Dear Editor,
As the Indian Arrival Day ceremonies come to a close, let’s not close our minds to those who, through hardships and deprivation, paved the way in creating the society all Guyanese enjoyed today. The following is a glimpse into the life of a woman who made such sacrifice.
Utmie Nanee we called her. Small in stature, she still carried the scars of prolonged intense labour in Blairmont sugarcane fields. Her hands, arms and face bore the signs of her struggles to earn a living of subsistence existence. Yet, one could not tell her hardships from the way she conducted herself. Whenever we visited my Mamoo with whom she resided, she appeared neatly dressed in her “coat and jacket”, footring, nosering, tilari, and rows of bangles, all of which she wore with solemn pride as if these were a part of her identity, her being.
As far as I can recall, I became aware of Utmie Nanee at the tender age of six when my mother took my younger sister and I to my last Mamoo’s (maternal uncle) wedding. Utmie Nanee performed the ceremonial rites of his mother, and as she did so, my mother, who had just turned thirty, began to sob uncontrollably, which left me visibly scared. At the first pause in her motherly ceremonial functions, Utmie Nanee came over and sat beside my mother. Taking her in her arms, and gently stroking her hair, she quietly whispered to my mother in her broken English, “Noh cry bete (daughter), ting go be awright, me pramise you.”
Confused at the time of this incident, I understood very little as to the reason why my mother sobbed so uncontrollably. And, as I grew older, I often heard my mother refer to Utmie Nanee as Musie (maternal sister). Not knowing my Nanee (maternal grandmother) who died before my birth, I had assumed that Utmie was my maternal grandmother, but when I heard my mother refer to her as Musie, I surmised that she was my biological Nanee’s sister.
Over the years, Utmie Nanee visited us occasionally since we lived in Bath, and travel to and from Blairmont was not what it’s like today. As customary, she always brought with her a variety of sweetmeats which she shared with a smile on her face as if she knew we would gobble all up with pleasurable satisfaction. When it was time for her to leave, she would hug my sisters and I, assuring us she loved us dearly and wished she could stay a bit longer. At my older sisters’ wedding, Utmie Nanee was with us to assist my mom, and perform her ceremonial functions as the elderly grandmother. Each time she spoke to my mother she would use the word, ‘Bete,’ which in some ways reinforced my thoughts that she was my Nanee’s sister.
Utmie Nanee died three years after my sisters’ wedding. At her funeral, my mother sobbed, and between her tears she would utter these words, “Aw Musie, even tho you na been nobady fo me, you love me like you own data.” Being sixteen at the time, my mother’s words came as a shock to me. Concerned about my mother’s wellbeing, I tried to drown her words from my memory, but they kept resurfacing. How can this old lady whom we embraced as my mother’s maternal aunt not be related to her?
Back at home, I questioned my mother about her words, and this is what she told me. Utmie Nanee and her mother were lured away from Uttar Pradesh when they were young children with promises of a better life. Two strangers, afraid and alone on the ship bound for Guyana, they took comfort in each other, and promised not to be separated. Bounded to Blairmont Estate, they continued their relationship as if they were sisters without disclosing their non-consanguineal bonds. When my maternal Nanee lay dying, she asked Utmie to “look over” her children, two of whom were in their late teens and unmarried. Utmie Nanee assumed her role as their substitute mother which she never relinquished until she died. Just before her death, she bequeathed her few pieces of jewellery with the words, “Ge dis to me only data Ramauti (my mother).”
As I think of Utmie Nanee today, I wonder, how many of us acknowledge the love, devotion and sacrifices of the many indentured like her, who, wrenched from India, their homeland, and taken to Guyana, a far-off place where they established bonds and relationships that transcended consanguineal ties – bloodlines. Can such relationships thrive again? I think so, for the life and times of Utmie has taught me that she was ‘My Nanee, who was not my Nanee, but truly was my Nanee.’
Regards,
Narayan Persaud
