I’ve been asked whose heritage do we celebrate this month, and what’s special about May 5th.
A group of Indo-Caribbean Canadians knowing the history of Indian migration to this hemisphere, campaigned for recognition of the first sponsored migration of Indians to the Americas, particularly their arrival in what is now Guyana, on May 5th 1838, making this the 180th anniversary of Indian arrival in the Americas. With this proposition, first accepted in Trinidad in the 1990s, then in Ontario in 2002, came the further proposal to recognise the heritage and

contributions of Indians to the American Diaspora, and May was so assigned. When the proposal came to the Ontario legislature, the scope was widened to historical India, the sub-continent, which now comprises several nations, hence the descriptive and inclusive South Asian Heritage Month. Soon after, the Federal Government extended the coverage to all Asia, their version being May is Asian Heritage Month. The Americans added the Pacific Islands to that. By the time the pattern of migration ended in 1917, 453,063 persons had been taken to Mauritius, 238,909 to BG (Guyana), 143,939 to Trinidad, 152,184 to Natal, South Africa, 60,695 to Fiji, 36,412 to Jamaica, 34,304 to Suriname, 32,000 to East Africa, and small numbers to other French and British colonies, totalling 1,194,957.
Working conditions were invariably harsh; Jock Campbell, who inherited the BG Booker Bros sugar empire in the 1930s, noted, hopefully in disgust, “The condition in which past members of my family had pursued profits and made considerable fortunes came as a great shock to me. The Indians lived in the same disgusting circumstances as farm animals.” His shock, however, did not translate into tangible improvements by the Company. Rather, its representatives, at the highest level of control in Georgetown, and middle managers of individual estates, became known for their cupidity and hard-hearted imposition of brutal police methods on workers, in response to complaints and breaches of contract.
The designation stimulated studies of the Diaspora by missionaries, social explorers, and the descendants of those early workers, confirming how miserably they were treated, yet how resilient they had proved to survive and dominate the societies they occupy. Many completed their contracts and thrived, rising by hard work, sacrificial thrift, and perseverance. Bookers did introduce later, somewhat grudgingly, a few mitigating practices, but rarely did it discipline wayward or cruel managers, negating its claim to be better than the rest.
South Asian Heritage Month should remind Canada that it benefited from importing molasses, rum and sugar, bought cheaply and refined in Toronto, while profiting from supplying cheap salted cod to the estates, in the days when they had to provide rations for the first months of a labourer’s contract. The Canadians also perpetrated racial discrimination in employment and housing at the Demerara Bauxite Co in McKenzie (now Linden), and in their private enterprises: the early Tramways; the Electric Company; and Royal Bank, (which is why I never banked with them, there or here). South Africa at the height of Apartheid was no worse.
Sunday 13th will be Mothers’ Day. Although one never forgets to honour mother, I must remind you to renew the adoration for her as source, nurturer, preserver, and well-wisher for her children; in this society, she can be overlooked, in the daily grind for survival, and often gets lodged in Nursing homes. One unique group stands out; they are the brave (or foolish) over 60s who chose to bear children: in India, Omkari Panwar of UP was 70, grandmother of five and mother of two daughters, when she gave birth in June 2006 to twins, boy and girl. Rajo Devi Lohan, 70, gave birth to her first child, a girl, in November, 2008; Bhateri Devi, 66, gave birth to triplets, two boys and a girl, on May 29, 2010 after 44 years married. In 2004, Papathiammal, Subramanian, 64, gave birth to a 1.75 kg son. On April 9, 2003, Satyabhama Mahapatra, 65, of Orissa gave birth to her first child, a son weighing 2.95 kg. Romania’s Adriana Iliescu, 66, had a daughter Eliza in January, 2005. Carmela Bousada, 66, had twins on December 29, 2006. A 60-year-old Sikh Calgarian, Ranjit Hayer, became the oldest Canadian mother when she gave birth to twin boys in February 2009, in India. Britain’s Dr Patricia Rushbrook, 62, had a son in summer 2006; Elizabeth Adeney, 66, also had a son, on May 28th, 2009.
May they and their children have a happy Mother’s Day.

At any given time when I was growing up back home a neighbour would come to our front gate, rattle its clasp to get my mother’s attention, calling, “Neighbour! Neighbour! You have a minute to come to get this by the gate?”. My mother would poke her head out of the kitchen window, recognise the caller, saying: “Girl, is you!” and respond with: “Give me a minute. My hand in the flour”; or, “I coming down right now. I bringing something for you”. I do not know if this has remained today as standard practice as it was back then when I was a boy. The caller at the gate would be carrying a parcel, or a bag stitched together from

recycled flour-bags, or a bulky item wrapped in layers of newspaper. My mother, seeing the package in her hands through the iron bars of the gate, would hasten to wrap a few vegetables from our backyard garden in newspaper; or would quickly spoon many deliciously peppered chunks of pickled mango, or even red-hot peppers, into a small container, before heading down the front steps to meet our visitor. Then there would be an exchange of items through the unlocked gate. My mother would pass her package to the waiting hands outside, while receiving one in return, saying: “We went by my mother for green mango and I pickled most of it, and started thinking I haven’t brought anything for you in a while. I am happy you came by so I could give you some.” In return, my mother examined what she had received, while the visitor filled in the background: “The plum-tree bearing until the branches want to break down. We giving away plums by the bucketful.”
There were many of these visits and exchanges throughout the fruit and vegetable “seasons” throughout the year, the families in the village where I was growing up exchanging in a practice of friendly bartering the largesse of kitchen gardens and specialities out of kitchens. I suspect the exchanges that took place were done through generosity, but also with an understanding that to share the produce from one’s hands and lands was to ensure similar gestures would be forthcoming from the largesse of others.
However, while this was mostly the case where the more common fruits and vegetables were prolific, or when the bountifulness was overwhelming in some years, there were still those moments when folks held back on the generosity, particularly when it came to the more high-end fruits such as sapodillas, the queenly avocado bringing out the worse in cupidity among some neighbours.
Thus there would be many a shaking of heads in disappointment, the conversation in the privacy of kitchens between husband and wife, the children warned to not repeat what was said, turning to how stingy people could become. Especially during those growing seasons when one neighbour looked into the backyard next door where the avocado-tree-in-residence was so laden with pears its branches were touching the ground, the fruit of this tree competing with the coconuts one tree away.
Such was the promise of a prolific yield of avocadoes that year the occupants of the house with ownership of this tree, who before were the nicest and most communicative of people, suddenly decided to keep their curtains drawn, and turn their backs away from any hailing to start a conversation, such as, “Neighbour, what nice weather we have been having lately; and how nice the flower garden is coming. Wait, nah! Is that an avocado, or it is a coconut? You must have a nice hand to make an avocado tree bear so well!”
But such flattery went nowhere, and to make matters worse, the next day said neighbour inverted a blue Milk of Magnesia bottle on a stick next to the avocado tree, a sign to ward off the evil eye, but more to keep out the hungry neighbour’s assessing gaze from the window across the road, these eyes were accompanied by hands rubbing so hard together in anticipation of acquiring many avocadoes it was no wonder the fingers did not burst into flames.
While avocadoes were not high on my agenda as a young boy, and while I loved the knocks of the iron clapper on the gate that brought fruits to our gates, particularly the plums, mangoes, cherries (the sour and extremely acidic ones prized for its suitability to soak in brine), the visits I love came from the tired old man who owned the cows. He was the kindest and gentlest of cowherds, taking them to the field to graze early each morning, coaxing each animal along by calling its name. During the day he tended to the pens, cut grass which he carted to the house before making the return trip to bring the cows home for milking.
The trip he made to our gate was to bring fresh bottles of milk, but sometimes he brought a treat in a smaller flask, a petit-quart: it was the delicious “dahi”, saying to my mother, “No payment. This is for the little boy.”

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