CHAPTER 1
The bell rang twice. I looked through the window and saw the mailman standing by the gate. I ran down the stairs and snatched the envelope he offered me. I looked at it expectantly. It was from the university. I remained rooted to the ground for a moment, and prayed that I gained admission. Fear gripped me as I thought of the prospect of any bad news, and lost the courage to open the envelope. I walked swiftly up the stairs to the kitchen where my mother was preparing lunch.
"Vicky, why are you so excited?" my mother asked as I approached her. Seeing the envelope in my hand, she continued with tranquil pleasure, "I see! It's your girlfriend. I tell you several times if you want to marry, I'll get you married, but you're still too young and ---"
I interrupted as my mother was beginning to be conversational. "No, it's not about any girl. It's a letter from the university. Please read it quickly for me."
"Don't tell me you can't read."
"You know I can't stand the shock of disappointment. I know you'll bring me luck if you open the envelope."
She turned off the kerosene stove and sat on a chair with the envelope in her hand. "Son," she said reflectively, "life's full of so many sorrows, disappointments, failures, heart-aches. You must learn to face life with courage or else you can't survive in this world." She never forgot to call me "son" whenever she delved into her philosophical realm. "You're a big boy now, but you've a girl's heart and your childish behavior---"
"The letter, Ma, the letter," I said encouragingly, trying to conceal my inquietude.
Finally, she opened the envelope. I sat a talking distance from her and watched her with eagerness, attempting to read her facial expressions as I prayed for something positive to be written in that letter, the contents of which could change the course of my life. Her lips moved as she mumbled something. Then she smiled faintly. I couldn't hold myself anymore. I grabbed the letter from her hand and read it eagerly.
"Wow! I'll be attending university!" I burst out with enthusiasm. I hugged and kissed my mother. Rover ran upstairs, wagging his tail in delight. Whitenose awoke from his slumber under the bed and came purring around. They moved up and down the kitchen with me as I kept prancing with the letter in my hand. Both, however, looked dejected, as if they didn't want to share my happiness. Then they filed away sadly downstairs. Strange, I thought.
I turned to my mother whose presence I had actually forgotten. She, too, looked dispirited. I couldn't remember the last time I saw her looked so glum. She was deep in thought with her head leaning on one hand. I detected tears shimmering in her eyes. My spurt of joy died an instantaneous death and gloom pervaded the entire kitchen. I moved my chair and sat beside her. "Ma, what has come over you? Aren't you happy I'll be attending university? Aren't you happy I'll fulfill one of my life's dreams? I can't bear to see you look like this."
She finally spoke coolly. "Vicky, what mother does not want to see her children happy? Haven't I always tried to make you happy despite my struggles? I always dream of your happiness. I've nothing against you attending university, but I'm thinking of the cost. You'll need to eat, you'll need a place to live, you'll need tuition fees, you'll need books, and you'll need pocket money. Plus clothing and many other things I can't think about now."
"But I can go without clothing. I'll use what I have. I'll go without pocket money. I'll borrow my friends' books, and make use of the library."
She ignored my plea and continued reflectively, "When you were attending grade school, you know how hard I tried with your upkeep. I knew I wasn't spending my money in vain. You were always on top of your class. During your days in high school, you know the kind of sacrifices I made. I'm certain you'll be successful at the university, but I don't know how I'll manage to finance you."
She paused and asked for a drink of water. As I handed it to her, I said with a ray of hope, "But we've some money in the bank."
"Yes ... yes, but will that money be enough to support you for four years? You've been working for two years, and I saved every penny of your money. You insisted we use some of the money to buy this house. Otherwise we would be living in that old, rotten house you never liked. I didn't ... well ... I didn't realize you'll want to attend university so soon. I've your old, widowed aunt to support, and sometimes I've to assist your sister with her children during the out-of-crop season, when her husband isn't working. As for your father," she blinked the tears which settled in her eyes, "we can't rely on him."
There was an eerie silence. In a frenzy of despair, I thought this world - this life - could be cruel to the poor. Speech seemed difficult for my mother. With a quivering voice, I broke the silence with resignation. I ... I un ... derstand. I ... I think I can see with you. It'll be too much of a financial burden on you." She looked at me compassionately and I continued, "I'll have to forget this university for now. I'll work another year, and probably think about it some other time."
She gave me an encouraging pat on my shoulder, and walked downstairs, apparently drained of energy. I followed her and sat on the wooden seat next to her. Rover and Whitenose were there looking with hungry eyes at a bird perched tantalizingly on a branch of the mango tree next to our fence. My mother stretched out in the hammock, and Rover and Whitenose lounged towards her to be caressed. She took both in her hands and fondled them. Suddenly, the clouds of gloom disappeared from her face and a smile twitched her lips. She gave me a long, encouraging look as I sat thinking of the reality of the situation.
"Vicky, I don't like to see you look so unhappy. Cheer up! You remember I tell you to have courage in life? I'll rather die than see you unhappy. I'll see what I can do for you. We'll use the little money we've in the bank. I'll work harder, and by the grace of God, I'm certain things will work out for you." I couldn't believe my ears. I bent forward and hugged her for her indefatigable spirit, but deep inside I was devoid of any feeling of exultation. "I'm getting old now," she continued. "I've nobody but you to live for. Whatever I can do for you, let me do it now. You've a long life, and I won't like to know you face difficulties and problems like me. Come on, cheer up! Go and bathe Rover and Whitenose. In the meantime, I'm going to meet a friend. Her husband's working near the university. I'll ask them to advise me on some cheap accommodation for you."
"Ma, your lunch," I called behind her.
"Don't worry. I'm alright." She waved.
I bathed Rover and Whitenose, and then flung myself like a log on the bed as if I'd worked in the cane fields all day. I remained restive as I reflected on the harsh realities of our lives.
CHAPTER 2
My mother was married at the age of thirteen through an arranged marriage to my father. After her marriage, she started to work in the sugar-estate, and since then her struggles started.
The treatment meted out to her by her in-laws was intolerable. Whatever money she earned, she was forced to hand over to them. If there was any spare time, she had to go fishing or chop fire-wood along the sea shore. She dared not make a mistake in her cooking or she was rewarded with a sound trashing by her mother-in-law. On those occasions, my father was forced to hold his tongue for fear of a double whipping. My mother made several attempts to return to her parents who did not hesitate to send her back to her husband with the admonition: 'You marry for good and bad. You must stay and die with your husband.' Finally, she resigned herself to her fate.
After the departure of her parents to India, she and my father moved from her in-laws' home to occupy the empty cottage left by her parents in Bound Yard, a slum occupied by estate laborers. It was in that area I was born, ten years after the birth of my sister. When I later asked my mother why the long span between the births of her two children, she replied jocularly, "You're lucky. You came into this world by accident. I gave birth to three babies before you, but they were afraid to live in this cruel world, and died after birth. God really spared you. I was very happy when you were born because you were sweet and chubby, but you were born at a time when I could scarcely make ends meet. I used to pity myself for having such an innocent child I couldn't support. I used to pity you, too, for being so unlucky to be born to a mother like me who had to struggle all the time to make a living, but I made up my mind to live on by the grace of God."
It was indeed a grim battle for survival. Our house was a dilapidated wooden structure, adjoined by six similar structures occupied by a family each. In our dwelling, there was no partition separating the kitchen from the sleeping area. The kitchen was dominated by the fire place. What should be called the living room was covered with creaking boards, some of which were already caved into the ground. The only piece of furniture of note was an old couch located in our sleeping area. My father slept like a king on the couch while my mother, sister and I slept on the harsh coldness of the ground, covered with old clothing. There was also a hammock strung between the door post and a rafter. My mother always ensured that no heavy person sat on the hammock for fear of collapsing door post, rafter and all. One of the two creaky shelves in the living room was always occupied by a bucket of drinking water. The other held a haphazard collection of worn-out kitchen utensils that looked like antiques in a museum. Most of the boards on the walls had outlived their usefulness, and the apertures between boards were big enough to warrant special treatment with wads of old clothing to maintain a semblance of privacy.
We were helpless in controlling the leaking roof during a rainfall. The kitchen would be covered with cups, plates, bowls - anything available to alleviate the flow of water from soaking the floor, fire-place and shelves. During prolonged rainfall, the yard and its environs were so inundated that the water would move relentlessly into the house to the fire-place, and some three-quarters of the living room. Under such circumstances, we were forced to improvise on rectangular bricks for our fire-place in our sleeping quarter. We virtually lived in water as we trudged in and out of the house. The incessant croaking of toads became a familiar tune both inside and outside of the house as the floods dragged on, and when it was all over, the squelch of mud in the yard built up fresh miseries. The process of growing up in such a deplorable environment was indeed extremely painful.
My father was an irresponsible, egoistical and unscrupulous man who made our troubles seemed infinite. He continued from where his parents had left off, pinching every penny of my mother's measly wages to squander on wine and women. Our chief sources of income came from whatever little money my mother sometimes luckily retained from her wages, and seasonally from the sale of plums which were harvested bountifully in our yard. The pressure was always on and very often we were forced to go without food. If, however my father was displeased with what was cooked, as he so often did, he would retaliate by discarding the food through the window with disgust and belligerence, and then turned his rage on my mother. She would be subjected to the most inhuman, brutal and merciless beating with anything solid he laid hands on, whether a piece of wood or rope. He was oblivious to her pleas. My sister and I couldn't cry or plead for fear of suffering from his temerity and acrimony.
I was seven years when he finally made what we considered the right decision. He deserted us to occupy an adjacent part of the range vacated by one of his dipsomaniac pals. He continued his licentious life, away from the responsibility of fathering his two children, and supporting his wife. His friends swarmed his home on their drinking binges until the ghostly hours of the mornings. Men, with intoxicants dulling their senses, could be seen staggering out of his house, some helplessly regurgitating the dirty contents from their stomachs, while some vilifying neighbors and even animals in the most lewd language.
Though I detested him, I paid him regular visits because as my mother had warned, "He's your father. You must love him no matter how bad he is." As a little boy, I couldn't fathom why my mother always showed a soft spot in her heart for such an unscrupulous man.
I worked for whatever money he gave me. Whenever he wanted to sleep peacefully, he would summon me with a broom to swat the flies. I was paid on a piece-rate basis: a penny for a wine glass of dead flies. I made it my duty to visit him when he and his friends congregated to start their drinking sessions. They paid me generously for the several long and arduous errands to purchase cigarettes and anything to eat to chase down the liquors. On such occasions, I earned as much as five cents, which I handed over willingly to my mother.
After some time, I noticed the number of men who usually visited him was dwindling while the presence of some strange, haggard women became conspicuous. He suddenly became a masseur. Nevertheless, that didn't affect my earning power. He would direct me to sit by the door to inform his male counterparts who wanted to see him that he was not at home while he concentrated with apparent great pleasure in treating the women. My payment was dependent on the success with which I debarred the men from disturbing him, but he had so many friends, who wanted to see him so often, that my earnings were quite tidy.
Women with sprained ankles were seated on a beam about two feet above the ground while he sat in front of them, massaging away with incredible diligence and assiduity. Sometimes, I felt a tweak of pity for them as they twisted and turned painfully with stifled cries of: "Aaah! Ooh! Eeeh! Aaah!" Instead of trying to assuage their anxiety, however, Mr. Maseur's hungry eyes would search between their helpless legs as if ice cream was there. My brain couldn't conceive what was really there to make him smile with such delight. I curiously stood behind him once to discover the mystery, but he warned me off with a hostile glance, and indignantly beckoned me to get lost and learn my multiplication table.
Women with abdominal pains were made to lie on their backs on his couch with their dresses raised chest-high. Their waists down were covered with a thin piece of cloth which he kept especially for that purpose, and Mr. Masseur would massage away!
My visits, however, were soon curtailed. I had implored him to make me a kite on a Good Friday, a responsibility he accepted, but my hopes were shattered on Easter Monday when I returned for my kite. When I approached his hovel, the main door was chained from the inside. I called vociferously and waited impatiently, but received no response. I walked back home, bitterly disappointed. I sat on a bench, clenching and unclenching my fists with rage as I looked up at my friends' kites which sang tunefully and danced rhythmically in the air. Then the idea struck me.
The front door was not locked from outside, but chained from inside, which suggested he was inside, probably sleeping away some of the liquors. I scurried back to his place. I called again, but there was no response. I couldn't control my patience. I maneuvered my hand through the crevice between the post and door, which could only be accomplished by my small hands. My hand touched the chain which fastened the door to a strong nail on the post. I successfully unhooked the chain with the utmost tranquility for fear of disturbing his peaceful slumber. The door opened. My hopes of seeing my kite in the air was raised to the sky. My excitement must not disturb the deep sleep of my beneficent father, I told myself. I stepped in the kitchen gingerly. The floor creaked much to my chagrin and disgust. I stopped and listened. Then I heard what sounded like a mad scramble. Suddenly I was confronted by my father.
He stood over me like a disturbed lion looking down angrily at an innocent mouse. The only piece of clothing he wore was his vest and shorts which he was attempting to button with nervous fingers. He looked exhausted as if he had completed a marathon with perspiration streaming all over his forehead and face. His bald head was lighted up by a dancing ray of sunlight piercing through an aperture from one of the zinc sheets over the kitchen. Below his thick whiskers, I detected his clenched teeth which sent my whole body quivering like the leaves of our plum tree during a squall. With a voice, which cut like the rope with which he usually flogged my mother, he ordered me to go outside and wait.
