With a Little Help from Friends
Part one
Our neighbourhood was pretty multicultural. Christian, Muslim and Hindu families lived side by side in harmony. We shared each other’s sorrows and happinesses. Above all, we often helped each other.
Father, who had travelled a bit, was enlightened enough to want his children_ at least the male ones- to have an education, and big brother Ahmad was one of the few youths of his generation, in our neck of the woods, who was going to secondary school, being one of the six children to have won a primary school scholarship at 11, which saw him gain a place at the famous Royal College School in Port-Louis, plus a stipend of ten rupees every month. As such, he was much respected in our neighbourhood, and was often called upon to write letters, or explain what official communications meant. He was diligent and no one was surprised when he passed the Cambridge Senior School Certificate Grade One. As such, the whole neighbourhood willed him to earn a laureateship in two years, called a “bourse d’Angleterre”, which would enable him to go to a university in the United Kingdom, to become a doctor, or a barrister. But there were obstacles. There was no sixth form in Port-Louis. Only the sister institution, the Royal College in Curepipe offered these courses. And that was fifteen miles away, and one would have to catch a train everyday to get there. That would mean a total of three hours travelling. The time wasted on top of the fatigue would have put paid to his chances of coming first at the English Scholarship exam in two years’ time. Family friends offered advice and support, but the bottom line was obviating the burdensome train journeys. Someone came up with the suggestion that Ahmad might find refuge at the Curepipe Mosque. In those days, Muslim travellers from overseas would benefit from shelter in mosques when they arrived in a foreign country. With the help of willing intermediaries, an arrangement was made, whereby the Mosque in Curepipe would offer him a small room with a bed, a desk and a petrol lamp, and he was set up. But there was the other problem of food. I am not entirely sure of how this was solved, but there were one or two Muslim families living in Curepipe who were approached and volunteered to feed the young man.
I was six or seven and do not remember much, apart from how excited everybody was on Friday afternoon when the young prince was coming back home for the weekend. I remember the sucre- d’orge that he would bring for us. He must have spent all his pocket money on this, but he was always the soul of generosity.
Meanwhile in Port-Louis, there were other forces at work. Advice was pouring in from many sources. Ahmad had along list of subjects in his syllabus, Maths, Physics, Chemistry, English, French, History and General Studies. Common wisdom dictated that very often the competition was so severe that a knowledge of what was happening in the world made the final difference. One doesn’t get taught that, but picked the facts up by reading and following the news. We had no radio, nor did we buy newspapers, something which gave the competitors from richer families an edge. But our friends and neighbours were undaunted.
A certain Monsieur Ramanah who lived round the corner from us, who had some modest job, moonlighted as a bookseller. During week-ends he would load a suitcase with books that he bought second-hand, and go round Port-Louis offering his literary merchandise for sale, `and at the same time, buying anything the buyer might wish to sell, which was how he replenished his stock. He called on Father one day, and explained that surely Ahmad needed a dictionary, and advised that he could learn so many new words everyday. He had laid hands on a Larousse Illustré, which he explained, contained every single French word in existence, giving their meanings and spelling, and above all there is a double page of the flags of every single country in the world in full colour. He guaranteed that one one could win a bourse d’Angleterre without it. Ibrahim was impressed. How much? he asked. Monsieur Ramanah became angry. I did not come here to sell, Monsieur Ibrahim, it’s a gift to your extraordinay son who is going to do honour to our neighbourhood one day. Monsieur Ramanah was not a rich man, he too had a large family. Father called me. Beta, he said, catch that small grey hen, tie her up and give it to Monsieur Ramanah.
One family friend agreed to save their newspapers and pass them on to him. There were two postmen who did our round, one a fat round fellow, everybody called Gros Facteur, and the other one a small thin man we called Ti Facteur. Interestingly they had married each other’s sister, and were both Muslims. There were some well-off people in our neighbourhood who subscribed to English magazines like Picture Post, Life or Wide World, and they arrived irregularly by boat from London, taking four or five weeks. Those lovely men of letters came up with an incredible offer, putting their jobs on the line: When the timing was propitious, they would deliver to our home, those publications destined for others, on a Friday, instruct Ahmad how to prise them open without tearing the wrapping, and give him a whole week-end to assimilate the knowledge of what was happening in the world, driving a nail in the coffin of the hopes of his competitors. Then, before leaving for Curepipe on Monday, he would carefully re-introduce the read and digested reviews back in their wrappings and the lovely but guilty messengers would call in to pick up the contraband, now ready to be delivered to their rightful addressees.
Sadly, it seemed an uphill task to come first at those arduous exams if you did not have private tuition on top of your schooling, and Ibrahim could not afford that, so Ahmad narrowly missed on that big prize.
tbc.
