The Chatsworth of my heart had soul

Growing up in Chatsworth, we did a lot with nothing. Our lives were about simple pleasures.

A chunk of wood could be whittled into a goolie ganda. A wooden bread box quickly transformed into a cricket bat and stumps. The match that followed was worthy of a dedicated sports channel. Neither rain nor bad light ever interrupted play, just the odd car that needed to pass through the pitch. There was no Duckworth-Lewis. We batted until the last lad or lass.

Weekends were consumed by amateur football.  The Unit 3 football ground had an aura to put Old Trafford in the shade as the legends of Bluff Rangers, Zulu Royals and Argus Power did battle.  We never had need for a satellite TV subscription or a FIFA videogame.  The soccer was mostly free and where there was the odd ticket charge, we just jumped the fence.  The soccer was a major political statement with its non-racial, anti-apartheid flavor as SACOS affiliates.

A lot of our lives also revolved around food.  Five cents of dried fish flavoured two kilos of tomatoes and was a chutney feast for twenty.  We sometimes ate out.  That involved rocking up uninvited at a wedding and just sitting down to eat the biryani.  No-one who behaved respectfully was ever turned away.  Poor people the world over are just that way in their generosity of heart and spirit.

Let’s not romanticize poverty.  Perhaps we did not notice the things we lacked.  We had limited wants, limited needs but we had enough.  To use Neville Alexander’s words, enough is a feast. 

The real feast in Chatsworth was life.  There was an energy and a vibrancy in everything.  We were a battered and wounded community.  Colonialism, indenture, apartheid and forced removals had done their beastly best.  Yet we survived.  Nay, we thrived. 

Chatsworth was about self-sufficiency.   People grew bananas, herbs and chillies in their backyards.  They sold what they didn’t eat on the pavement around the shopping centre often to eke out a living or for a little something extra.  The iconic Bangladesh Market has its origins in that survival entrepreneurship.  My grandmother sold eggs and cigarettes from home.  Her margins were small but she saved enough to strut her dignity.

Self-sufficiency also extended to schooling.  In the post-indenture days, the Indian community built its own schools.  Later, Chatsworth was to have several state-aided schools co-funded by the government. 

My father was among the legions that worked in the school committees.  They set up extra-mural classes, hosted 16mm film shows to raise funds and just got busy with making sure we got the best quality education.  After my time at Cavendish and Glenover under the tutelage of the finest teachers of the day, no Eton or Harrow schoolboy could hold a candle to me.

My enduring memory of Chatsworth is the birthdays we celebrated.  Often a little sponge cake with a candle was enough. At first, 16^th or 21^st birthdays, families saved for something a little more elaborate.  We had little crates of fizzy drinks and tinned fruit with cream.  Nowadays we get birthday greetings on Facebook.  The Chatsworth of my heart had soul.

Caption:  The author on his first birthday at House 51 Road 320, Westcliff with his grandmother, Kanniamma Govindrajulu and his father Swaminathan.

Caption: The home I was born in - House 51 Road 320, Unit 3 Chatsworth. Stopped by after Kavady on 19 January 2014.