< Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket # 4
Bipti stepped out the car and I couldn't believe my eyes. I know this girl
from the village; as a pretty young lady, straight back, very fussy about
her clothes; inviting but paying no attention to other people; and
carrying a umbrella, rain or shine.
The only girl I know who took her real shoes wrap up in a bag till she get
to the public road or her job; then she change over from the road shoes.
A start life of pure focus, pure endeavour.
And smarter than me, I have to say. All these years I only driving minivan,
keeping people on the move. Cash in hand help make ends meet, which
is not a bad thing under the circumstances. Last does graze paragrass
in this land of wait long.
But Bipti! moved away from the village; she was appointed Loan Officer
in a Georgetown bank ̶ must have had a flair for finance. Next I hear
she get married to an Insurance Company man known around town as an
"eligible bachelor". You could assume she was already working her way
up the ladder, if you know what I mean.
Next, she left the country with the Company man, and they living in
Barbados. Divorce the husband there! after bearing two children. Married
a Barbadian doctor and went with him to live in "upstate New York", USA.
This was going on over years. I was getting the news piece piece from
people in the village who knew her mother.
She kept in touch with the mother through barrels and Christmas cards
with photographs tucked inside. In all this time she never come home to
visit, even when the mother take sick, dead and bury. Which is to say,
once she left this village that was it; is gone to the Falls she gone.
I was heading out in the van for the city runs when she step out on the
road, in company with a plump white lady. Face a little wrinkle up, but
despite all these years I knew was Bipti.
Something tell me stop; say, Hello, remember me?
I hold back. Call me dray cart dumb; was the way she was standing,
holding head and shoulders with an air of foreign highness; pointing
at this house, that house; like she showing the white lady the backlands
of ordinary she start from.
There was heavy rain the night before; the grass was shiny green, and the
road had muddy pools of water. I was praying she wouldn't turn suddenly
and aim a phone or point at me; as if to say some lives like certain habits
will never change; and some folks with lower ambition will live and die
on the same patch of land they born and settle; forest, village, hard
ship ̶ no place else.
So even though I recognize her, I pretend I didn't know her.
Showing up like that, alongside this white lady; both wearing white slacks,
which wasn't really smart considering how easy clean clothes does pick up
dirt in this place. And braided straw hat, cat-eye sun glasses, shoulder bag,
also not smart considering how people does mark you quick as you step out
the airport.
When I drive back home for lunch time break, I find out she left the village
already.
My neighbor Ganpat wife [who I have to say is more intelligent than her
belly swell husband; he trying ̶ is one whole year now he trying ̶ with
contractors to convert his bottom house into a beer parlour; clay brick
growing weeds near the paling waiting for the workers to come back.
The man always sound agitated; talks then walks away, then turns back
with the same warning: "Hell to pay in this world, hell to pay! This
country heading straight to Haiti!"
Telling me the other day, "I hear they inventing driverless cars; you and
your hustling minibus soon going out of business." You see the son of
aggravation I living next door to?]
Anyway, his wife said Bipti didn't stay long; like she was just passing
through; came in their house for refreshment; stayed ten minutes, that
was all.
Apparently, the white lady (whose name she didn't fully get) was Bipti's
supervisor at a bank in upstate New York where Bipti worked. The doctor
husband from Barbados died (highway car crash); leaving her and (is now)
three children; all grown up and "in college" and "doing well".
And Bipti herself was doing very well; she had her own home in upstate
New York (take-off-your shoes carpet, four-poster bed, Mexican workers
doing the lawn). And, hear this, now she is "alone and available".
Her exact words, Alone and available! which neighbor Ganpat wife repeated,
raising her voice in a little school-girl, giggly way; half-turned on her front
verandah as if somehow I was keeping her back from chores inside; always
hungry for scraps of information.
Not that those words would mean anything to a man like me. If Bipti came
back to advertise or tease anybody in this district, she make a wrong
calculation.
Running the minivan I does study people at the side of the road. You can tell
who waiting for transport, who standing there, face blank like traffic lights
not working; who just wish a limousine would glide over to the grass verge,
not sardine van service every day.
I had to learn when to slow, when to risk fast overtake; how to swerve from
old men and stray cow; horn and flush quick business out the bush.
I thinking now: Bipti was a real expert at love life and ladder moves ̶
forward, sideways; bypass, off the back foot moves. Left a lot of memory and
sadness behind her, but that girl know how to measure steps; showing
motion you barely notice as night slips out to day.
If you ask me, most people born and bred in Canal District (except maybe my
vest and pants neighbour Ganpat) know how to stake and hold a way in the
world. People born and bred elsewhere does suffer ̶ too much name match
set, where wind blows.
Take that girl from Wakenaam, Babsie. Start out moving to the city; take up
with a city man (common law marriage, one child). The man catch she looking
at another man, and warn her. He come home one night and plunge a bread
knife in her neck. Just like that. Stab up her chest thirty times. It was in the
papers, all over the news.
R. Dookie
Canal District, Guyana
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 