The Undeniable Untruth: May 2018

So, my brother sent me a 'long short story' that he is working on these days. It's more of an autobiography with parts almost moving me to tears as I fondly grab his hand and embrace this walk down memory lane.

Once, after my younger brother and I had pestered everyone with a particularly long and bitter fight, my mother had looked at us and said - not with anger, but with the quietness of an thought-out resolution - “zott tro lager, sa de la. Nou bizin vann zott” and my father, with impeccable timing, rejoined with the same deadly seriousness: “oui, demin nou all vann zott dan bazar”. I was genuinely scared, and imagined with mournful bitterness the next day, during which I would be placed on display next to tomatoes and lettuce in the market. In the same vein, when Devi, our maid, told me not to linger after dark in the courtyard “parski ena bann travayer pe rodd enn zanfan, zott pou sakrifye li kot larivyer, pou zott kapav aranz enn pon” I definitely thought it to be true).

[...]And it was not just any grownup’s intimacy that was being violated - this was the fearsome General Alcazar, who in a previous episode had fired blank shots at Tintin after losing a chess game. I gazed with rapt attention at the contents of his wallet: how surprisingly modest they were ! Especially the lottery tickets filled me with wonder. This man, who led such a colourful life, risking his life at every moment, still felt the need to buy the lottery ? It did not feel right, and I felt that I could not understand the inner life of grownups.

To this memory of General Alcazar’s wallet, I always associate that of peeking into my father’s satchel. It was an old satchel, the fake leather had cracks, the thongs were worn out. I was motivated by the same curiosity which had made me wonder at the General’s wallet - to know how grown men were like. There was a packet of Embassy cigarettes, some files from work ( once, he explained to me the “My ref: Your ref: “ on government memos. I think it is in memory of him that I always carefully put them on top of my own memos). The smell of (fake) leather and tobacco - the world of men. Sometimes, there would be a book from the Port Louis public library. I remember him coming back from work, brandishing with great enthusiasm “The life of Dr Samuel Johnson” “Samem pli gran biografi dans listwar, sa” he proclaimed. I looked at the cover: “Ki sann la sa misye Boswell la ?” I asked. “Li men kinn ekrir sa liv la” I was nonplussed. Why did this mister Boswell spend so much time writing about the life of another man called Johnson ? Why not have written about his own life ? Grownups were puzzling. Ironically, now whenever I feel sad, I always read a few pages of the life of Dr Johnson. I find something reassuring about the world of 18th century England.

More than with biographies, my father was addicted to travel literature. At the age of eight, I could at one glance guess, looking at a photo in a geography book, that it showed shepherds from Central Asia. I do not know where my father found the travel books which he brought home: "Voyage d'une parisienne a Lhassa" by Alexandra David Neel, the travels of father Huc , delirious travel journals through Latin America.

Since early childhood, I found trips to the airport fascinating. Even the business of watching my elder sisters or my parents packing their suitcase, preparing to go to the airport. I remember the smell from the suitcase, when my sisters came back from India. The smell of India - sandalwood, strong scents.

I remember standing on a beach, somewhere around Mahebourg, and a plane was landing - these old Boeing 707's were so loud, and me and my parents are looking at the logo on the tail fin "Avion Air India" says , I think, my mother - and from the tone, I understand that it was something new, and important.

But I also have another memory, of visiting an Indian warship in the Port Louis harbour, and I think one of my sisters said something, while we were among the crowd - she said something 'la bas dans sa bann grand pays la , zott saison pa pareil' and at these words, I was struck by a sense of wonder mixed with fear, in which I imagined India as a kind of Russia, a vast country with autumns and snowy winters, and large grey towns, in whose large boulevards great armies paraded under a cold blue sky, a country that had big wars with other big countries. It felt remote.

In the 1980's, my sisters went to study in India. My parents also travelled there, to see them off and to visit the famous sites. Getting to know India was of course important, but it also brought fleeting anxieties. "Bann hotess Air India la clair, clair, zott zoli zoli' said my mother, talking to relatives, but there was a mixture of pride and unease when she said that. pride, in that ' the air hostesses were fair skinned and pretty, just like in Air France or British Airways', but unease in that ' if that is the case, then what do the Indians from India think about us ?"

During their years in India, my sisters quickly learned the codes for navigating Indian snobbishness - never say that your ancestors come from Bihar, say 'Bengal' instead. Never say anything in Bhojpuri. Mention that 'back home we drive a German car' ( in fact it was an old Volkswagen Beetle). It was the India of the 80's, we could still get away with these harmless tricks.

Many memories rush to my mind as I read this extract. I remember so clearly the smell of my father's satchel - the olfactory memory is by far the most reliable memory that humans possess. My father always kept a packet of cigarettes in it and I remember stealing one when I was around 11/12. The taste was so appalling that it deterred me from ever smoking again. Domino, Matelot and Bristol were the top worst in terms of cigarettes so much so that I think even the french Gauloise stood as a luxury item next to them.

As for the landing of the old boeings, I am not afraid to admit that it is still my guilty pleasure to drive all the way to Plaisance, stop my car next to the sugar cane field, stand as close as possible to the runway and watch with childish enthusiasm the graceful landing of old boeings.

I wish Maroon5 had written a song named Monday instead of Sunday. They would have added an extra edge and provided a special happy mood to it.
Monday morning and I woke up to a perfect weather, perfect temperature, perfect blue flawless sky. I did a few postures of yoga on the grass in my flowery garden, spent a wonderful productive day at work, went for a long walk on the beach at sunset, had a lovely dinner at home, went through a few pages from my brother's long short story, read a beautiful article on Egypt in T+L.

21.49: My favorite time of day when I laugh with my mom about silly jokes. Actually, the favorite moment of my life.

I went to bed only to wake up to a perfect Tuesday.