I know a book is excellent when I dream I am there. This doesn't happen often, though it did happen to me for A Fine Balance, when I found myself with Ishvar and Omprakash, casually choosing chilis in the market. I still see it vividly.
I just finished this novel tonight, but three nights ago, as I was falling asleep, suddenly I was in a warm tropical jungle, standing just outside a "bamboo wedding". I was there to secretly watch and listen in on a wedding of the ancestors of an old friend, now passed away. Although she had Jamaican roots, it never occurred to me that she could also have an Indian set of ancestors. When I woke up, I could still feel myself there, as if I had been. I could even hear it.
I knew there were Indian people who were mostly indentured laborers in the Caribbean, and even some who were tricked into a "little look and see" tour of a ship, only to be locked under deck, and taken to the Caribbean to be enslaved.
But this novel, which reads more like a memoir, illuminates fascinating details of how all that came about, information that my brain struggled to believe, though I do believe her.
The idea of Indian people speaking a Creole dialect was so foreign to me that I had to keep reminding myself the characters are not Black, but Indian. The dialogue is dazzling. At one point Mona "swizzles" the cocoa she is making. What onomatopoeia! Then I remembered the term used for fancy fancy plastic spears that were once used in cocktail parlors, the swizzle sticks. How could that word drop out of our consciousness? Other phrases were equally vivid, at one point Mona doesn't just feel mad, or vexed, but "madvex"! I will confess I had to google many, many terms, and even then I remained baffled. Mona does discover that not only are many of the words Hindi in origin but over the years, become mispronounced and misspelled, so many are understandable only in very specific locals and unknown everywhere else. Consequently, I didn't always understand what the characters say. Even so, I found the characters and their dialogue compelling.
I also had difficulty sorting out which generation certain ancestors live in. Of course I have that same issue with my own ancestors, so that's on me, not the author.
This novel shows how Presbyterian missionaries provided formal and free education to children with Indian ancestry, provided the parents abandon their homeland religion in favor of becoming Presbyterians, or prissiness, as various characters angrily refer to it. Not only did conversion mean a formal education, but it also helped financially. The people who didn't convert remained poor, and were considered backward, even into the present moments described in this story.
This novel goes back to the first of Mona's ancestors who arrive in Trinidad, a young widow with no possibility of a safe or comfortable life after she chose to run away from the man her brother had forced her to marry. Just twelve years old, she joined widows, but their livelihood was dependent on begging, sex work, or they were just not protected from nightly rape. When a scout for indentured servants came along, the future at least contained hope. She was Mona's great grandmother, though her story had been kept secret for decades. As an unmarried, single woman arriving on her own, she was considered a "rand" which meant either widow or sex worker, take your pick. She didn't have the respectability that Mona's ancestors wanted, especially as she had never converted.
Just before Trinidad became independent, there was much talk of diversity, multi-culturalism, and the wonders of a cosmopolitan society. But once independence was achieved, the people whose ancestors had come from India felt betrayed. Their people were not as valued as the African Black people, yet they also held themselves above those people. It's definitely the same old story of ethnocentricity ruining relationships and lives.
I do apologize for all my tense shifts in here. Much of this book is told in the past tense, as it's about digging into well hidden old journals and stories, the characters living even in the present still feeling shame over events they should have been proud of.
I do love a book that immerses me in the greenest tropics, fragrances of ylang-ylang floating past, bhajans or Calypso resounding, the aromas of curries and freshly cut mangoes ... I reluctantly finished reading this, only to return to the madvex snowflakes hurtling themselves at my fifth floor windows in a downtown tower. I felt quite sorry for poor Uncle Tristy, who emigrated to the plains of Saskatchewan, not that far from where I am now.