Douze petites minutes

Quatre rues séparent ma maison de Chez Ram où trois pains maison chauds chauds m'attendent tous les matins. Cinq minutes à pieds pour remonter l'avenue des Orchidées, deux minutes à faire la queue, une minute pour saluer les connaissances du quartier et enfin quatre autres pour redescendre l'avenue. En tout et pour tout, douze minutes délicieuses de début de matinée qui donnent le ton à ma journée. Il s'agit d'une marche lente et paresseuse à observer ces rues semi-endormies, baignées dans la lumière naissante qui semblent murmurer des histoires anciennes qui font remonter des souvenirs enfouis dans les replis de ma mémoire; la maison de M. Jhugroo où, enfant,  j'avais été ébloui de voir Panna reprendre les pas de danses de Travolta au son de Saturday Night Fever, celle de Georges, le menuisier du coin, à qui j'offre une bouteille de vin tous les ans, symbole d'amitié et de lien indéfectible entre voisins, la maisonée blanche avec son vieux mini-cooper vert pomme des années 70 semblant défier le temps, la grande demeure de Bhisham où vit une mère seule depuis bientôt trente ans. C'est incroyable l'effet de  douze petites minutes d'une matinée où l'on revoit sa vie défiler devant ses yeux.

Je vis dans ce quartier et je vois tout le temps ces maisons mais il y a quelque chose de particulier lorsqu'elles sont baignées dans la lumière du matin et que l'air est encore imprégné du parfum doux et réconfortant du sommeil. Je sors de chez moi déambulant comme dans un demi-songe et je me laisse bercer par cette douce sensation de nostalgie me remémorant ce qu'a été l'essence même de ma vie: la nonchalance et cet amour indéfectible pour ce morcellement Saint-Jean.

Chez Ram, le pain maison sent exactement le même parfum  que chez n'importe quel boutiquier de l'ile. Le pain maison a ceci de particulier qu'il nous rappelle toutes les étapes de notre vie, de la petite enfance où il nous semblait énorme dans notre panier en raphia qu'on trimballait à l'école jusqu'au moment de notre croissance où il devenait soudain minuscule ou que bien plus tard, jeune adulte on rentrait de boite de nuit affamé et on en cherchait vainement un morceau, même rassis, qu'on faisait griller sur la plaque à gaz. Chaque morceau de ce pain artisinal est un bonheur gustatif, une vraie ode à notre tradition culinaire et même si certains le considèrent comme un véritable étouffe-chrétien il est une part essentielle de notre identité mauricienne.

Je quitte la boutique, le sac de pain frais entre les mains, je sais que cette rencontre avec le commis n'est pas seulement un acte banal, mais un rituel sacré. Je redescends l'avenue et je réalise que c'est beacoup plus qu'un simple trajet vers la maison; c'est en réalité un moment où je me connecte à mes souvenirs, à ma communauté et à moi-même. Et alors que je franchis à nouveau le seuil de ma porte, je suis empli d'une profonde gratitude pour ces douze petites minutes qui, chaque matin, m'enveloppent d'une étreinte bienveillante.

 

Grand Frère

Ok, for sure this is going to be a tough one. I better roll my sleeves up and do it in one go.

My father's eldest brother, known as Grand Frère or Barkapapa is currently hospitalized because of a foot infection which is taking way too much time to heal. He is to turn 89 in May and, along with my fabulous company, I bring him breakfast every morning.

Here is what I would have liked to write about this experience:

"Days went by, but the glow of affection was rare. However, in the heart of this silent storm, a ray of light emerged. The family, aware of his isolation, decided to change the game. They gathered around Barkapapa, sharing precious moments and reviving memories that seemed to fade away. Over time, the warmth of family love gradually dispelled the cold that enveloped him. Regular visits, shared smiles, and family stories helped him regain some of his lost joy." 

The bitter truth, unfortunately, lies somewhere else. It resembles more something like: “Days went by, and the glow of affection eventually faded out in the cold of a hospital ward. No one had time to visit an old man who could barely align a few comprehensible words, a smelly old man whose faltering memory seemed to confuse everyone rather than guide them.”

It is heartbreaking to hear relentless comments about this state of things: "li pena fami sa dimoune la? Zot finn abandonn li koumsa? Mett ene linze prop lor li do, baigne li, li fer so déplaisant ene nuit, li pisse lor drap, senti loderr, li fer tapaz..." This is what is thrown at me every now and then. The most painful part is that these are not cruel comments; they are mere facts.  

Barkapapa has only one daughter, Lata. She is undergoing chemo these days and is understandably not in a state of tending to her father. 

Grand children? Two, trying to navigate their way through.

Poupou Anita, my uncle's baby sister, comes every once in a while every time her health permits. As for me, I try to go everyday. 

In Poupou Anita's own words, Barkapapa had always been the cornerstone of the family, a quiet strength that watched over his own during troubled times. Shy and introverted, he preferred actions over words, demonstrating his love and protection through concrete deeds. This translated into him quitting school at 18 and working hard to buy a wooden house (with the support from an uncle) for his mother and his 6 younger siblings after my paternal grand father had deserted the household. Later, when he moved to Quatre-Bornes, he had an extension built to his very own house just so to welcome back his daughter and grand kids following a divorce which went nuclear bad. Lata was at the lowest of all lows and was psychologically affected but her father was there to provide her with shelter and safety. 

At one time, Barkapapa even opened the doors of his home to Poupou Anita & Poupa Gyan for more than a year after their wedding.The couple needed to save money to have their own place so in the meantime they stayed at his without having to worry about rental.

It saddens me to see my uncle's eyes, imbued with wisdom and melancholy, bearing the weight of the years. Fate has led him to a moment of vulnerability, where loneliness seems to have taken hold today. He is far from his home, his sanctuary and even when he will be back, there's still no guarantee that he will have the proper kind of care he requires. He fell twice at the hospital and one night his arms and leg had even been tied to the bed to prevent him from hurting himself further. Grand frère's slender frame and imposing height, once symbols of his enduring presence, now stand as silent witnesses to the toll of advanced age etched upon his face. 

This is a strange but fascinating experience for me too. In the beginning he wouldn't let me touch him or even come close to him. Now he says " to vine gett mwa demain, mo pa senti mwa bien si mo pa trouve twa." He gently taps the space next to him on his bed and asks me to sit even if he does not utter a single word. He allows me to massage his arms and legs with oil, he eats everything that I bring.

This could be a disheartening routine for me but I nevertheless choose to consider it a blessing to be in his presence and to be able to introspect about what life could have in store for us in our last strides. It is important for me to witness this now, to see clearly with my own eyes the reality that the final chapters of many stories unfold not as a tale of reunions and affection but rather as a melancholic ballad of solitude on a filthy bed, in a cold hospital ward, surrounded by complete strangers instead of family members.You hold on to that thin beam of hope that one of your relatives will eventually bring you back home and look after you while at the same time your gut feeling tells you the exact opposite.

As depressing as this depiction might be, it is an actual reality. The only motivation it brings in me is that of enhancing my practice of purification and detachment so that whatever comes my way, I am better prepared to face it.