Quiet Flowed The Zuari - Part 1

- Vignettes from the life of a Goan

(A Novella in four parts)

Evening Time

Frank Ferrão sat in the shade of a peepal tree near the small beach near his house on the small promontory just west of Cortalim. The island of Saõ Jacinto was in front of him. His foot rested on a small stool and a saxophone lay on a table to his right. The table itself was made of jack wood and had been handmade by his grandfather. To his left, on another small stool, stood a bottle and a glass of  Cabo, a Goan white rum blended with coconut liqueur, which he sipped time to time enjoying its flavour. The sun was slowly slipping towards the horizon formed by the headland of Mormugao and Saõ Jacinto. In the Zuari, to his far right, a barge lazily ploughed its way towards the port, riding low in the water, carrying iron ore which was destined for export. A couple of barges that had been relieved of their load went the other way, plying against the moderate current of the Zuari. He took a small sip of the sweet and heady Cabo. He loved it as much as he hated feni which, in his opinion, was overrated. He had heard old timers rave about the excellent feni that was available during their times and rue at the quality now being made for dumping on unsuspecting tourists. Good feni was rare and only the cognoscenti knew where to get it.

He decided it was time to unburden himself. He picked up the sax and played a few notes of one of his favourite songs and smiled to himself. He played the trumpet too in local tiatr performances, but those notes could have fitted almost any song of that genre – they were so ubiquitous in Goan music. But the sax gave him peace. Peace – as memories streamed past his unseeing eyes. He was now 65 and the image in front of him was more in his mind than in his eyes, which were clouding over with the opaque screens of cataract that were becoming thicker every day.

***

Sancoale

Franklin João Carlos do Rosário de Brito Ferrão had been born on 19^th December, 1953, about a week before Christmas, in the village of Sancoale, just a few kilometres away. In true Portuguese tradition, his full name reflected his ancestry and the fancy of his ancestors. His full name had never been used, except in the church and school records. He preferred to introduce himself as Frank Ferrão. Sancoale village is a hamlet on the southern bank of the Zuari, a river that originates in the Western Ghats. The Zuari is prone to large tidal influences and also known by its ancient name Aghanashani. The village is located in the north-eastern part of the Mormugao peninsula. His house was located on the small promontory north of the Cortalim–Mormugao highway. Life in Sancoale revolved around the paddy fields and the local church. This church was originally a chapel near the old church, Nossa Senhora de Saude Igreja, which was damaged in a fire in 1834. Unlike many other churches in Goa which were usually painted white, the old church had a colourful façade, which continued to stand even after the fire. Life had alternated between home, school and church for the first 18 years of his life. But that was going to change on his 18^th birthday.

***

The Flight of Vasco-da-Gama

After India’s independence in 1947, Goa’s colonial Portuguese government had turned more benevolent than earlier, hoping to hang on to its Indian possessions with the goodwill of the people. But relations between Portugal and India reached a low in November 1961,when Portuguese troops stationed on the island of Anjediva fired on an Indian passenger ship, killing a passenger. Portugal did not have a large military presence in Goa. It sent some female paratroopers on a civilian plane – a Super Constellation – belonging to the Transportes Aéreos Portugueses. The plane landed in Dabolim on the 17^th December to help in evacuation of a selected few. Dabolim, the only airport in Goa, is not very far from Sancoale and, as a young boy, Frank had often gone there to watch the planes. It had been built in 1955 as Aeroporto de Dabolim and later renamed after the Governor General of Portuguese India as Aeroporto General Bénard Guedes. 

On the 18^th, he heard the roar of the Canberra bombers of the Indian Air Force as they bombed the airport runway, as a part of India’s military action in Goa. His Dabolim had been violated – it definitely was an invasion. There were two Portuguese planes on the ground at the time of the air raid. One of them was the Super Constellation, ironically bearing the name Vasco-da-Gama – of the very adventurer who had brought the Portuguese to India in the first place. It was now destined to take them away. The other aircraft was a DC-4.

Both planes, which were not damaged in the raid, took off into the night after the runway was hastily repaired, and carried some government officials to Karachi. The next day, his 8th birthday, was marked by the surrender of Portuguese colonial forces. It came to be known as Liberation Day, because many Goans, both in Goa and in the Indian administration and armed forces, had participated in the movement for independence from the Portuguese. But for some Goans, especially those who lost privileges granted to them by the Portuguese regime, it was Invasion Day.

***

A Pilot’s Life

As a child, Frank wanted to become a pilot. In Goa, a pilot is a motorcyclist who ferries passengers on his pillion seat, for a fare.

On his 18^th birthday, Frank’s wish came true. His father gifted him a motorcycle and Frank lovingly got its mudguard painted yellow. The motorcycle was to be his companion for many years as he rode around the lush countryside, in rain and in heat, carrying people across the length and breadth of the coastal belt. He made a decent living with the generous tips foreigners gave him.

As Indian tourists inquisitively poured into Goa, he learnt snatches of Hindi and soon became reasonably proficient. He resented the invader’s language, but economic reasons forced him to learn it. The most appealing part of the language, from his perspective, was the large and ever increasing collection of film songs, which he found quite impressive.

The whole state was flooded with tourists who wanted a taste of the Carnival festivities that had been going on for the last few days. Valentine’s day had just passed a few days back but he did not have date on that day. Girls had approached him for dates – but he was looking for someone special. A bit downcast at not finding that special person, he decided to ride his bike on the scenic route from Ponda to Banastarim. He rode from Sancoale to Rassaim on the western bank of the Zuari as it ran northwards near the village of Loutolim. He took the ferry which, at 20 minutes, was amongst the longest in Goa. There was a shorter route, but he wanted to be on the river for long. He disembarked with his motorcycle at Durbhat and rode up to the highway.

He took a short deviation to ride past the ancestral family temple at Veling, but decided against stopping. He came back to the highway and turned left to ride towards Banastarim. The road was pretty steep and curved, and at a particular point, it afforded a bird’s eye view of the Ilhas – the island district – and the Cumburjua canal connecting the Mandovi and the Zuari. On a clear day, in the far distance, one could see the Mandovi and the islands of Divar and Chorão. That vista always perked him up.

***

The Angel at the Roadside

As Frank took the steep turn just before the place where he intended to stop and gaze, he saw a vision. He once had a vision earlier too, but this was a vision of an angel. The angel,- in the form of a lady, was standing next to a Suzuki motorcycle parked on the side of the road. She seemed to be having trouble with the bike. As he looked upon the luxurious tresses of the damsel in distress, the scenic vista behind her disappeared from his vision. Everything else, including the road and the bike, faded into the background and she became the centre of his attention.

Like every helpful pilot, Frank stopped his bike and went to assist. It looked like the rider had reached the level of frustration that only a stranded biker can understand. It was a terrific looking bike – every bit of it was designed aerodynamically to efficiently use the tremendous power delivered by its engine.

One word escaped his lips, “Wow!”

She looked at him surprisingly, “You are frank, aren’t you?”

Frank wondered how she knew his name. With a silly smile on his face, and he stuck out his hand and concurred, “That’s my name. How did you know? Frank Ferrão at your service. Now that you have found me, all your worries are over.”

She arched an eyebrow, still holding on to his hand, and asked, “Is that so? Obviously your name and attitude are in perfect synch.”

“Yes, and I really love your Suzy,” he said.

It was now her turned to wonder how he had guessed her name.Obviously having misheard him, her face blushed, as she asked, “What do you mean?”

He stammered, “I mean I love your bike, the Suzuki.”

She laughed, “Oh!, the bike!” Still clutching his hand, she said, “I am Suzanne Roberts. Friends call me Suzy. I was wondering how you knew my name.”

She explained her predicament, “I cannot have run out of fuel – I’ve just refilled from the bottle I was carrying. I have checked the battery and plug. The sparking is fine. But it still doesn’t start.”

He was used to monsoon problems with vehicles in Goa, but it was not the rainy season yet. The hotel where she was staying had arranged the bike and she had asked for an additional bottle of fuel, as there were few petrol pumps in Goa those days. But the room-boy at the hotel, either to play a prank or by mistake, had given her a container of water, which she had trustingly poured into the tank. This had messed up the carburettor and it took him some time to remove it and clean it with some fuel from his bike. He had to drain off the fuel tank to get rid of the tainted fuel. He decided to remove some fuel from his bike and put it into the Suzuki’s tank. He checked his fuel tank. There was just enough fuel in his bike to take only one of the bikes to the nearest fuel pump. He transferred whatever was available and decided to abandon his bike for the moment. He then kicked the Suzuki’s starting lever, and the bike came to life with a satisfied roar. He adjusted the tuning screw till it was emitting a steady rumble.

“There you are, madam. As I said earlier, all your worries are now over.”

“Not really,” she replied. “I have lost a lot of time here. I need to return this bike and check out of the hotel. But I don’t have enough time to get to the railway station in Vasco to catch the train. Can you help me, please?”

“My bike does not have fuel now. There is no time for me to take your bike and get fuel for mine, as I had first thought of doing. So, the only possibility is that I leave my bike here. I will have to ride your bike and take you through the inner roads and try to reach your hotel in time for the train.”

And so it happened. During that ride, for the first time he felt handicapped at not having eyes at the back of his head.

He felt very light-hearted as if he had suddenly achieved some great milestone in his life. The Indian invasion was complete. For, he had lost his heart! It had finally been conquered. A line from a Hindi movie song which he had recently heard seemed apt. He said a silent prayer ... in Hindi! Itna bhee door mat jaao, kepaas aana mushkil ho! - Do not go so far away, that coming near becomes difficult. Just as mentioned in another song from the same movie, his heart was beating –  like never before –and kept repeating “and when shall be then our next meeting?” He did not know about other Goans, but for the first time he now felt liberated, not invaded.

For want of a nail, a battle was lost, a philosopher had mused. But that philosopher must have been a pessimist. In Franklin’s case, however, a nail came to his assistance as he negotiated the rough road he had chosen as a short-cut. It punctured the tube of the bike’s rear wheel. He would have to push the bike to the nearest village as there was little hope of meeting any other vehicle on that inner road. Suzanne trudged along, knowing very well that her chances of catching the train were very slim. But she was also not sure whether that she still wanted to leave.

***

Continued ... Part 2

I am indebted to Ms. Lakshmi Vaidyanathan and Mr. Arun Rao for vetting this semi-autobiography and giving valuable suggestions. Any resemblance to any person, dead or alive, is entirely coincidental. I am sure you know how such statements work!


Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.

Quiet Flowed The Zuari - Part 2

- Vignettes from the life of a Goan

(A Novella in four parts)

continued from   Part 1

Checking out and Checking her out

After the bike tube was repaired, they rode to her hotel in Panaji. Suzanne checked out, only to find that no taxi was available to take her and her baggage to Vasco. By the time the taxi could be arranged, it was clear that she would be unable to catch the train. The alternative was to try to take the bus to Hubli and then carry on by some other train from there. Or to take the next day’s train. They decided on the latter. Frank called a friend and arranged to book Suzy’s ticket. They returned to the hotel to check her in for one more night. But the hotel had already given the room to someone else and could not spare another.

Now it was up to Frank to scout for a room at some other hotel. Every decent hotel they tried was full, for the weekend was coming up and the holiday crowd was pouring into Goa, even though the Carnival was over. The only option was to move to a hotel in a location like Vasco, which was mainly a commercial town and not popular with tourists. But there was no point of driving around Vasco in a taxi with her baggage, while they looked for a room. Frank decided that he would take Suzy to Sancoale so that she could rest there, while he scouted for a decent hotel in Vasco.

As they neared his house, they smelt the invigorating smoke from the wood fire being used to cook food. Hearing Frank come in, his mother shouted, “Close the door and the windows or mosquitoes will come in.”

Frank welcomed Suzy (by now he was calling her by that name) home and gave her a drink she had never tasted before. She found it refreshing and asked him about it. He told her it was made from birinD, a fruit of the mangosteen family. It was also known as kokum and many people considered it to be Goa’s favourite fruit. It was the first time she had heard of the fruit, but not the last time she was going to drink it. She was feeling quite warm and tied her hair into a bun so that the back of neck was exposed to the breeze from the fan.

It turned out that she had come to see the Carnival and had planned to stay for a week after that. Frank told her that in Goa, people spelt it as Carnavale. He explained that it meant carna vale, or good bye to meat, since fasting for the month of  Lent commenced just after it.

As she sipped the drink, she asked, “Do you play any musical instrument?”

He gave a big grin and replied, “I am rather fond of blowing my trumpet.”

She laughed, “I know that, but I was referring to a real musical instrument, not your attempts at self-aggrandisement.”

Self-aggrandisement was too big an English word for him. To cover his embarrassment at not understanding the word, he slipped into the adjacent room and emerged with his trumpet. He said, “I sometimes play during the intervals in the local tiatr performances at Chicalim.” He pronounced tiatr as “tee-a-Tr”.

It was her turn to be confused. She asked, “You mean theatre? Why do you pronounce it in that odd manner?”

“We call it tiatr here, spelt T, I, A, T, R. Tiatr performances are usually comedies, romances or political satires. In the intervals, there are songs played by a live band. These songs are usually comical. And these songs are accompanied by musical instruments like the violin, trumpet, saxophone, and drums. The trumpet is usually played in a funny and repetitive way.”

He played a snatch of lively notes, which made her laugh.

She said, “That’s quite entertaining, but it does not seem to have the soulfulness of a saxophone.”

“Yes,” he agreed, the first of the million ‘yes’-es that he would utter to her in their lifetime.

“Do you play the saxophone?,” she asked.

He ran into the inner room again, and fetched a saxophone this time. He explained, “I just bought it last week and am trying to learn it.”

As he placed the saxophone on the table, her tumbler of juice tumbled and rolled under the table. He got off the chair and under the table to retrieve it, only to be confronted by her who had also done exactly the same thing.

As they were face-to-face – on their knees, under the table – his mother, who was in the kitchen, came into the living room. She had heard the last line of their conversation and, seeing Suzy and him under the table, remarked, “That’s an odd place to chat. Why don’t you sit on chairs like decent people and talk?”

She added, with reference to his learning to play the saxophone, “He probably thinks playing a musical instrument will enhance his chances with the girls.”

Suzy laughed as she said, “It does – at least with this one.”

His mother gave her an inspecting look and, with a smile of approval, asked, “KoN re tee?”*

He introduced her, “Tije naanv Suzy.” – “Her name’s Suzy.” He narrated the circumstances of their meeting and her predicament at missing the train.

His mother responded, “When I was looking for a bride for you and asked you if you had any specific requirements, you said that you wanted a motorcycle-riding girl. You knew very well that there was no such girl in Goa, as I too found out when I made enquiries. It looks like, all the time, unknown to me, you were waiting for her.”

Suzy smiled, but did not raise any objection to the reasoning. She was glad to note that his mother was doing all the sales-talk on her behalf.

Suzy enquired, "Do you sing too?"

When Frank nodded, she continued, "I am going to go away tomorrow. Can you sing a farewell song for me?”

Frank seized the opportunity to express his emotions. He got up and went to the gramophone-player and switched it on. He selected an album from the shelf and extracted a record from its sleeve. He put it on the turntable. When the turntable started turning he, placed the arm carrying the stylus onto the groove in the record.  

It started playing Red River Valley (click here to listen to the song) and he started singing with it. She sat on the opposite side of the table and listened attentively. When he came to the line that went “Come and sit by my side if you love me...”, she got up and pulled the chair close to him and gave him a smile. He was not sure if her change of place was in response to the words or not. He interpreted her smile as encouraging. He saw no harm in taking comfort from presuming so, and proceeding accordingly.

When he continued singing, "Do not hasten to bid me adieu", she said, "I have to go, but I will come back soon."

Frank was thrilled and suddenly changed his tracks. He started singing a different song - a Beatles song,  "Oh yeah, I tell you somethin', I think you'll understand, When I say that somethin', I wanna hold your hand, I wanna to hold your hand, I wanna to hold your hand". And she gave him her hand. The gramophone continued playing Red River Valley, but they were oblivious of it, as they continued to hold hands.

He wanted to know more about her and she was ready to share everything with him. The thought of booking a hotel room had slipped their mind.

That night he slept in the portico, waking up more than once to the bites and hum from a swarm of mosquitoes, while she slept in his room. Though he had disturbed sleep, he did not mind the mosquitoes, for these were Goan mosquitoes. They regularly attended tiatr, choir and bhajans in large numbers, even when the performers outnumbered the audience. They did not differentiate between the performers and the audience, as both had music in their blood. They, however, did know the difference between "B sharp" ** and "B flat". The former, BE SHARP, was essential to it for piercing the victim for its next feed, and the latter, BE FLAT meant death, by being flattened by the victim. The mosquitoes repeatedly hummed a tune that he recognised. It was Mendelssohn's Wedding March. That was surely a good omen, he felt.

* “Who is she?” = “What’s her name?”

**  More commonly known as "C"

***

Wood you believe this story?

The next morning, Suzy was awakened by the “parp-parp” sound made by the bicycle horn of the poder – the baker – delivering pão to the house. Frank, seeing the surprised look on her face, explained, “This is José – he gives us our daily bread!,” making a biblical allusion.

That morning, as they sat for breakfast, eating a simple vegetable curry with the pão, she heard him say, “Mamma, meat!”.

Surprised, Suzy asked, “Yesterday you said you did not eat meat during Lent, and yet you have asked for meat?”.

His mother, bringing a small container from the kitchen, explained to her, “He asked for salt. In Konkani, salt is called meeT.”

Looking around the drawing room, she enquired, “Why have you fixed two crucifixes on the wall, one below the other?”

Frank was happy that she had asked. Many people had seen the two crucifixes but not really noticed or enquired about them. For there was a strange story linked to them, which he now recounted to her.

He used to love roaming the countryside on his bicycle before he had got his motorcycle. One day, when he was around 16, he had set off for a long ride. His aim was to ride up to Velha Goa or Old Goa, a distance of around 20 kilometres. He had gone there many times earlier too and loved to potter around in the ruins of St. Augustine’s Church.

The church, which was one of the largest in Goa, was built in the early 17^th century by Augustinian friars. It used to have an imposing four-storey tower with a large bell. One vertical half of the structure had collapsed over a hundred years back and only the other vertical half remained. So, oddly, it remained four-storey structure. The bell had been moved to the Igreja da Nossa Senhora da Immaculada Conceição in Panaji.

Frank went around the ruins, climbing over moss covered walls and clambering into roofless chambers. Sitting down at one of the several gravestones in the floor of the main hall, he tried to decipher its Portuguese inscription written in Latin script. Suddenly, he saw an old monk, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. The monk asked him whether he wanted to see a real dead body. Frank jumped at the opportunity to indulge in the macabre.

The monk led him down the hill to the main entrance of the Basilica do Bom Jesus. He took Frank in through the door and, as they walked toward the altar, Frank saw a raised platform to his right. A wooden ladder was leaning against it. It looked as if some repair and carpentry work was going on. The monk then gestured to him to climb the ladder. When Frank did so, he found himself looking into a glass and silver casket which contained the body of an old monk. He also noticed that some parts of the body seemed to be missing.

Climbing down the ladder, Frank asked the old monk about the missing parts. An arm was in Rome, the monk said with a chuckle, and humorously confirmed that a humerus was in Macau. He then bent down and picked up a few pieces of wood from the scraps lying there and gave them to Frank, saying, “Here’s a puzzle for you. Make what you will out of these pieces.” Frank put the pieces in his pocket and continued looking around the grand basilica.

The old monk seemed to have disappeared. After Frank spent some time there, he returned to the main door to go out. But, it was locked. So he looked around for another way to leave. Then he noticed the side door, commonly used by the public and tourists. The door opened and a clergyman walked in. The clergyman questioned Frank, “How did you get in?" "It is not time for services yet,” he added.

Frank narrated his story of the old man leading him to through the main door. The clergyman said the main door was locked and had not been opened that day. When Frank mentioned having climbed the ladder, the clergyman insisted that there was no old monk around, that no work was going on and that there was no ladder there. He implied that Frank was lying. Standing firm on his story, Frank led him back to the casket. There was, indeed, no sign of any ladder or repair. Frank forgot to mention the pieces of wood in his pocket, which was probably what was meant to be.

Frank was ceremoniously escorted out and rode his bicycle back home. When he narrated the happenings of the day to his mother, she said that he might have fallen asleep and dreamt the whole thing up. Commoners did not get such a close view of the remains of St. Francis Xavier, she said. Excitedly, he remembered the wooden pieces and fished them out of his pocket. There, he claimed, was the proof that he had not fallen asleep, laying the four pieces of wood on the table. She was then convinced about the truth of his story.

All the pieces were around 1” wide and 3/4” thick, but their lengths differed. Three pieces were exactly the same size and had a 1” notch extending to half the thickness. The fourth piece was longer and had a notch, not in the middle like the other three, but to one side. He tried putting them together. There was only one way they seemed to fit. One short one and the long one formed a cross. And the two short ones formed an X. He told his mother that the X stood for Xavier. She told him that he had been blessed by a visitation from the Saint himself. She also told him that the Saint would not have given him an X, because he would not be egoistic. She then come around the table and turned the X by 45 degrees and it formed a cross similar to the one used by the Red Cross. She said that such crosses with equal arms were common in some parts of Europe.

They had not gone public with the story, as people could claim that ordinary pieces of wood, which could have been got from any timber shop, were no proof. The same day, both the crosses had been fixed to the wall of the drawing room as a blessing on the house and had remained there ever since.

He had also made a silhouette sketch of the tower and showed it to her. She remarked, "It looks like the profile of a man wearing a crown of thorns and tiled to a tree."

***

Family Tree

Frank had never stepped out of Goa – he had never felt the need to do so. The only time he left the land of Goa was when he took his daily swim from Sancoale promontory to San Jacinto – a distance of about 2500 metres. He had a simple argument: Why would anyone wantonly leave this lush paradise?  

Suzy, on the other hand, had travelled across India. Her father was an Anglo-Indian who, like many others of his community, worked in the Indian railways, as had his father before him. When working in Ooty, her father had met her mother who was teaching English in one of the schools there. They had married and, soon after, Suzy was born. Later, Suzy’s father was promoted and posted to north India. They spent a few years in a north-Indian state capital. When Suzy was studying in the sixth standard in a prestigious school there, her father was transferred to Delhi. She said she had served in the very first batch of the Road Safety Corps, an initiative to make children aware of traffic control. She claimed to have been single-handedly responsible for a terrific traffic jam while on duty at the gate of Pragati Maidan, where Asia ‘72 fair was held. Then her father fell sick and had to give up his job because it had become very strenuous. He took voluntary retirement and they relocated to Ooty, and her mother returned to teaching.

Frank’s mother had Portuguese blood in her, while his father was a descendant of a Hindu family which had converted to Christianity. He told Suzy that the carnival festivities originated from the Intruz festival, which was a version of Shigmo, a Hindu festival. Shigmo is the Goan equivalent of the Holi festival celebrated in other parts of India. Like many Goan Christians, Frank said, he too visited his ancestors’ temple. In fact, he went a step further – he joined the fisher-folk in their re-enactment of the flight of their family deity’s idol. He believed that the Saibini, the mother goddess venerated in churches as Mary and in temples as Shantadurga, was the same divinity. He recollected that his paternal grandmother had once taken him to their ancestral temple at Veling. He had memories of seeing some exquisite paintings and carvings in the main hall of the temple. Walking around during that visit, he had spotted a peepal sapling growing in the gap between two laterite blocks which formed part of the steps at the temple tank. The peepal tree, also known as the bodhi tree or sacred fig, is often present in temple courtyards. On impulse he had pulled it out of the gap and brought it home and planted it in the front yard. It had now grown into a large tree.

Frank showed her the peepal tree in their front yard and told her that it was the sapling that he had planted. He also told her that his father had built this large house, and they had moved in from the smaller house on the premises, now let out. When moving into Casa Ferrão, as the new house was named, he had innocently asked his father, “Are we going to stay in the VhoDle Ghor*?” But Frank’s grandmother had hushed him, saying, “Don’t say VhoDle Ghor! Say Novea Ghor (New House).” He had later learnt that the term VhoDle Ghor was a euphemism used by many Goans to refer to the building that had been the headquarters of the Inquisition in Goa. It had many dungeons, where unmentionable torture and atrocities took place. The victims were both Hindus, who had not converted to Christianity and converted Christians, who continued to follow their pre-conversion religious practices.

He also remembered that his grandmother had told him that after he got married, he would have to take his bride and offer a coconut. He mentioned this to Suzy, and she expressed a desire to see the temple. He would surely take her there after their marriage, he thought to himself.

Frank and Suzy also discussed the various churches around Goa. When he mentioned that the Nossa Senhora in the names of Goan churches referred to “Our Lady” in Portuguese, she said that the name of her school Notre Dame was the French version of it!

*Big House, in Konkani.

***

Sales Promotion

Mr. Roberts had a wonderful train journey from Bangalore. He had come to Bangalore by car from Ooty and had boarded the Vasco slip coach, which was attached to the train going further north. It arrived at 6 am sharp at Hubli, and then proceeded on towards Londa. At Londa, the coach was detached from the parent train, while the main train proceeded towards Belguam. Some time later, the coach was attached to a train which arrived from the north and was bound to Vasco. When the train stopped at Castle Rock for attaching a banker, he mused that Castle Rock (U.K.) made him feel he was in England. He conveniently ignored the fact that the real expansion of U.K. in this case was Uttara Kannada, the name of the district in Karnataka. Just after the train left Castle Rock, he saw it enter a castle-like façade, which was actually the entrance to one of the many tunnels on that route in the Braganza Ghats section. The hillside was lush green, as the Western Ghats always get a major portion of the north-west monsoon that hits India’s west coast every year. A little further, as the train negotiated a length of curved track across a tall bridge, he was able to take an excellent photograph of the Dudhsagar falls in all its monsoon glory. He had good vibes about the objective of the journey.

 As soon as the train stopped at the first station in Goa, a few young boys boarded the train and started shouting, “Beer, Brandy, Feni, Whiskey!” As liquor was cheaper in Goa as compared to other parts of India, they were able to sell a few bottles. The buyers managed to empty some bottles before the end of the journey. Some tourists would also leave Goa fully tanked up at the end of their visit.

He alighted on the railway platform in Vasco and studied the crowd there. Most of them were passengers in a hurry. There seemed to be very few locals who had turned up to receive guests. A few hotel touts tried to drum up business, as did some taxi drivers. There was even a young man holding a trumpet. Funny, he thought, ‘this chap must have come to receive a wedding party.’ But there seemed to be no such party in sight. He walked past the young man towards the exit of the station, when the trumpeter played a few lively notes just behind his head. Surprised, he turned around.

“Welcome to Goa, Mr. Roberts,” said the young man, sticking out his right hand. Mr. Roberts smiled... he had been right, after all – the chap had really come to receive a wedding party.

Once they reached home, the discussions were a mere formality. Mr. Roberts could not say no to his daughter and had already given his consent to the marriage. His only concern was whether the groom’s family would demand a dowry, a practice among many Indian families.

Frank’s mother did not raise the topic at all. She was quite progressive in these matters and had no intentions of making such a demand. However, just as Mr. Roberts was getting up to take leave, she gave him her most wicked smile and said, “By the way, Mr. Roberts, I totally forgot to ask you for something.”

Thinking ‘here it comes’ and concealing his chagrin, and smoothening his bristling moustache, he bravely put up a smile and prompted, “And that is...?”

On the cue, Frank’s mother said, “You should receive the groom’s party with packets of Pan Paraag,” with a huge smile plastered across her face. Pan Paraag was a betel-nut product advertised on television as a mouth-freshener and a digestive supplement.

Mr. Roberts understood that she was acting out a role played by a famous actor in the advertisement. He did not let her down. He responded – just as another actor in the advertisement did – saying, “I did not know that you too were a fan of Pan Paraag!”

She hastened to clarify that none of them party used the product and that she had always wanted to spring that line on her son’s prospective father-in-law.

Later Mr. Roberts gave them a copy of his sketch of the Dudhsagar falls. He had drawn it on the basis of a photo he had taken from the train when it had crossed over to the opposite site of the valley. Though the photograph did not contain the train he was travelling in, he had added the train on the bridge in the sketch. Oddly, it seemed to be a sketch of two faces peering at each other, eye to eye, at close quarters, with the train crossing over at the bridge of their noses.

***

Continued ... Part 3

Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.

Quiet Flowed The Zuari - Part 3

- Vignettes from the life of a Goan

(A Novella in four parts)

Part 1 

Continued from   Part 2

Why?!

The wedding was held in Ooty. It was the first time he was visiting India, which is what Goans thought of the subcontinent before and after its independence from the British, and even for a few years after Goa’s liberation. She said her mother had even located a Goan priest, Father Pinto, who would conduct the ceremony in Konkani. She was trying to learn Konkani, but had memorised her minimal dialogue for the ceremony. When prompted by the priest, or nudged by Frank, she just had to say, “Vhoi” – the one word of acceptance equivalent to “I do”, though “zatta” would have been the more accurate translation.

On the wedding day she was dressed in a resplendent white gown with a long train, and a white headdress. She wore a small tiara and simple chain with a crucifix. In south Indian style, she wore her hair with two long plaits in front of her, terminating in an ornamental tassel called Kunjalam in Tamil. She, after all, was half-Tamilian (as he sometimes jokingly pointed out), and had wanted to dress up like this. He personally felt that it was a travesty to restrain her wonderful hair in this ghastly manner, and would have volunteered to liberate her tresses. But he, like many other men before him, had learnt the value of keeping his thoughts to himself. He was dressed in a black suit, with a bow tie, and black shoes. He had done up his hair to look like Elvis Presley, whom he resembled to some extent if viewed from the side. He felt like singing Elvis’s Marguerita, one of his favourite songs, which had the words, “Who makes my heart beat like thunder? Who makes my temperature rise? Who makes me tremble with wonderful rapture with one burning glance from her eyes...”. But the priest was beckoning, and he had some disturbing news.

He informed them, that unfortunately, Fr. Pinto had to rush back to Goa a day before the wedding as his brother had met with an accident. He volunteered to step in, and conduct the services in English, as he did not know Konkani. When he reached the crucial question, and enquired “Do you, Suzanne Roberts, take this Franklin Ferrão...,” the excited bride had stuck to her original rehearsed response.

“Vhoi!,” she heartily exclaimed, much to the surprise of the priest, who heard it as, “Why?”

He looked up questioningly, in confusion, as she realised her mistake and she gave the expected response in English.

They went to Kodaikanal for the honeymoon. One morning, they spent the entire time at the lake, surrounded by tall trees, which cast their shadows on the edges of the lake. They had a terrific row that lasted a couple of hours.

His arms ached all day from all that rowing and he had blisters on his hands. But he continued rowing every day they were at Kodai.

***

A Naming Ceremony

Soon, it was time for Frank and Suzy to pay a visit to her parents in Ooty, as part of a common ritual followed in many parts of India. They traveled by train from Vasco to Bangalore and then took an overnight bus to Ooty. Anglo-Indians had always preferred Ooty with its cool climate, given the tropical climate of the southern part of the Indian subcontinent. For Frank too it was a change from the hot and torrid weather in Goa, which became mild only during its ‘winter’ months. For Suzy, it was a homecoming of sorts, though she had wonderfully adjusted to Goa’s climate, language and culture.

Time flew by in Ooty as they visited the local sights and eating places. Frank got to taste a wide variety of south Indian vegetarian food which Suzy’s mother preferred. He also tasted Chinese cuisine for the first time at Shinkows, a popular restaurant. He took to their non-vegetarian dishes like a Peking Duck takes to water. It became his regular port of call for lunch when in town. He had heard of a new restaurant in Panaji which had opened a few years back and served Chinese food. While its name was Goenchin – a portmanteau of Goen and Chinese, it also meant “Goan people” in Konkani. He estimated that it was about 12 kilometres from Sancoale as the Peking duck flies or around 20 kilometres by road. He decided to pay a visit once he was back in Goa. Of course, the Ooty lake constantly beckoned him for boating, which he really enjoyed. It increased his appetite for lunch and Shinkows was not too far away from the lake.

All good things come to an end, as did that vacation in Ooty. For the day road trip back to Bangalore, Suzy’s mother prepared a simple dry vegetarian dish. It contained juliennes of carrots and beans, thinly sliced cabbages and onions, sautéed with crushed ginger and garlic. It was lightly spiced with some turmeric, chilli, coriander and cumin powder. It was wrapped in chappathis to make easy-to-handle rolls, convenient to eat during travel.

Frank had never tasted this filling before and found it extremely tasty, filling and satisfying. Having no real name for it, they named it “Ooty curry”. It went on to be a permanent addition to the menu at Casa Ferrão, and was a must during travel. Curiously, in Frank’s recipe book – handwritten in an old diary – this curry ended up being entered on the page bearing the date 14^th February.

***

Tiatr

Frank and Suzy had many common interests. Amongst them were gardening and drama. She had studied Shakespeare during her Master's degree and taken part in many college plays. She was quite excited at the opportunity of adapting those to Konkani Tiatr with his assistance. Though his skill in tiatr had been limited to providing the background score and the comic interlude during intervals, he had watched all performances with a keen eye. He knew his acting talents were quite modest, but he wanted to appear on the stage at least once.

The opportunity came when Suzy was directing an adaptation of Romeo & Juliet. During the interval just before the famous balcony scene, Frank requested Suzy to appear in her stage clothes and deliver Juliet’s first line of that scene. He also arranged that the screen remained open.

When she appeared on the balcony, he – wearing a wig and a beard – was standing with his trumpet right under it. Not below and in front of or next to it. He was exactly underneath the balcony.

“O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” she said, referring to wherefore, i.e., why he was a Montague. This line is frequently misunderstood by many to mean “Where are you, Romeo?”

He gave a literal reply to the erroneous interpretation, saying, “I am understanding you, Juliet!”

Extempore, but not thrown off by his response, she continued, “Though I am understanding that you are understanding the balcony, I am not understanding why you are understanding the balcony?”

He played along, saying, “It is raining quite heavily and I will get wet if I am outstanding.”

Not to be outdone, she continued, off the cuff, “I know you are outstanding in many ways, but how can you call yourself a true Goan, if you are scared of such a tiny drizzle?”

And then it was time for the real balcony scene, but their exchanges had found resonance with the audience. Murdering English was a popular pastime with the crowd. Some might have taken umbrage if Portuguese was similarly ill-treated.

***

Batata VaDa

Konkani Tiatr is entwined with music and songs, though non-Tiatr music and songs are popular too. Music is played not only in churches and temples but also in various family functions and festivals. While very few people are aware that there are over a dozen types of Konkani songs, some even claim that there are over 30. Many know the names of genres like Mando, Dekhni, and Dulpod, though they are not necessarily aware of the contours of such genres. Few, however, are aware of genres like Fugdi, Duvallo and Ovi.

“Quite a few Goans have contributed to Bollywood music as arrangers for several popular songs with western scores,” Frank informed Suzy. He added, “They have played the music in many songs and hardly got the credit for it. They have also made a small number of well-made Konkani films.”

She asked him, “Who is your favourite Goan musician in Bollywood?”

He replied, “Chic Chocolate.”

“Always thinking of food, aren’t you,” she scolded mildly.

He explained, “Chic’s real name is Antonio Vaz. He has not only played instruments but has even appeared in some movies.”

He added that one of Konkani’s most popular songs had come not from Goa, but from Mangalore. Henry D’Souza and Helen D’Cruz had come out with a fast and hip number called “Ye, Ye, Katrina” – in which the male singer proposes to take the lady out on an outing and teach her ‘loving’! The lady expresses her reservations about the outing. She does not seem to have any objection to his amorous advances, but is more worried he might buy her batata vada and bhelpuri.*

Suzy and Frank practised the duet many times. It always ended the same way – with a craving for piping hot batata vadas. He always joked, “My biwi’s BVs are superb.”**

Her first impression – that he invoked music not to satisfy his heart, but to fill his stomach – remained a lifelong impression. She was not only correct about that impression, but subscribed to the thought herself.

* Popular Indian snacks
^** Biwi - Hindi word for wife, when pronounced sounds just like BV

***

Cooked up?

Many people with a gastronomic bent of mind are aware of the Portuguese influence in Goan dishes. They are aware of names (and sometimes the true taste and flavour) of dishes with exotic names like Xacuti, Rechead, Vindaloo and Balchão. They rightly suspect that the Lusitanian influence goes beyond the name of some dishes. Portuguese influence continues to be seen not only in Goan cuisine but also in the food of the East Indian community of Bombay, which used to be a Portuguese possession. But very few people know the real contribution of the Portuguese to Indian – not necessarily Goan – cuisine. They introduced many exotic fruits and vegetables which they had brought from their South American and other colonies to Europe. As any Lusophile will tell you, this includes potatoes, tomatoes, chili, papaya, capsicum, cashew, passion fruit, pineapple, and several varieties of beans, including Rajma, which is popular in North India. Compared to the size of their Indian colony, their influence on Indian food was enormous.

But after Liberation, with the ever increasing number of tourists and restaurants, Indian food too flourished in Goa. You never knew what was cooking at Casa Ferrão, for both cuisines blended seamlessly in its kitchen. Frank was quite open to sampling what were exotic dishes from his point of view and even cooking them. And Suzy did not disappoint him. The south Indian dishes she brought to the table were superb and much better than what was available in restaurants in Goa.

Whenever Frank felt the urge, he would pop into the kitchen singing to Suzy,

“Say hey, good lookin’,

Whatcha got cookin’?

How about cookin’ somethin’ up with meeeeee?

Hey, sweet baby,

Don't you think maybe
We could find us a brand new recipeeeeeee?”

Hank Williams would have been proud of his song being put to good use.

Frank was not only familiar with the art of motorcycle maintenance, but also associated Zen with cooking. He followed recipes but sometimes got into trouble. Once, he was cooking at the kitchen counter. The pan was on the stove and he was cutting onions on the cutting board near it. He meticulously peeled the onions and cut them into cubes. The cubes went into the garbage bin and the skin into the pan. And, a new dish was born. Suzy tried to guess, in vain, what vegetable he had used.   

*

Once Frank made Peas Pulao. As he always did, he kept all the ingredients ready on the counter. He fried the sliced onions, along with ginger-garlic paste, in the cooker. He then added the tomatoes and sautéed them a little. After a little while, he added the rice, salt, water and spices, and closed the cooker. After the cooking was done, he transferred the pulao from the cooker to the serving dish. At that point, he spied the bowl of peas sitting next to the serving dish. He found that he had invented a method of making Peas Pulao without peas.

Suzy enquired, “I don’t see any peas in this pulao. Did you put them in?”

Frank sheepishly admitted his mistake and asked, “What do I do with these peas?”

She advised him, “Donate them to Greenpeace.”

*

Once in a while, Frank liked to cook on an open wood fire. He had set up a few bricks to support vessels and used sticks and bits of dead wood from the garden.

One day, he decided to make Veg Kolhapuri, a dish available in many restaurants. He referred to his blue book which contained his recipes. He marshalled all the ingredients in the kitchen, and carried them to the fireside, so that he could have them at hand. He lit the fire and proceeded to add one ingredient after another. However, the Veg Kolhapuri did not taste like it usually did. He went back to the kitchen and  referred to his book. He found that he had used some ingredients from the recipe mentioned on the next page. The recipe on that page was Veg Hyderabadi.

When dining, Suzy remarked, “Your vegetable dish tastes different today. It is good, but it doesn’t taste like the Veg Kolhapuri you usually make.”

Frank said, “This is Veg Solapuri.”

“I have not heard of that dish anywhere,” she said.

“I just invented it!” he replied.

“But why do you call it Solapuri?,” she enquired.

He explained, “This dish is a blend of two recipes that I mixed up – Veg Kolhapuri and Veg Hyderabadi. I just looked up the road map and found Solapur is about halfway between the two.”

And that’s how Veg Solapuri ended up being an exclusive dish at Casa Ferrão. It was not available anywhere else – not in Goa, not in India, probably no other place in the world.

***

Continued ... Part 4

Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.