IN his dreams he walked, the young boy, searching the cosmos for the spiritual being of a great one. The pages of history spoke of so many great men, their lives and times inking an indelible mark on his young, impressionable mind, the blue skies, the green land and flowing seas, not their world anymore, but beyond in their eternal abode. The boy’s mind sought to find one of his own, whose fore parents had crossed the dark waters from a far-off land in the east, one whose legacy was scripted in a religious text, for his role, his beliefs and his love for his people.
A cool wisp of wind blew through the open windows, fluttering the pages of the open history text on the bed and the boy turned, muttering in his sleep.
Once awake, his expedition into the unknown world would be over until another night when tiredness laid heavy on his lids. But the embrace of sleep, like a lover, set his spirits free again to roam and this night, he found himself in a place deep in the country-side.
He looked around the cemetery where departed mortals laid in eternal sleep, a place where memories lingered, endearing words inscribed on the tombstones whispered softly to those returned to mother earth. A life gone, foot prints erased, legacies riding on the strong shoulders of time or buried in the dust of the past.
The boy walked around, slowly, wondering, “Why am I here, which Great One lies in this place?”
Then he saw the mausoleum of a son of the soil, a leader reverend as the father of the nation, a man who in the boy’s young mind stood among great men of the past.
The boy gathered the dried flowers that had been scattered by the wind and placed it gently on the mausoleum, the sentiments of a true patriot over flowing in his heart, as he said: “I came into this world when you were already gone and I feel within me, the power of your words, your wisdom, yet I am somehow lost and fearful, because not many are today who they prophesize to be. Too many swords are unsheathed, drawing blood, like the master’s whip did, and words penned have even poisoned the rivers, hands that knotted a cord of brotherhood on the journey to this land, do not hold strong anymore. What has become of man’s die-hard faith? Who can speak for the people to strengthen the roots that were once so strong?
The silence stayed unbroken as the boy stood there, alone, only the moths glowing in the dark, then a voice said, quietly, behind him:
“My dear boy!”
The boy turned around slowly and drew in his breath sharply, for he stood there encircled by a glow of soft light, the man whose mortal remains laid in the mausoleum, the man whose named he revered.
“Many words I have heard, spoken in the material world”, the spiritual being said, “But not with such passion and truth. Why do you seek me?”
“I seek your guidance to define a path for me, your ideals, your beliefs and principles”
“Such strong, ambitious words from such a young mind.”
Voices from a short distance away drew his attention and the man said to the boy, “Walk with me.”
As they walked he pointed to the boy, “Here lies the common man and woman, labourers of the land. From the sweat of their brows, castles were built, yet their worth is hardly recognised. But there is a certain form of richness in being poor for a poor man lives a simple life with simple desires and in prayers he never lies.”

The boy digested every word spoken by the man and they stopped by a freshly-dug grave where three men sat in deep conversation unmindful of the two beings, because they couldn’t see them.
“Who are they?” the boy asked.
“My people, labourers of the land.”
“Why are they here at this hour?”
“One of their friends has died and they’re doing what they can for him for the last.”
The men poured drinks from the rum bottle and the boy smiled knowingly,
“A culture, right?”
“Yes,” the man said, “Yet earlier than anyone else, they would be in the back-dams working with an inborn strength and determination, a hallmark of their survival.”
“They need a leader who can see their real worth,” the boy said, “Like you did.”
The man looked at him for a long moment, then reached out and held his shoulders,
“I left this world, before you were born, now is your time to step on the podium with new ideals, truth and dedication for the people. They have come a long way from 1838 in Indentureship rule to today, 175 years since the last ship bound for Guyana left India. Your eyes will see their worth, their values, the richness of silks and pearls, let their lives be beautiful and free in this blessed land, like butterflies in paradise.”
The boy smiled, for he felt lost no more, his path was defined for him. He awoke and sat up in bed, with a sense of deep satisfaction, his search was over, now was his time.
By Maureen Rampertab