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!


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