Quiet Flowed The Zuari - Part 4

- Vignettes from the life of a Goan

(A Novella in four parts)

Part 1         Part 2


Continued from   Part 3

Pedro

Their son Pedro, born not long after the wedding, grew up to be a strapping young man. He too had his parents’ interests in music and tiatr. He was very affectionate towards his parents. But he was itching for something more.

As Goans born in Goa before 19^th December 1961 were Portuguese citizens, who had become Indian citizens due to the annexation of Goa, Portugal had for long kept its citizenship open to them. The only condition was that a person should have been born in Goa during their rule. This was extended to cover the next couple of generations. There were many families which did move from Goa to Portugal or to its other colonies like Mozambique and Angola just after Liberation. But this exodus thinned down as time passed.

Frank was eligible, but he was not keen on getting Portuguese citizenship. He was not even been interested in travelling outside Goa, except to Ooty. Europe was both physically and financially outside his reach. Moreover, he was attached to his land.


Goans had, for long, been quite adventurous – like Vasco da Gama, perhaps, to leave the shore as employees (mainly cooks) on merchant navy vessels.They had also settled in East African countries like Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania, and in the Middle East. But few had moved to Portugal – till Portugal joined the European Union. Most EU countries had opened their doors to citizens of other EU countries. Because of this, a Portuguese citizenship meant easy entry into Europe. And Pedro, like many other youngsters, was interested.

Also, Pedru, as he was affectionately called, was interested in Veronica Figueiredo da Silva, a Portuguese singer of Goan origin, who had come to Goa as a part of a singing duo. He wanted to see more of her and he felt that he would do better if he was physically present in Portugal. He had fallen for her like a ton of prawns and he hoped she had fallen for him like a ton of camarões*. Seeing them together, Frank had divined that another invasion was in store.

As Andre Gide said, “Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.” Though Vasco da Gama did hug the African coast, it was that last foray across the Arabian Sea that brought him to India. Pedro had the modern version of the wanderlust that had probably led Vasco to sea to search for a route to India. The rigours of travel had considerably reduced from those times, but the desire to explore unknown places had not diminished.

As Pedru himself was born after 1961, he had to first document his father’s eligibility for citizenship, and then provide documentation for his father’s marriage and his own birth. Pedru landed up at the Portuguese Consulate in Altinho one morning and started the process. Though he suspected that his parents might not be in favour of this, he had no choice but to approach them for the documentation. He asked Frank for a copy of his nascimento**. That one word was enough to make Frank understand what Pedru was up to. Frank was in a dilemma, mentally evaluating the implications of the move. While one part of him was already despairing the fact that his son would go away, another part understood that he would be doing a great disservice if he stood in the way of his son’s opportunities. He tried to reason with Pedro, knowing fully well that he would finally given in.

Pedru said, “Look at what people who have gone to Portugal have achieved. Take the case of your father’s friend’s son – Orlando da Costa from Margao. His son António has even become a minister in Portugal. Why! He may even become the Prime Minister one day!*** In Goa, he would not have achieved anything with the kind of politics that some of our leaders indulge in. They even want to move the airport from centrally-located Dabolim to a location near the Maharashtra border for their vested interests. Dabolim is under attack once more! One day they will merge Goa with Maharashtra!"

Pedru knew Dabolim was his father's Achilles' heel. 

Pedru reminded him, “Look, dad! You’ve never differentiated between India and Portugal. How many times have we cheered Portugal when it has played football at the World Cup!”

Frank had no answer. Reluctantly he gave a copy of not only his nascimento, but also his juramento – the document registering his marriage – which too was required. That night, Frank cried profusely for the first time in his life. Even Suzy was not able to console him. He knew that though he had withstood the Indian influx many years back, he would not be able to weather this storm of the reflux back to Portugal.

A year later, after all the paperwork was done, Pedru left, promising to take them to Portugal as soon as he could muster up enough resources.

But Frank was crumbling on the inside. Without his daily hug from Pedru, he was becoming hollower and hollower every day. He sought refuge in his garden, his Cabo, his daily swim, and in the company of Suzy. He spent every evening looking towards the West – towards Portugal and the setting sun, and another small part of him died. Suzy too was becoming frailer by the day.

* Prawns, in Portuguese. Weighs the same as a ton of bricks. Maybe not as effective as bricks if one is dropping it on someone or something.

** Document recording birth
*** António da Costa did eventually become the Prime Minister of Portugal

***

Adeus

One day, as Frank pottered around the garden, he realised that the passion fruit sapling Suzy had planted a fortnight back had suddenly taken a turn for the worse and withered away. He rushed in to tell her, as she lay sick in her bed.

Before he could say anything, she said, “Get your saxophone. I want you to play a tune.”

Bringing it to her bedside, he asked, “Which would you like to hear?”

“Adeus korcho veLu pavlo”

He was surprised. It was a slow song that captured the poignancy of separation and was often played at farewells, especially on the departure of a daughter after marriage. He knew it was not a song she liked or cared much for. He himself was not very proficient at playing it, but he could not say no.

By the time he finished playing, he realised that she had indeed meant to say Adeus. It was not a song request she had made, she had just bid him goodbye.

His garden was now desolate. He buried her in a simple grave, marked by a white cross, in the shadow of the peepal tree. Though he had felt sad when Pedru had left, he finally understood the real meaning of saudade for the first time in his life. Saudade is an enigmatic Portuguese word which represents the feeling of melancholy and longing for a thing or person lost forever.

***

Torn Between Worlds

That morning, Frank took out his bike after a long time. He rode to Loutolim and onwards to Rassaim as he had done, many years back. He took the ferry to the other side of the Zuari. He followed the road to the highway and visited the temple at Veling. He went in and admired the paintings and sculptures there, and paid his respects to his ancestral deity. He walked around the temple pond, remembering his grandmother, who had brought him there many decades back, and his subsequent visit just after his marriage with Suzy. He then rode towards Banastarim and stopped at the spot where he had first met Suzy. As he always did, he looked out over the scenic landscape. He sadly noted that garbage was being dumped and burnt along the roadside. He was sad that Goa had changed a lot in the last few decades.

He rode on and turned left at Banastarim and went over the bridge on the canal. Ten minutes later, he stopped at the ruins of St. Augustine’s, carefully avoiding the main road in Old Goa. That road had been the location of the notorious VhoDle Ghor, a name which still gave him the shivers. He subconsciously wished he could meet the old monk again. Not finding him, he rode back to the Zuari and crossed it by the bridge at Agaçaim. Soon he was home, having completed his pilgrimage.

Frank’s health had been deteriorating. He was continuously bothered by cough, which he blamed on cigarette smoking in his younger days. That was just an excuse – he had smoked just half a cigarette in his school days and never again. He conveniently forgot to mention that he had enjoyed smoking Cuban cigars sent by uncle Fidel.

The mosquitoes had been humming a different tune from the time Suzy had left him. He had recognised the tune. The piece they now played repeatedly was Chopin's Funeral March.

He picked up his saxophone and played another plaintive tune, his heart full of sorrow and with tears in his eyes. He laid the instrument down on the table, pushed the stool aside and got up. He removed his trousers and shirt, neatly folded them and placed them on the chair. He dived into the water for his daily swim. He swam towards the island behind which the sun was setting. It was water which separated various parts of Goa, and it was water that separated Goa from Portugal. It was also the very same water that united them.

Portugal was far beyond the island, and he imagined that Pedru was beckoning him for one last hug. As he swam about half way to the island, he heard Suzy call out to him from the peepal tree. He turned and started swimming back. Pedru called out once more, “Pappa!” He turned again to the west. This went on repeatedly. He was torn, like many Goans, between Portugal and India. He did not know when he reached land again.

His body was found by the workers arriving at the barge repair yard the next morning. He was fished out and buried in a simple grave next to Suzy’s, under the very same peepal tree, not far from his favourite island.

***

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