Short-listed twice for the First Book Guyana Prize for Literature by Guernica Editions, the author, a master of innovative historical fiction, is at his very best.
Four meticulously crafted novels—each a testament to disciplined storytelling and a distinctive voice.
I Am Jason Littlebear is a work that represents a bold attempt to shed light on a story no one dared to tell. It describes the life of an Indigenous young man who perseveres in the face of overwhelming odds. Jason Littlebear wants the world to know that there is dignity in resilience throughout the epic struggle of man against a rigged system. In a desperate attempt to find success, he delves into every lifestyle possible, setting the bar very low; yet even that ends in failure. This novel is praised by its editors for its concise and powerful storytelling—short and sweet.
Regarded and celebrated as one of India's greatest freedom fighters, Shankar Singh's brief alliance with the Axis powers during World War II might appear controversial, but his commitment to India's freedom struggle and his role in forming the Army Of Indian Revolutionaries (AIR), compelled the British to capitulate, which hastened India's path to independence.
Discover how sugar – white gold – changed the world, and how coolie indentureship replaced slavery through trickery and kidnapping. Against the backdrop of plantation life, the author lures the reader into a world of intrigue, adventure, and romance. Thugs snatch Raja away from his pretty wife and herd him onto a sailing ship in Calcutta headed to the distant colony of British Guiana. The year is 1869. When the British fail to return Raja to his homeland, he makes good as a free man in the new colony—but will he relight the spark of a once beautiful romance?
Road to Belwasa is in many respects a sequel to the author's first book, A Dip at the Sangam, which was shortlisted for the First Book Guyana Prize for Literature. Growing up in Sand Reef, Reuben had heard tales about his great-grandfather, about how he'd been kidnapped to toil like a slave in British Guiana. He longed to travel to that little village called Belwasa, deep in Bihar, to find out more about that part of his ancestral history.
A glimpse into the worlds and voices that define Reuben Lachmansingh's fiction.
For whatever reason, the music and commotion suddenly stopped. Someone was kicking down my door. Without thinking, I grabbed the axe handle I'd been working on and waited.
Two policemen barged in and confronted me, both with guns drawn. Dusty, who had never attacked anyone before, looked bigger with his hair standing on end. True to his instinct, he stood next to me. One of the policemen, moving with the elegance and grace of Fred Astaire, sidestepped to the left and fired a shot at Dusty, hitting him in the neck.
Tears poured from my eyes like rain, and I released an inhuman scream.
"You shot Dusty, you! Oh Lord! What am I going to do?" I pounded the floor with the axe handle. "My life is over." My wail carried throughout the rooming house. It was a cry like no other. "Why? Why?" I yelled at the top of my lungs.
I jumped out of my seat and stumbled towards Erika's assassin, but I was blocked and held by a handful of guards who'd been sitting among the spectators. To my horror, no one laid a hand on the murderer.
How I managed to break loose from the guards I couldn't say, but I headed for Erika's severed head and picked it up. As night follows the day, I saw her eyelids blink as her tongue, teeth, and lips slowly formed the words, "I love you." Brief seconds later, her eyes closed.
"You masquerade as a warrior!" Angphang shouted, steadying himself. "You have killed, far away from the battlefield, an innocent, unarmed woman with child, one whom I had spared."
The delicate, sweet smell of lavender, burning incense, and myrrh floated in the air. It convinced me that Erika's untimely death was real and that it was all over for her—and our baby.
Things had just quietened down when the storm broke out again. It slammed the deck with curtains of rain that washed over the boat. Sailors rushed with tarpaulins to seal the hatch. The voice of the captain followed: "Departure of the SS Arcot from Calcutta to British Guiana on this the first day of March, 1869. Three hundred and thirty-eight coolies on board."
In his mind's eye, he pictured the Calcutta shoreline disappearing from view, perhaps taking with it all hope that he would ever see his wife, parents, and little brother again.
A sharp blast from the ship's horn flushed a large flock of scarlet ibises. Even the captain took time to watch them in their brilliant hue as they rose from the seashore in unison and flew off to alight on clumps of black mangrove trees.
"Arrival of the SS Arcot in Georgetown, British Guiana, this twentieth day of June, 1869." That day would be etched forever in Raja's memory.
As the summer vacation drew to a close, out of desperation, I decided to try my luck on the tobacco farms in the Tillsonburg/Delhi area, thumbing rides around the rural roads. Four young men from Quebec picked me up.
"Smell these," one of them said, pushing his dirty socks into my face, "they haven't been washed for three weeks!" Fearing for my life, I asked to be let off at the town of Delhi. "Turn over all your money!" another with tobacco-stained teeth growled.
"Please, sir, can I keep this dime for a sandwich?" I asked with the voice of poor Oliver Twist when he'd begged for more soup for himself and the other starving orphans.
"Non!" he grunted. They were prepared to go after a sitting duck and follow the precept of each man for himself. That's what hunger does to people, and I forgave them, for they looked like they could do with a meal.