Going Around in Circles

It was slightly chilly December morning and there was a light breeze as I zipped on my riding jacket and put on my helmet. As I pulled on the choke lever and kick-started my motorcycle, I thought this was as cold as it could get in Goa, except perhaps in the ice age.

My guide, who was the owner of the rental motorcycle, also doubled as a mechanic and helper in case I had problem with the bike. He put in his tools and a puncture kit in the rucksack strapped to the side pillion seat, which he would occupy.

Most passengers on bikes in Goa are carried on the pillion seat with the owner in the front seat, riding the bike. But I had insisted on it being the other way around. I liked to feel the wind in my face while riding and my friend, the owner of the bike had obliged. He also put on my backpack that contained some essentials like water and a few eatables for the day.

We rode south towards Margao and thence towards Quepem. Near Paroda, we had a small river on our left. It was the Kushavati, also known as the Paroda river, a tributary of the much larger Zuari, one of the lifelines of Goa.

Just after passing the Quepem town square, in reality a rectangular municipal garden, which also served as the local roundabout, we turned left and rode on a bridge that crossed the river. A little further, we came across crossroads managed by a dusty looking policeman. His uniform looked dirty as if it carried the dust of centuries. In reality, it was washed every second day and what I was seeing was just a day's worth of dust that flew off from the dumpers, that continuously crossed his station, carrying iron-ore to the Mormugao port, liberally dusting the country roads at every bump.

We turned right into a narrow road slowing down to avoid being hit by rows of dumper trucks. These trucks carried iron ore from the mines further in the interior and were usually driven as if they owned the road. They probably did in a sense of the word, having "taken care" of corrupt officials to get necessary permits. If you rode continuously behind one of them, you could be assured of an iron lung, or a need to have an iron lung in the not so distant future.

After we crossed the hamlet of Rivona, there were a couple of signs put up by the Archeological Department on the roadside, pointing the route to a protected site. After a few kilometres, the sign pointed to the right and we found ourselves on a gravelly road. We made slow progress over the loose stones, but the absence of the trucks made it easier.

A little further we turned left and rode uphill and past a large gash in the ground, having many paths with dozens of switchbacks. It was an opencast mine that had fallen into disuse, either during the mining ban that was there for sometime, or due to the sheer economics of getting low grade ore out from that deep pit. Some water had accumulated to form a small pool at the bottom. No doubt, it would be much larger during the monsoon, when Goa gets copious amounts of rain.

The path turned right and went downwards to a small clearing. We had arrived at the prehistoric site of Pansaimol/Usgalimol. Since the site was not very well known and not in the popular tourist circuit, there were no other visitors there.

When we got off the bike, we noticed that the rear tyre seemed to be under inflated. It looked like we had had a puncture. My guide said he would attend to it right away, now that we had the time, rather than repair it later when it went fully flat on a road with those monster trucks rushing by. He pointed me in the direction of the archaeological site, and I proceeded on foot.

Following his directions, I came to a small shack made of coconut trunks and fronds. A part-time caretaker, employed by the Archaeological Department, was seated inside. There was a narrow bridge, made of a couple of tree trunks, across a small rivulet. The crossing was a bit of a tightrope-walk and I slowly made it to the other side. I had reached a pretty large area of stone on the banks of the Kushavati, which was about 20 foot wide at this place. At my feet were dozens of carvings in the stone. Some figures were clearly animal and birds. Some required a bit of cleaning or imagination to decipher what the ancient artist was trying to say.

As I moved around, I came across what was clearly the depiction of a labyrinth, reminiscent of the chakravyuha in the Mahabharata .  I wasn't quite sure if it was the map of some specific, and as yet undiscovered, labyrinth in the neighbourhood or just an example of the artist's creativity. I put down the bag and sat down in front of the "entrance" and traced my finger along the engraved path. Going around in ever decreasing circles, my finger reached the centre of the diagram. When touching the centre, some unknown instinct prompted me to "Open Sesame" rather dramatically.

**

I found myself in a long corridor having several doorways on one side and windows on the other. Bright sunlight lit up the row of windows. The doorways were all identical and led to other corridors. It looked like the labyrinth carving in Goa had transported me to a maze.

Purists differentiate between the two terms labyrinth and maze. A labyrinth has just one entrance-cum-exit and no crossing paths. One cannot get 'lost' in a labyrinth, however winding it might be. Just following the wall will lead out. In contrast, a maze has multiple choices and crossing paths, which may potentially trap a person 'forever'.

I wandered around wondering where I had landed up, when I heard voices. Going towards the voices, I caught up with them, after a couple of false starts since sounds were getting reflected off the walls. I saw a group of around a dozen people stepping on to a terrace.

I heard a person, who was obviously their guide, tell them, in Hindustani, "You are now at the upper part of the Bhool-Bhulaiya.  You have to find your way back. I shall wait for you at the entrance we came through. I shall give you an hour to find your way out. Call me on the mobile number mentioned on my card if you want me to come and help you earlier than that. Here's my card."  Saying this he slipped back into the shadows and disappeared.

My mind was zapped into awareness by one word in that dialogue. Mobile. I realised could use my mobile's map function to find my location! I pulled it out and checked. To my utter astonishment, I saw I was at the Bada Imambara in Lucknow. I looked for further information on Wikipedia and found that the maze had nearly five hundred identical doorways and a thousand pathways between them. A nice place to get lost, I thought.

But the map function was no great help in solving the maze because of two reasons: one, bad connectivity and two, lack of details of the insides of the maze. So I explored around, walking from corridor to corridor along the outer periphery, which had windows through which the outside world was visible, and planned going to the next row inwards, if I did find the exit on the periphery.

My self confidence proved to be overconfidence as I had now separated from the tourist group which, as a last resort, had at least a phone number to bank on.

As I walked into an inner chamber, I heard a rumbling noise and turned round to see a wall behind me slide and close the passage from which I had just emerged. Horrified, I turned around to see that the same thing had happened on the other side too. I had no idea what had triggered this activity. I was now effectively trapped inside the chamber.  To my knowledge I had not committed any offence that was punishable with death by "walling up", as was executed in the medieval times.

There was no source of light or air in my cell. Neither did my cellphone seem to work here.   I had no food or water with me. Slowly but surely I was running out of oxygen, as there was no window. I tried tapping on the wall all around me at different heights hoping to find some point which could trigger the wall to open. I was unsuccessful. Some time later I became unconscious.

**

When I regained consciousness, I once again started feeling around in the darkness to find an exit. My groping hands encountered something soft and fibrous, while my nose recognised the distinctive smell of animals.

As usual, I had forgotten the things my phone could do. I switched on its torch, and saw that I was surrounded by sleeping sheep, in the plural. I counted about eleven of them – I may have double counted some or missed some – but did not fall asleep. I am not kidding.

My phone, however, was unable to latch on to any network and its inbuilt location app did not work. I ventured out of the enclosure, but it was dark and cold. So I crept back into the warmth among the woolly creatures.

Presently, as the first rays of the pre-dawn sun peeked over the horizon, I heard the melodious voice of a young lady singing in a rustic dialect of Hindi as she approached. She sang not only about the power, grace and majesty of the male falcon and its love, attention and care  for the female of the species. The voice carried in the silence of the morning and the refrain went "Mera baaz baaz na aayega ...". (My falcon won't change its ways...)

The singer opened the ramshackle gate of the enclosure and made a beckoning sound at which all the animals except me trooped out. They seemed to bleat in consonance with her song. I followed the last animal out. She was around thirteen and was very beautiful.

She asked me,  "What are you doing in that enclosure?"

Having no real and credible answer, I truthfully replied, "Sleeping."

"Why are you dressed so oddly? What's that you are wearing?, she asked pointing to my biker jacket.

I removed it and she touched its soft faux-leather and said it was very soft and nice. The zip intrigued her as it was clear she had never seen one before. I showed her how to operate it and she was wonderstruck. I offered her the jacket as a gesture of friendship and a bright smile illuminated her extraordinarily pretty face, as she murmured her thanks.

I asked her her name and enquired about where we are. She said that she was called Roop by her friends, but her full name was Roopmati. As to the location, she said we were near Mandavgad in Malwa.

On a hunch, I asked her, "Who is the the king here?".

She replied, "The Mughals rule Delhi, but Mandu* keeps changing hands frequently. No one knows who the next ruler will be."

I remembered my high school history book. It had said Baz Bahadur had won the throne of Mandu and had married a beautiful shepherdess called Roopmati, who was said to have a melodious voice.  It is nice to know history before it happens. Little did this Little Bo-Peep know that she would one day be the Queen of Malwa.

I said, tongue in cheek, "You were singing of Baaz and Shaheen (male and female falcons in Urdu). Perhaps the next ruler will be a Baaz who will carry you away."

She smiled shyly and asked me how I had got there. I started my story from the time I started running my finger in the labyrinth on the banks of a river. I told her how I had got transported with the words "Open Sesame" and reached Lucknow first and then to her sheecote . I told her that I had no idea how to get back to my own town. I did not say anything about getting back to my own time.

Quick on the uptake, the wise lass gave me a suggestion which had not even crossed my mind. She said, "Maybe you should try saying, 'Close Sesame'."

"Close Sesame?", I asked, not having got the full import of saying her advice aloud. Perhaps the powers that be did not sense the question mark at the end of my query.

* Another name for Mandavgad

**

I found myself back near the labyrinth etched into the riverside.

My guide said, "Aah, there you are! I was wondering where you had gone."

He sniffed and added, "Why do you smell as if you have been sleeping among goats? And where is your riding jacket?"

He probably couldn't differentiate between smell of one animal or another, so I just gave him a sheepish smile. We searched around for the jacket though I knew it was in Mandu.

**

I wonder once in a way what Baz Bahadur would have thought of the zipper on my jacket. Or wondered which animal skin had been used to make the jacket. And I can never forgive myself for not photographing the pretty shepherdess on my mobile phone. Our phone vendors emphasise their phones' camera abilities, but I forgot to take a selfie with her. I would have had the only photograph of Roop in the world. Pardon my being rather familiar with her name, but that's how she had introduced herself. Life is full of missed opportunities.

***


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.

Burning Desire

Author's Note: This story is wholly fictional, though it does draw on the prevailing social conditions in Goa in the mid-eighteenth century

Caetano D'Costa had wooed and won the heart of Consuela de Albuquerque, but her father was an old world elitist. She had been baptised at Igreja de Nossa Senhora da Consolação in Sesimbra when her father was in Portugal and had been named in the Spanish fashion after the patron saint of the church. In his book, he was a member of the ruling Portuguese elite; a member of the prestigious imperial hierarchy that ruled Goa – a fidalgo1, with the right to rule the locals. It was another matter that he was just a middle order nobleman. His claim to eliteness was to a large extant based on the fact that he was a distant relative of Afonso de Albuquerque, the Governor of Goa.

When he came to know of the romance, the lesser of his worries was whether a commoner, especially a newly converted one,  could give his daughter all the comforts and privileges that a member of the administrative services of the empire could give. But, privately, and more importantly, he dreaded the slight to his status that such a marriage would bring. He could have packed her off to Portugal, but he knew that the Europeans there would still look down upon her, as one from the colonies. There was only one way out, he decided. He would make her join the Church.

For this he chose one of the oldest nunneries. It was a very austere order and resided in a cloistered campus. The nuns lived in seclusion and had no contact with any male except their father, paternal uncles or brothers of the inmate, or the convent's doctor, in case the need arose. Even the male relatives who were allowed to visit were permitted to do so just twice in a month and under supervision.

On admission, Consuela's hair was shorn before she took up the veil. Due to her father's Portuguese ancestry, she was given the privilege of wearing a black veil, while nuns of Goan descent had to use a white one. Of course, this small concession did not spare her from the hard life that all the inmates led. Other than their time spent on prayer and activities directly linked to the convent, they spent their time making vestments, tending the extensive garden in the quadrangle and in cooking jam and other preserves. During prayers conducted by the Archbishop, once in a year, they sat in the choir loft to observe the mass without being themselves seen. The segregation was complete and absolute.

Caitu, as Caetano was commonly known, was flabbergasted at what her father had done. He knew that if he did not take necessary steps, there was no way of meeting Consuela again. He realised that becoming a doctor was one way of doing that. In Goa, a dotor2 is a well respected person and usually considered above suspicion. He was intelligent enough to qualify as a doctor as early as possible, but there was a hitch. He needed to be the doctor whom the convent consulted.  There was little chance of his taking the place of the existing incumbent.

1 nobleman, in Portuguese
2 Not a typo! This Goan Konkani word for doctor comes from the Portuguese "doutor"

**

So he hatched a plan – he would join the church and become a doctor in the service of the Church.  For this he selected to join the order that had its campus just across the road from the convent. It took him a few years to become a physician. The nunnery quickly grabbed the opportunity to take him on as their consultant doctor as he was easily accessible as compared to the previous one who had do come from the nearest city at a time of his convenience.

Soon he began regular visits to the nunnery whenever he was called to attend to one inmate or another. He was always supervised on these visits by an inmate, other than the patient,who escorted him from the door to the ailing inmate. Several months passed and it looked that Consuela never fell ill. So, he did not get an opportunity to meet her, even in the presence of another inmate.

One day, he was informed that one of the older inmates of the nunnery appeared to be in a critical condition. He hastened to the nunnery and knocked at the entrance he usually used. As the door opened, his heart took a leap, as it was opened by Consuela, who was to escort him to the bedside of her ailing senior.

**

Seeing him at the door, Consuela was unsure of her feelings as she led him through the building. She had taken the vows of her order, but seeing him in flesh made her doubt her own resoluteness. While he too was happy that his plan had worked, he was not quite sure what the future held for both of them. For the moment, he attended to his duties towards the patient and was let out silently. The surprise of seeing each other had stunned both Caitu and Consuela to silence.

**

He made several similar visits to see the same patient, but never encountered Consuela again. He was not sure if it was providence at work or whether she was avoiding him. At the end of one such visit, he was let out through the room which was used by nuns to meet their visiting relatives. Though he could not see Consuela as she was yet to arrive, he recognised her father who was waiting to meet her. Her father was shocked to see his daughter's old flame in the nunnery, that too in religious clothing and apparently having a free run of the premises.

**

As soon as Consuela's father left the premises, he went straight to the former palace of Adil Shah, the erstwhile ruler of the area before the Portuguese colonisation. The palace was now re-purposed as the head-quarters of the dreaded Holy Inquisition in Goa.  He announced his name and asked for the Inquisitor. The Albuquerque in his name got him an immediate audience.

He informed the Inquisitor that he had learnt that Caetano D'Costa, a convert who had been ordained as a priest, continued to carry on the practices of his erstwhile religion. In those days, a mere complaint was enough to start inquisition proceedings, and the burden of innocence was on the accused. Caitu was picked up by the Inquistion and taken to the notorious Big House3, as the palace was euphemistically known.

3 'VhoDle Ghor' or 'Orlem Ghor', in Konkani, as it was called in whispered horror

**

Caitu was subjected to various kinds of torture to make him confess. However, he resisted the urge to make a false confession, knowing very well that a confession would certainly lead to dire consequences. When Consuela's father heard that a confession was not forthcoming, he decided to get rid of Caetano once and for all. He put in a suggestion that the accused be pronounced guilty and subjected to an auto-da-fe, a public execution by burning. He was willing to do anything to that end and managed to achieve his objective by pulling appropriate strings.

**

Caetano D'Costa was burnt in the public square as ordered by the Inquistion. The flames consumed his body turning it to ashes that fell to the ground in the praça.

**

A few days later, wholly unaware of what had happened to Caitu, Consuela took part in the rites that marked the commencement of Lent. On Ash Wednesday, ashes obtained from burning palm leaves consecrated in the previous year's Palm Sunday celebrations, were applied to her forehead, amidst chants of "Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris", reminding her that humankind was dust and to dust it would return. Some people paraphrase it 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust'.

She never saw Caitu again. Little did she know that her old flame had been extinguished by another flame.

^{4 Bahadur Shah Zafar says the same, "Main vo ek musht-e-gubaar hoon" in his poem "Na kisi kee aankh ka noor hoon". Listen to Mohd. Rafi's poignant rendition in the movie Lal Quila here.} 

***

Post-script: The last auto da fé in Goa was held in 1773 and the Inquisition was disbanded in 1820.

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.

Herbert

Margarita was upset with Herbert over something she felt was wrong. In spite of her telling him so, he had stood his ground. His insistence – that there was nothing wrong – in her opinion, was an affront to her. It was the worst thing he could have done, she felt. And she had told him so several times. She was so irritated with him that had also barred him from any further communication with her. The two had parted ways and there seemed to be no scope for reconciliation. He did not know what had hit him.

He had waited a few months and then tried to contact her. But she was not traceable. No one knew where she had disappeared. He too moved out of the town that gave him uncomfortable memories. It really didn't help. The mind is a funny thing – it remembers what one would like to forget, yet forgets what one would like to remember. Her memories remained. He knew they would remain for the rest of his life.

**

Margarita had given up her job and left town, and taken up a new job and settled in a new place. A few months had passed and she made new friends. He gradually faded from her memory as her well-paying new job kept her busy and took her to exotic places around the world. But once in a way, he had an uncanny way of coming into her thoughts. She regretted her rigid stance and tried to contact him, only to discover that his talent for disappearing was as good as hers. He too had vanished without a trace.

**

Margarita loved travelling. She had been around the world on work and on holiday. She loved sun- kissed beaches and decided to travel to Mauritius during her Christmas holidays. A week by the seaside should do wonders to her, she hoped. On a hunch, when in Port Louis, she decided to take a day cruise to a nearby French island, where Indians are not required to have a visa. The cruise boat left in the morning and reached late at night and included a gala dinner with live music and dance.

**

As she walked up the narrow gangway of the cruise vessel, she noticed a pizza delivery boy carrying a pizza carton was just in front of her. She was intrigued and asked the sailor at the entry point, "Your cruise advertises that it provides the best and varied cuisine to its passengers. How come some one is ordering pizza from the shore?" 

The sailor replied, "Our Entertainment Manager likes to eat pizza, whenever we are on shore or about to cast off, though we have to keep it warm for him till he asks for it. He always gets it on COD basis just when we are about to cast off. I shall attend to the delivery boy after I finish with your paperwork."

He added, "By the way, he is an Indian like you," as he checked her papers.

The pizza delivery boy was still waiting for his cash. Feeling generous, Margarita paid off his bill, adding a generous tip, telling the sailor. "Well, tell him that his pizza today is a treat from another Indian."

The sailor beamed and said, "Thank you, Ma'am. I shall certainly inform Mr. Al. He doubles as our keyboard player and lead singer. Maybe he'll sing an Indian song for you tonight. After a couple of drinks on the rocks, he really rocks!" 

The pizza boy handed her the receipt which she subconsciously dropped into her purse as she was led to her cabin by a steward.

**

The Entertainment Manager, Albert had a habit of having a drink or two at the ship's bar before he had his lunch. As he was about to walk in, he stopped as if he had seen a ghost. On a stool, at the far end of bar, was a person he recognised. He was not sure whether it was appropriate to approach her. He decided to be cautious.

**

The live music started just after sunset, and she struggled to see the stage. The blinding lights prevented her from seeing anything clearly. Albert too could not see the audience clearly, but hoped that she was in the audience. The band played several popular and classic songs. Some of these she recognised, as Herbert used to play them. 

After around ten songs, she heard the singer announce, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I hear that we have an Indian aboard this boat today.  I am told that she has been kind enough to pay for my food. I am grateful to her generosity. In return, I would like to play a couple of Indian songs for her. My only regret is that, as my other friends in the orchestra are not be familiar with these songs, I shall be playing it alone."

He announced, "The first one is a song in my mother tongue Konkani called GoDDacho Pão1."

Margarita had heard this one before. At Herbert's.

Al came back on the mike after the song and announced, "And now, a Hindi song that's close to my heart. Friends, please bear with me if you are not familiar with it. I shall sing a popular Elvis number after it."

Before he started playing, there was a little faux-pas, as the words of the steward who delivered his drink to him came over the sound system, "Here's your fifth Margarita, sir. The last one for today."

As the first few notes of "Pal pal dil ke paas tum rehti ho"2 came over the system, Margarita had an odd feeling. This was Herbert's favourite too.

She clapped heartily at the end of the song, for it had evoked dormant feelings in her. Al announced that he was now going to play the last song for the night, Marguerita3 . He added that he sought the audience's attention to an extra stanza that he had added near the end. Several stewards gathered behind him to assist him in the opening chorus as he started playing.

As she heard him say Marguerita, the way he pronounced it awakened some memories. She suddenly remembered that Herbert had been her name for him. He was earlier called Bert by his friends. After getting to know her, they had started calling him her-Bert, and she had happily adopted the nickname. She had used Herbert so often that she had relegated his real name Albert to a distant part of her memory.

She recalled him saying, in another world, long ago, "I drink, eat, sing and dream Margarita". With a strange premonition she dipped her hand into her purse and pulled out the pizza receipt. The receipt showed a charge for one pizza – a Margherita, as her intuition had told her. Her mind in a whirl, she fell into deep thought.

When she came out of her ruminations, the song was still going on. Al was singing the additional verse:

Once she and I had a difference,

Somehow we drifted apart,

But still, I feel, both of us,

Should have tried to make a new start.  

Margueritaaaa-aaa-aaa-aa-aa ....

As she heard this, and the song started ending with a crescendo, a tear rolled down her cheek ...

  

The ship's horn tooted announcing that they had arrived at Réunion.

***

1. Sweet bread, in Konkani. Video of this song from the movie  Amche Noxib can be seen here.
2. Video of this song from the movie Blackmail can be seen here.

3. Gentlemen are welcome to sing this song using their sweetheart's name. It works specially well if her name ends in the letters "ita". Try it, guys. Ladies whose names end in "ita", may imagine their names in the song too. Try it, gals.  If her name does not end in "ita", try substituting a generic Señorita. It should work well too, though not as customised. Video of this song from the movie  Fun in Acapulco can be seen here.


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.

The Crucifix Teleportation

I was engaged in what has been called the second oldest profession in the world. I and my partner were wet, and grappling with our paraphernalia in the middle of the night in this dark and secluded place. Two torches, crowbars, ropes and backpacks were all we had. Grave robbing did not require sophisticated equipment: a nose for locating possibly rich graves, believing your hunches and a bit of hard work was all it took. Both of us understood that it was a grave crime. But while we knew the wrong we were committing, we could no longer resist its lure. It permitted us to live in Fontainhas, the aristocratic quarter of Panaji.

We were in the cemetery near Merces near Panaji and had broken into a family crypt. The crypt was made of locally popular laterite slabs and was covered with years of moss growth. The ancient lock had posed no difficulty to break, as it had been weakened by years of rust.

The place reeked of feni. We were loaded with it. A little raw spirit helps to keep up your spirits if you have to deal with spirits, though many people would not agree with our definition of little.

My partner, Alvito Braganza, owned a bar and always had loads of stock. His clientèle was small, as most locals preferred to own their own bar rather than patronise another. He was his own best customer in terms of consumption, not sales. None of his neighbours knew what he really did for a living – they thought he ran a late night bar successfully, came home in the wee hours of the morning and slept through till lunch, in the extended susegaad * spirit. If at all we Goans learnt something from the Portuguese, it was concept of socegado*.

 * Being laid back, carefree and least concerned with the world at large, especially during work or siesta

  **

Of the three graves in the crypt, two were very simple and one was very ornate. Obviously, our first choice was the highly decorated one which had the legend Abbé José Custódio de Faria. We knew this name, better known as Abbé Faria, was the stuff of legend in Goa and elsewhere. It is celebrated folklore that this priest was beset with stage fear, when faced with the prospect of addressing an august audience. Noticing his discomfiture, his father had urged the young Abbé with the now famous disdain in KonkaNi: Hi sogli baji; cator re baji (these are all vegetables, cut the vegetables). And the father had created an orator out of the padre in the process. The Abbé was further reputed to be a pioneer of hypnotism.

Alvito and I, who had been schoolmates, had read Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo in school and heard of the riches to which Edmond Dantès had been guided by a monk Abbé Faria. We had a hunch that the story was not fiction after all. But his grave had never been found – till now. Alvito recommended that we open that grave first. But being a god fearing person, I felt the violation of the grave of a man of cloth would invite divine retribution. With great difficulty, I was able to persuade my partner to look at the other two graves.

Of the two remaining graves, one had the name Senhora Mercy D’Sa on it and while the other one bore the cryptic letters ED. We decided ‘Ladies first’, more out of the hope that a lady’s grave would contain more jewellery than a man’s, than out of chivalry. Chivalry is not a quality grave robbers possess – at least when pursuing their profession.

Just when we had opened her grave, after an hour of hard labour, our last torch gave out. I used the light of the torch facility of my mobile phone to look into the grave. I could only see one item of jewellery in that grave- an ornate crucifix. With the mobile clutched in my left hand, I reached out with my right hand for the cross. As soon as I touched it, I felt as if I had been hit on the head. My last thoughts as I passed out were that either a rival grave robber, who must have tailed us to our find, had hit me or Alvito had decided to foreclose our partnership.

When I came to, I found myself still inside the crypt. I had a little blood on my forehead where I must have hurt myself as I fell. I saw only two graves in the crypt, that of the priest and the lady. The other grave seemed to have disappeared. I was stunned when I realised that I had been transported into another time when the person in the third grave was yet to be interred. I went outside the crypt into a rainy day and looked at the Povitra Khuris, as the Sacred Cross was locally called, in the daylight. It was exquisitely designed. It was made out of gold with a translucent figure of the crucified Jesus. I weakly found my way to the nearest house, with my mobile and the crucifix in my hands.

  **

It was a stately house in the style popular with the gentry of Estado da India of the colonial period and probably belonged to the family which owned the crypt. I knocked on the door and told the doorman that I required help since I had fallen down in the wet graveyard and was bleeding. I was taken to meet an old gentleman in the garb of a fidalgo of the times. He bade me to join him for dinner in a large chandelier lit dining room with a high ceiling. He was inquisitive about the mobile in my hands. I explained the use of the gadget, but could not demonstrate it for two reasons: there was no service provider in those times and there was no other phone anywhere on the planet.

The table had been laid with exquisite crockery and cutlery emblazoned with a coat of arms and the initials ED. Putting two and two together, I conjectured that my host was none other than Edmond Dantès. However, I kept my silence as it was too premature to ask a personal question. The dinner was a long winded affair consisting of signature dishes and vintage wine and we unwound over it. When I felt that I had established enough rapport, I made my gambit: “I am Desmond D'Souza. You must be Edmond Dantès, the Count of Monte Cristo. It looks like Dumas did not tell your complete story. He refrained from letting us know where you finally went.”

“Some stories are better left incomplete,” he said, a momentary flash of lightning lighting up his face unexpectedly and catching him off guard, the expression on his face confirming the truth of my conjecture. It was indeed the Count of Monte Cristo that I was dining with.

He too was good at putting two and two together and having now been convinced that I was from another time and age, did not contradict me. He went on to reveal his story over the wine.

He had hidden his trail well. He had not left with Haydée as indicated by Dumas, but with Mercédès as his wife. Haydée had accompanied them as their daughter but had died at sea on their voyage to Goa. He explained that he had learnt the knowledge of restorative potions and powders from the Abbé and put them to good use many times in the past. He had even used the knowledge to fake the death of Mercédès to get her body loaded on to his escape ship. “Having fully satiated my desire for revenge,” he continued, “I turned to constructive work. We had this house built and named it after Mercedes. That is how this settlement here came to be known as Mercedes.” It must have later got corrupted to Merces, I thought.

“I first paid my homage to the Abbé by building an ornate cenotaph on which I had the name of the Abbé inscribed, and which I used as a repository for my riches,” he continued.

Mercédès had taken on the nearest phonetic equivalent name Mercy D’Sa and he had taken the name Eduardo D’Sa. Mercédès had died due to the ubiquitous mosquito infecting her with malaria and had been buried with her favourite cross in her hands. He had given instructions to a few trusted servants that his grave should bear just his initials, when the time came for him to be buried in the crypt.

“Tonight, I have mixed a powder with your drink to put you to sleep and send you back to where you belong,” he said. “Put the crucifix back with her,” he ordered, with his hypnotic gaze over me, “and do not violate the Abbé’s grave. Ignoring my instructions can prove to be extremely dangerous.”

“Your secret is safe with me”, I said, “at least for a couple of centuries, when you will be beyond harm. The world deserves to know the truth about you.” And then I passed out.

  **

When I came to, I was back in the crypt with my mobile and cross in hand. The crypt had three graves once again. I put the cross back into her grave as ordered by the Count. As I eased the covering stone back into place, my mobile phone started ringing. There was no number, only the words ‘Merci, Des!’ flashing in the display. I thought that the Count was a gentleman, probably clairvoyant, a quick learner and now even tech savvy, though I confess I do not know how he did it without a phone or network. He must have had some influence in the Akashic circles.

Alvito, who had still been in a drunken stupor when I got back, woke up. He questioned me on my sudden disappearance. On hearing that the Abbé’s grave was the Count’s storehouse of wealth, he aggressively demanded that we open it up. When I declined to do so, reminding him of the Count’s parting words, he set upon me. It wasn't probably the place to be cryptic, but I had a grave crisis on my hands. After the end of the fight, I left the crypt. For the first time in my career, I had left back something in the crypt instead of taking something away. When I had entered it there were two bodies in it, now there were three. I had graduated from one crime to another and the partnership had ended. My mobile flashed with another thanksgiving message from the Count for saving the Abbé’s grave from desecration. I thought it was time to retire from the profession.

  ***


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.

A Fork in the Forest Path

He clearly remembered the place and time he had come across the blue bottle which gave him the power to 'manage' things. Not a genie in a blue bottle. The blue bottle was a Portuguese man o' war. As you might have expected, it was in the erstwhile Portuguese colony of Goa, a part of Estado da India. It was not a warship as one might be mislead to believe. It was a marine creature;  Physalia physalis or the Portuguese man-of-war otherwise known as the blue bottle. It was as mesmerizing as it was dangerous. A bright blue coloured creature with a sting that was over 10 metres long. It had got stranded on the Velsao beach when the tide had receded. He found it lying in the sand when he was taking his evening walk.

He knew that it was venomous and knew touching it was out of question. He did not want to be stung and nurse the extreme inconvenience for days. But he thought it would be a nice addition to the aquarium in his living room. He was not sure of the effect it would have on the other residents of the fish tank - a couple of angel fish and a small family of sword-tails. He went to the shack on the beach which was the only source of food and drink to the few tourists who visited Velsao. Velsao beach is one of those seaside wonders, as opposed to 'popular' crowded beaches like Calangute, where lifeguards outnumber the number of bathers.The proprietrix was an old friend of the family and he requested her for a container.

She gave him an empty bottle of Skyy Vodka left behind by a customer. Incidentally, it was a blue bottle. But he refused. He explained that he wanted a container with a wider mouth, like a can, but without sharp edges. She fished around and got him an appropriate tin. He took it and thanked her for it. Then he went back to the beautiful creature. He looked around for an appropriate instrument to handle the creature and found a twig of flotsam that had washed ashore. He had to take care that his skin did not come in contact with it. He gingerly pushed the stick under the polyp, when he heard a voice. "Wait, what do you plan to do with me? Are you planning to put me in a fish-tank?"

He jumped back in surprise. A talking marine creature, that too seemingly aware of his thoughts, was not an everyday occurrence. He mumbled, "How did you know that?", not feeling a bit silly on talking to it. After all it seemed capable of reading his mind. But he did feel violated.

"That is non-consequential," it replied. It seemed to have a good vocabulary too. It continued, "That's not what I want you to do." A bit rich, he felt. It was now instructing him. "I want you to throw me back into the sea. I don't want to spend my life in a fish tank," it added. It was now bossing over him, he felt. He thought he could reason it out. He asked, "You will look nice in my fish tank. Why should I throw you back? What's in it for me?"

"Well, I would like to continue living in the sea, not in a fish tank. Let's make a deal," it offered. "Tell me more," he insisted. "What would you say, if I could bestow the power of managing things to happen in the way you desire them to happen?"

"That sounds fabulous, if possible. How do I trust you?", he asked.

"Try it out for yourself," it countered. "Tell me what you desire."

"Well, I was contemplating on having king-fish for dinner, but was not able to go the fish market," he said. "Can you get me a king-fish right now?"

"Certainly. But I will only grant you the power to make things happen. You will have to do some little thing to actualise it."

"Tell me how," he asked.

"Any wish that you make when you are scratching your chin will come true," it said.

"Any wish?," he questioned.

"Except one thing. But I can't tell you about the exception. You will know it when it fails to happen. Every other thing will happen as you wish," it explained. "Try it out now."

"I want a king-fish now," he said, scratching his chin. A true-blue Goan. Fish, the first thing that came to mind.

All of a sudden, a live squirming king-fish materialised on the sand.

"You can go home and cook it after you throw me back. If you don't throw me back, it will disappear," he was warned.

It teased him, "If you had thought it out a bit you could have done better and asked for a dish of king-fish balchão accompanied by a plate of boiled rice. It would have saved you cooking. Think well before you make a wish. Now throw me back into the sea!"

He threw the creature back into the sea and picked up the fish. He took it home. That evening, he sat on the balcão, the balcony of his house, and kept the fish in a earthen dish on the table. He wished for fish balchão, while scratching his chin. The king fish remained unchanged. Disappointed, he picked up the fish and walked into the kitchen, hoping to prepare the dish himself.

As he passed the dining table, he noticed a casserole lying on it. He opened it and the strong smell of fish balchão wafted into his nostrils. He was delighted. He tasted it. It was delicious, but it was made from shark, not king-fish. He decided he had to be more clear when enunciating his wishes.

He decided he had to think through what he did in case he did not want to attract attention. He realised that though since he had no magic lamp, no one could rob him of it. At least, he was safe on that front. But life would become unbearable and he would lose his privacy,  if he became famous. So, he decided to use the power for simple things. Though he could have got along without doing a job, he decided to continue working.

**

He was working as a techie in a small software firm in Goa and as many techies in India do, he decided to move to Bangalore. Writing any code was child's play for him. Though he was quite proficient technically, debugging was a mere matter of scratching his chin. He, however, refrained from letting his chin write the whole code, for he was not sure where it would lead him. He liked to be in control, but did not mind a little help in sorting out issues.

He also liked to play pranks and his chin helped immensely in that field. He had 'magic fingers', as his friends called his abilities. An elevator stuck between floors required just a touch of a button to get it going. A vehicle that would not start required just his hand at the ignition. Anything was possible as long as it was accompanied by the scratching of the chin. It got him a lot of popularity. Very few knew that the malfunctions they had encountered had happened at his bidding too.

He never materialised anything in public view as it would give the game away. But he was not hesitant to add a few currency notes away from prying eyes in the safety of his pocket. He was a little hesitant to do this initially, as he was not sure if the money was real or fake. He checked it out with a banker and found that it was not counterfeit. But he was not sure if a duplicate note bearing the same number existed elsewhere. He was not sure too if the money was disappearing from some other person's holdings, and that bothered him a little. On the other hand, demonetisation had not bothered him at all. It was no skin off his chin.

And then he saw her at an offsite arranged by his office. She was Chinese and was sitting at an adjacent table. He observed her keenly and found her charming. He wished to talk to her and to know her better. They had a couple of chats during the day and he was very impressed with every aspect of her. He wished to take the acquaintance to another level. So he engineered her transfer to his team. He also got her allotted a place where he could constantly keep an eye (actually both) on her.   He was not worried about distraction from work as work would be completed whether he worked or not. He could actually have transfixed a CCTV camera on her and got the feed to his monitor, without lifting a finger. Okay, I admit I was leading with my chin on this one;  he actually did need to lift a finger to scratch the chin.

Over the next few weeks he had the opportunity to squeeze in a few chinwags with her.The more he interacted with her, the more infatuated he became. He wanted to propose to her but in a more romantic environment, and not in the office. He planned his next move. He organised a trek for his team on a weekend.  He hoped that it would give him the required opportunity. Or else he would see that one arose.

The trek was at the Turahalli reserved forest off Kanakapura Road. It was a small forest, extending to just under six hundred acres. At one time it was mentioned on a board that the public were prohibited in the park. But that sign no longer existed. On any given morning, a few dozen trekkers could be found in the forest. There were no wild animals in the park, though it was rumoured that security cameras set up at a nearby real-estate development had captured images of a leopard or two. Now only an assortment of birds and minor animals were found there.

It was not a very tough trek but involved a bit of scrambling over rocks for those interested in doing so. Belying her petite build, she was quite nimble and climbed quite fast.  The sun was blazing when they were the first two persons to summit. She was a bit exhausted and said, "I wish I had brought an umbrella. There's no shade here."

He reached into his backpack and pulled out an umbrella for her. She was surprised and said, that bag looks too small to have had an umbrella in it. Are you some kind of magician?"

He smiled and answered, "Sort of... Ask for anything and you shall have it". 

"I would love to have a suanmeitang," she said, adding, "I don't think it is easily available in  Bangalore."

He reached into his backpack again and produced a chilled bottle of it.  She was awestruck and her eyes widened in amazement.  She was absolutely sure that it had not been in the bag when she had checked it.

He decided it was the right time to pitch his proposal. He said, "I can get you anything you want! I will ensure that all your needs are fulfilled."

"Will you marry me?", he awkwardly finished and nervously scratched his chin, wishing for a positive response from her.

"I can't do that," she replied, "I am in love with Jimmy Ching and we are getting married next month."

His world came crashing down around him as he realised that the only exception to his chin's abilities was the consent of a woman. That had to come from her and could not be the subject of any magical power. He felt he had lost everything in the world. All that he had till now and could have in future meant nothing without her presence in his life.

As they came to a fork in the path, she took one path and he turned into the other. He decided to make one last wish ...

Click here if you think he took the right path


Click here if you think he took the left path

**

The Right Path

A few steps from the fork, he scratched his chin and made his final wish.

All of a sudden, there was some sound in the shrubbery nearby. "Was it the rustling of a Russel's viper?", he wondered. Then, a menacing growl was heard as the predator lunged at its prey.

**

The other trekkers discovered that they were one person short when they regrouped for leaving the forest, so they doubled back. An hour later they found a badly mauled corpse on the path. Looking around they saw tiger-like pug marks on the muddy patch in the path. They were sure there were no tigers in that forest. Suspecting murder and the pug marks to be a prank by the assailant to throw investigators off track, they called the police.

The post-mortem revealed that death had occurred due to stabbing by large fangs. The Forest Department categorically said that there were no tigers in that forest, nor were there any reports of any tigers missing. They took a cast of the pug marks. The Chief Conservator of Forests made it clear that the size of the fang injuries and the size of the pug marks was much larger than any known tiger. An amateur wildlife enthusiast managed to get a cast of the pug marks and suspected that it was similar to the pug marks of the Smilodon populator found earlier in Argentine. But the sabre-toothed tiger, as it is better known has been extinct for long.

Had he taken his revenge on her for rejecting his proposal? Or, was it something else altogether. Let us take a couple of steps back on the path ...

He had continued walking after separating from her at the fork. He felt he was being followed by someone. Had she come back, he wondered? He looked back. She was not to be seen on the path.Just after he had crossed a patch of soft mud, his stalker burst out from the shrubbery and launched itself on him. He was defenseless against it. He had not even tried.

Did our protagonist make a wish to be killed in an attack by a sabre-toothed tiger? Was it the right thing to do? After all, he had taken the right path... Or, had he?

Click here if you want to know what would have happened if he had taken the left path

***

The Left Path

A few steps from the fork, he scratched his chin and made his final wish.

And instantaneously, the clock wound back and he was back on Velsao beach trying to push the flotsam twig under the marine creature, when he heard a voice. "Wait, what do you plan to do with me? Are you planning to put me in a fish-tank?"

He pretended not to hear it and maneuvered the creature into the container. He took it home and put it into his fish-tank. It lived in the tank till it died of natural causes. It continued to attempt to talk to him, but he ignored it. He did not want its bountiful help. For, he had the left the future behind. After all, he had taken the left path... Or, had he?

Click here if you want to know what would have happened if he had taken the right path

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 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

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