Sugar, Sugar Bittersweet Tales of Indian: Bitter Sweet Tales of Indian Migrant Workers - Softcover

Malkani, Lainy

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1908446609 ISBN 13: 9781908446602

Publisher: HopeRoad, 2017

Synopsis

Sugar, Sugar is a contemporary collection of short stories which reveals a rich and culturally diverse history behind India’s migrant workers and one of the most abundant and controversial commodities in the world. Inspired by historical documents between 1838 and 1917, and the living memories of the descendents of indentured workers, Sugar, Sugar, spans five continents, travelling through time uncovering inspiring tales of courage and resilience.

About this title

About the Author

Lainy Malkani is a successful London born journalist with Indo-Caribbean roots. Her critically acclaimed two-part series for BBC Radio 4 'Sugar, Saris and Green Bananas' inspired her to create this collection of short stories. She is fascinated by the lives of unsung heroes in our society. In 2012 she set up the Social History Hub to bring their stories to life. Lainy is a writer, broadcaster and presenter of the Social History Hub podcast. She has written for the British Library, the Commonwealth and the BBC.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Sugar, Sugar

Bitter-Sweet Tales of Indian Migrant Workers

By Lainy Malkani

HopeRoad Publishing

Copyright © 2017 Lainy Malkani
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-908446-60-2

Contents

Foreword by Sanjeev Bhaskar, 
Map, 
The Berbice Chair, 
The Complaint, 
The Dinner Party, 
The Natal Baby, 
Runaway, 
Sugar Is Our Thing, 
Identity, 
Sugar Cake, 
Home, 
The Tin Ticket, 
Afterword, 
Bibliography, 
Acknowledgements, 

CHAPTER 1

The Berbice Chair

Finsbury Park, North London, 1986

LOT NO. 33 WAS a beautiful wicker chair. Alicia felt attracted to it the moment she saw it. It was love at first sight. The chair had an elegant sloping back, a bit like a modern reclining chair, and a long seat - so that when you sat in it, your body slid down into a half-sleeping position. The wicker was woven in diamond shapes and had a tinge of yellow, like hay; the armrests, made of teak, cradled your arms from the elbow to the fingertips.

Best of all were two discreet hinges below the armrests where two planks, rather like flat boat oars, were attached; they could be released and pulled forward to extend the arms. It was this part of the chair that was most interesting to Alicia, because when you swung out the oars you could also make them meet in the middle, forming a bridge where the sitter could rest their legs and watch the world go by.

It was not too expensive either. On the contrary, there were only two other buyers interested in the chair, and so as to waste no time, Alicia immediately bid a full forty pounds even though, as she found out later, her main rival had only intended to pay a straight twenty.

Still, she told herself that she had a bargain and that if she could sell it for fifty, she would have done all right. Alicia's second-hand shop on the Stroud Green Road had existed at number 72 for over fifty years, and during that time she had seen a thousand clients come and go. In the beginning, they were mainly the unemployed or poor immigrants - and it pleased her to think that the items she sold were helpful to others. Everything was reasonably priced and was mostly going to a good home.

As time moved on, she began to see a new type of client. They had a little more money in their pockets; sometimes ate out in the Turkish restaurant three doors down; shopped less in the greengrocers and more in the supermarkets, where the price was sometimes double for the same carrots and greens. They started to call Alicia's stock vintage and demanded more and more curious and exotic things to buy.

Once, she bought an African rosewood mask in West Green Road for ten pounds and sold it in her shop for twenty, although one of her suppliers said that he could have got it for a fiver. Soon, Alicia found that she was becoming more, how shall we say, 'au fait' with the goods that she sold. A set of silver spoons from Hampstead, owned by some Lady or other, could push up the price. On the other hand, a door knocker from the home of a mass murderer could fetch three times what she asked. That is why she began to go to auctions; after all, any good antiques dealer, as she now called herself, should surely know their pieces and what they were worth on the open market. But the story of the chair eluded her.

'Sometimes, something just pulls at your heart-strings,' she told a customer looking for French perfume bottles. He nodded politely and pointed to a deep purple glass bottle with a delicate lid that had a thin gold ring etched around the rim. His eyes glowed when he held it up to the light.

'Is that what they call instinct?' she continued. 'You don't know why and you don't care - you just have a feeling that you have got to have it.'

However, things did not go quite as smoothly as she had anticipated once she brought the chair home. She placed it in the shop window, believing that it would be an attraction for passing trade, but people walked straight past the chair, just ignoring it, not stopping even to admire its beauty. There was one man - shy, perhaps - who walked past three times in a row. The first on his way to somewhere, the second as if he were on his way back, and the third ... well, back again. He didn't stop, just looked, looked and looked again. He was Indian, no longer young, and not quite like the other Indians she was used to. She overheard him greeting someone and noticed that he had a West Indian accent. He was stylish, she thought, with his slicked-back hair, but in an awkward sort of way.

Perplexed, she stood outside the shop and tried to see the chair through the eyes of passers-by. She cleaned the glass inside and out, polished the wooden arms and pulled out the oars to display them, but still not a single customer even came in to enquire about it.

As summer approached, she put it outside in the courtyard and invited people to take a seat, but they did not stop.

Four weeks passed and still the chair was not sold. So, Alicia decided to up her game. She put the chair back in the window, and placed a large floor lamp on one side of it. The lampstand matched the teak, and the green hexagonal lampshade with tassels around the edge complemented the chair. It gave it a colonial look, which was in fashion. On the other side, she set a small round dark wood coffee table. It had white elephant carvings on the tabletop and down each of the four legs. At the back of the chair, she positioned a lush green palm tree in a copper pot and spread out the palms so that they dangled lazily - like a scene from the tropics - over the top.

She was gratified when a few passers-by did stop by the window to have a look at the new arrangement, and when a tall, clean-shaven man with a leather satchel slung over his shoulder entered the shop, she stood up from behind her desk expectantly and led him to the chair.

'Feel how smooth the arms are,' she said, running her fingers along the grain. She invited him to do the same, but as it turned out, and much to Alicia's disappointment, he wanted to buy the lamp. So now she found herself twenty pounds richer but still with no sale of the chair.

By September, Alicia decided it was time for another new approach. She replaced the floor lamp with a table lamp and rummaged around at the back of the shop, digging out three long pinewood louvre doors. She painted each one in a dark wood stain and then went to see the manager of the hardware store next door. She tumbled through boxes of nails and screws and eyed the hammers and drills fastened on the wall. The manager was already serving a dusty, tired builder with paint splashes on his blue overalls. He looked up and winked at her as she stood patiently by the plungers for his attention. He was Cypriot, as she recalled, and on quiet days he would bring her slices of warm baklava bathed in rose-flavoured honey.

They discussed her plans for a few moments before she bought nine gold hinges and a slim screwdriver with a blue translucent handle. She fastened the hinges to the louvre doors and out of nothing had created a stylish divider which she placed at the rear of the chair behind the palm tree.

She then stood back and admired her handiwork - but felt there was still something missing. On the corner of Stroud Green Road, not five minutes' walk from The Emporium, as she now called her business, was a junk shop. It looked tatty from the outside but inside was an Aladdin's Cave of dusty tables and mirrors and odds and ends. Looking around, she wondered why the owner thought that he would be able to sell a naked mannequin with dark kohl eyes and one hand missing, but she was not there to criticise.

She spoke for a short while with the manager, a rotund young man who smelled of beef burgers, and was shown to the corner of the room where there was a pile of rugs. She flipped them over one at a time and chose her favourite, admiring its colours and elaborate patterns, and then bartered him down to half the asking price. She added two pounds for delivery and he rolled it up, tied a rope around its centre, and carried it on his shoulder down the street to her shop. With a toothy smile, she thanked him.

After the man had gone, Alicia unravelled the rug. It was the colour of autumn leaves, dappled with auburn diamond shapes that spread out from the middle like a star. Opening it out on the floor, she pulled at the white tassels on the circular edge to free them, and was pleased with the result.

As evening approached, she switched on the lamp and watered the palm. Weary from her day's hard work, she slipped off her shoes and eased herself down into the chair, dusting off her grubby denim jeans before resting her legs over the oars. Cars and buses floated past her window. She waved to Daphne, an old school friend who worked in the library on Woodstock Road. It was the kind of languid wave that the Queen gives to her subjects from the balcony at Buckingham Palace. They giggled at each other like naughty children in the classroom.

There Alicia sat until the Indian man whom she had seen all those weeks ago reappeared. Once again, he walked past the shop three times. Today he wore a Gibson waistcoat and tie, she noted, and winkle-picker shoes. When he passed for the third time, Alicia thought that he would disappear just as he had done before, but he didn't. Instead, he stopped and rapped on the window.

'How much for the chair?' he shouted through the glass.

Startled, she jumped up and went to open the door. 'Can I help you?' she asked. Then: 'Oh, excuse me, I'm forgetting my manners. Come in, come in.'

The man's tone was as raw as he was rude.

'I don't have time to waste, lady. How much for the chair?' he repeated, without the hint of a smile.

Taken aback, Alicia scanned his face. He looked like Elvis might have done, had he lived. He had the same greased-back hair, perhaps a little longer than before, high cheekbones and a long thin nose that flattened out slightly at the tip. Alicia fixed her eyes on a series of lines on his forehead. They looked like a music sheet that the local children bought from the guitar shop near to Ferme Park Road.

'There is no money kept on the premises,' she said, holding her hands up as though he had a gun. Seeing this, his mood changed and he spoke in a calmer voice.

'Look, I am not here to rob you,' he said. 'Please - put your hands down.'

Alicia did as she was told. Shivering as though she had stepped on to the street in her pyjamas, she wrapped her cardigan close around her body and sat down behind her desk. The street lights came on outside and she looked out of the window, hoping to see someone she knew on the other side.

'I'll give you thirty pounds for it,' the man said impatiently.

'No, no way.' She shook her head. 'For that much I'll sit on it all day and night myself. What do you want it for?' 'I want to chop it up for firewood,' he said sternly.

'You can't destroy something as beautiful as that!' she said, outraged. She glided over to the chair and pushed aside the palm leaves. 'Look at how they cradle your arms,' she said, running her fingers along the grain of the armrests as she had done many times before.

She heard the click of his heels behind her.

'Lady,' the man said, his voice tighter now, 'this chair is a Berbice chair, and I am from Berbice - and you can't tell me it's a beautiful chair because I already know what beauty is - and this is not it!' Alicia detected a tremor in the man's voice. She dragged over a barstool and coaxed him to take a seat.

'What is this chair to you?' she asked outright.

'It's anger. Terror, sometimes, and sadness - a lot of sadness.' The man ran a hand through his hair. 'Nightmares, fires, the sickly-sweet smell of burning sugar, me pulling the mules along the side of the canal, clearing out the stables, riding horses, racing horses, my mother crying, my father fighting.' He released a shuddering breath.

'Oh,' Alicia said, wondering if the price should rise or fall. 'In that case, why do you want to pay thirty pounds for something that you detest?'

The man swivelled around on the barstool and stopped when he had done a full circle and was facing her again.

'Because, lady,' he bowed his head as if she were royalty, 'you can't get nothing in this country for free. Back home, if you want a mango, you pick it from the tree; if you want a coconut, you just shimmy up the tree and knock it down. Not here, boy, no way. What's more, I don't want you going around telling everybody that Vincent is a charity case.'

Alicia pretended to look through her books. 'OK,' she said, 'how about I give it to you for thirty-five? We can shake on it with a drink.' Reaching into the drawer at the bottom of her desk, she pulled out two glasses and a bottle of Cuban rum. She placed two coasters on a green-leather-topped table and poured two shots. Switching on the reading lamp, she handed him a glass and then held it back just as he was about to take it.

'Do we have a deal?' she asked, staring at his large black eyes.

'Depends on the quality of the rum,' he replied, and put his hand out again.

She relaxed back in her chair, saying, 'You see, to me it's just a chair, a beautiful piece of furniture.'

Their glasses clinked. He took a sip.

'Tastes good,' he said, tipping the rum in his glass from side to side. Then he went on: 'Seeing you sitting there on the chair, relaxing as though you didn't have a care in the world, took me back to a place I haven't revisited for years.'

His voice cracked as he said: 'She had brown curls too, and they hung around her shoulders in just the same way as yours do. Her skin was white like snow, just like yours. She was fine in her own way, but the manager, her husband, he was a devil.' Vincent knocked back the rum and held out his glass for more.

Alicia looked at the collection of clocks on the wall. It was past closing time. Getting up and going to the shop door, she clicked the latch and flicked the bolt across. The sun had set and heavy clouds streaked with red and pink filled the sky. She saw the Cypriot man from the hardware store cross the pavement and get into his car, and she pulled down the shutter.

'But he is not here now,' she said quietly, taking the glass from her visitor's hand.

'Isn't he? The truth is, he's always around. Somewhere. Lurking up here.' He pointed to his temples, then went on: 'He was a brute with golden hair like an angel. His face was fat like a breadfruit and hard like stone. He was heavy and walked as if he had rocks in his shoes. When that man was around, the whole sugar estate shook! You! he would shout down to me from the verandah. Fetch me my horse, clean up the stables. And I, like a fool, would run - run down to the stables and scurry around like a helpless fowl in fear of my life. He was a devil all right.'

The man got up and walked over to the chair.

'He had a bell, right here,' he said. He raised a hand to his lips, as though he was smoking a cigar, and took a long puff. 'I can still smell the smoke on his breath,' he muttered, running his fingers along the armrests. Alicia pulled open the drawer at the bottom of the desk and put away the bottle of rum. She wiped the rim of the glasses with tissue and put them away too. She then folded the louvre divider and carried it carefully to the window. Opening it up like a fan, she blocked the view of the chair from the street.

'Follow me, Vincent, and bring the chair with you,' she said, leading him to the garden at the rear of the store.

'Tonight, we're going to have a huge bonfire.'

CHAPTER 2

The Complaint

Durban, 1885

MR KUMAR, a merchant from India, paced up and down behind the counter of his store on Water Street, blowing on a sheet of parchment and waving it in the air. When he was sure that the ink was absolutely dry, he wrapped the item in a white cotton cloth and wedged it between two rice sacks, brushing away the grains that sprinkled on the rough wooden floor.

Sitting propped against the wall next to him, out of sight of the customers, was a young boy. Eyes wide open in sunken sockets, he swayed his head while water trickled down the sides of his gaping mouth. Mr Kumar held a wooden spoon to his lips.

'Here, Khanna, drink some more,' he said to the boy, kneeling beside him. But the poor child was unconscious and could no longer hear him. Mr Kumar sat back on his heels and reached under the counter for an empty rice bag to cover him.

'Sleep, child,' he said, patting him gently on the shoulder. 'For a while at least.'

Opening the back door of the store, the merchant listened to the cool night breeze sending whispers through the trees, and wondered if his family across the Kala Pani in Calcutta still remembered him after all these months.

'I am not the man I used to be,' he whispered back, easing himself into his hammock before closing his weary eyes.

* * *

When the sun rose the next day, the boy was nowhere to be found and Mr Kumar was glad, because just as he opened the store, the Protector of Immigrants walked in. A boisterous breeze pushed past him, covering the store with a light shower of dust. He tipped his cork hat into his hand as he entered and rested it on the counter. Kicking the dust off his boots, he said casually, 'So - how's business, Mr Kumar?'

Mr Kumar opened the shutters and light flooded the store, which had opened just four months earlier. It was chequered with shelves secured to the walls; here were displayed large bottles of oils and jars of spices. Tattered rice bags laced with string lined the lower shelves, and on the counter, not three feet away, was a set of scales with weights piled beside it.

Mr Kumar wiped the counter and glanced curiously up at the Protector.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Sugar, Sugar by Lainy Malkani. Copyright © 2017 Lainy Malkani. Excerpted by permission of HopeRoad Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: HopeRoad
• Publication date: 2017
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1908446609
• ISBN 13: 9781908446602
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 186