Riambel
By Priya Hein
4/5
()
Nature
Family
Identity
Fear
Mauritius
Fish Out of Water
Forbidden Love
Rags to Riches
Love Triangle
Star-Crossed Lovers
Outsider
Fear of the Unknown
Food Preparation
Mentorship
Love at First Sight
Survival
Power Dynamics
Ocean
Cooking
Love
About this ebook
Within Noemi's lament is also the herstory of Mauritius; the story of women who have resisted arrest, of teachers who care for their poorest pupils and encourage them to challenge traditional narratives, of a flawed Paradise undergoing slow but unstoppable change.
In Riambel, Priya Hein invites us to protest, to rail against longstanding structures of class and ethnicity. She shows us a world of natural enchantment contrasted with violence and the abuse of power. This seemingly simple tale of servitude, seduction and abandonment blisters with a fierce sense of injustice.
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Reviews for Riambel
11 ratings1 review
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Written with searing intensity and palpable emotions, the book is a simply stunning in the initial chapters where it blends the character's story with the history of Mauritius. I found myself sucked into the world, the dilemma and the pain of the character. The passages, though short, leave you emotionally shaken. Though, unfortunately, the latter half of the book, devoted to the matters of the heart involving Alexandre, felt underwhelming and somewhat of a copout. It almost felt like the author took the character towards a predetermined ending rather letting the character carve out a life story for herself. Thus, the tragic ending that the author goes for feels somewhat contrived. Having said that, the book is a must read for anyone wanting to dive into an intense, innovative and poignant story about a girl and the land she comes from.
Book preview
Riambel - Priya Hein
The Indigo Press
50 Albemarle Street
London w1s 4bd
www.theindigopress.com
The Indigo Press Publishing Limited Reg. No. 10995574
Registered Office: Wellesley House, Duke of Wellington Avenue
Royal Arsenal, London se18 6ss
COPYRIGHT © PRIYA HEIN 2023
First published in Great Britain in 2023 by The Indigo Press
Priya Hein asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-911648-49-9
eBook ISBN: 978-1-911648-50-5
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
The unedited and unpublished text of this book won the Prix Jean Fanchette 2021 from the Municipality of Beau Bassin-Rose Hill (Mauritius).
Cover design © Luke Bird
Art direction by House of Thought
Front cover painting by Mila Gupta
Author photo © Florence Guillemain
Typesetting and eBook by Tetragon, London
For Stefan, Ananya and Kian.
Thank you for taking me home.
Contents
Author’s Note
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
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18
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Mauritian Writers and Artists Whose Work Appears in Riambel
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
I have lived abroad for over thirty years as an immigrant. Quite often, I have been asked by the local majority to conform. But what does this word mean? The English word ‘conform’ means to comply with rules or standards – to be similar in form or type – to behave according to socially acceptable conventions. In French, se conformer means to obey and behave in accordance with pre-existing social and ideological conventions, to fit the mould.
But my question is: who imposes these rules?
I had been living and working in Germany for about two decades when George Floyd was murdered in May 2020. This brutal incident was the catalyst for Black Lives Matter protests all around the world. When I dared to speak about the racist incidents I had experienced as an immigrant (offensive comments, microaggressions, exclusion, condescension) to people I had regular interactions with, I was not taken seriously. I was told that what I had experienced was not racism, that I was being ‘oversensitive’ and that as an immigrant I had to accept this sort of behaviour. There was a clear lack of empathy, especially when they tried to silence and intimidate me. As a member of an ethnic minority, I was not allowed to ‘complain’ but was told that I should be ‘grateful’ and should conform.
So I decided to let my pen and my heart speak for themselves. I sat down during a long weekend in June 2020 and wrote the first draft of Riambel in a practice that was intended to be non-conformist.
Among one of the many possible origins of the word ‘sugar’ is the Sanskrit word ‘śarkarā’ meaning ‘gravel’ or ‘grit’. This is perhaps a more appropriate term, for this is the sensation that sugar left on the palate of those forced to cultivate it. Indeed, it is generally agreed that of all cash crops, sugar has caused the most suffering upon those peoples engaged in its production and there is no better illustration of this than the Mauritian experience. Few people in Mauritius, however, recognise the traumatic side of the history of ‘sugar’ or are conscious of the dislocation that sugar has caused to the millions of people all over the world who were forced to cultivate it. Sugar made the fortunes of some; but it also caused untold misery to many more. Yet we continue to accept representations of the history of sugar as a heroic venture that brought prosperity to the island as a whole. There is another side to the sugar ‘story’ that has not been narrated.
Vijaya Teelock
, Bitter Sugar
Certes mes pas aveugles reconnaîtraient
Les sables de Riambel
Mes pieds apprivoiseraient la terre brûlée
Et la mer Indienne saurait laver
La poussière d’Europe
Dans un unique sacrement d’aurore.
Surely my blind steps would recognise
The sands of Riambel
My feet would tame the burned earth
And the Indian sea could wash away
The dust of Europe
In its own rite of dawn.
Jean Fanchette
, from ‘Constat’
(translated by Jeffrey Zuckerman)
I’m the great-granddaughter of plantation rape. There’s a tinge to my slightly-light-ebony-blackness. I’m the daughter of Creole slaves and something far more sinister. Descendant of domestic servants and white masters who abused their workers. I have white male ancestry in me. Involuntarily. The whiteness I carry was not a choice. The greedy sugar barons took what they wanted – women and girls over whom they had extraordinary power – and then failed to claim their children. How can they deny their morbid past when we – the bastard children of colonialism – are here to remind them of their legacy? We carry the truth. As clear as daylight. The blue sky above is not a lie. We’re the living proof of a dark history that cannot be whitewashed.
Look at me and tell me that history hasn’t tainted me.
1
I’ve nurtured a special relationship with our Indian Ocean. Cradled to sleep by its motion. Wrapped in its vast blanket of blue. I am its creature. Its fluidity defines me. The sea pulses through my veins. Throbbing. Keeping me alive. Keeping me sane.
My skin is impregnated with its salty smell. Tiny grains of sand are permanently trapped beneath my toenails. I tried to remove them, but then I gave up. What’s the point? Anyway, I like the idea that I’m carrying a little bit of the sea with me wherever I go.
I’ve known the ocean all my life. Mama says I was practically born here on this beach. The sea is in me. I feel its deep currents running in my veins. Pulsing and throbbing. Constantly. At night I hear the waves murmuring, and rocking me to sleep the way a mother and a father ought to have. And when I finally drift off to sleep its lulling wakes me up – unless the neighbours are having one of their parties.
It’s in this fishing village buried in the most southern part of the island that I was born and where I have spent all fifteen years of my life. My village is called Riambel: Ri-am-bel.
Ri
Am
Bel
It has a sing-song feel to it – something that implies summer and laughter. I once asked Mama if the name of our village comes from the words rire en belle. To laugh wholeheartedly. Without restraint.
Rire? Laugh? What would I know? There’s nothing to laugh about in this life – is there? Now stop all that nonsense talk and help me with the chores before you go to school. I’ll be late for work. I can’t afford to lose my job. Who’s going