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 COLLECTIVE MEMORY, IDENTITY AND
THE LEGACIES OF SLAVERY
AND INDENTURE

The Caribbean history provides a rich study of the different forms

of labour systems that have historically marked the politics of the
coloniser and the colonised. It further provides the basis for an
essential study for discourses on colonialism and capitalism. This
interdisciplinary volume bridges the gap between historiography and
the present-day diasporic communities, which emerged from the
slave trade and indenture. Through case studies from the Caribbean
context, the volume demonstrates how the region’s historical labour
mobility remains central to performances and negotiations of collective
memory and identity.

Farzana Gounder is a linguist and the Deputy Head of School

(Research) at IPU Tertiary Institute, New Zealand. Gounder’s research
interests draw on her indenture heritage. She has extensively examined
oral narratives of indenture and their role in collective memory
formation.
Bridget Brereton is Emerita Professor of History at UWI, St Augustine,
Trinidad and Tobago. She is the author of several books mainly on the
history of the Caribbean, and of Trinidad.
Jerome Egger is a Historian, specializing in the twentieth century
history of Suriname. Egger is presently the Head of History department
of the Faculty of Humanities.
Hilde Neus-van der Putten is a Dutch writer and publicist based in
Suriname. She writes regular book reviews for the daily newspaper de
Ware Tijd, and articles on history in Museumstof.
Collective Memory, Identity
and the Legacies of
Slavery and Indenture

Edited by
FARZANA GOUNDER
BRIDGET BRERETON
JEROME EGGER
HILDE NEUS

MANOHAR
2022
First published 2022
by Routledge
4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2022 selection and editorial matter, Farzana Gounder, Bridget Brereton, Jerome
Egger, Hilde Neus-van der Putten; individual chapters, the contributors and
Manohar Publishers.
The right of Farzana Gounder, Bridget Brereton, Jerome Egger and Hilde Neus-van
der Putten to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors
for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and
78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised
in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or
hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered
trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to
infringe.
Print edition not for sale in South Asia (India, Sri Lanka, Nepal, Bangladesh,
Pakistan or Bhutan)
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
A catalog record for this book has been requested
ISBN: 9781032278049 (hbk)
ISBN: 9781003294184 (ebk)
DOI: 10.4324/9781003294184
Typeset in Adobe Garamond 11/13
by Kohli Print, Delhi 110 051
 Contents

Foreword 7
Brinsley samaroo
Introduction
Farzana Gounder, BridGet Brereton,
Jerome eGGer and Hilde neus 11

PART I: THE LEGACIES OF INDENTURE

AND MIGRATION
1. The Legacy of Indian Indentureship in the
Caribbean 1838-1920
PrimnatH GooPtar 31
2. Creative Industries: Our Legacies, Our Future
sandra Clenem 57
3. Shadowy Figures: Literary Representation of the
Chinese in French-Caribbean Fiction
KatHleen Gyssels 83

PART II: IDENTITY NEGOTIATIONS THROUGH

MUSIC AND CUISINE
4. When the Music Soundin ‘Sweet’: Musical
Instrument Construction, Performance Practice, and
the Changing Aesthetics of Indian Trinidadian
Tassa Drumming
CHristoPHer BallenGee 103
5. Baithakgáná Semantics
narinder moHKamsinG 125
6. Creolization and the Evolution of Indo-
Trinidadian Cuisine
nasser mustaPHa 141
6 Contents
PART III: COLLECTIVE MEMORIES OF SLAVERY
AND INDENTURE

7. Sitalpersad, a British Indian Interpreter in

Colonial Suriname
Jerome eGGer 165
8. Five Generations of a Surinamese Family 1873-2010:
A Legacy
KermeCHend raGHoeBarsinG 187
9. Emancipation and Arrival: How Emancipation
Day and Indian Arrival Day have Shaped Ethnic
Identities in Twenty-first Century Trinidad
and Tobago
BridGet Brereton 215
Contributors 237
List of Illustrations and Table 241
Index 243
 Foreword

The term ‘globalisation’ is of relatively recent origin. Yet the concept

enshrined in the word is by no means new. Globalisation can be
traced from the late fifteenth century when Spain, Portugal, Britain,
France and the Netherlands sought to move out of their medieval
isolation characterised by bubonic plague, religious schism and
feudal warfare. Christopher Columbus initiated westward move­
ment, and Vasco da Gama pushed eastward via the southern route
off the Cape of Good Hope. At the same time, adventurers from
northern Europe were vainly seeking a route to the East through a
north-west passage, a feat achieved in one’s lifetime only through
global warming and ice-breaking ships. In order to commercialise
the initial globalisation profitably, the question of labour had to
be tackled urgently. Where was this to be sourced? The answer was
in the other, namely first peoples, Africans and Asians, all inhabit­
ants of the non-white Atlantic, Indian Ocean and Pacific worlds.
The Sugar Revolution in the Caribbean in the mid-seventeenth
century hastened the process of labour exploitation as these colonies
implemented the plantation system imported from Brazil. This
model proved to be so effective in producing rum, sugar and mo­
lasses for European investors that it was transferred from the Carib­
bean to the Indian Ocean and Pacific regions in colonies such as
Mauritius, Fiji and South Africa in a globalised production system.
At the socio-cultural level, the plantation system enabled a rigid
race-based class system upheld by a strict military presence to en­
sure compliance.
Despite the rigidity of the plantation system, millions of African,
Asian and first peoples were able to maintain their identity markers
in religion, food, festivals, names and garments. Over the centuries,
they had to adopt or adapt to European norms. Many resisted and
others had to compromise as conversion to Christianity was pro­
moted as the hallmark of the civilised person. A policy of divide
8 Foreword
and rule suppressed efforts on the part of subject people to combine
in seeking cultural freedom, as Kathleen Gyssels observes in her
article on literary representation of the Chinese in French Carib­
bean fiction in this volume: ‘The policy of divide and rule imposed
by European colonialism is nowhere better illustrated than in the
French Caribbean.’
That statement can be applied equally to the non-Caribbean
regions such as India and West or South Africa. An equally impor­
tant agency of control was a form of government inspired by ethnic
origin. White-dominated colonies (such as Australia, New Zealand,
Canada and South Africa) were allowed the privilege of representa­
tive elected government and dominion status from 1925. The non­
white colonies had to be ruled by governors sent down from Europe
who were constrained to maintain white hegemony.
The articles in this volume demonstrate that notwithstanding
these constraints, the colonised people were able to dig deep into
their ancestral memories as they created parallel and hybridised
cultures in the new homelands. They harmonised pieces of Africa,
India, China and Java to create new genres despite the pull of
globalisation which sought to impose a uniformity dictated, as in
the past, by the north, the so-called First World. This collection is
a refutation of cultural globalisation. Each writer asserts the Carib­
bean character of an emerging civilisation in a variety of manifesta­
tions. An outstanding feature is the inclusion of five (out of nine)
articles on the non-English speaking Caribbean. Four of these essays
deal with Suriname, a former Dutch colony to which a substantial
number of Indian and Javanese labourers went. The fifth article is
important because it speaks of the Chinese presence in the French
Caribbean—a rare topic in the Caribbean narrative. A fine example
of prescriptive writing is Sandra Clemen’s exposure of the consider­
able diversity in Surinamese culture. Using her nation as the ex­
ample, she argues that Caribbean diversity is unique because of
the many nations which are found in the Caribbean space. Now is
the time to turn inwards and in the straitened economic circum­
stances, create commercial opportunities out of that rich diversity.
In the post-COVID era, when international tourism resumes, this
region must be prepared to supply this anticipated tourist de­
 Foreword 9
mand. Jerome Egger writes an engaging article on Sitalpersad who
climbs upwards from indentureship, working his way up to emi­
nence in Suriname. Despite the rigid class structure of the society,
Sitalpersad, drawing on the ancestral memory moves from rurality
to urbanity, leaving a rich legacy. The same is the case of the family
history narrated by Kermechend Raghoebarsing, who traces the
ascendancy of his Indo-Surinamese family, which uses ancestral
values to give them anchorage in the new homeland. The descen­
dants of Nandoe and Trees are able to cope with the New World,
providing enablement not only in Suriname but equally in the
wider European world.
Reenforcing the Surinamese presence is the new research by
Narinder Mokhamsing on baithak gáná or ‘sitting down singing’.
Over the decades, this has spread to the other Southern Caribbean
nations, encouraging interaction and emphasising India’s perma­
nent cultural presence in this region. The fifth article in this cate­
gory of non-English entries is Kathleen Gyssel’s account of the
Chinese presence in the French Caribbean. The article speaks of
the general contempt with which the Chinese are regarded by
other ethnic groups, largely because of jealousy against the hard­
working tenacity of the Chinese. On the other hand, there is a rich
legacy of Chinese-inspired writing in the French Caribbean. These
French and Dutch Caribbean connections are important because
of their scarcity in the rest of the region. Regional integration has
been hampered considerably because of mutual ignorance festered
by separate colonial trajectories. Such new work will certainly foster
enhanced Caribbean-ness. The four other articles from the English-
speaking area provide balance to the collection. Christopher Bal­
lengee’s article on tassa-drumming, accompanied by well chosen
pictures comes as a result of long hours of research at the St.
Augustine Library of The University of the West Indies as well as
his forays into Trinidad’s southland. There, he embedded himself
in the kingdom of the tassa. The outcome is an authentic account
of the traditional goatskin atop an earthen drum to the current
nut-and-bolt drums of present-day performance. This research is a
tribute to the cultural creativity of folk who came without tassas
but with its construction and melodies in their heads, enabling a
10 Foreword

new genre of music now nationally accepted. Two other articles

deal more broadly with the Indian heritage in the region.
Primnath Gooptar highlights the persistence of the heritage in
flora and fauna, religion and music. These have enriched Carib­
bean civilisation and continue to be vibrant and recreative as they
interact with the other fragments of ancestral memory. Nasser
Mustapha’s article takes up the same theme but in its practical
application in the culinary arts. Over time, he demonstrates, many
typical Indian dishes have risen from humble kitchens to wide­
spread acceptance at home and abroad. Bridget Brereton’s article
compares the celebration of Emancipation with Indian Arrival Day
both of which have become entrenched in the national narrative of
Trinidad and Tobago. The separate celebrations, however, emphasise
a discordance in the search for national harmony as the nation
moves forward in this century. Together these nine articles provide
a panoramic insight into a corner of the world which is valiantly
asserting its particular presence in a world where globalisation seeks
to enclose everyone into an agenda dictated by Europe and North
America. The 2018 conference of the Anton de Kom University
continues to reverberate, now in a permanent format.
1 October 2020 BRINSLEY SAMAROO
 Introduction
FARZANA GOUNDER, BRIDGET BRERETON,
JEROME EGGER AND HILDE NEUS

This book is the third in a series of ten, named The Legacy of Slavery
and Indentured Labour. The ten volumes are the result of a confer­
ence with the same theme, The Legacy of Slavery and Indentured
Labour, organised by the Anton de Kom University of Suriname
from 18 to 22 June 2018 in Paramaribo.
This volume explores the evolution of the collective memories
of the mobility history of the labour of the Caribbean region. The
Caribbean provides a rich study of the different forms of labour
systems that have marked the politics of the coloniser and the
colonised historically. Further it provides the basis for an essential
study for discourses on colonialism and capitalism. The colonisers
came from the major powers in the Western world: Spain, Britain,
France and The Netherlands, and the region truly conceptualised
the great divide between Western capitalist consumers and the
‘others’, who, in the form of the enslaved and the indentured, were
there to supply the demand for sugar and other commodities.
Recent works have been devoted to understanding the slave and
indentured experiences beyond the nation state, with calls for com­
parative analyses of experiences of labour mobility at the regional
and global levels (Vahed & Desai 2012). This interdisciplinary
volume provides another strand to labour mobility research, bridging
the gap between historiography and the present day diasporic com­
munities, which emerged from slavery and indenture. The articles
in the volume collectively provide case studies from the Caribbean
context on the connections between the ‘mnemonic sites, prac­
tices and forms’ (Olick & Robbins 1998: 124) of collective memory
and identity performances.
After the abolition of the British slave trade in 1808 and the
12 Farzana Gounder et al.

abolition of slavery in 1834, 1848 and 1863, the European colonial

powers were looking for alternative sources of labour in the colo­
nies. For this reason, Europeans were taken to the colonies but the
result was unsatisfactory for the planters. The colonial powers
thought that the solution lay in the importation of indentured
labourers from Africa, Madeira, China, India and Indonesia. To
fulfil the labour shortage, 812,260 labourers were taken to the
British, French and Dutch Caribbean and Cuba as seen in Table 1.
The indentured labour system was introduced first in Mauritius
in 1834, while for the Caribbean it began in 1838. As can be seen
from Table 1, the largest proportion of the labourers came from
India. Indenture, a means of utilising cheap, guaranteed labour,
was an essential tool for empire building; its machinery borrowed
heavily from institutionalised practices established during the
period of slavery (Batsha 2017; Kale 2010).
For 82 years, the institutionalised machinery of indenture pro­
vided for the movement of millions of Indians to King Sugar colonies
around the world. The first trial of the Indian indenture scheme
started in the colony of Mauritius in 1834, bringing some 453,063
migrants. Later, other British colonies followed: British Guiana
(1838 with 238,909 migrants), Trinidad and Jamaica (1845 with
around 147,000 and 36,412 respectively), St. Kitts, St. Lucia, St.

TABLE 1: INDENTURED LABOURERS TO

THE CARIBBEAN1

Chinese (including to Cuba) 160,000

Africans 39,330
Portuguese from Madeira 43,760
Indians from the Subcontinent 536,310
Indonesia 32,956
Total 812,356
1
Table 1 constructed by Maurits Hassankhan on the basis of: Keith Laurence,
Immigration in the West Indies; Walton Look Lai 1993, p. 276 and Surinaamse Verslag
1939, App. E, p. 30 (Colonial Report Suriname 1939). This table does not include the
intra-Caribbean migration of tens of thousands of labourers, for instance from Barbados to
Trinidad and Suriname.
 Introduction 13

Vincent and Grenada (the 1850s), Natal (South Africa 1860 with
151,184 migrants), Suriname (1873 with 34,000 migrants) and
Fiji (1879 with 60,965 migrants) (Lal 2000).
The majority of the Indian labourers to the Caribbean came
from the United Provinces (UP) and were often familiar with agri­
cultural work, indicating a farming background of many, though
not all. The impetus to become indentured was due to several
factors. The push factors were a combination of high debt burden
for peasants because of the colonial land tenure policy, crop fail­
ure, poor weather conditions (such as droughts, poor monsoon
season), famine, and landowners’ demands. These factors drove
peasants out of the farming areas, particularly in UP, creating a
system of internal migration within India towards the East, where
they worked as unskilled labourers in mills, factories, docks, coal
mines, on roads and railways, or harvesting crops, such as jute.
These internal migrants would then send remittances home, cre­
ating an essential economic backbone for their families. It is thought
that these internal migrants formed the bulk of the indentured
labourers. These individuals, already on the move in search of work,
were persuaded by recruiters to work in the colonies for higher
wages than in India. The internal migrants, thus, became trans-
migrants (Gillion 1962).
The indenture system had a far-reaching impact. For 82 years,
the global machinery of indenture turned peasants into labourers.
It also created employment for the officials of indenture not only
in India but also on the ships and in the colonies. In addition, it
provided employment to shipping companies, and even utilised
ex-indentured labourers, returning to India, where they became
recruiters of the uninitiated.
Moreover, there were complex, interlocking wheels that impacted
the lives of the labourers. There was the global machinery of in­
denture (systems and processes that extended from India, across
the oceans and into the colonies), which interacted with gover­
nance (state regulations on law and order), which, in turn, inter­
acted with planters’ concerns and demands, and the labourers’
welfare (social, psychological, physiological and economic states of
being).
14 Farzana Gounder et al.

Hugh Tinker (1974) has famously likened indenture to slavery.

This view has some merit, particularly in the early years, where
the same slave owners were now utilising indentured labourers on
their plantations (Kale 2010). Indeed, the major push for inden­
ture was to fill the shortage of cheap, guaranteed and compliant
labour due to the abolition of slavery. The initiative was an eco­
nomic success for the colonial planters, and, over a period of time,
Indian indenture was utilised in places which did not have a his­
tory of slavery, such as Natal and Fiji (Vahed & Desai 2012).
Of course, conditions did improve over the duration of the in­
dentured era, and one can see this in the case of Fiji, the last im­
porter of indentured labourers, where there was an increase in
room sizes over time, a separate area for cooking outside the living
facilities, and the removal of task-based payment. But it must also
be said that in the eyes of the world (the Indian and British public
spheres), the systems and processes of indenture and the welfare of
the indentured labourers were not sufficiently improved to allow
for the continuation of the system (Andrews & Pearson 1916).

INDENTURE IN THE CARIBBEAN

The colonial racial and gender stereotypes pervaded the workings

of the indenture system and negatively impacted the lives of the
labourers in forms of power and control (see Macaulay 1835,
Metcalf 1997). The labourers (and their dependents) were forced
to live in cramped and insanitary accommodations, they received
low wages, and their movement off the plantation was heavily re­
stricted due to pass-law regulations. Failure to comply resulted in
the labourers’ arrests, and imprisonment with hard labour or a
fine. There was also a skewed sex ratio, with, at the most, 40 women
to 100 men, which persisted throughout the indenture period in
all the colonies. The imbalance of sexes created tensions within the
plantation social system and is thought to have significantly contri­
buted to the high rates of male physical abuse against women,
including murders (Hassankhan 2014, Roopnarine 2007).
The inequitable living and working conditions, which lay at the
intersections of colonial rule and the colonial plantocracy, persisted
 Introduction 15

throughout the indentured era. Even in the final indentured colony,

Fiji, where indenture was introduced 46 years after the initiation
of the system, there were high rates of suicide, brutality against
women, morbidity and mortality due to systemic inadequacies on
the plantations (Ali 2004, Cole 2000, Fowler 2000, Harvey 2000,
Lal 1985). This led to the anti-indenture rhetoric in the public
spheres and the subsequent abolition of indentured migration in
1917 (Andrews & Pearson 1916, Gupta 2020, Sanadhya 1973).
In the British colonies all remaining indentured contracts were
terminated on 1 January 1920, while in Suriname there were still
renewals of contracts until 1929. In this Dutch colony, inden­
tured labour migration from Indonesia continued until 1929,
when indentured labour was abolished by the International Labour
Organisation (ILO). After that year, the colonial government
brought immigrant families from Indonesia to Suriname in order
to stimulate small farming in the colony (Hoefte 1998).
The process of indenture had another global impact: it led to
the establishment of post-indentured diasporas in the colonies.
The characteristics that demarcate the Indian diaspora have changed
over the centuries. The indentured labourers and their immediate
dependents, who voyaged to the colonies, aligned more closely
with Safran’s (1991) defining features of a diaspora: they had dis­
persed from a collective centre, India, to other colonies; they re­
tained a collective memory of India, which, as found in their songs
and stories, recalled their original homeland positively; during and
after indenture, they were in a foreign land, not entirely accepted by
the host societies and they developed languages, rites and customs
that kept them insulated. India retained its status as the mythic
home, to which they would one day return to pay homage.
However, Brubaker’s (2005) and Hall’s (1990) definitions of the
diaspora are more suited in conceptualising the modern-day in­
dentured diasporas, as their definitions dismantle the rigid shack­
les of homeland orientation and boundary-maintenance. Instead,
diaspora is perceived as a community of practice and employs the
notions of fluidity and negotiations that are at the interplay of
historical past and present-day power, politics and position. The
diasporic identity is defined thus:
16 Farzana Gounder et al.
. . . not by essence and purity, but by the recognition of a necessary heterogeneity
and diversity; by a conception of ‘identity’ which lives with and through,
not despite difference; by hybridity. Diaspora identities are those which are
constantly producing and reproducing themselves anew, through transforma­
tion and difference. (Hall 1990: 235)

As this volume demonstrates through case studies in the Carib­

bean, the diasporic ‘ways of being’ represent a ‘hybridity’ with
host societies, and, thus, create identities and collective memories
that are distinct and relevant to the Caribbean but have their roots
in indenture.
Maurice Halbwachs, credited with first discussing collective
memory, defines it in terms of a shared social consciousness of re­
membering significant events and people organised in time and
space (Halbwachs 1950 [1980]). The creation and maintenance
of memory is a social process. Both what and how events are re­
membered is from the perspective of what is important today.
‘Collective memory does not merely reflect past experiences (accu­
rately or not); it has an orientational function’ (Schwartz 1996).
As such, collective memory of events needs to be performed conti­
nually and made relevant for its members to maintain its relevance
in the present.
Assman and Czaplicka (1995) explain the process of collective
memory moving between the potential and actual:
When memories are represented in monuments, buildings, visual, written and
oral texts, and are housed as artefacts within the archives, libraries and museums
they represent potential memories of a group. The potential memory takes
the form of actual memory when group members re-conceptualise these repre­
sentations and their meanings and articulate them as relevant narratives
of the group’s past. The actual memory thus helps to delineate a group as a
community of practice.

Such collective memories become established as hegemonic nar­

ratives, created through the conflation of historical time and space,
the temporal sequencing of events and people within a thematic
frame (Alonso 1988). Over a period of time, hegemonic narratives
can become mainstream at the national level and the basis for rites
and rituals, including commemorative practices of social remem­
 Introduction 17

brance (Gounder 2014). Thus, hegemonic narratives become en­

trenched and maintain their authoritative position in the collective
memory and identity of a large proportion of the community
(Brereton 2013). However, narratives of the past are never com­
plete, and it is possible to identify distortions through emphasis,
omissions and erasures.
The social worth of a narrative is not so much based on the
authenticity of the facts of the narrative, but on the meaning that
a group associates with these facts (Knapp 1989). Because of this,
over a period of time, there are contestations between hegemonic
narratives and counter-narratives about similar events. Hegemonic
narratives need to be able to adjust and adapt to the changing
perspectives of the community of practice. Without such an orien­
tation, hegemonic narratives lose their relevance and will be re­
placed with other narratives, more attuned to the current values of
the community.
The narrative of indenture has evolved to encompass the many
strands of the indentured experience. In the case of Indian inden­
tured studies, the discourse has changed over time from inden­
tured servitude of male labourers (Naidu 2004), with women
labourers on the fringes, to a more concerted feminist narrative of
the pivotal role that women played on the plantations as wives,
mothers and labourers (Carter 2004, Bahadur 2016, Gounder
2020, Hoefte 1987, Mohan 2007, Shameem 1987). Another
method to include subaltern voices is through the focus on the
individualised experiences of indentured labourers, as seen in the
analysis of letters and oral histories (Bates 2005, Gounder 2011).
Such narratives have shifted from reliance on official colonial records
to the incorporation of an alternative perspective of the experi­
ences of the indentured individuals, who lived and worked on the
plantations.
The narrative has also evolved from positioning the labourers as
victims of an unjust system to a more nuanced focus on labourers’
agency. The debate alternated between whether the system was
another form of ‘slavery’ or whether indenture was ‘akin to slavery’
(Tinker 1974, Lal 2015, Vahed & Desai 2012). More recent em­
phasis has been on plantation workers’ agency. The research dis­
18 Farzana Gounder et al.

cusses how the labourers responded to the environment of the

plantation through accommodation, compliance and resistance
strategies (Gounder 2020, Lal & Munroe 2014, Roopnarine 2007,
Vahed 2014).
This volume explores how historiography is relevant in the
present. Collectively, the articles demonstrate how historical labour
mobility, in the forms of slavery and indenture, remains a salient
identity marker for the diasporic communities. The volume also
illustrates how cultural markers in the form of music, food, dress,
religion and language, which trace their presence to the inden­
tured labourers, have become central to the national and regional
narratives within the Caribbean.
The volume is divided into the following three thematic parts:
Part 1: The Legacies of Indenture and Migration
Part 2: Identity Negotiations through Music and Cuisine
Part 3: Collective Memories of Slavery and Indenture

PART 1: THE LEGACIES OF INDENTURE

AND MIGRATION
The first part of this volume is dedicated to collective memories of
slavery and indenture. It is focused on the day-to-day practical
ways in which the legacies of these institutions were implemented
in current cultural expressions in society, whether through identity,
crafts or literature.
Primnath Gooptar has researched on the basic principles of ethnic
identity in his article ‘The Legacy of Indian Indentureship in the
Caribbean 1838-1920’. He sums up several cultural traits of a
specific group—in this case, East Indians—divided into tangible or
non-tangible heritage. The indentured labourers, originating from
India, carried their culture with them, in whichever place—be it
country or island—they might be domiciled. As such, Gooptar’s
article is an introductory piece to this volume, and is built upon
in later articles on identity markers such as music, literature, food
or crafts. An exciting addition is the discussions on politics, which
were, and continue to be expressed via the media. Gooptar em­
phasises the fact that through the media, politics found a way
 Introduction 19

to highlight the differences between the Indo or Afro dominated

political parties, resulting in opposing camps. Where other cul­
tural traits were able to creolise and unite, politics, on the other
hand, was used as an instrument of division and over a period of
time, enlarged the schism between the two groups. This topic
opens up new trajectories for research in which local situations
might be described and compared to each other. Gooptar also
touches upon the legacy of Indian culture and identity in smaller
Caribbean countries, which were inhabited by limited communities
of East Indians. Somehow, they made their mark on these islands
as well, although it was less pronounced and less visible. Gooptar
stresses that recently there has been a revival in the expression of
Indian roots in these places, which promises further manifesta­
tions of cultural identity in the future.
One of the cultural traits Gooptar mentions in his article, which
is further discussed in this volume, is the creative industries. Sandra
Clenem discusses this field in terms of legacies and future possi­
bilities, with special reference to Suriname. She presents a histori­
cal overview of concepts on cultural industries and in this light
discusses the Caribbean arts festival, Carifesta, as a case study. The
cultural industries evolved from home crafts to commercialised
businesses. There has been some discussion on whether capitalism
had a positive influence on creative expression or not. As soon as
creative industries became big business, a few ground rules were
defined; the ideas had to be innovative and original, they should
contain an economic value, and be considered as intellectual prop­
erty. Clenem, of course, discusses mass production and commerciali­
sation. Creative industries, as opposed to natural resources, form a
means of income, and at a certain point in the process, the govern­
ment comes in with rules and regulations. Their primary function
in developing countries such as Suriname—with the additional
challenges of being multi-ethnic—is to create policies and markets,
insert education and training, and keep up with international
law (UICP, WIPO and UNCTAD) to protect the product coming
from Suriname. In this way, according to Clenem, creative indus­
tries can make a significant contribution to the income of the
countries.
20 Farzana Gounder et al.

In ‘Shadowy Figures: Literary Representation of the Chinese in

French-Caribbean Fiction’, Kathleen Gyssels looks at Caribbean
writers such as Léon Damas, Raphael Confiant and Maryse Condé
and how they have faced their ancestral past, especially their possi­
ble Chinese roots. Even though some writers pride themselves on
their multi-ethnic and multi-cultural background, they, at times,
seem to be reluctant to write about their possible Chinese heritage.
Chinese migration in the Caribbean area occurred in three waves,
each with distinctive characteristics and characters. In West Indian
novels they were painted, if described at all, as intruders all of
whom had some negative influence on their newly adopted environ­
ment. These usages of cultural traits are a result of the gap between
popular and high culture, according to Gyssels. As soon as cul­
tural expressions become more popular, they are introduced into
research and gain in esteem. This reflects on the people portraying
this section of society. More and more writers, storytellers and
filmmakers incorporate a Chinese presence in their work, more so
if they are themselves members of the Chinese community. They
trace their memories in favour of the dynamics of a diverse society.
Gijssels paints some main characters from literary books, created
in recent years. Initially, the Chinese characters were portrayed as
sinister and flat, but they became more nuanced over a period of
time. In her article, Gyssels shows how regional literary products
evolved and influenced each other. Anti-Chinese or Sinophobic
sentiments decreased more and more, under the influence of the
creolité movements.

PART 2: IDENTITY NEGOTIATIONS

THROUGH MUSIC AND CUISINE

Music and food play an essential role in the legacy of Indian in­
dentured labour in the Caribbean. Two articles in this part on
identity negotiations through music and cuisine analysed different
aspects in the way music traditions influenced this cultural trace
in the region. The third one looks at food as a way of understand­
ing the presence of Indian cuisine on the tables of Caribbean
countries.
 Introduction 21

The first article on music is Christopher Ballengee’s ‘When

the Music Soundin “Sweet”: Musical Instrument Construction,
Performance Practice, and the Changing Aesthetics of Indian Trini­
dadian Tassa Drumming’. While Mohkamsing focuses on the way
a particular name for a specific kind of music led to misunder­
standings, Ballengee analyses the music of tassa drumming itself.
He examines the changes that took place in the making of musical
instruments and the influence of tassa competitions on both rein­
forcing traditional aspects of the music and the evolution of
performances. Ballengee traces the roots of tassa to north Indian
practices. He argues that indentured Indians spread the tradition
of the drum all over the world. But local circumstances affected
the way the instruments were made. Preferences for a particular
kind of sound led to the displacement of the shallow clay pots in
favour of the deeper resonating drums. Various materials such as
fibreglass were used in the evolution of the instruments. The emer­
gence of tassa competitions in the 1980s was another step in the
changing performance practices and making of instruments. More­
over, these competitions lifted the tassa to the national stage away
from the village context. Ballengee concludes that the ‘sweet’ men­
tioned in the title of this article refers to the sound that different
materials make, but also to well-organised competitions with high-
quality performances leading to harmonious ensembles and cre­
ativity in the music.
Narinder Mohkamsing’s article ‘Baithakgáná Semantics’ analyses
the term given to a musical form that became very popular among
Indian diasporic communities in the twentieth century. Misunder­
standings regarding the term baithakgáná leads Mohkamsing to
explore the meaning of the word. Before doing so, he points out
that this musical form was developed probably within the Carib­
bean itself. There is no mention of the name in regional Indian
musical traditions brought with the indentured labourers. The
name is a compound of baithak (to sit) and gáná (to sing), but
confusion and disagreements exist about the way to analyse, give
meaning to and interpret these words. The general argument is
that the word means ‘seated singing’ as musicians used to sit and
sing, but Mohkamsing provides a different definition in his article.
22 Farzana Gounder et al.

In his research, Mokhamsing considers the evolution of baithakgáná

practices from seated singing to performing while sitting in chairs
or standing.
After World War II, a split occurred when Indian film music
(Bollywood) influenced popular music. Traditional baithakgáná
became ‘classical music’ while ‘semi-classic’ referred to songs in­
fluenced by films. Through careful consideration of the different
meanings and influences over a period of time, Mohkamsing con­
cludes that baithakgáná refers to music being created in a parti­
cular room or space.
In the last article of this part, Nasser Mustapha touches upon
food as an essential aspect of Indian culture brought to the diaspora
and more specifically, Trinidad and Tobago. In ‘Creolization and
the Evolution of Indo-Trinidadian Cuisine’ he discusses the way
food from indentured labourers evolved and is now accepted by
the population of the twin islands. Indian food was greatly influ­
enced by religion and the climate in a particular region. Vegetables
varied depending on the weather in the northern and southern
parts of India. During the period of indenture, the labourers brought
these new species of plants with them from India to the Carib­
bean. During the period of indenture, which marked the first stage
of migration, Indian cuisine remained unknown to non-Indians.
During and after World War II, small Indian food stalls intro­
duced roti and doubles to the wider public. First seen as poor
people’s food, it became part of the national cuisine. Mustapha
also discusses the processes of creolisation (broadly defined as cul­
tural processes of adaptation and change) that were first rejected
by Indians. But their growing presence in middle-class circles and
the professions made creolisation and integration inevitable. In
the twenty-first century, Indian cuisine is seen as part of the na­
tional dishes accepted by all.

PART 3: COLLECTIVE MEMORIES OF

SLAVERY AND INDENTURE

The third part, on collective memories of slavery and indenture,

considers how memories of the historical experiences of slavery
 Introduction 23

and indenture, and their lengthy aftermaths, are constructed and

contested in contemporary Suriname and Trinidad & Tobago.
Jerome Egger makes use of the biographical approach in his
study of Sitalpersad (1867-1923). He was a rare visible Indo-
Surinamese from the indenture period who became influential
among his community and in the wider colonial society. Egger
was able to reconstruct his life story because he left an extensive
paper trail: in the archives of Suriname’s Agent-General of Immi­
gration, in the diary of his daughter (Alice Singh) and in early
twentieth-century Surinamese newspapers. Sitalpersad arrived in
Suriname in 1882 with his mother, a young widow; he spoke Hindi,
Urdu, and soon acquired the knowledge of Dutch. After indenture,
he came to Paramaribo; he became a city man, a house-owner, an
official interpreter for the Immigration Department. He chaired
the first organisation of ‘British Indians’ in Suriname. He became
an influential ‘power broker’ within his community, a go-between
and bridge linking his fellow Indians with Dutch officials and the
colonial legal system.
Egger considers Sitalpersad’s relationship with his main patron,
the Agent-General Barnet Lyon, who owned the plantation on which
his mother had been indentured; as a go-between, he could help
mediate or diffuse conflicts between the Indian labour force and
the planters. Egger concludes by discussing a celebrated lawsuit
Sitalpersad filed against a well-known figure, Grace Schneiders-
Howard, who had accused him of corruption. This case generated
a considerable paper trail in court documents and the local news­
papers, which shed light on Sitalpersad’s status in the Indian com­
munity and the wider colonial society. While Sitalpersad’s life story
was obviously very untypical of those of most indentured and ex-
indentured Indians in Suriname, Egger’s well-researched account
of his career enhances one’s understanding of the formation of this
community in the first quarter of the twentieth century.
While Egger focused on reconstructing the life of one person,
Kermechend Raghoebarsing’s article adopts a family history ap­
proach. He studies his own family over five generations, starting
with the arrival in Suriname right at the beginning of ‘British
Indian’ indentured immigration to that colony in 1873, and taking
24 Farzana Gounder et al.
the narrative to 2010. Based on oral sources, family documents
(including many letters between 1953 and 1982) and materials
in public archives, the article incorporates elements of a personal
memoir, discussing the research journey the author undertook as
well as his findings. The family history is placed in the context of
Suriname’s evolution in the 1900s, especially from the 1930s to
the 2000s; but Raghoebarsing doesn’t claim that it can be widely
generalised. This was undoubtedly an unusual Indo-Surinamese
family: Trees, a trained teacher at a time when few Indian women
had professional careers and a Catholic convert, with her Hindu
husband Nandoe, had achieved a middle-class lifestyle in Para­
maribo by 1960. Raghoebarsing considers this important social
transition from plantation-based lifeways to city life and brings
out the cultural gulf between this couple, their family and their
rural relatives. Somewhat like Sitalpersad, Trees and Nandoe were
brokers and bridges between different groups within the Indo-
Surinamese community, and also had relationships with people of
all ethnicities. In the conclusion of his article, Raghoebarsing draws
together the salient points of his family history and reflects how it
connects to contemporary issues in Suriname.
Bridget Brereton’s article moves from Suriname to Trinidad &
Tobago. She studies how two public holidays, Emancipation Day
and Indian Arrival Day, have become central in how the nation’s
memories of slavery, emancipation and Indian indenture have been
constructed and contested over the last twenty years. Each has
become inextricably linked to the development of Afro-centric and
Indo-centric narratives of the nation’s history. Brereton’s article is
based mainly on the nation’s newspaper press. It also draws heavily
from her previous writings on the broad theme of national and
ethnic narratives of Trinidad & Tobago’s history. As might be ex­
pected, narratives of slavery and indenture, of historical suffering
during the existence of these two systems of coerced labour, and
of discrimination and alienation after emancipation and the aboli­
tion of indenture, dominate the speeches and activities which have
become a feature of the annual celebrations of each day. While
these activities, especially between 2006 and 2017, are analysed
comprehensively in Brereton’s article, she also shows that many
 Introduction 25
citizens, of all ethnicities, have expressed opposition to, or at least
reservations about, the implications of high-profile celebrations of
these two ‘ethnic’ holidays. Competitive ‘victim narratives’ of the
kind sometimes presented by activists commemorating Emanci­
pation and Indian Arrival Days may not advance the evolution of a
multi-ethnic and multi-cultural society like Trinidad & Tobago,
she concludes.

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 PA RT I

THE LEGACIES OF INDENTURE

AND MIGRATION
 CHAPTER 1

The Legacy of Indian Indentureship

in the Caribbean 1838-1920
P R I M N AT H G O O P TA R

Globally, ethnicity continues to be a central feature in social foun­

dation and commonplace collective action. This is particularly true
of such post-colonial Indian indentured immigrant Caribbean
societies in Guyana (238,909), Trinidad and Tobago (143,939),
Suriname (34,304),1 Jamaica (36,412), St Lucia (4,350), Grenada
(3,200), St Kitts (337) and St Vincent (2,472), where between
1838 and 1917 over 5,00,000 Indian indentured immigrants were
domiciled (Samaroo, 2011: 248).
The labourers originated from agricultural and labour sectors of
the Uttar Pradesh and Bihar regions of north India, with a relat­
ively lesser amount than from those conscripted from Bengal, south
India and other areas (Brennan 1998, Lal 1998). Approximately
85 per cent were Hindus, while 14 per cent were Muslims.
The Indian indentured immigrants came to the Caribbean from

1
Unlike Trinidad and Tobago and Guyana, which accessed Indian inden­
tureship after the end of slavery, in Suriname, indentured immigrants
were accessed just before the end of the apprenticeship from 1863-73. The
importation of Indian indentured immigrants in Suriname was not in response
to the labour shortage but intended to avoid the shortage of labour. The labour
shortage was quite clearly envisioned to follow after the full freedom of the
slaves in 1873. However, despite the fact that Indian indentured immigrants
were imported to Suriname just before the end of the apprenticeship, they still
faced the ire of the ex-slaves in a similar fashion to what occurred in Trinidad
and Tobago.
32 Primnath Gooptar
the opposite side of the globe with very profound and divergent
differences in language, social customs, religion, dress and music
(Samaroo 1987). While they came from the same country, India,
they held different perspectives on regional differences, where they
were going and their tenure in their new country of residence in
the Caribbean (Chatterjee 2001). The methods by which European
planters executed the Indian indentured contractual requirements
had an unfair outcome in influencing the communal attitudes
between the ethnic groups in the colonies. For example, Indian
indentured labourers were calculatedly kept away from the rest of
the society (namely the ex-slaves and the Chinese and Portuguese)
geographically, socially and culturally. The planters portrayed the
ex-slaves stereotypically as poor workers, lethargic, reckless and
frivolous. East Indians, on the other hand, were considered hard
working, compliant, submissive and controllable. The East Indians
soon espoused the planters’ negative views of the ex-slaves, who, in
turn, saw the Indians as miserly, violent (domestic violence), taking
bread from their mouths (preventing them from bargaining for
higher wages) and heathens for not accepting Christianity and
Western ways. The propagation of these stereotypes between the
two major groups had the desired effect, as far as the white plant­
ers were concerned, of keeping the groups apart. That separation
also helped to keep them from uniting with the ex-slaves and de­
manding higher wages from the planters. The coloured persons
and ex-slave group consisted mainly of Africans. There were also
Portuguese and Chinese immigrants, but the stereotyped ex-slave
mentality was aimed mostly at the African ex-slaves (Haraksingh
1981).
By analysing the historical relationship between the coloniser,
the Indian indentured immigrants and the ex-slaves, one can trace
the roots of the legacy of the Indians and the impact they had on
the various Caribbean islands in which they were domiciled.
It is noteworthy that with the culpability of the plantation owners,
the ex-indentured immigrant Indians were encouraged, whether
passively or otherwise, to take up residence in plots ‘loaned’ to them
or rented to them by the estates, or sometimes they were encour­
aged to continue living on the estates. In Trinidad and Guyana,
 The Legacy of Indian Indentureship in the Caribbean 33
the planters also used their influence with the governor to allow
Indian settlers to occupy adjacent Crown lands free of charge. So,
while the former-indentured workers were encouraged to live close
to the estates and could pursue their own agenda, the planters were
happy to have them close by as additional labour, especially as
seasonal workers at crop time, when additional hands were needed
on the estate (Laurence 1994). This reassurance to live close to the
estates encouraged the development of small villages around the
estate peripheries. As those grew, they became settlement commu­
nities, which were referred to by outsiders as ‘Indian settlement
communities’. On the other hand, some adventurous ex-indentured
Indian immigrants, not wishing to return to the estates, relocated
further afield in forested and grassy or swampy areas. These indi­
viduals became coal burners, rice planters and gardeners and created
their small settlement communities.
In those Indian settlements, the ex-indentured immigrants bonded
together because of their shared values, ethics, cultural similarities,
religion, dress and social life. These bonds, based on their com­
monalities, created strength and cohesiveness within their evolv­
ing society. In developing their ‘exclusive’ Indian settlements, they
unwittingly formed a barrier between the white colonial planters
and the freed ex-slaves who vented their ire on them. That fractur­
ing, however, helped to structure and shape the lives and pathways
of the Indian immigrants and their descendants on the islands,
perpetuating the division between the two ethnic groups.
The indentured Indian immigrants held India as their cultural
and spiritual home and that helped them to shape and keep their
identity alive even on the sugar estates. At the end of their inden­
tureship, at least 80 per cent of them made the Caribbean their
home, yet they did not sever ties with India. In most cases, with
the coming into being of their settlement communities, those ties
were strengthened by the sheer cohesiveness of the new communi­
ties and their willingness to subsist in a hostile land. They were in
survival mode in a country they had chosen to be their new home.
Many of the push and pull factors forced them to look inwards,
and, in doing so, revived the memories of their identity in India,
which they transplanted to the new land (Gooptar 2012).
34 Primnath Gooptar
Indians, in the larger evolving communities, turned inwards for
self-protection, preservation and to find meaning to their existence
in those colonies. They recreated parallel communities based on
units from their jahaji bundles (the real and the imagined jahaji
bundles) with their systems of sustainability, economic activity,
culture, language, food, flora and fauna.2 They practised their cul­
ture from memory, and, over time, converted it into ‘Indian cul­
ture’ in the Caribbean that affirmed the historical memory they
had brought with them. Many of their memorialised practices
were informed, validated, influenced or reinforced by their local
communal settings. This linkage to the homeland gave them the
strength and courage to continue along the path they had con­
sciously chosen, creating in that evolutionary process new cultural
meanings from what they had brought from India in their jahaji
bundles. That legacy, associated with their new environments, was
passed onto future generations.
The free Indians were becoming a reckoning force. Nanlal
Ramcharan, basing his interpretation upon stories he heard from
his parents and on his observations, indicated that by 1920,
. . . from what I came to know of my own and what my parents and grand­
parents told us, their culture was of foremost importance to them. They did not
want to give up their culture, their way of life, the way of living, their language
and most of all their dress and so they kept more to themselves and only went
into the town whenever they had to purchase supplies or attend to a legal
matter. They developed their means of self-containment and survival, and there
were very few things that they purchased in the town centres. Transportation
was difficult to get from where we lived, and so they only went to Cunapo
(Sangre Grande) for supplies such as oil, pitch oil, salt and flour. They grew most
of what they ate: bodi, seime, carille, pumpkin, seasonings, corn, rice, dhal
(urdhi, pigeon peas etc.) and cassava.3

2
Jahaji Bundle: A big bag or cloth tied at the top and containing one’s
personal items. Jahaji is a Hindi word meaning shipmate, specifically, those
indentured servants who travelled from India to the Caribbean on the same
ship. A jahaji bundle was the bundled possessions of those servants.
3
Nanlal Ramcharan. Interview with Nanlal Ramcharan. Plum Road, Sangre
Grande, Trinidad. 100 years old, 2009.
 The Legacy of Indian Indentureship in the Caribbean 35
In this way, they avoided contact with Afro-Trinidadians and
developed their parallel communities. The same could be extrapo­
lated for Guyana, Suriname, and some of the other Caribbean
countries.
Because of the rejection they faced from the outside world, the
Indians sought to become self-sustaining, and, in the process, be­
came a force to reckon with as they developed their parallel societies.
Thus, they kept alive their collective memory of India among them­
selves through their songs, music, dances, religion and other aspects
of life and living. The indentured immigrants had a long civilisa­
tional history that followed them around, and their memorialised
history was responsible for the creation of their new homes in the
new lands. In addition, that history helped East Indians to recon­
stitute aspects of the old homeland in the Caribbean. In the re­
creation of their new homeland, the new cultural environment
and the natural landscape were contributing factors to the early
identity that East Indians created in the Caribbean. Their isola­
tion and their rural residency allowed them the chance to develop
new cultural settings based on existing cultural and religious realities
(Lowenthal 1972). They had dotted the landscape with jhandis,
temples, mosques, and had kept alive their songs, music and
dances.
From the perspective of non-Indians, the Indians were often
seen as a closed community ‘doing their own thing’. They were,
therefore, regarded not as part of the society, but as birds of pas­
sage, who would soon return to their original homeland. They
were seen as not belonging and different because they spoke Hindi
and all their practices were different from the ex-slaves.
However, from the Indians’ perspective, while they maintained
a seperate and distinct identity, they considered themselves part
of the country. They had chosen to make the new territory their
homeland, and, as such, began to put down their roots. Those
roots spread to other parts of the country outside of their parallel
societies. Soon, identity markers emerged that helped to solidify
the community against the onslaught from the ex-slaves and Wester­
nised values.
36 Primnath Gooptar
IDENTITY

In the case of East Indians in the Caribbean, their identity forma­

tion was both a reaction to a hostile environment and a primordial
fallback on their identity. Individual or group identity, it must be
noted, is different to the idea of national identity, and with East
Indians in Trinidad, Guyana and Suriname there was, by the 1920s,
a wide schism between individual and group Indian identity, and
the national ideal of identity. Despite the schism that seemed to
exist at that time, significant groups within the Indian community
and many Indians too held the view that East Indians could hold
on to their ethnic identifications while being compatible with the
national identity of the nation to which they belonged. The Indian
ex-indentured immigrants preferred to build that identity around
factors that related to their original homeland, and this did not, in
any way, negate the fact that they were part of the new society, or
imply that they were unpatriotic to the nation (Gooptar 2012).
Moving from the state of being indentured immigrants to free
persons living in their settlement communities was an event of
enormous proportions that took them from survival mode, through
identity formation, and, by the beginning of the twentieth century,
to integration mode. Nanlal noted that this last part of their jour­
ney of integration into the larger Westernised society was fraught
with the danger of losing their identity. So, the majority was very
sceptical about giving up their identity to become part of the wider
national community.
Nanlal noted that the pundits and the panchayat played a sig­
nificant role in this ‘protection of the identity’. The pundits felt
that too much integration into Western society’s ‘ills’, as they called
them, would cause them to lose their gods, their goddesses, their
modes of worship, the East Indian dress, the Indian instruments
and their ‘original’ music and dances, and, with it, their Indian
identity. He further noted that in some villages, with which he
was familiar, the panchayat had threatened to remove a few young
persons from the village—young Indo-Trinidadian females—who
had taken to wearing Western clothing in public. He could not
recall if any of the threats were implemented but noted that it was
 The Legacy of Indian Indentureship in the Caribbean 37
sufficient to warn the young adventurous Indian females to wear
clothing approved by their parents. In another instance, he stated
that his father, urged on by the pundit, indicated to him that the
panchayat had also threatened the ‘removal from the village’ of
anyone who had become a Christian. In the village, there were
three Christians (Presbyterians) at the time who were the only
literate people in the community and to whom the people turned
whenever any legal matters had to be dealt with, or letters had to
be written to the authorities.

IDENTITY MARKERS

Identity markers for the Indians in the Caribbean could be di­

vided into two categories: material and non-material. Among the
critical material or physical identity markers, the following stand
out: religious symbols such as temples, mosques and jhandis, flora
and fauna; and nonphysical markers, such as bhajans, qasidas, pujas,
and festivals such as Divali, Phagwa, Eid-ul-Fitr and Eid-ul-Adha,
as well as other markers such as songs, music and dances, and
cuisine.

THE JAHAJI BUNDLE

The girmityas brought with them their physical necessities in the

jahaji bundle. However, they brought with them two jahaji bundles:
one, the physical jahaji bundle, the other, an imagined jahaji bundle
(in their memory). Out of the physical jahaji bundle, they planted
seeds, wore their dress, read from the scriptures and played in­
struments among other physical attributes that they brought with
them from India. From the imagined ‘memory jahaji bundle’ they
recreated their Indian comfort zone in the settlement communities
in the Caribbean countries where they were domiciled. Striving to
achieve their imagined community, they created Indian-style houses
(thatched and mud-walled houses), the extended family settings,
social practices (caste system, panchayat and weddings), enter­
tainment in the form of songs, dances and music, economic activi­
ties, agricultural systems and other aspects of life and living. This
38 Primnath Gooptar
was the labourers’ answer to the rejections they faced from the
larger society (Jha 1974). They created a semi self-contained par­
allel Indian settlement community for their survival, where their
children played Indian games, such as kabaddi. The labourers wore
clothing consistent with their Indian identity, and established
societal standards in each community through their quasi-local
governmental system—the panchayat.
Chadee (personal communication) noted that these quasi-
governmental panchayat systems had the force of law, as their deci­
sion was recognised by the magistrates. In the 1920s, the panchayat
was still in force in several Indian communities. Chadee noted
that often, when matters were brought before the magistrate, they
were sent back to the panchayat for determination and the deci­
sions of the panchayat were brought to the notice of the magistrate
through a translator appointed by the court for such purpose.
Generally, the magistrate accepted the rulings of the panchayat
and the matter was settled according to the labourers’ traditional
systems with concurrence from the magistrate.4
While many of the unsavoury aspects of their society were bro­
ken down and lost during their depot stay, sea journey and
indentureship periods, some unhealthy practices reared their ugly
heads. As the Indian settlements became established, the labourers’
focus turned towards not just surviving but learning to bridge
some of the gaps between themselves and other communities in
the land of their adoption. It was during this period that some of
the unscrupulous caste practices took root as some of the Brah­
mins staked their claims to societal leadership and gradually forced
and reinforced their position upon the society (Gooptar 2012).

JAHAJI BHAI

Those labourers who came on the same ship developed a sort of

‘brotherhood of the boat’ and lifelong ties, and they described
each other as jahaji bhai or bahen (brother or sister). Nanlal ment­
4
Personal Interview with Francis Chadee. 9 August 2008. Male, 84 years
old. Penal, Trinidad. Retired Primary School Principal.
 The Legacy of Indian Indentureship in the Caribbean 39
ioned that to describe someone as jahaji bhai was to evoke lifelong
sentiments of loyalty and togetherness. That bond was a lifelong
pledge that transcended caste and religion, and generated a high
sense of cultural loyalty that persisted for generations that followed.5

FLORA AND FAUNA

Another aspect of their legacy that has changed the topography of

the Caribbean is the flora and fauna they brought with them in
their jahaji bundles. Some of the plants brought by East Indians to
Trinidad included: sacred plants such as sandal (Santalum album),
suparie (Areca catechu), khus khus (Chrysopogon zizanioides), peepal
(Ficus religiosa) and banyan (Ficus benghalensis) tulsi (Ocimum
tenuiflorum), ashoka (Saraca indica), bael (Aegle marmelos), dhatur
(Datura stramonium) and paan (Piper betle); medicinal herbs such
turmeric (Curcuma longa), neem (Azadiracta indica); edibles such
as sahijan (Moringa oliefera), lauki (Lagenaria siceraria), sapodilla
(Manilkara zapota), bodie (Vigna sesquipedalis), seim (Lablab
purpureus), sesame (Sesamum indicum), mango (Mangifera indica)
and carailee (Momordica charantia), rice (Oryza sativa); and flower­
ing plants such as gaindah (Tagetes patula) (ibid.).
Those plants have spread far beyond their Indian settlements.
For example, by the 1920s, the mango, which was brought to
the Caribbean by the indentured immigrants, could be found
growing in almost all Caribbean territories. In addition, the
sahijan and neem plants, brought to the colonies during that
period, had survived, and, by the 1920s, were found in several
colonies including Trinidad, Guyana, Suriname, Curacao, Guade­
loupe, Jamaica and Grenada. Today, the sahijan is considered
a miracle plant and is heavily sought after for its medicinal pro­
perties.
These plants, a legacy of the East Indians, have dotted the land­
scapes of the Caribbean territories, and the Caribbean landscapes
will never be the same. While many of these plants continue to be
5
Interview with Nanlal Ramcharan. 2011. Male 102 years old. Plum Road,
Sangre Grande, Trinidad.
Another random document with
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regarded as comprising two distinct types of nervous condition,
according as the loop formed by the two visceral nerve-cords is
twisted over itself, forming a figure of 8, or continues straight and
uncrossed. In the former case, we get the condition known as
streptoneurous, in the latter that as euthyneurous.[315] The
Euthyneura include the whole of the Opisthobranchiata[316] and
Pulmonata, the Streptoneura all the Prosobranchiata.

Fig. 101.—Nervous system of the Amphineura: A,

Proneomenia; B, Neomenia; C,
Chaetoderma; D, Chiton; c, cerebral ganglia;
l, l, lateral cords; pc, posterior commissure; s,
sublingual commissure or ring, with ganglia; v,
v, pedal cords. (Alter Hubrecht.)
The simplest form of nervous system in the euthyneurous
Gasteropoda occurs in the Opisthobranchiata. The cerebral, pleural,
and pedal ganglia tend to become concentrated in a ring-like form,
united by short commissures at the posterior end of the pharynx. The
visceral loop is in some cases long, and the two or three visceral
ganglia are then situated at its posterior extremity. The nervous
system of the Pulmonata is of a similar type, the visceral loop being
often much shorter, and tending to draw in towards the central group
of ganglia. The tentacular and optic nerves are, as usual, derived
from the cerebral ganglion, with which also the octocysts are
probably connected by rather long nerves. A pair of buccal ganglia
innervate the buccal mass, and are united by commissures with the
right and left cerebral ganglia. The osphradial nerve springs from
one of the ganglia on the visceral loop, the osphradium itself being
situated (in Limnaea) immediately above the pulmonary orifice and
adjacent to the anus (Fig. 102). This massing of the ganglia is still
better illustrated by the accompanying figure of Physa (Fig. 103), in
which the animal is represented as if transparent, so that the ganglia
and nerves are seen through the tissues.
Fig. 102.—I. Nervous system of Limnaea
stagnalis L. The oesophagus has been
cut and pulled forwards through the
nerve-collar, so as to expose the lower
surface of the buccal mass(dissected by
F. B. Stead)
B.M, buccal mass.
B.G, buccal, C.G, cerebral, Os.G,
osphradial, Pe.G, pedal ganglia.
Pl.G, pleural ganglia.
Op.N, optic, Os.N, osphradial, Te.N,
tentacular nerve.
Ot, otocyst; V.L, visceral loop.
R, rectum, dotted in to show its position
relative to the osphiadium.

II. Right side of the head of Limnaea

stagnalis. The overhanging flap of the
 mantle has been cut in the middle line,
and the right half twisted back, so as to
expose the pulmonary orifice, etc. The
points A A on the mantle edge were
continuous before the mantle was cut;
the line BA is part of the free edge of the
mantle.
An, anus; F, female generative orifice; J,
portion of jaw; M, male generative orifice
under right tentacle; Os, osphradium; P.O,
pulmonary orifice.
Of the streptoneurous Gasteropoda, the nervous system of
Fissurella and Haliotis shows distinct points of similarity to that of the
Amphineura. The pedal nerves are united by transverse
commissures throughout their entire length, while a double
commissure unites the cerebral ganglia to the mass from which the
pedal nerves proceed. In the great majority of the Streptoneura the
ganglia (except the visceral) are more concentrated and the
commissures are consequently much shorter. The accompanying
figure of Cyclostoma, in which the animal is represented as in that of
Physa just described, illustrates this grouping of the ganglia, the twist
of the visceral loop, and the position of the visceral ganglia at its
posterior end.
Fig. 103.—Nervous system of
Physa acuta Drap., showing
the massing of the ganglia at
the hinder end of the
pharynx: e, e, eyes; m,
mouth; m.l, m.l, mantle
lappets; o.f, female
generative orifice; o.m, male
generative orifice; os,
osphradium. (After Lacaze-
Duthiers.)
 Fig. 104.—Example of a
streptoneurous Gasteropod
(Cyclostoma elegans Drap.): c.g,
c.g, cerebral ganglia; e, e, eyes;
os, osphradium; ot, ot, otocysts;
p.g, p.g, pedal ganglia; pl.g, pl.g,
pleural ganglia; sp.g, supra-
intestinal ganglion; sb.g, sub-
intestinal ganglion; t.n, tentacle
nerve; v.g, visceral ganglion. (After
Lacaze-Duthiers.)
Scaphopoda.—In the Scaphopoda the nervous system
resembles that of the Pelecypoda. The cerebral and pleural ganglia
lie close together, while the pedal ganglia are placed in the anterior
part of the foot, connected with the cerebral ganglia by long
commissures; the visceral loop is rather long, and the two visceral
ganglia are adjacent to the anus.
Pelecypoda.—The nervous system in the Pelecypoda is the
simplest type in which well-marked ganglionic centres occur. The
ganglia are few, symmetrically placed, and are usually at a
considerable distance apart. There are, as a rule, three distinct pairs
of ganglia, the cerebral (cerebro-pleural), pedal, and visceral. The
cerebral are formed by the fusion of the cerebral and pleural ganglia,
which, however, in some cases (Protobranchiata) continue distinct.
[317] They lie above or on each side of the mouth, united by a
commissure of varying length. Another pair of commissures unites
them with the pedal ganglia, which are placed at the base of the foot,
and are usually very close together, sometimes (as in Anodonta)
becoming partially fused. The length of these commissures depends
upon the distance between mouth and foot; thus they are very long
in Mya and Modiola, and very short in Pecten. In cases where the
foot is rudimentary or becomes aborted through disuse (e.g. Ostrea),
the pedal ganglia may dwindle or disappear altogether. The visceral
ganglia are on the ventral side of the posterior adductor muscle,
beneath the rectum, and innervate the branchiae, osphradia, and the
whole of the visceral sac. A pair of cerebro-visceral commissures
traverses the base of the foot, surrounding it with a comparatively
short loop (compare Fig. 106, c.v.c´), while a long commissure,
which runs round the entire edge of the mantle, and supplies
branching nerves to the mantle border and siphons (Fig. 106, c.v.c),
may also connect the visceral and cerebral ganglia.
 Fig. 105.—Nervous system of
Pelecypoda: A, Teredo; B,
Anodonta; C, Pecten; a, a,
cerebral ganglia; b, pedal
ganglia; c, visceral
ganglia. (After
Gegenbaur.)
Cephalopoda.—In the Cephalopoda the concentration of ganglia
attains its maximum, and may perhaps be regarded as approaching
the point at which a definite brain may be said to exist. Another point
of distinction is the formation of special small ganglia upon the
nerve-cords in different parts of the body. In the Tetrabranchiata
(Nautilus) the cerebral and pedal ganglia form a broad ring which
surrounds the oesophagus, the former giving out the optic nerves,
with their special optic ganglion, and a pair each of buccal and
pharyngeal ganglia, the latter the nerves of the arms and funnel. The
visceral loop is still present in the form of a separate band, which
innervates the branchiae, osphradia, and viscera generally, forming
a special genital ganglion in connexion with the reproductive organs.
The principal ganglia of the Dibranchiata are still more concentrated,
even the visceral loop being possibly united with the rest in forming
an unbroken mass in which scarcely any trace of commissures can
be detected. The pedal ganglion becomes separated into two
portions, one of which innervates the arms, the other the funnel. Two
peculiar ganglia (the stellate ganglia) supply a number of branching
nerves to the mantle.

Fig. 106.—Nervous system of Cardium edule L.: a.m, anterior adductor

muscle; br, branchiae; br.n, branchial nerve; c.g, c.g, cerebral ganglia;
c.p.c, cerebro-pedal commissure; c.v.c’, cerebro-visceral commissure;
c.v.c, cerebro-visceral commissure of mantle; l.p, labial palps: m, mouth;
p.g, pedal ganglion; p.m, posterior adductor muscle; v.g, visceral ganglion.
(After Drost, × 3.)

E. L. Bouvier, Système nerveux, morphologie générale et

classification des Gastéropodes prosobranches: Ann. Sc. Nat. Zool.
(7), iii. 1887, pp. 1–510.
J. Brock, Zur Neurologie der Prosobranchier: Zeit. wiss. Zool. xlviii.
1889, pp. 67–83.
 O. Bütschli, Bemerkungen über die wahrscheinliche Herleitung der
Asymmetrie der Gasteropoda, etc.: Morph. Jahrb. xii. 1886, pp. 202–
222.
B. Haller, Zur Kenntniss der Muriciden. I. Anatomie des
Nervensystems: Denksch. Math. Nat. Kl. Ak. Wien, xlv. 1882, pp. 87–
106.
„ Untersuchungen über marine Rhipidoglossen. II. Textur des„
Centralnervensystems und seiner Hüllen: Morph. Jahrb. xi. 1885, pp.
319–436.
H. Grenadier, Abhandlungen zur vergleichenden Anatomie des
Auges: Abh. Naturf. Gesell. Halle, xvi. 1884, pp. 207–256; xvii. 1886,
pp. 1–64.
A. P. Henchman, The Origin and Development of the Central
Nervous System in Limax maximus: Bull. Mus. C. Z. Harv. xx. 1890,
pp. 169–208.
V. Hensen, Ueber das Auge einiger Cephalophoren: Zeit. wiss.
Zool. xv. 1865, pp. 157–242.
C. Hilger, Beiträge zur Kenntniss des Gasteropodenauges: Morph.
Jahrb. x. 1885, pp. 352–371.
Lacaze-Duthiers, Otocystes ou Capsules auditives des
Mollusques (Gastéropodes): Arch. Zool. Exp. Gén. i. 1872, pp. 97–
166.
„ „ Du système nerveux des Mollusques gastéropodes
pulmonés aquatiques: ibid. pp. 437–500.
P. Pelseneer, Recherches sur le système nerveux des Ptéropodes:
Arch. Biol. vii. 1887, pp. 93–130.
„ Sur la valeur morphologique des bras et la composition du
système nerveux central des Cephalopodes: Arch. Biol. viii. 1888, pp.
723–756.
H. Simroth, Ueber die Sinneswerkzeuge unserer einheimische
Weichthiere: Zeit. wiss. Zool. xxvi. 1876, pp. 227–348.
J. W. Spengel, Die Geruchsorgane und das Nervensystem der
Mollusken: Zeit. wiss. Zool. xxxv. 1881, pp. 333–383.
 CHAPTER VIII
THE DIGESTIVE ORGANS, JAW, AND RADULA: EXCRETORY ORGANS

The digestive tract, or, as it is often termed, the alimentary canal

or gut, is a very important feature of the Mollusca. It may be
regarded as consisting of the following parts: (1) a mouth or oral
aperture: (2) a throat or pharynx; (3) an oesophagus, leading into (4)
a stomach, (5) an intestine and rectum, ending in (6) an anus.
The primitive positions of mouth and anus were presumably at the
anterior and posterior ends of the animal, as in the Amphineura and
symmetrical Mollusca generally. But the modifications of original
molluscan symmetry, which have already been referred to (p. 154,
compare pp. 245, 246), have resulted in the anus becoming, in the
great majority of Gasteropoda, twisted forward, and occupying a
position on some point in the right side in dextral, and in the left in
sinistral species.
The process of digestion, as the food passes from one end of the
tract to the other, is performed by the aid of the secretions of various
glands, which open into the alimentary canal at different points in its
course. The principal of these are the salivary glands, situated on the
pharynx and oesophagus, and the liver, biliary or hepatic gland,
connecting with the stomach. With these may be considered the anal
and ink-glands, which, in certain genera, connect with the terminal
portion of the rectum.
1. The mouth is generally, as in the common snail and periwinkle,
placed on the lower part of the head, and may be either a mere
aperture, circular or semicircular, in the head-mass, or, as is more
usual, may be carried on a blunt snout (compare Fig. 6, p. 10, and
Fig. 68, p. 159), which is capable of varying degrees of protrusion.
From the retractile snout has doubtless been derived the long
proboscis which is so prominent a feature of many genera (compare
Figs. 1, B, and 99), and in some (e.g. Mitra, Dolium) attains a length
exceeding that of the whole body. As a rule, Mollusca provided with
a proboscis are carnivorous, while those whose mouth is on the
surface of the head are Vegetable feeders, but this rule is by no
means invariable. The mouth is thickened round the aperture into
‘lips,’ which are often extensile, and appear capable of closing upon
and grasping the food. In the Pelecypoda the mouth is furnished, on
each side, with a pair of special external lobes, the ‘labial palps,’
which appear to be of a highly sensitive nature, and whose object it
is to collect, and possibly to taste, the food before it passes into the
mouth.
2. The Pharynx, Jaws, and Radula.—Immediately behind the lips
the mouth opens into the muscular throat, pharynx, or buccal mass.
The pharynx of the Glossophora, i.e. of the Gasteropoda,
Scaphopoda, and Cephalopoda, is distinguished from that of the
Pelecypoda,[318] by the possession of two very characteristic organs
for the rasping or trituration of food before it reaches the oesophagus
and stomach. These are (a) the jaw or jaws, and (b) the radula,[319]
odontophore, or lingual ribbon. The jaws bite the food, the radula
tears it up small before it passes into the stomach to undergo
digestion. The jaws are not set with teeth like our own; roughly
speaking, the best idea of the relations of the molluscan jaw and
radula may be obtained by imagining our own teeth removed from
our jaws and set in parallel rows along a greatly prolonged tongue.
[320]

In nearly all land Pulmonata the jaw is single, and is placed

behind the upper lip. If a common Helix aspersa be observed
crawling up the inside of a glass jar, or feeding on some succulent
leaf, the position and action of the jaw can be readily discerned. It
shows very black when the creature opens its mouth, and under its
operation the edge of a lettuce leaf shows a regular series of little
curved indentations, in shape not unlike the semicircular bites
inflicted by a schoolboy upon his bread and butter. The jaw of Helix
(Fig. 107, B) is arched in shape, and is strengthened by a number of
projecting vertical ribs. That of Limax (A) is straighter, and is slightly
striated, without vertical ribs. In Bulimulus (C) the arch of the jaw is
very conspicuous, and the upper edges are always denticulated; in
Orthalicus there is a central triangular plate with a number of
overlapping plates on either side; in Succinea (E) there is a large
square accessory plate above the jaw proper. The form of the jaw is
peculiar not only to the genus but to the species as well. Thus the
jaw of H. aspersa is specifically distinct from that of H. pomatia, and
that of H. nemoralis is distinct from both. Wiegmann has
observed[321] that in young Arion, Limax, and Helix, the jaw consists
of two pieces, which coalesce by fusion in the adult, thus indicating a
stage of development in advance of the double jaw which is found in
most of the non-pulmonate Mollusca. In all fresh-water Pulmonata
there are two small accessory side plates besides the jaw proper
(Fig. 107, F).

Fig. 107.—Jaws of various Pulmonata: A, Limax

(gagates Drap., Lancashire, × 15); B, Helix
(acutissima Lam., Jamaica, × 15); C,
Bulimulus (depictus Reeve, Venezuela, × 20);
D, Achatina (fulica Fér., Mauritius, × 7); E,
Succinea (elegans Riss., Aral District, × 30);
F, Limnaea (stagnalis L., Cambridge, × 30).
Nearly all the non-carnivorous Prosobranchiata, land, fresh-water,
and marine alike, are provided with two large lateral jaws. Many of
these are sculptured with the most elaborate patterns, and appear to
be furnished with raised teeth, like a file. In the Nudibranchiata the
jaws are of great size and beauty of ornamentation (Fig. 109).

Fig. 108.—Jaws of A, Triton australis Lam., Sydney; B, Ampullaria

fasciata Reeve, Demerara; C, Calliostoma punctulatum Mart.,
New Zealand; D, Cyclophorus atramentarius Sowb., Sanghir; all
× 15.
 Fig. 109.—Jaws of A, Chromodoris gracilis Iher., × 15; B,
Scyllaea pelagica L., × 7; C, Pleurobranchus plumula
Mont., × 10; D, Pleurobranchaea Meckelii Lam., × 5/2.

The carnivorous genera, whether marine (e.g. Conus, Murex,

Buccinum, Nassa) or land (e.g. Testacella, Glandina, Streptaxis,
Ennea), are entirely destitute of jaws, the reason probably being that
in all these cases the teeth of the radula are sufficiently powerful to
do the work of tearing up the food without the aid of a masticatory
organ as well. Jaws are also wanting in the Heteropoda, and in many
of the Nudibranchiata and Tectibranchiata.
In the Cephalopoda the jaws, or ‘beaks,’ as they are called, are
most formidable weapons of attack. In shape they closely resemble
the beaks of a parrot, but the hook on the dorsal side of the mouth
does not, as in birds, close over the lower hook, but fits under it.
Powerful muscles govern these mandibles, which must operate with
immense effect upon their prey (Fig. 110).
Fig. 110.—Jaws of Sepia:
A, in situ within the
buccal mass, several
of the arms having
been cut away; B,
removed from the
mouth and slightly
enlarged.
 Fig. 111.—Patella vulgata L.,
showing the normal position
of the radula, which is
doubled back in a bow; the
shell has been removed, and
the whole visceral mass is
turned forward, exposing the
dorsal surface of the
muscular foot: gr,
longitudinal groove on this
surface; i, i, intestine; l, liver;
m, m, mantle edge; mu,
muscles (cut through)
fastening the visceral mass
to the upper sides of the foot;
ov, ovary; r, radula; u.f,
upper or dorsal surface of
the foot.

The Radula.[322]—When the food has passed beyond the

operation of the jaw, it comes within the province of the radula, the
front part of which perhaps co-operates to a certain extent with the
jaw in performing the biting process. The function of the radula as a
whole is to tear or scratch, not to bite; the food passes over it and is
carded small, the effect being very much the same as if, instead of
dragging a harrow over the surface of a field, we were to turn the
harrow points upwards, and then drag the field over the harrow.
The radula itself is a band or ribbon of varying length and breadth,
formed of chitin, generally almost transparent, sometimes beautifully
coloured, especially at the front end, with red or yellow.[323] It lies
enveloped in a kind of membrane, in the floor of the mouth and
throat, being quite flat in the forward part, but usually curving up so
as to line the sides of the throat farther back, and in some cases
eventually forming almost a tube. The upper surface, i.e. the surface
over which the food passes, is covered with teeth of the most varied
shape, size, number, and disposition, which are almost invariably
arranged in symmetrical rows. These teeth are attached to the
cartilage on which they work by muscles which serve to erect or
depress them; probably also the radula as a whole can be given a
forward or backward motion, so as to rasp or card the substances
which pass over it.
The teeth on the front part of the radula are often much worn (Fig.
112), and probably fall away by degrees, their place being taken by
others successively pushed up from behind. At the extreme hinder
end of the radula the teeth are in a nascent condition, and there are
often as many as a dozen or more scarcely developed rows. Here,
too, lie the cells from which the teeth are originally formed.
The length and breadth of the radula vary greatly in different
genera. In Littorina it is very narrow, and several times the length of
the whole animal. It is kept coiled away like a watch-spring at the
back of the throat, only a small proportion of the whole being in use. I
have counted as many as 480 rows in the common Littorina littorea.
In Patella it is often longer than the shell itself, and if the radula of a
large specimen be freshly extracted and drawn across the hand, the
action of the hooks can be plainly felt. In Aerope, the Turbinidae
generally, and Haliotis it is very large. In Turritella, Aporrhais,
Cylichna, Struthiolaria, and the Cephalopoda it is small in proportion
to the size of the animal. In the Pulmonata generally it is very broad,
the length not exceeding, as a rule, thrice the breadth; in most other
groups the breadth is inconsiderable, as compared to the length.
 The Radula is wanting in two families of Prosobranchiata, the
Eulimidae and Pyramidellidae, which are consequently grouped
together as the section Gymnoglossa. It is probable that in these
cases the radula has aborted through disuse, the animals having
taken to a food which does not require trituration. Thus several
genera contained in both these families are known to live
parasitically upon various animals—Holothurians, Echinoderms, etc.
—nourishing themselves on the juices of their host. In some cases,
the development of a special suctorial proboscis compensates for
the loss of radula (see pp. 76–77). In Harpa there is no radula in the
adult, though it is present in the young form. No explanation of this
fact has yet been given. It is also absent in the Coralliophilidae, a
family closely akin to Purpura, but invariably parasitic on corals, and
probably nourished by their exudations. There is no radula in
Entoconcha, an obscure form parasitic on the blood-vessels of
Synapta, or in Neomenia, a genus of very low organisation, or in the
Tethyidae, or sea-hares, or in one or two other genera of
Nudibranchiata.
 Fig. 112.—Example of a front
portion of a radula
(Cantharus ringens Reeve,
Panama), much worn by use.
× 70.
The number of teeth in the radula varies greatly. When the teeth
are very large, they are usually few in number, when small, they are
very numerous. In the carnivorous forms, as a rule, the teeth are
comparatively few and powerful, while in the phytophagous genera
they are many and small. Large hooked and sickle-shaped teeth,
sometimes furnished with barbs like an arrow-head, and poison-
glands, are characteristic of genera which feed on flesh; vegetable
feeders, on the contrary, have the teeth rounded, and blunter at the
apex, or, if long and narrow, so slender as to be of comparatively
little effect. Genera which are normally vegetarian, but which will,
upon occasion, eat flesh, e.g. Limax and Hyalinia, exhibit a form of
teeth intermediate between these two extremes (see Fig. 140, A).
In Chaetoderma there is but one tooth. In Aeolis coronata there
are about 17, in A. papillosa and Elysia viridis about 19, in Glaucus
atlanticus about 21, in Fiona nobilis about 28. In the common whelk
(Buccinum undatum) there are from 220 to 250, in the common
periwinkle about 3500. As many as 8343 have been counted in