DR LEXLEY PEREIRA
IT'S JUST a year since Professor Brinsley Samaroo took flight to the Great Beyond.
At the time, he was remembered with deep feelings by eminent academics including Winston Dookeran, Bridget Brereton, Ken Ramchand, and very recently, Newsday columnist Jerome Teelucksingh.
They recalled Brinsley as the learned historian, erudite scholar, riveting raconteur, sagacious teacher, judicious politician, and humble human being. In short, as Rudyard Kipling said, "a Man."
It’s now a year later, that I write about Brinsley, my friend. It took time, that metaphorically great healer with its uncanny proficiency, to knead out the painful memory of his parting, to get me to narrate my moment of friendship with him.
I met Brinsley through his youthful and charming daughter Kavita, when we were physicians at the same clinic. Like her father, Kavita has a quiet brilliance and fierce streak of independence, tempered with generosity and humanity.
When suddenly and tragically, my husband passed away, she brought me equanimity and serenity and subsequently introduced me to her parents, Joan and Brinsley.
Thereafter and to this day, Kavita grumbles/laments that after putting me in contact with them, she was forgotten, and I had no time for her. Such was the adhesive charm of Joan and Brinsley. They were lovely, homely, entirely unassuming, completely generous and unreservedly sincere people, and quickly we were great friends.
I would often call Brinsley to say I was popping by and please would he fix me refreshing coconut water adulterated with whatever spirituous liquid he had in mind. His interesting blends never disappointed.
We would sit in the breezy porch, chatting away, foretelling the outcome of the current political fiasco, analysing the demonetisation of India’s Modi government, and always, always, I would learn something new about this twin-island republic.
It could be as varied as her people, her politics, the origin of street names, the rise and fall of the sugar industry, the Black Power Revolution, or derivation of Indian names from Sanskrit, Brinsley would recite events, articulate past history and engage in story telling in gripping detail.
Many a time, a former student (and they were numerous) would call for guidance and Brinsley would adroitly address their issues. Joan would join us with her beautifully-crafted and crisp sandwiches and afternoon tea, ever the gracious hostess, yet quick and ready to respond to Brinsley’s many attempts to provoke and nettle her.
I confess, I loved and actually savoured these verbal exchanges which provided more than my weekly dose of entertainment. Whether it was at his home up in the mountains or at his little cottage off the beach in Mayaro, this couple was an immense joy to be with.
He would send me home with yam, or plantain, mango, five fingers or Noni juice, all the work of his nimble green fingers, from his estate.
On one occasion I mentioned, it was sad he never got to meet my late husband. He replied, "but that’s how I knew you e
