Tejkumari's Legacy

INTRODUCTION

Tejkumari’s Legacy is an historical novel since the names of people and places have been changed to protect the privacy of the living. The story relates the lives of the descendants of my family from 1870 to 2010. The first two sections concern Tejkumari and her children, Prem and Deepa, who were abducted from India and taken to British Guiana to work as indentured laborers in 1870.

Having been raised in colonial British Guiana, I knew little about the history of the lives of my family and their survival after being usurped from their native country. Fortunately, my maternal ancestors were prolific story tellers. From their accounts, which were corroborated by other people, family records, and extensive research, I have attempted to portray an account of the everyday life of the five main characters in this book, as well as the places in which they lived. The oral accounts were so emotional that I have written the book from the point of view of the narrators hoping to capture their feelings as the events unfolded. I have included some of the stories that dealt with the cultural, psycho-social, economic, educational, and political impacts of life under British colonization.

The First Generation:

Tejkumari (Tej), my Great-Great-Grandmother, 1844 – 1914

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The Abduction, 1869

My name is Tejkumari, but everyone calls me Tej. I came from India with my two children as part of a shipment carrying indentured laborers to British Guiana in February 1870. I was then twenty-five years old. My daughter, Deepalia (Deepa), was eight years old, and my son, Prem, was six.

I was born in a village not far from the southern bank of the Ganges River in the district of Dinapur (now Danapur) in the state of Bihar (map A). My family belonged to the Goala caste¹ and earned a comfortable living raising cattle and growing cash crops. I recall Pai (father) saying that we were lucky we owned only an acre of land since the British East India Company (BEIC)² had been appropriating the larger land holdings for their own use as they displaced local industries to replace them with British establishments. Memories of my childhood were happy ones playing with my siblings and the children in our village, and helping Mai (mother) with the housework. A few of my four older brothers attended the village half-day school where a guru (village elder) taught basic arithmetic and practical skills, but focused mainly on the Hindu scriptures from the Vedas, Bhagavad Gita, and Ramayana (sacred texts). Very few boys continued their education after adolescence while girls in our village did not attend school. We spoke Bhojpuri³ at home but were also familiar with some of the other languages used by the Biharis. After the Indian sepoy mutiny⁴ against the BEIC in 1857 when several provinces, including Bihar, became part of the British Raj⁵, Pai began learning some basic English words and phrases and encouraged us to do the same.

Most girls in our village were married at puberty. I was betrothed to a young man, Dhanraj, from another village in Dinapur when I turned ten. However, Pai, who was fairly liberal in his views, was vehemently against children marrying children’ and insisted that his children wait until they were older to marry. I was thus married at age fifteen to Dhanraj who was a year older and belonged to the same caste. As was customary, I moved into my in-law’s house where we shared the house and courtyard with his brothers’ families. Apart from the usual domestic squabbles, everyone got along quite well. The men farmed and raised dairy cattle and goats, and supplemented the family income by making brass figures to sell in the markets. Unlike many other daughters-in-law, I was well treated and shared the household duties with my mother- and sisters-in-law. My daughter, Deepa, was born a year after I was married, and my son, Prem, followed two years later.

Life was good until our lives suddenly turned upside down when my children and I were abducted. I remember that day only too vividly. I had gone with Deepa and Prem to spend a week with my sister, who was celebrating the birth of her first son, in a village not far from the Khagaul train station (now officially known as Dinapur station), which was opened in 1863. A few days after we arrived, Prem developed a fever and started vomiting. When his condition worsened, I decided to take him to the clinic the next morning. My brother-in-law offered to take us, but since he was waiting for a cow to deliver her first calf, I assured him that we would be fine with Deepa accompanying us. He then summoned a rickshaw to transport us to the medical facility and to return for us in a few hours. On the road outside the clinic, a middle-aged couple greeted us pleasantly and initiated light conversation. They seemed genuinely concerned about Prem and pointed out the long queue of patients waiting to see the doctor. They then told me that my son would receive immediate attention from the English doctor who had his practice close-by, and would take us back in time for our ride home. I was reluctant to go with them but when Prem vomited again, I accepted their offer – a decision I regretted the rest of my life. I had no reason to distrust the strangers, and like many Indians, had been conditioned to think that a British doctor was better than an Indian one. The man carried Prem in his arms while the woman engaged Deepa and me in jovial banter as we walked a short distance to a building near the train station.

On the lower floor, the couple took us into a room where an Englishman with a white overcoat, whom I assumed was the doctor, quickly examined our eyes, nose, and throat. He then administered some oral medicine although I tried to tell him that Deepa and I were not sick, and quickly left. The couple then led us to another room where I was told that I needed to answer some routine questions for the doctor’s records. I was confused because this was usually done before an examination, but complied thinking that the British did things differently. The couple spoke briefly to another Englishman who seemed annoyed as he was preparing to leave, but he sat down again and retrieved a form from his desk. The couple hurriedly asked me questions while the Englishman recorded my answers – our names and ages; my husband’s name and next of kin; my caste and occupation; my zillah (province), pergunnah (district) and village; and any distinguishing marks. He then told me to put a mark on the bottom of the form and hastily left. I was relieved that the entire procedure took only about five minutes. I then told the couple that we would find our way back to the rickshaw but they insisted on taking us there. Foolishly, I followed them through the back door to a large enclosed shed where they said they needed to make a brief stop.

Inside the shed, the couple spoke briefly to a man wearing a red badge on his shirt sleeve, handed over some papers, and left. Before my children and I could follow them, the door was bolted and a woman with a red badge told us to sit down. Totally confused, I told the woman that she had made a mistake by not allowing us to leave. When she added that it was too late to change my mind because the girmit (agreement) I had signed in front of the magistrate was binding, I began to panic. What girmit? What magistrate? I thought that the form to which I had affixed my thumb-print was for the doctor’s records, but the woman said that I had given consent to the English magistrate to emigrate to a British colony. When she continued that the people in the depot had also signed emigration papers to sail to a colony called Damra Tampu (British Guiana), and that I was lucky to have made it on time for the last train to Calcutta, utter dread overwhelmed me. I started screaming and demanded that my children and I be set free, but the man with the red badge threatened to use his lattey (stick) on me if I did not shut up. By then, other women had gathered around and tried to pacify me saying that everything would be fine when we arrived in the colony, and we should eat and rest until the train arrived that evening. They added that the people with the red badges were agents, called arkatis (males) and arkatiyas (females), who recruited people to work as indentured servants in one of the British colonies. Words cannot express the terror and despair I felt as I dropped to my knees and begged the artkatiya to release me and my children. I was weeping piteously until an arkati seized my children and promised to return them only if I calmed down. I quickly wiped my tears, and he handed back my children.

I was thankful that Prem’s fever had subsided and his vomiting had stopped. I soothed him and Deepa who were crying, and fed them some of the food that was distributed. Prem soon fell asleep on my lap, while a frightened Deepa sat quietly clutching my arm. The other women in the depot had resumed their places when a young girl, who appeared to be about fifteen years old, cautiously approached and sat next to me. She was also different from most of the other women in the depot in the way she was dressed and spoke, and had obviously been crying as her eyes were red and swollen. She told me that her name was Jayanti, but everyone called her Jaya, and that she had been taken surreptitiously when she went shopping near the train station. She had heard of the licensed arkatiyas and arkatis who frequented crowded areas, such as train stations and bazaars, and enticed people with promises of a better life in one of the British colonies. They encouraged young unmarried women to migrate by telling them that they would find many suitable or high-caste husbands in the colony; women were a prized commodity since they could reproduce and increase the labor force. Some of these agents, however, were unlicensed and resorted to unscrupulous means to recruit people. Jaya informed me that these rogues were motivated by sheer greed for part of the ‘bounty money’ that the licensed recruiters received. When she added that we would never see our families again because she knew of a woman in the adjacent village who had disappeared from her home without a trace, I thought of my family who would be frantically searching for me and my children.

In a state of shock, it dawned on me that my children and I had been kidnapped and would probably never see our family again. I tried desperately to think of a way to escape, but this was impossible with the vigilant arkatis and arkatiyas. I begged some of the women sitting nearby to intercede with the arkatiyas for our release. However, they told me that there was nothing but poverty and disease in India, and that I would have a good life earning lots of money in the colony and would return to India in a few years. There might have been over two dozen people in the depot and, judging from their clothes, many of them were poor. They had volunteered to emigrate, anticipating a better life elsewhere and were in high spirits, laughing and joking with each other. Fortunately, Jaya pointed out that several women had no jewelry, an unusual custom in India even among the poor. We then removed our jewelry and hid them under our clothes; we found out later that the other women had given their jewelry to the arkatiyas for safe- keeping and never saw them again.

By late afternoon, everyone gathered their belongings and eagerly followed the arkatis and arkatiyas to the far end of the platform to await the train for Howrah Junction, the main railway station in Calcutta (now Kolkata). The arkatis carried Prem and Deepa while Jaya and I were restrained by a stout arkatiya as we joined the women’s group and ordered to sit quietly. I tried to attract the attention of the passengers waiting on the other end of the platform, but they only looked on scornfully. As night fell, a jubilant cheer arose among our group when they noticed the passenger steam train approaching. When it stopped, the arkatiyas escorted the women to the last truck (third class carriage) that still had available space and found seats for us before the other women scrambled for vacant seats or floor- space. A few of them complained that the arkatiya favored us but were told that Prem was sick and needed to be kept away from the others; I was grateful to her. As I heard the whistle blow and the train gathering speed, all hope for an escape was lost.

With Prem and Deepa asleep on my and Jaya’s laps, I sat thinking about my husband and family, and regretted my naivety. I also felt shame and disgust for my fellow Indians who were eager to desert their homeland and for the recruiting agents who engaged in such despicable acts as to persuade people to work for the British. I was old enough to remember how bravely our people fought and were killed in the 1857-1859 sepoy rebellion against the BEIC. Had they already forgotten? I must have been talking to myself because the arkatiya sitting nearby reminded me that it was our own government that had agreed to transport Indians to work in the British colonies. I forced myself not to think about human greed and injustice, and concentrated on finding an escape from my abductors when the train stopped at the stations. However, it would have been impossible for us to leave the stations with people sitting or sleeping everywhere while the arkatiyas kept watch. Frustrated and despondent, I cried softly until the rhythm of the train and exhaustion made me sleep for a few hours.

The train ride seemed to last an eternity, stopping at several stations, until we arrived the next morning at Howrah Junction in Calcutta. Sore from sitting in cramped spaces, we dismounted and walked to the ferry that would take us across the Hoogly River, a tributary of the Ganges River. Upon reaching the east bank, we queued up for the long walk to the Garden Reach depot that housed the emigrants until they could be shipped to the colonies. The group’s exuberance was long gone, and everyone trudged languidly alongside the river to the main depot. Thankfully, a sympathetic arkati offered to carry Prem.

Tired and exhausted, we arrived at the Demerara depot where the barracks for emigrants going to British Guiana were located. We were given a lota (brass cup) and tari (brass plate), and told to form lines to receive tea and food consisting of rice, dal (spiced yellow-peas puree) and aloo (potato) curry. After eating, we washed ourselves in the bathing area and were shown to one of the female barracks where Jaya and I found empty bunks next to each other. When my children had fallen asleep, Jaya sat with them while I looked for an escape route. I furtively wandered around the depot, but it was surrounded by high walls and patrolled by guards. After returning to the barrack, I told Jaya that I would pretend to be suffering from severe back pain that had afflicted me since childhood, and would then be declared unsuitable for manual labor in the colony. I was told that the recruits would be returned to their districts if the doctor found them unfit to travel when he made his rounds at the hospital. I immediately began my charade of complaining loudly as I waited for the nurse to make her frequent check-ups. I must have been a good actress because the nurse decided I should see the doctor when he came the next day. I kept up this pretence until a few sympathetic women told me they were seriously concerned about my children and me because they knew of a severely arthritic woman who was returned to her village without her nine-year-old daughter. They added that female children, like Deepa, were good candidates for the colony since they would be able to work and bear children. I could not comprehend how anyone could be that callous and inhumane and made an immediate miraculous recovery. Forced to accept my fate, I concentrated on keeping my children healthy. The sanitation in the depot was deplorable, and we were told that several people, especially children, succumbed to diseases such as dysentery, cholera, measles, and typhoid.

Based on their speech and dress, Jaya and I suspected that many of the people in the depot belonged to the lower castes. We were careful not to show our prejudice since we were out-numbered, but our bias quickly dissipated when we realized that we were all in a ‘caste-less’ situation and began to make friends. I learned that most of them had been stationed in the barracks for several weeks to months waiting for the full quota of ‘human cargo’ to be shipped. They were recruited by licensed arkatis and arkatiyas who targeted people mainly from agricultural districts. They had agreed to work in the colony of British Guiana where they were promised a better life with good wages, free food, housing, medical care, and legal protection by the British. This was an attractive solution for many people who were homeless or living in extreme poverty, or dying from hunger and contagious diseases such as cholera. Several tenants had also lost their livelihood when their zamindars (proprietors) were forced to auction their arable land after failing to meet the demands for greater crop production imposed by the BEIC. Other recruits were escaping from their zamindars who were abusive and oppressive, and a few were evading the law. Jaya and I spoke with a pleasant young man who confided in us that he had fled when some of his friends were apprehended for engaging in subversive activities against the ‘imperialist thieves’, and he was recruited under an assumed name. Some women had deserted their families because of physical and mental abuse by their husbands and families, while others were abandoned when their husbands died and had become a burden to their in-laws. I was told that some of the younger women had adopted husbands to protect them since sexual assaults in the depot were frequent. I also met one young couple who had eloped when the boy’s parents were vehemently opposed to him marrying a girl from a lower caste.

Unaware of the sea voyage, I thought we were fortunate that the wooden steam ship was already docked in the harbor and scheduled to leave in a few days. There was an air of excitement in the yard as preparation was being made for its departure. Supplies, including livestock, were loaded and the English captain and his foreign crew came on board, followed by the lascars (Indian crew) and their assistants, and the Indian cooks. On the eve of our departure, we were feasted to a variety of vegetables and curried goat, and told to enjoy the food because we would not receive such a sumptuous meal for a long time. Most people seemed joyful as if they were embarking on an excursion. They joked and told stories while groups of men sang bhajans (Hindu religious songs) and gazals (Urdu poetic songs), accompanied by music from the dholaks (Indian drums) and bansuris (bamboo flutes) they had brought with them. At nightfall, we were told to get a good night’s sleep, but that was impossible for me; the thought of my children and I never seeing our family again was agonizing.

The next morning after washing ourselves, our belongings were disinfected and warm clothing for the voyage was distributed. The females received plain cotton saris, flannel jackets, and woolen undergarments while the males were given woolen trousers, flannel jackets, and caps. We tied our belongings in bundles and lined up for a final inspection before joining the line on the jetty. For many people, excitement turned to apprehension as they realized the finality of leaving their homeland, and some had to be cajoled forward by their friends. It took a long time for everyone to climb the ladder to the ship and assemble on the deck. I am unsure of the number of emigrants who boarded the ship, but it must have been about three hundred. We were subdivided into groups of about two dozen people under the supervision of sirdars (Indian headmen), and shown to our sleeping quarters below the main deck. The space was dark, dreary, and cramped, and reeked of disinfectant and kerosene oil that was used for the lamps. Single women and their young children were allocated to double bunks at the rear of the ship; single men in the front; and couples, with or without children, in the middle. Bulkheads separated each section with an officer guarding the women’s quarters.

The Voyage from India, 1869 - 1870

In November 1869, the ship, British Monarch, began its voyage to British Guiana. It was towed to the middle of the river at high tide and its engines fired up with a loud roar. From Port Calcutta, it sailed slowly down the river, making stops at a few harbors where officials came on board to ensure that no one was ill. It must have taken about two weeks until we saw the land on both sides of the Bay of Bengal disappear, and the ship increased its speed as it headed into the Indian Ocean. When my children realized that they had lost track of land, I had no choice but to tell them the truth. They had been complaining and crying to go home, and when they witnessed a man wailing and begging to return home, their fear and anxiety escalated. Jaya and I gently tried to explain to them how we were abducted and taken on board the ship. We promised to protect them with our lives, but Deepa lashed out angrily at me. Prem, who had listened quietly with bowed head, said "don’t worry Mai, I’ll take care of us". His words comforted me, and my pride and admiration for him sustained me for the journey ahead.

Each day, we rose early from the bunks, rolled up our bedding, and relieved ourselves at the water closet. We then washed ourselves as best as we could and proceeded to the deck with our taris and lotas to receive food that we were told was prepared by Indians belonging to the higher castes, Brahmins and Ksathris. We received two meals a day – a late breakfast and an early dinner, consisting of tea, rice or roti (Indian flat bread), dal, salt- fish, and sometimes a dried vegetable or fruit. One of the sailors, who was not as crude and foul-mouthed as the others, sometimes gave me an extra piece of roti or dried fruit for Deepa and Prem. During the morning meal, the floors below were washed down and liberal quantities of disinfectant were applied. We stayed on deck as much as possible because no one looked forward to going below deck. With the hatches closed, the heat and putrid smell were unbearable, and in the closed confines of our sleeping quarters, petty fights and squabbles were inevitable. Needless to say, sickness spread rapidly and the surgeon-superintendent at the infirmary on deck had us line up often for medical inspections. He and his staff did their best to ensure we remain healthy so that the precious ‘human cargo’ would not be lost. We were advised to spend as much time as possible on the deck to get fresh air and exercise, and were encouraged to play our musical instruments and dance to keep our spirits up.

Deepa stayed close to Jaya and me on the deck while Prem passed his time with the other boys. He enjoyed watching the sailors climb up the masts to hoist and adjust the sails until he experienced his first major storm. As the skies turned ominously black and the waves grew higher and rougher, we were all ordered to go below while everything was secured in the holds, the masts quickly dismantled, and the engines turned on. As the storm gained momentum, the ship was rocked by strong winds and tossed around like a toy as huge waves impacted it with force and water flooded the deck. This lasted several hours while we sat terrified in our quarters listening to the storm’s fury and prayed that the ship would not capsize. When the storm finally abated, Prem was paralyzed with fear and refused to come on deck. For the next few days, we received dry food consisting of biscuits and raw onions while the ship was cleaned and returned to normalcy. We were finally able to stretch our legs and go on the beach for several hours when the ship docked at Cape Comorin (now Kanyakumari) on the southernmost tip of India. The next day, it headed for the dark expanse of the Atlantic Ocean that our jahajis (shipmates) called kala pani (black water) as it was considered a taboo to cross it since it meant losing one’s order or caste (varna status) in Indian society.

Both my children and I remember the passage to British Guiana with horror. None of us was aware of the ensuing conditions and duration of the voyage. Most of the emigrants were under the age of thirty-five, with more than two-thirds of them men, and the rest women and children. Some of the men were married, and many of the single ones quickly formed liaisons with the fewer females who were unaccompanied by a husband or male relative. As the weeks passed, a person’s caste or background ceased to have importance and we became accustomed to being