TAMARIND TREE

Story

The story of the Tamarind Tree in Brij V. Lal’s essay The Tamarind Tree: Vignettes from a
Plantation Frontier in Fiji is a symbolic and emotional account rooted in the lives of the
Indian indentured labourers (girmitiyas) in Fiji.

Here is a simplified summary of the story:

The Tamarind Tree stood on a plantation in Fiji where the girmitiyas worked. For Brij Lal’s
father and many others, this tree was more than just a natural object—it was a powerful
symbol of home, memory, resistance, and community. It served as a sacred space (terra
sacra) where people gathered for celebrations, rituals, storytelling, and communal
bonding. Under its shade, they shared joys, sorrows, and religious festivals like Phagwa and
Moharram, which reminded them of India.

The tree represented a connection to the ancestral land (India), becoming a symbol of both
“roots” and “routes.” It stood for the difficult journey across the Kala Pani (Black Waters),
the deep trauma of dislocation, and the desire to hold on to cultural identity in a foreign
land. For the descendants of the girmitiyas, the tree was a living memory, tying them to
their grandparents’ past and the struggles of their people.

In 1962, the Tamarind Tree was struck by lightning and destroyed. Its physical loss
symbolized the end of an era, but its emotional and historical significance remained. Though
the tree was gone, it was “not forgotten.” It continued to live in memory as a reminder of
identity, loss, resilience, and belonging. Brij Lal uses the tree to explore how generations
inherit trauma and history and how symbols help keep that memory alive

………………………

In the Fijian group of narratives, Brij V. Lal’s “The Tamarind Tree” is an exceptional piece as it
starts with a reference to Ghalib’s poetic lines in which the symbol of ash evokes a sense of
loss, igniting a desire to know the thing that is destroyed by fire. The tamarind tree in the
story, which is destroyed by lightning, has been a witness to the several cultural and religious
activities of the generations of indentured labourers in Labasa, Fiji. Ashes of this tree now
remind the author about the past connecting him with those ancestors who once assembled
under the shade of this tree. Two other stories in this group narrativize the pain of losing
contact with coolie forefathers and also emphasize the need to associate with the members
of Indo-Fijian community.

Between 1879 and 1916, under British colonial rule, thousands of Indians were sent to Fiji as
indentured labourers, mainly to work on sugarcane plantations run by companies like the
Australian-owned CSR firm. These workers crossed the “Kala Pani” or Black Waters, a
journey believed to be spiritually polluting. The term girmit comes from the mispronounced
English word “agreement,” which disguised the harsh reality of the contracts. These
agreements promised jobs, better lives, and a return after five years, but often led to
suffering and loss.

Brij V. Lal’s piece The Tamarind Tree: Vignettes from a Plantation Frontier in Fiji stands out in
the collection We Mark Your Memory for its emotional depth and poetic references. Lal
quotes Ghalib’s lines that question the purpose of searching the ashes of a burned body,
symbolizing the pain and loss faced by the girmitiyas. Born in Fiji to a family of indentured
workers, Lal uses history not just to record facts, but to explore moral and emotional truths.
The Tamarind Tree becomes a powerful symbol in his narrative — representing memory,
trauma, belonging, and resistance.

Crossing the Kala Pani was not just a physical journey but also a psychological one. It marked
a break from the known world, polluting the identity of the migrants and making return to
India — and full acceptance there — impossible. These labourers lived in exile, caught
between two worlds. They didn’t fully belong in Fiji or India. This feeling of being in-between
created a deep identity crisis, especially for later generations.

Women in the indenture system faced even harsher realities, often becoming victims of
sexual assault. The narrative includes the story of Janakia and her harassment by Sukkha, a
plantation overseer, revealing the power dynamics and gender-based violence in the system.
The trauma suffered by women also passed on to future generations, shaping their identities
and how they were perceived.

The idea of the “split subject” is important here. Migrants imagined Fiji as a land of
prosperity but faced exploitation and alienation instead. They lived with a divided sense of
self — physically in Fiji but mentally and emotionally clinging to the homeland. This led to
guilt — for leaving India, for failing to return, and for not fitting in anywhere. The Tamarind
Tree becomes a symbol of both roots and routes — ancestral ties and the journey taken. It
serves as a visible reminder of the difficult paths the girmitiyas walked and the identity crisis
they passed on.

The narrative explores how trauma and memory are passed through generations.
Postmemory, a concept by Marianne Hirsch, explains how later generations inherit
memories of trauma they did not directly experience. For the descendants of girmitiyas,
their identity is shaped more by their ancestors’ stories than their own experiences. This
indirect witnessing burdens them with the responsibility to preserve culture and history,
often at the cost of their personal identities.

Sudesh Mishra’s idea of “rememory” also fits here — memory exists outside the individual,
and repeated exposure to it reshapes how people understand themselves and the present.
In this way, collective memory and community become deeply tied. The ship journey,
religious festivals like Phagwa and Moharram, and communal gatherings under the Tamarind
Tree helped form a shared sense of belonging, however fragile.

Religious and caste tensions persisted, even in the hope of creating a peaceful, casteless
community. Conflicts, such as those between Hirwa and Madho, show how colonial and
cultural divisions from India resurfaced in Fiji. Still, religion remained a key source of
strength, helping to reduce the identity crisis.

In conclusion, though the indenture system ended in 1921, many labourers could not return
due to low wages or lack of opportunity. Future generations lived in the shadow of trauma,
often leaving Fiji in search of better lives but still tied to a painful past. The Tamarind Tree,
though destroyed in 1962, remains a lasting symbol of the girmitiyas’ struggles, resilience,
and longing for home. Even though that “home” may no longer exist, the memories live on
and shape the identities of their descendants, keeping alive the legacy of those who crossed
the Kala Pani.

………………

In The Tamarind Tree by Brij V. Lal, the titular tree functions as a powerful cultural and
emotional symbol for the indentured Indian labourers in Fiji, known as girmitiyas. More than
just a natural object, the tamarind tree becomes a collective heirloom, a repository of
memory that embodies the ancestral past, lost homeland, and evolving identity of a
displaced community. This narrative stands out in the anthology We Mark Your Memory
because it places emphasis on material objects—the tree itself, old photographs, food, and
clothing—as tools of memory transmission, rather than relying solely on oral storytelling or
overt political resistance.

The tree serves as a mulki tree, a term used to suggest both roots (origin) and routes
(migration). It is symbolic of the connection to India, the remembered homeland, while
simultaneously reflecting the journey across the Kala Pani, the forbidden sea that marked a
point of no return. The tree acts as terra sacra, or sacred ground, where generations of
girmitiyas gathered to celebrate rituals, perform religious ceremonies, and recreate
elements of the life they had been forced to leave behind. Through this shared space,
personal memories evolved into collective memory, shifting the narrative from “I” to “we.”

The narrative also invokes Ghalib’s poetic lines, using the metaphor of ‘ash’ to represent
both emotional and physical loss. The ashes stand for everything that was burnt away—the
homeland, identity, belonging—and evoke the haunting question: What are we still
searching for in this residue? This theme deepens the reader’s understanding of the rupture
and trauma that accompanied the migration. As Lal writes, the girmitiyas lived in a place
they “could not escape,” while longing for a home they “could not fully embrace.” Thus, the
tree, and the memories tied to it, become a way to anchor identity in a space of in-
betweenness.

The tamarind tree also serves as a site of cultural fusion and continuity. Despite religious
and caste differences, festivals like Holi and Moharram were celebrated collectively,
suggesting an effort to recreate an inclusive community in the host land. Items like dhoti,
pagri, satua, and lakdi ke mithai reinforced a sense of familiarity and cultural rootedness.
Even the tamarind itself—used frequently in South Indian cooking—evoked sensory
memories of India, showing how taste and tradition became modes of preserving identity.

Conflict and togetherness both unfold under the shade of this tree, which bore witness to
generational shifts and emotional resilience. Its destruction in 1962 by lightning is not
merely the loss of a tree, but the collapse of a symbolic bridge to the past. And yet, as Lal
reminds us, while the tree is physically gone, its memory continues to live on. In this way,
the tamarind tree captures the dual nature of memory—fleeting yet enduring—and reflects
how diasporic communities reconstruct ‘home’ through shared memories, rituals, and
material symbols.

The Tamarind Tree as a Social Space

In Brij V. Lal’s narrative The Tamarind Tree, the tree becomes much more than just a plant. It
stands as a powerful social space for the Indian indentured labourers, also called girmitiyas,
who were brought to Fiji during British rule. These workers were far from their homeland,
and the tamarind tree became a symbol of their shared culture, memory, and identity. It
was not just a tree; it was a place where people gathered, prayed, celebrated, and
remembered.

The tamarind tree acted like a village centre, where people from different castes and
religions came together. In India, these differences often kept communities apart. But in Fiji,
under hard working conditions and isolation, these boundaries became less important. The
tree offered a common ground where the girmitiyas could feel a sense of belonging. They
celebrated festivals like Holi and Moharram together, showing how the tree helped them
create a new kind of unity. These gatherings were ways to remember their homeland and
keep their traditions alive.

It was also a place of collective memory. Many of the older people would sit under the tree
and share stories of India, of the long sea journey across the Kala Pani (Black Waters), and of
the hard work in the sugarcane fields. These stories were passed down to younger
generations. The tree, in this way, became a witness to many years of emotional and cultural
exchange. It was where personal memories turned into shared, community memories.

Besides being a spiritual and emotional space, the tamarind tree was also a place of
resistance and hope. Despite being far from India and facing poor treatment, the girmitiyas
used this space to come together, to feel strong as a group, and to dream of better futures.
Even small joys, like eating traditional foods or wearing Indian clothes during gatherings
under the tree, helped keep their cultural identity alive. Items like satua, lakdi ke mithai,
kurta, and pagri reminded them of their roots.

The tree’s importance lasted for many generations. Even after the indenture system ended,
the tamarind tree remained a place where descendants of girmitiyas would return to
connect with their ancestors and culture. It became a sacred place, or terra sacra, for the
entire community. The fact that the tree was destroyed by lightning in 1962 made its
absence deeply felt. But even in its absence, the tree lives on in stories, memories, and
emotions.

In conclusion, the tamarind tree in Brij V. Lal’s story is not just a tree. It is a living symbol of
home, togetherness, memory, and identity. As a social space, it gave the girmitiyas a place
to feel human, to share their pain, to celebrate life, and to pass on their stories. It helped
build a strong community in a foreign land, and its memory continues to shape the identity
of the descendants of those early labourers.

Summary and Analysis of "Mother Wounds"

In the text Mother Wounds, memory plays a central role in helping the narrator trace her
matrilineal past — the history of the women in her family. Since many of these stories are
missing or unspoken, the narrator turns to photographs and certificates to recover what has
been lost. These objects are important because they help her reconnect with her ancestors,
especially the women, whose stories were often ignored or silenced in history.
The “monochromatic” and “sienna-toned” photographs become tools that allow the
narrator to write down what was once considered impossible to express — the emotions,
stories, and losses that have been forgotten or left out. As scholar Misra notes, memory is
not just about recalling the past; it is also about giving meaning to it, even if the memories
are not our own. The narrator uses these old photographs to superimpose her thoughts and
emotions onto the fragments of history that remain, trying to understand her roots through
the lens of others' experiences.

One of the strongest ideas in this text is the lack of women in historical records. Women are
either remembered through their marriage records or are reduced to their roles as mothers.
But through the act of writing, the narrator brings these forgotten women back into the
conversation. She does this by describing material artifacts linked to her female ancestors —
such as the “dholak” (a traditional drum), jewelry like thick necklaces, bangles, and nose
studs. These objects help her reconstruct their identity outside the male-dominated system
of indenture.

These artifacts carry deep cultural meaning. For example, the “dholak” represents music
and storytelling traditions brought from India — songs about festivals, marriages, and
seasons. These were central to the daily lives of women and kept their sense of home alive,
even in a foreign land. While food is mentioned too, it is described as something hard to
preserve — it’s not tangible in the same way as photos or jewelry — but it still holds
emotional power.

These cultural items serve two purposes: first, they help the migrant community feel at
home in a strange land, and second, they act as cultural markers, helping them resist
colonial pressures and assert their identity. In other words, even when stripped of rights or
status, the girmitiyas used everyday items — clothes, music, food — to hold on to who they
were.

There is also a deeper emotional layer to this text. The narrator often feels like an outsider
or intruder in the stories she tells. Her voice is quiet, sometimes almost absent. This shows
that she is working with second-hand memories, which she did not directly experience. This
introduces the concept of postmemory, as explained by Marianne Hirsch. Postmemory
refers to the memories of children or descendants of people who experienced trauma — in
this case, exile, migration, and indenture. These descendants didn’t go through the pain
themselves, but they still carry its emotional weight.

Postmemory is very common in diasporic narratives, where people live far from their
homeland and often have little direct access to its culture or history. Their idea of home is
not physical, but emotional and imagined — shaped by stories, photos, and feelings passed
down through generations. Hirsch argues that postmemory doesn’t depend on whether
something is factually true or false — it is more about how memory feels, and how it shapes
identity.

In conclusion, Mother Wounds explores how memory, especially inherited memory, helps
the narrator understand her identity and the silenced history of women in her family.
Photographs and artifacts become a language of remembrance, allowing her to piece
together a home that may no longer exist, but still lives on in objects, feelings, and stories.
This makes the text a powerful example of how diasporic individuals rebuild identity
through postmemory and emotional connection to the past.

Summary and Analysis of Postmemory in “Mother Wounds” and Girmitiya Narratives

The concept of postmemory helps us understand how people remember and carry
memories of events they did not personally experience. This idea is especially relevant in
Mother Wounds, where the narrator explores trauma passed down through generations,
especially the pain and silence experienced by women in her family. Postmemory is a term
developed by scholars like Marianne Hirsch, and it describes a kind of memory that is
inherited, not lived. These memories are often passed on by parents or grandparents
through stories, photographs, or emotions, and although the descendants didn’t live
through the events themselves, they feel the impact of those memories as if they did.

As Ward explains, this can lead to “vicarious victimhood”, where someone deeply identifies
with their ancestors’ suffering and makes it a part of their own life story. In this way, the
‘post’ in postmemory shows how memory stretches across time and becomes something
that affects people across generations. It creates what Long describes as an “open wound”
— something passed down emotionally and internally from those who originally
experienced trauma.

In Mother Wounds, these inherited memories are vague, painful, and emotional. They are
told during childhood in the form of stories, songs, or folktales — like tales from the
Ramayana or folk songs of the homeland — and become part of the children's identity, even
before they fully understand them. For the descendants of Girmitiyas (indentured laborers),
these stories shape who they are. They grow up with myths and fragments of a life they
never lived but still feel deeply connected to. These narratives become part of their identity,
though often in a fragmented and uncertain form.

However, these memories are not always complete. Hirsch points out that this type of
memory can be unclear, scattered, and even misleading, because it’s based on pieces of
stories rather than full truths. This can cause people to feel displaced or confused about
their own identity. For the Girmitiyas and their descendants, this confusion comes from
both a lack of written records (archives) and the absence of a physical homeland. They face
two types of absences — one in the historical archives (especially about women) and
another in their real-life experience of home, which they have lost.

The narrator of Mother Wounds feels this gap very personally. There are no proper archives
to tell the stories of the women in her family. Their lives are often reduced to marriage and
motherhood, and even those records are incomplete or unimportant. She notes how
women’s stories in the archives appear as blank lines or stereotypes, which shows how
women’s voices were ignored in colonial history. She says, “I would have preferred not to
focus on the marriages and the motherhood of women…but it seems to have [been] an
integral part of the colonial archive.” This highlights how patriarchal records erased or
ignored women’s real experiences, leaving behind only narrow roles and broken narratives.

In both Mother Wounds and The Tamarind Tree, the narrator’s own voice feels muted. The
stories of their ancestors — especially the suffering, exile, and cultural loss — seem to
overpower their own personal story. These are examples of postmemory in action, where
the next generation lives with a powerful sense of something missing, and yet still deeply
felt. They must piece together their identity from leftover artifacts, vague stories, and
inherited emotions.
Finally, this collective memory influences not only personal identity but also cultural
expression and political thought. Because the history is incomplete, it leads to myth-
making, and these myths become shared truths for entire communities. As Raczymow and
Astro explain, this memory is full of “absences and caesuras” — broken links, forgotten
places, and lost stories. Even so, these fragments are powerful, shaping how people view
themselves and their place in the world.

Summary and Analysis: Reconstructing Memory and History through Imagination

In Mother Wounds and The Tamarind Tree, the act of remembering and writing becomes a
powerful way to recreate the past, especially when there are gaps in personal and historical
memory. These texts show that personal stories and imaginative interpretations allow
writers to go beyond what is found in official records and offer a more sensitive and layered
understanding of history.

In both texts, the narrators face a lack of direct memories. Their own experiences are not
enough to tell the full story of their ancestors, so they use imagination to fill the missing
parts. Phrases like “Allowed me to imagine,” “I could only picture,” and “I can deduce” in
Mother Wounds, or “from my scarce notes and fading memory” in The Tamarind Tree, show
how much the narration relies on reconstructed memory, shaped by imagination and
interpretation. These expressions highlight how the narrators are reaching back into the
past with limited tools — memories, hearsay, and historical facts — trying to make sense of
lives they didn’t live.

Human memory is fragile and unreliable over time. What we remember can change, fade, or
become reshaped by new experiences and emotions. As generations pass, memories are no
longer whole. They become fragmented, mixed with fiction, emotion, and imagination,
leading to a memory that is not entirely ‘true’ but still meaningful. This makes it difficult to
draw a line between fact and fiction. It also raises the important question: can we ever fully
trust memories, especially when they come through oral storytelling or second-hand
narratives?
This is especially relevant in the context of traumatic histories, such as indenture or
colonization. In these cases, memory is not only broken but also filled with pain and
silences. Often, official archives do not document everything, especially not the lives of
women. Because of this, storytelling and imagination become essential tools to reconstruct
and preserve these forgotten voices. The narrator in Mother Wounds, for example, does not
simply retell history as it is found in books; she reimagines it. She constructs a narrative that
includes the matrilineal legacy and emotional truth of her female ancestors — women who
were otherwise absent or stereotyped in colonial records.

According to Ranjan Ghosh, history cannot be either absolute (totally true and fixed) or
completely relative (all based on opinion). Instead, it exists in the middle — a mix of truth,
emotion, imagination, and uncertainty. Writers and historians must therefore engage with
the past using creative tools, balancing facts with personal insight and emotional
connection. This is what the narrator in Mother Wounds does: she imagines the lives of her
female ancestors, while grounding her narrative in available facts like dates, migration
records, and objects (photographs, jewellery, musical instruments).

This process is not only about learning history; it is about claiming identity and healing
trauma. The act of writing itself becomes a form of resistance — a way to speak for those
who were silenced or ignored. By using memory, imagination, and storytelling, the narrator
creates space for women’s voices that were left out of traditional archives.

In both texts, then, memory is not static — it is dynamic, constructed, and interpreted
through different lenses. These works show how memory and imagination can work
together to reclaim lost narratives, particularly those of marginalized or erased
communities. Writing becomes a way to challenge historical silences and fill emotional
voids, especially in postcolonial and diasporic contexts. Thus, the lines between history and
literature blur, and the past is brought into the present — not as pure fact, but as living
memory shaped by emotion, imagination, and longing.

STORY
“Mother Wounds” is a poignant literary non-fiction piece by Gitan Djeli, the pen name of
Mauritian writer and researcher Gitanjali Pyndiah. Published in the anthology We Mark Your
Memory: Writings from the Descendants of Indenture (2018), the work delves into the
intergenerational trauma experienced by women in indentured communities, particularly in
Mauritius.(Commonwealth Foundation, Rupkatha)

The narrative traces the matrilineal history of the author, beginning with her great-great-
great-grandmother who migrated from colonial India to Mauritius in 1863 under the
indenture system. Through the stories of four generations of women, the piece highlights
the compounded effects of colonialism, patriarchy, and racial hierarchies on Indo-Mauritian
women. These women often faced marginalization, both within their families and in broader
society, leading to a legacy of silence and erasure.(Commonwealth Foundation)

A central theme in “Mother Wounds” is the concept of postmemory, where descendants

The piece also addresses the complexities of identity and belonging in postcolonial
Mauritius. It examines the intersections of race, gender, and class, shedding light on the
often-overlooked narratives of women who navigated the challenges of indenture and its
aftermath. By weaving personal recollections with historical context, Djeli offers a nuanced
portrayal of the lingering effects of colonial systems on contemporary identities.

“Mother Wounds” stands as a testament to the resilience of women who, despite systemic
oppression, preserved their cultures and histories. Through this evocative narrative, Djeli not
only honors her ancestors but also contributes to a broader understanding of the indenture
experience and its lasting legacies.
matrilinearity in mother wounds

In Mother Wounds by Gitan Djeli, the theme of matrilinearity plays a central role in
uncovering forgotten and hidden histories. Matrilinearity refers to tracing ancestry through
the mother’s side of the family. In this deeply personal narrative, the author explores her
maternal lineage to understand the lives and experiences of the women in her family who
were part of the indentured diaspora. Through this act of tracing, she not only learns about
their struggles but also attempts to reclaim a space for women in historical memory.

One of the first things we notice in the story is the lack of information about women in the
colonial archives. The records often focus on men, while women are reduced to numbers or
brief mentions related to marriage and motherhood. As a result, the narrator finds it difficult
to locate detailed stories about her female ancestors. Still, she is determined to recover and
reconstruct their voices by using the little evidence available, like photographs, family
stories, and material artifacts. This process of connecting with the women in her lineage is a
form of healing and resistance against historical erasure.

The author uses photographs and everyday objects—like jewelry, a dholak (a traditional
drum), and certificates—as tools to access memory. These items carry the weight of
emotions, unspoken experiences, and forgotten lives. They become powerful reminders of
identity and culture, and they help the narrator imagine and fill in the gaps left by history. By
focusing on these material objects, the narrator is able to move beyond the limitations of
written archives and bring the voices of women back into the center of the narrative.

What makes this exploration especially meaningful is that the author recognizes that much
of what she imagines is not based on direct memory, but on “postmemory.” This term,
coined by scholar Marianne Hirsch, describes the kind of memory that is inherited from
previous generations—memories that one hasn’t lived through personally but feels deeply
connected to. Through postmemory, the narrator absorbs the pain and resilience of her
foremothers, and this helps shape her own identity.

Importantly, the story does not just focus on loss and absence. It also shows how women,
despite being silenced or overlooked, found ways to express themselves and hold their
families together. The narrative suggests that women carried cultural traditions, songs, and
emotional strength across generations. Even if their stories were not fully recorded, their
influence was deeply felt.

In Mother Wounds, matrilinearity is not only a method of tracing family history—it becomes
an act of rewriting history from the margins. The narrator honors her mothers,
grandmothers, and great-grandmothers by piecing together their stories, no matter how
fragmented. Through this process, she reclaims her place within a long line of strong women
and gives voice to those who had been forgotten. This makes Mother Wounds a powerful
reflection on memory, history, and the importance of looking at the past through a maternal
lens.