Identity

“Tell me, Uncle, I need to know. Am I family or not?” It was a family tree, delicately written in a fine felt-tip pen. Indira looked at the paper closely and then at Uncle Rohan. She pulled her knees up to her face and rested her head on them, her arms wrapped closely around her legs as she waited.

Uncle Rohan took a sip of cold tea before announcing, ‘Your aunt made this just after your father died. Look – you are at the top of this tree and your great-grandfather is at the bottom. You see here?’ Indira leaned over her uncle’s shoulder and nodded her head. ‘So, when your grandfather left Madras and went to Trinidad, those stupid people at the docks only registered his first name and spelled it wrong too; so instead of Kishoor Ramcharan, he became known as Kishore and his father’s name was only registered as Ram, as if that was the family name. In those days, the British never called working people by their first names. Maybe they thought that if they did, they would have to treat us like human beings. I don’t know why, but your grandfather became known around the plantation as Kishore. Now all the people he knew from back home called him Ram, his father’s family name. You with me?’ ‘So, time passed and your grandfather got married and had three children; me, your Aunt Sabby and your father Peter.’ Indira raised her head and looked at Uncle Rohan suspiciously, ‘Hmm…so why was his name Peter? You all have Indian names, why was he different?’ She was starting to sound like the solicitor.

Uncle Rohan laughed. ‘OK, wait so now your father was born and the midwife was a Christian woman and she liked everybody to be Christian, so before your grandfather could say a word, the woman named him Peter. It was no joke, Indira. We had no say in those days.’ ‘Look at the family tree,’ he told her, pointing to the line with her father’s name on it. ‘You see how we all have the name Ram in front. That was your grandmother’s doing. You could never mess with that lady, you know. She insisted the manager changed it. That’s where you get your temper from.’

Indira beamed as she thought of her grandmother. She had never met her but had heard so much about her that she concluded she must have been a very fiery woman. ‘So we move again. First India, then Trinidad and now England, and the mistakes carry on. You were the first born in this country and your mother went to the town hall with your aunt and asked the lady there to register your name. They called you Clarence, after your grandmother – see here, look at the family tree – and Indira, because you were so beautiful. Now, this lady can’t write Indian names, so she spelled Ramkishore how she wanted it, how the English say it. That’s how you became Ramkeesoon. Maybe they didn’t understand your mother’s accent. Who knows, but you are one of us – and don’t ever doubt it again.’

-Excerpt from Sugar, Sugar by Lainy Malkani