Guyanese Tombran returns with sophomore novel
Divya Tombran, the Guyanese author of the 2018 debut By the Mud Stove, has published a new book, Seya, the Woman by the Sea. Set in 1960s Guyana, the tale focuses on two outcasts who meet at a seaside village: teenager
Seya and a young carpenter Suresh. Along for the ride are the mysterious Mister Gareth, said to be Seya’s lover, and an old woman, thought to be a fire-rass, or bloodsucker, Neighbour Bertha.
The following is Part 1 of an excerpt, published here with the author’s permission.
Chapter One
Seya The Evening Shadow The meaning of her name Seya is evening shadow, dark as the colour of her Indian skin, and she lived by a remote seaside in Guyana in a rickety shack. The few villagers who accidentally ventured her way claimed that the beautiful sixteen-year-old was struck with madness—some kind of crying sickness—and that she was an outcast. Suresh, a tall and slender dark-skinned Indian fellow of only twenty-one, had recently learned of her and, being an outcast himself, he set out to find her . . .
The rainstorm had just hit the sea on this dark Sunday evening in Guyana, and Suresh was caught in it as he was walking along the shell-strewn seashore of an east coast village. Mighty waves crashed wildly as the howling wind whipped them about, and seagulls were heard squawking high above in the warm air as candleflies darted about the cluster of coconut trees lining the shore.
Suresh had travelled on foot well over a mile from his own home, looking for Seya’s shack, and by now he was soaked from his curly shoulder-length black hair down to his sandals. But that did not deter him, neither did the darkness of the night. He persisted on, battling the fierce wind as he trudged through the wet sand, seashells, rocks, and driftwood. Eventually, through squinted eyes, he noticed a faint light in the distance, around the curve of the shore, and he steadfastly gravitated towards it.
As he drew closer, he could make out the old shack on stilts, its ragged greenheart wood walls were being pounded by the rain, and a kerosene oil lamp was dangling from the ceiling of the verandah, its flame flickering in the wind as the waves rolled up on the shore. At the bottom-house of the shack, Suresh noticed a canoe tied to the stilts.
From within the shack an oil lamp burned, creating a mysterious ambience, and through the sheer pink curtain of a side window a shapely shadow of a woman was seen. There was no doubt in Suresh’s mind that it was no other than the enigmatic Seya. His first thought was to go and knock on her door, but before he could do so, she emerged on the verandah. In the pool of light from the kerosene oil lamp he could see her clearly, a dark-skinned, petite young woman, delicate looking, and tantalisingly draped in a red sari, with raven hair that reached down to her ankles, whipping about in the wind. He was struck by the dark beauty of her face, a visage fine and child-like, resembling the beauty of a black pearl. He had expected a woman in disarray with the madness she was accused of being, instead, she appeared to be a sad and lonely young woman.
With melancholic eyes, she stared out at the boisterous sea for a moment, then she called out the name, “Mister Gareth.” She called the name several times, then as though sensing Suresh’s presence, she turned to look sideways in his direction. For a moment, she uttered nothing, then in a soft silvery voice said, “Come, take shelter from the rain.”
Suresh climbed the outside stairs of the shack and before he got to the verandah, on which was strung an old cotton hammock, she had disappeared inside. The sheer pink curtain, drawn over the window overlooking the verandah, was flapping in the wind, allowing him glimpses inside the shack. An unpainted and worn room served as a sitting room and kitchen, furnished with a decrepit wooden bench, a mat, a coffee table on which was a large conch shell, and against the back wall was a mud stove, the embers still smouldering from recently being used and, by the scent, Seya had cooked curried fish. The tiny dish sink was empty, the dishes now washed and turned down on a small counter, which meant she already had dinner. A pot was now simmering over the embers of the mud stove, emitting the citrusy scent of lime leaves. The walls of the room were bare, except, for a gold-framed picture of the Hindu god Krishna hanging askew, and in a corner was what appeared to be a shrine with diyas or little earthen ghee-soaked lamps, brass idols, and fresh flowers. A small transistor radio was on the coffee table and an Indian love song was now playing above the noise of the churning sea.
Suresh stood on the verandah, dripping wet, wondering where Seya was at the moment. Not before long, she emerged from what appeared to be the entrance of a bedroom, a towel in hand, walking softly on bare feet. She came over to the door of the shack and opened it and handed him the towel.
“Thanks for being so caring—” he began, and before he could converse with her, she quickly turned away and went inside, but not before he caught a glimpse of her eyes in the light of the kerosene oil lamp; they were sea-green, wide and sunken, conspicuous against her dark skin. He found himself wondering what madness possessed this beautiful young woman.
He wiped the rain from his face and dried his arms with the towel and then looked out at the tempestuous sea. The rainstorm was sweeping about wildly across the sea now, the wind whistling in the dark of the night, swaying the kerosene oil lamp hanging from the ceiling of the verandah. There was no telling when the rain would stop, and as he stood there listening to the pitter patter on the zinc roof of the shack and the Indian tune playing on the radio, he vacillated between leaving or taking shelter for a while longer, hoping he would get a chance to talk with Seya. Just as he was debating, she emerged from the shack again. This time she brought him a steaming cup of lime leaves’ tea. She did not say a word, but rested the enamel cup on the side table between the two old wooden chairs situated against the wall of the verandah.
“You are so kind to me,”
Suresh said to her this time, and, again, no response, but her face appeared benign.
She paused there for a moment to check the oil in the lamp, her beautiful arms reaching up gracefully, revealing the seductive shape of her sari bodice which clung to her like a second skin, and to add to her appeal, her long black hair was tossed about by the wind. Suresh could not help but to naturally react with a stir of excitement.
He attempted to converse with her again, saying, “Terrible weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
Again, she did not respond, but cast him a perfunctory glance with an inscrutable expression, then she lowered her eyes and retreated within the shack in a hurry. At this point, Suresh was beginning to think that his trip here was futile for she was either too shy or inhibited to converse with him.
He took the cup of tea she brought him and began sipping on it, pacing the verandah as he did and catching glimpses within the shack, through the curtain blowing in the window. Seya had apparently turned the radio off and was now sitting in front of the shrine in a lotus position, her red sari wrapped tightly against her finely shaped figure, her long hair falling on the floor like a black sea around her. Incense and diyas were burning, and she chanted a Hindu prayer for a while, almost inaudibly, then there was only the sound of the patter of the rain on the zinc roof.
Suresh thought it best to leave then, and he finished the cup of tea and had just rested the cup on the side table when a piercing cry came from within, calling, “Mister Gareth!” Startled, he looked inside and saw Seya rolling around on the bare floor, holding her stomach and crying, and repeatedly calling out the name ‘Mister Gareth’.
Suresh looked on and listened for a while, not knowing what to do, then unable to bear the sounds of her sad cries, he followed his intuition and entered the shack. Seya stood up when she saw him, and now she looked like a wild woman, darting terrified glances at him. Instinctively,
Suresh reached out to embrace her, gently saying, “Come, lay your head on my shoulder.”
She shook her head and shrank back as if in fear and took to a corner of the room, crouching on the floor and crying even more madly.
“Who has done this to you?” Suresh asked, sensing her pain. “What happened to you?”
Seya did not answer but continued to cry piteously, her poignant cries evincing the sadness and anguish she was experiencing. Helpless, Suresh watched her, not knowing what to do to console her. He wished he could commiserate with her, assuage her pain, take her in his arms and soothe her, but she would not let him. It was painful for him to stand there and see the dejection in her young eyes.
After what seemed like an hour, which was more like a few minutes, Seya gradually began settling down, her cries slowly diminishing until her demeanour became serene, and she spoke softly, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologise, Seya.” Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she asked, “How do you know my name?”
“That’s what the villagers call you,” Suresh answered. “And my name is Suresh.”
She got up then and began saying, “It will rain all night, Suresh—”
“Then I will leave. But can I see you again, Seya?”
She did not give him an answer, but stood with her head now lowered, twirling a strand of hair around her fingers, and he took her silence as a tacit agreement. Hesitantly, Suresh backed away and exited the shack and closed the door, and he left for home in the rainstorm that night with Seya on his mind.
The young woman touched his heart and he found himself overtaken by a sadness for her, tears trickling from his own eyes. He mused over her, wondering who she was. For someone so young, she had the sadness and
pain of one of many decades. Where did she come from? How did she come to live all by herself by the seaside? Why did she sequester herself from the world? What happened in her life? Why was she an outcast? Why was she crying? What made her so afraid? And who was the man Mister Gareth whose name she had called out? What madness had struck this young woman? He could not decipher her mysteries.
It was passed midnight when Suresh returned home, home to his own sadness and pain in life.
Suresh’s story began on an inauspicious, sweltering Friday afternoon. His father Raheem, a successful jeweller who had lived by the seaside village with his wife Bhanu, was racing to get home from work because Bhanu was sick with pneumonia and he could not reach her by telephone. She normally would wait for him every day on the verandah, with two-year-old Suresh clinging to her skirt, and when he did not see them there that day, a visceral feeling of fear overtook him.
He sped up the car, and, as he drew closer to the house, he scanned the big yard to see if perhaps his wife and child were somewhere under the plentiful fruit trees, like they sometimes did, but there was no sign of them there, nor were they in the hammock at the concrete-paved bottom-house. Hurriedly, he parked the car at the bottomhouse and rushed up the front stairs.
“Bhanu!” he called as he tried the door only to find it locked. No answer.
“Bhanu!” Still no answer.
But now he could hear Suresh crying.
He foraged for the door key in his trousers pocket and found it and unlocked the door and burst into the house.
“Bhanu! Why aren’t you answering me? Bhanu!”
Still no answer, but just the distressed cry of Suresh. Raheem followed the sound from where it came and it led him to the master bedroom of the five-bedroom house. And sprawled out on the floor was Bhanu, and Suresh was sitting beside her.
“Wake up, Ma, wake up,” the child cried as he shook her with his little hands.
Raheem rushed to his wife’s side and felt for her pulse. Nothing. And he let out a loud and mournful cry. “Bhanu, oh my beloved Bhanu! Why, God, why have you taken her away from me? Oh, Bhanu, my sweet Bhanu!”
Suresh was too young to remember what happened. The funeral took place just a day later, and for all his crying, he could not bring his Ma back.
Not too long after the funeral, within a three-month span, a beautiful Indian woman by the name of Manjula, young and fair-skinned with long black hair, captured the bereaved heart of Raheem. And they got married in a hurry, in spite of family and friends telling Raheem that he was rushing into things, that he was not giving himself enough time to grieve for his beloved Bhanu, and that he was bare-faced, shameless with no scruples. But Raheem had fortunately fallen in love again and saw it as God giving him a second chance in life. Suresh also had a second chance of having a mother, and the child instantly took a liking to the affable nature of Manjula. It seemed like it was a good match for all three, for Manjula, besides being likeable, was kind and caring, and she was happy and vibrant, and was a hard-working woman, tending to the house chores as a wife, and caring for little Suresh. In fact, she was overjoyed to have a little boy for her son, and she cuddled the dark-skinned child, and fed and bathed him and doted on him, and always made him sugarcake. Suresh made her long for children of her own, and within a year, Manjula gave birth to a baby boy, Ranbir, and in the next year, she had a daughter, Zara, and both children took Manjula’s fair complexion. Little Suresh adored his baby brother and sister, and the three bonded as biological siblings.
Manjula turned out to be a good choice for a wife and mother, proving to Raheem that he had done the right thing by marrying her. And she had reasons to be happy in life for she had a wonderful husband, a man with whom she fell in love deeply and passionately, who was the only man she had ever known, and she lived in a beautiful home and had three lovely children. There was nothing she was in need of for Raheem catered to her every whim, and she so deserved it.
“I will repay you with many more children,” she said to Raheem as he took her out for a car ride along the seaside one day.
“You can start right here,” Raheem teased her.
She slapped him on the shoulder and smiled. “Neighbour Bertha is looking after the children and we promised her we will be back soon.”
When they arrived back home that afternoon, in the peak heat of the day, Neighbour Bertha, a grey-haired, brown-skinned black woman who was always barefoot and wore a red headtie, was at the bottom-house with the three children, Suresh now five years old, and Ranbir two, and Zara was just a baby, whom Neighbour Bertha was holding on her hip.
“Ma, Ma,” Suresh cried and ran up to Manjula and hugged her as soon as she alighted from the car. Then he turned to Raheem, and said, “Neighbour Bertha said there’s a peacock in the woods, can you take me to see it, Papa?”
“It’s too hot to go out in the woods now, Suresh, maybe some other time I will take you,” Raheem said.
Suresh pouted and said, “I want to go now, Papa.”
Manjula interrupted, saying, “Not now, Suresh. Some other time. The peacock will still be there.”
“But I want to go now!” Suresh cried.
“Your father and I will take you later in the day when it’s cool,” Manjula said.
“No, not later, I want to go now!”
“Listen to your father, Suresh, he doesn’t want to go now.”
“Okay, okay,” Raheem acquiesced, “I’ll take you to see the peacock, but we wouldn’t be too long.”
Suresh hugged his father and then said, “Thank you, Papa.”
“You spoil the child,” Manjula said. “He should listen to you. When you say no, it means no.”
“I spoil all my children,” Raheem said, and jokingly added, “It may be the death of me someday.”
“Don’t talk like that, Raheem,” Manjula said.
“Take Ranbir and Zara upstairs, and Suresh and I will go now.”
Neighbour Bertha handed baby Zara to Manjula, and she went her way, across the street where she lived, and Manjula went upstairs with the baby and Ranbir.
About an hour after Raheem and Suresh left, Suresh returned home crying. “Papa is sleeping in the woods, Ma.”
“What do you mean by saying Papa is sleeping in the woods?”
“A snake bit Papa and put him to sleep.”
“Oh my God!” Manjula began wailing. “Oh my God!” She rushed across the street and called Neighbour Bertha. “Neighbour, please take care of my children for a while, I must go and check on my husband. He’s in the woods and a snake has bitten him.”
“You shouldn’t go alone, my dear. Let my grandsons Neville and Niles accompany you. Neville! Niles!”
The two young, strong black men came rushing down the stairs to help.
Neighbour Bertha went over to Manjula’s house and remained behind with the three children, and Manjula and the two young men made their way to the woods. Her worst fears came true, for when Manjula and the men made it to Raheem, he was laying in the woods, dead. Manjula fell to her knees and pulled out her hair and beat her chest in crying...
CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK