Cackles of Shame

My little car got some deep scratch on side door and it was in body-shop for last five days. I rode a paddle-rickshaw and the puller was a lean young chap, hardly crossed twenty. I had to catch metro, like old days and spend an hour among strangers, unchartered body-odours and tiny interesting stories. The rickshaw went straight, crossed the bazaar and turned the round island - structured recently and took the road towards metro station. I could see the station at distance, and all kinds of cars, e-rickshaws or paddle rickshaws lined up in front of the entry, and then suddenly the young rickshaw puller screamed, ‘look, look, Africans!’

It took me some time to get into what he was pointing at. I saw nothing except large apartments and a school at one side and a high risen metro line at another. I narrowed down further. I followed the gaze of the young chap, who was clearly amused, as his teeth were outside and eyes were fixed towards a group of people, who were buying milk from a kiosk. And I saw, those people were black.

I can’t say what that young rickshaw puller was thinking about. I am not a thought reader, but what I saw, took me back to a memory, I had safely parked in a garage of my mind and threw the garage keys far away, so that it could be hidden forever and lost. A single flash and I knew that I was there.

It was a clear and sunny afternoon. Taniya and Vedantika were resting on a mat stretched on silver sand after a long swimming session and I had to bring some food from a nearby shop. The beach was awesome. People of all sorts were swimming, singing, reading, chatting, sun-bathing or just taking naps. On my back, mighty Indian Ocean was roaring with her blue water and white waves. Winds were high and I felt cold in my wet pants. Few people stood in front of the shop, which was selling breads and cooked chicken. I lined up behind them and waited for my turn. I looked at the flock of people waiting for their orders - definitely were from a western country – probably from any Scandinavian one. When I reached to the counter and smiled to the owner – a middle-aged Mauritian man and ordered chicken salad and a baguette, already ten minutes passed away. I was hungry and I knew my daughter and wife were too. The sultry air added extra appetite. I was waiting for my food. But then twenty more minutes passed away, and still my food wasn’t ready. I enquired at the counter and got reply that it’d take some time for the chef was busy. I waited for another ten minutes and noticed a rather peculiar thing. Some customers got their orders pretty early, even in ten minutes and others waited indefinitely like me. It became disgusting and appalling at that moment, when I had this realization that those ‘some people’ had one thing in common – their skin was white.

That sickening thing was happening. It was humiliating. I went to the counter and confronted to the middle-aged owner.

“Hello. I am waiting for thirty minutes for just a chicken salad and a baguette. How much time it’ll take?” I questioned.

“I guess, another ten minutes. Right now our chefs are very busy with other orders”, he casually answered.

“And those orders are from only white people. Right?”

The owner looked up and lined his eyes towards mine. “Yes. So what?”

I couldn’t believe that. He not only accepted that he was favoring people based on skin colour, but he didn’t hesitate to boast about that.

I was pissed off. I said, “Are they paying you better than the rest of us?”

He didn’t say anything, but his kept lining up his gaze towards me for certain time. His gestures were rude and vividly uncouth. Then he went inside and brought a packet in minutes and handed over to me.

And then when I turned back with the packet of food, I heard him saying. ‘Dirty Indians. Everywhere they create problems’.

I froze. I thought of turning back and throw the packet on his face. But then I heard the sounds of cackles, coming from the side, where some ‘people’ with white skin stood by. They were approving the owner. How could I turn back and fight the grossest thing I was experiencing, when my fellow human beings, who were from so called developed countries, supported racial discrimination – so blatantly? How could I slap the guy and reminded him that we all were connected and brothers and over sixty percent of Mauritians were of ‘dirty’ Indian origins? I stood there. Humiliated. Red-faced. Shocked.

I didn’t know when I started walking away from that place. I remembered throwing the packet in a dustbin and walked over to another food kiosk and bought some food and went back to my wife and daughter. My experience said, ‘store the bad memories so deep that gradually they become oblivious and lost forever’. When Taniya asked me why I was so late, I gave her some other excuses and promised myself - never to tell her the truth.

The flash shook me so much that I didn’t know when the rickshaw reached to the entry gate of metro station and the young chap was asking for money. I searched my pocket and handed over forty bucks. I got down – my legs were wobbly – had to adjust a little. Sometimes a memory – carefully long lost – can ruin a whole day. I approached the security check. A line was formed there. Those ‘Africans’ were in front of me. They were students. I heard the young rickshaw puller screaming at them. I heard people teasing them in metro, in bazaar, in college and everywhere. I heard the sounds of beatings on those black bodies, until they turned into deep red. I heard the constant humming sounds of insults, hates and discrimination.

I heard the cackles again.