that ‘Sirdar Banarjee is the biggest damned liar in Trinidad, with Tobago and Barbados thrown in.’ Another, overhearing this judgment, added from his table: ‘If Sirdar swears it’s Thursday, check your calendar. It’ll be Friday, but he’ll say it’s any other day of the week if that’s to his advantage.’ Carmody was fascinated trying to guess what his star pupil would say about that.
Law: Since Indians in Trinidad have the bad reputation of being liars and in court to be perjurers, I wanted to know how my grandfather would explain this, and he told me: ‘They say that since we Hindus don’t know the meaning of swearing on the Bible, we’re all perjurers. It isn’t that way. I know very well what it means, Ranjit. It means: “God up in heaven is watching and listening and He wants me to tell the truth.” But the judge is down here and it’s my job to tell him what he needs to give the right decision. You have to pick your way between these two persons sitting over you. And a good rule to follow is one I adopted years ago: “Whatever is good for a member of the Banarjee family is good for the island of Trinidad,” and that helps me know what to say in court.’ Later he gave me a brief summary of his approach to the problem that the whites called perjury: ‘You give God what He expects and the judge what he needs.’
Carmody found Ranjit’s writing so capable and his sly comments so witty and mature, even though they may have been inadvertent, that he decided he must force the issue about the boy’s ongoing education, so one afternoon when classes ended he invited Ranjit to accompany him on a hike into the hills above Tunapuna, and as they looked over the green fields of Trinidad he said: ‘Ranjit, with your grandfather willing to help pay for your education and me convinced that I can get you a bursary, you must make two big decisions. What university, and when you get there, what specialization? First the university, Oxford or Cambridge?’
‘I might like to go to some good school in New York.’
‘That would be a mistake.’
‘Why?’
‘You live in the Caribbean. Your future is in these English colonies—I mean nations—among leaders who’ve been educated in the English pattern.’
‘Maybe that pattern isn’t so good anymore. Maybe I ought to go to Japan. Like all the Banarjees, I find languages easy.’
The idea stunned Carmody. None of his friends in either Ireland or here on the islands had ever contemplated so much as a flying vacation to Japan, and now this youth, this hesitant boy, really, was talking of spending the formative years of his life there. It was preposterous.
‘How about the University of the West Indies … in Jamaica … for your undergraduate work?’ He stopped abruptly. ‘You are planning graduate work … to get your doctorate?’
‘Well, if it worked out … maybe.’
Irritated by the boy’s indecision, Carmody asked gruffly: ‘How about U.W.I. to sort of feel your way about? You’ll get top honors, I’m sure. And decide then where you wish to move on to. Oxford … I’m quite sure you’ll be eligible … Maybe the London School of Economics if you have a political bent?’
‘I still think I might want to go to Columbia in New York.’
‘Ranjit, as I’ve already told you, attending an American university won’t help you if you want to make your life in what is essentially a British island.’ The boy said nothing, so Carmody said: ‘You must tell me what it is you want to be.’
‘A scholar. Like John Stuart Mill or John Dewey. I like knowing about things. Maybe I will study the history and the people of the Caribbean.’ Almost diffidently he added: ‘I can read French and Spanish.’
Carmody contemplated this unexpected turn, and finally surrendered: ‘You could do well in such fields, Ranjit. You could pursue such studies and at the end find yourself qualified to go in either direction, writing or scholarship.’
‘Why do you always put writing first?’
‘Because if a man has a chance to be a writer and turns it down, he’s a damned fool.’ He stamped about kicking rocks, and came to rest facing Ranjit: ‘Have you read any of the Irish writers? Yeats, Synge, Juno and the Paycock? You must read them. They took an amorphous mass and turned it into a nation. Someone will do the same for the West Indies. It could be you.’
‘No, I’ll be the one who gathers him the data.’
‘In that case, you really must spend your first three years at U.W.I. in Jamaica.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’ll meet students from all the other islands. Learn from them the character of the Caribbean.’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘Dammit!’ Carmody stormed as he pitched rocks furiously into the valley below. ‘Don’t act the indifferent fool. You said yourself you wanted to study about the Caribbean. The contribution you are ideally qualified to make focuses on this region. You’re a Trinidadian, a native of a special island with special opportunities. You’re an Indian with perspective on the British and French islands. You’re a Hindu with your unique view of the other island religions. And you have been endowed with a rare sense of words and the English sentence. You have an obligation to more than yourself.’
Before Ranjit could react, the emotional Irishman did something of which teachers are always aware but rarely reveal; he related the boy to himself: ‘It’s not only your investment, Ranjit, it’s mine too. A teacher finds a really promising student only once or twice in a long career. Many good, yes, but with a chance to be great … not often. You’re my one chance. I’ve taught you, charted your progress, written letters to get you bursaries. And for what? So that you will be able to use your brains to the maximum for the rest of your life. You are not allowed to be indifferent, for I ride with you, to the heights or the depths. I’ve committed these years in Trinidad to you, and you must go forward, because you take me with you.’
The statement so startled Ranjit, who had, up to this moment, never thought of himself as having any significance or the ability to make a contribution—had never, indeed, thought of himself as an adult doing anything—that he sat silent, hands clasped beneath his chin as he looked for the first time at his Trinidad, seeing the sugar fields on which his ancestors in the 1850s had toiled like slaves, and far in the southern distance, not discernible to the eye, the oil fields and the asphalt pits on which t
he island’s riches depended. He caught a vision of himself as a kind of referee collecting data about this and the other islands and forming judgments about them, to be shared. In other words, he had been goaded into thinking of himself as a scholar.
‘I will go to Jamaica,’ he said solemnly, ‘and make myself informed.’
When Ranjit Banarjee, a precocious Hindu boy of fifteen, flew from Trinidad to Jamaica to enroll in the University of the West Indies, he was amazed at the distance between the two islands, more than a thousand miles, and when he studied the map of the Caribbean and found that Barbados far to the east was more than twelve hundred miles from Jamaica, he told an incoming freshman in the registration line: ‘Jamaica must have been the worst possible site for an island university,’ and the young man, a black from All Saints, replied jokingly: ‘Best location would have been my island, All Saints, but it’s too small.’ Then he added: ‘Geography and history don’t mix well in the Caribbean.’
‘What do you mean?’ and the young black responded: ‘If Jamaica were a thousand miles farther east, where it’s needed, everything would be all right.’
Discussions like that occurred often during Ranjit’s first Michaelmas term at the university. When he was not astonished by the wide variety of students—jet-black boys like the one from All Saints, Chinese from the western end of Jamaica, French speakers from the Dominican Republic, and eye-stopping girls of light color from Antigua and Barbados—he was surprised at how well educated they seemed to be. They behaved with a quiet confidence, as if they had come to Jamaica to learn something, and he told himself: I’ll bet they were just as good at their books as I was, and his first days in class fortified that opinion.