The Beggar and the King

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Otancia Noel is an award-winning Trinidadian-born writer, author and tutor. Her prizes and fellowships include, among others: the 2025 Anaphora Writing Residency, International Library Seminars in Nairobi, Kenya; the 2022 UK Island Voices Caribbean Contemporary Prize and the 2021 Vincent Cooper Literary Prize for Caribbean Vernacular. In addition, her writing has been featured in numerous publications in the U.S., the U.K., Africa and the Caribbean, including Solar Punk online magazine, KIZA BlackLit magazine, Lowle Pan African Literary Magazine; the Caribbean Writer Magazine and an upcoming feature in the U.K. Journal of Post Colonial Writing. She holds a degree in Mass Communication and Literature from the College of Science, Technology and Applied Arts of Trinidad and Tobago, as well as an MFA in Creative Writing, Prose & Fiction from the University of the West Indies, St. Augustine, Trinidad and Tobago. She enjoys gardening, reading, writing and cooking.

THE BEGGAR AND THE KING

BY OTANCIA NOEL

© 2025. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

During the August vacation, my siblings and I left the city of old Big Ben and headed to Trinidad. The loving arms of our grandparents awaited us at their sprawling five-acre estate in the south. This was our lives when we were there: waking up to the purple and pink tinged sky of squawking parrots at sunrise; exploring the cocoa and coffee fields; climbing the trees; eating Chinese tamarind, gru gru bef, sticky banga and pois doux—fruits that we didn’t have in London; diving into the refreshing river that ran through the estate; trapping an iguana and roasting it in our outdoor fireside.

Grandpa, with a dimpled rainbow smile on his face, always had a tale to tell, an adventure to go on, a secret or two to share with us. These included a drink of rum punch or a bag of candy after midnight.

Grandma had a permanent crease in her forehead and raven black plaits swinging like a pendulum down her back as she allotted work for us to do. I was partial to Grandpa’s tales, especially when they were told under the massive poui trees. When they were in bloom, delicate pink and sunshine yellow flowers spiraled haphazardly to the ground as the cool evening wind swept the yard.

Grandma’s holiday options were teaching us the right technique for making roti, chulkaying the split pea dhal, picking stones (that only grandma could see) out of the rice, shelling garden peas, planting a garden, feeding the goat or grating coconut (even though there was a blender, food processor and juicer in the cupboard). Grandma forbade air-conditioner use in the kitchen. She said, “You all will get cold in yuh bones from hot and cold.” We sweated like horses on the racetrack as we melted ghee and worked our arms to death in flour.

I loved it when Grandma rubbed us down with coconut oil, brushed our hair until it stood straight at attention, dressed us in fineries and paraded us through the town like her prized possessions. She stopped at every shop and neighbor to show off “mih grandchildren from England.”

Grandpa used to say, “Dolly, is a bush bath they go need for mal yeaux when they reach back home, all them people you have staring at them.”

After these trips, Grandpa and I ended up under the poui. With a bottle in a brown bag beneath his hammock and his lyrical voice travelling in the wind, Grandpa got into one of his tales.

 “Mary father was the big boy in we village. He was working for Shell.”

 Torpedoing towards Grandpa, as she swung her ample hips and the bilna, Grandma said, “Shell mih tail! Chile come and knead the roti and don’t take on yuh grandfather.”

“Chuts man! Don’t mind me and mih grand chile business,” Grandpa retorted, falling out of the hammock, escaping the weight of the bilna.

Grandma marched off mumbling her daily dose of curses while Grandpa got up, dusted himself, ensured that the content of his bottle was still intact and settled back into his hammock. I took up my position on the bamboo bench under the poui and cocked my ears for the delightful dose of long ago that was interrupted by Grandma’s short-lived storm.

Grandpa continued his tale. “Gul, I was telling you. I used to carry two roti wrap up in a brown bag to school. Them days we was walking through the rice field with no shoes. If we had any shoe, we hold it in we hand until we reach the main road to wait for the six o’clock bus to school. Mary them was the only people that had motor car, current and tv in we village. To make matters worse for me, I was going to the bigshot catholic boys’ school, St. Paul’s, all the way in town.

“Mary was going to the girls’ school, St Catherine’s, right next door the boys’ one. Mary father did pull a string for mih father; mih mother was working for them. Ma was the maid. See me with mih roti bag while the majority ah the school they father or driver pulling up with lunchbox bearing caviar on silver tray for them or they was buying something from the little parlour next to the schoolyard.

“Sundays was a next ‘tory—Ma insist on us being “upstanding and righteous, poverty maketh not the man,” was she mantra. Pa never went to church in he life. He used to say he was a Hindu; the pundit never see he in the mandir either. So, Ma dragging we to church in town by the big cathedral in we Sunday best. If holes in yuh clothes did make you holy we was the holiest family in church. While everybody in they fancy dan dan, we clothes full ah darns. Mind you, we must sit as close as possible to the preacher. According to Ma, if we didn’t listen attentively, the devil would make we he pawn. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t worried ‘bout the devil. It was more the idea that Ma would give me a cutarse that would make me unable to sit for a week. That used to keep me quiet.

“We used to sit down in ‘bout the sixth row; the first five was reserved. We had to reach before cock crow or else we wasn’t getting in the row behind the reserves. Chile, Mary mother used to turn round and cut so much eye at mih mother. Like sitting down there behind the who is who was a great sin.

“Mary father wasn’t so bad. He didn’t use to mix up too much. He knock back a round now and then with Pa them, buying out the village rum shop. Whenever it had labourer work in Shell, he used to call Pa and one or two ah them boys. Raul, mih brother, used to fix he motor car when it was giving trouble; even though Mr. Jackson could’a carry it by any ah them fancy garage. While he was in the yard smoking a cigar and waiting for the car, he used to tell mih father, “This boy has magic in those hands, Singh.” 

“Mary was just like she mother, bam bam and nose in the air like rabbit.

“It had a rumour going ‘round that some ah the bigshot girls from St Catherine’s school was wild. Ram, the village don used to boast ‘bout licking down a few ah them. He was ‘round mih brother age, ‘bout twenty-nine. But nothing like Raul, who never used to drink, lime or run any woman. Raul wasn’t good at reading and writing. When Raul wasn’t working, he was always home digging in some old machine or engine. And he would do any work.

“Ram resembled Sylvester Stallone, and he had a makeshift gym in he old man back yard. It was only him and he father. Ram mother did run off with an old American yacht man when he was ‘bout six. He never went back to school after that. He father was the gardener for most ah them rich folks in the bigger town. Now and then Ram would help he father with he garden work; Mary mother garden was one he used to help with. People used to say Ram work was rich old women.

“When we was in form five, Mary suddenly come down with a mysterious illness. She mother fire all they staff because ‘it was a serious virus.’

“’How is Mary doing?’ ladies politely inquiring and batting they eye behind they fan.

“Pastor imploring the Lord, ‘Grant healing to our sweet child Mary in your name, Jesus, as she carries your mother’s name and virtues.’

“Papayo, well Mary wasn’t only carrying Jesus mother name eh, ‘bout a month and some after Mary illness people mouth was spreading like wildfire in the town. ‘Tory is Mary never had no virus. She was pregnant with Ram chile. Mary mother was still coming to church with she nose in the air and she face skin up like she have a hot one in she bam bam.

“Eh eh three months after Mary get the mysterious virus, guess who show up on we doorstep after church Sunday evening?

“Mary mother!

“I open the door to go and fly mih kite, and just like a miracle she was there. I barely could’a mumble, ‘Good evening, Ma’am.’

“’Where is your mother?’

 “’Ma!’ I bawl out.

“When Ma reach by the door I try to linger. The cut eye I get from she send me speeding like ah ambulance out the door. After ‘bout half an hour Mary mother leave with a brown bag in she hands.

“That same night, I hear Ma telling Pa, ‘Miss Jackson was here. She wanted hibiscus brew for Mary to drink.’

“Pa answer, ‘Hum, humble pie is the hardest thing to eat in this world, you know … ‘

“Thursday evening, the next week, Raul get a letter. Mary mother and she father bring it straight to we door and put it in he hands. The letter say for him to come for a loan from the bank. It was ‘bout two years he was scraping and saving; he wanted to open a garage.

“Every six months, Raul was going to the bank. It was the same story every time. He used to come home, head bowed, shoulders hunched and hold the paper out for me to read.

‘Dear Mr. Raul Singh, Your collateral and savings are insufficient. Therefore, we cannot proceed with a loan.’

 “In fact, two weeks before the first visit from Miss Jackson, he had get blank from that same bank.

“He didn’t get no more collateral from that time to the time they send the letter for him. A little birdie whisper in an ear. You know who uncle was in charge ah the bank.

“Ha ha… Mary uncle, Miss Jackson brother.

“Well, mih brother get he loan exactly one month after Mary mother visit. Ma never had to bend she back in nobody kitchen again after a few years. Singh and Rampersad’s Garage still going strong up to today.

“After she leave with that brown bag. Miss Jackson, she let mih mother worship in peace at church. Mary never come back to school in St. Catherine’s. She went to a boarding school for girls in England ‘bout two months after she mother visit we house. After that she get married to a fellah out there. Miss Jackson them never get no grandchirren to enjoy like me.”

One day for beggar, one day for king. Krik! Krak!