The Bombay I Shall Never Forget

The Bombay I Shall Never Forget
Bombay city grew on you, especially if you were born in it.

Ask any born Bombayite or even anyone who has lived in the city for more than a couple of years and you will detect grudging admiration for the place. To the outsider the closeness that the Bombaykar once had for his town was always a source of wonderment. They see an overcrowded city, with apartments the size of matchboxes, if you lived in an apartment at all.

I distinctly remember when my paternal uncle's family came from Uganda on a long furlough, surveyed the place we lived in and wondered how we would all fit in it for 4 months. But fit in it they did and had the time of their lives. No doubt in Africa they must have had a large bungalow with gardens and a car parked outside surrounded by lush greenery as far as I could tell from the photos they showed us. But in the time they spent in Bombay, they didn't miss all that at all. Could have been the joy of brothers meeting again, but I suspect it was the city more than the kinship that triumphed.

In those apartments people not only lived but they lived happily. They threw parties, they entertained guests from the mofussil (a quaint Indian term for out-of-town). Goans in Bombay every now and then played hosts to their relatives, friends and even village-folk from Goa who needed to come to the metropolis be it for wedding shopping or surgery or a million other things that could not be done in Goa.

Bombay was the place to be. There were football matches in the Cooperage grounds between East Bengal and Mohun Began that no Goan would miss. There was the Metro, the New Empire, the Excelsior and the Regal cinemas where you could watch the lastest English movies. After a Metro movie you could go to an Aunty's hooch joint in Dhobitalao. The Excelsior and the New Empire had Vittal's Bhel Puri House where
the snacks were like nothing you could ever have anywhere else. The Regal called for a walk down Causeway with your girl where you could not sidestep Fredrick's, or Annapurna's or if you were felling a little rich, go into the Harbour Bar at the Taj where the cocktails were as exotic as their names. As a generation, we were introduced to the Bloody Mary, the Singapore Sling, the Screwdriver and the Peacemaker by the tenders of this very bar.

If Beale Street was the haven for the Memphis blues, Dixie sounds, Tennessee Bluegrass and jazz in all it's forms, then Bombay's Churchgate area was the premier refuge for the western music of the day. The jazz bands were as good as those in New Orleans. Beat Groups belted out Cliff Richard, Englebert Humberdinck, Tom Jones and Mungo Jerry like they were Bombay's own. If you were clasically inclined it was Victor Paranjoti and the Bombay Madrigal. If you went highbrow, there were the shows by Adi Marzban and all those admen by day who doubled up as stage actors by night to give the performance of their lives.

That was the era of the Goan village social, the wedding receptions that knew no 11 pm curfew and the Christmas and New Year dances in all their glory when Christmas and New Year celebrations in Goa were unheard of. Cavel, Dabul, Dhobitalao and Girgaum and all the railway institutes were one endless party. If you think the Jamaicans know how to have fun, then you haven't seen the Bombay of yore.

The Bhaiyya brought you milk, the Bania sold you groceries. The Mian-bhai made you delectable roadside seekh kebabs and faloodas. The Anglo Indians drove your trains and nursed you in well kept hospitals. The Goans sold you bread and liquor and no-one questioned the combination. Nobody asked about your religion, though everybody knew it. The Hindus, the Muslims, the Parsees, the Jains, the Sikhs - all were a natural part of Bombay and had more affinity towards it then the places they came from. The Jews in the city had their patrician history and their grand landmarks, but they looked and talked like any other Maharashtrian. Even the Goans who would not miss ther summer soujourns in Goa for the mangoes, the fish and the feni, came
scurrying back to their city at the first sign of rains.

You grew up, went to school and then off to the ivory towers. You came out bright-eyed and bushy tailed, went to make your mark in the world and Bombay allowed it all. With peace, with bustling commerce, but above all with style and panache. Corruption was the exception rather than the norm. The Hindu elder would not allow anything like that to stain his family pride. The Bade-Mian would use Islam as a shining torch to guide his life and his interaction with others. The Parsis could not spell the word much less let it despoil them with it's indignity. Even the Gujarati merchant princes and shopkeeper alike took their profits without depriving their customers of value received.

It was an innocent age. Perhaps we didn't know simplicity and transparency because we indulged in so much of it. It had to one day end like the beauty of a young and pretty maiden. The disappearance was a gradual process. The rich became richer and the poor poorer. The Hindus are incited to hate the Muslims who in turn see themselves as victims. In the name of self defence they are forced to store machetes, bombs and every weapon they can find in their mosques, because they have no confidence in the police in times of communal riots. The Marathis were taught by petty politicains to hate the South Indians and then the North Indians even though they were in Bombay longer than those who came to the city from Konkan and Vidarbha.

But the new generation in Bombay are intelligent, pushy and world wise. They are not willing to accept the accumulated rot. They spit at the political pigs who used to wear fake Gandhi caps but now wear safaris, suits and saffron and govern them. There is a vibrant media who shine a bright light on every dark deed and who compete with CNN as evidenced in the recent days of Bombay's own 9/11.

It is on these shoulders that hope rests that Bombay will get to becoming Bombay once again.

Goan Achievers and Achievements

GOANS ARE ALL OVER THE WORLD, DOING ALL KINDS OF THINGS
By Frederick Noronha

Some helped build the steel frame of British colonialism. Others spent their lives fighting alongside their Black brethren against British and other foreign rule in East Africa.

Some were cardinals, while others were Free Masons. From the tiny region of Goa came forth world-class men (and women) of medicine, super- cops, scientists and sculptors. And more. If you thought Goan achievers were just in a field or two, then check up their impressive list of achievements.

There are names that pop out from the world of music, the military, economists, educationists, engineers, and even governors and ambassadors.

This becomes clear in a recently-published book by octogenarian Dr. J.Clement Vaz. At 82, and despite living outside Goa for long, Vaz remains a Goaphile at heart, and tackles the task with keenness. Fortunately, author Vaz has undertaken this labour of love -- most books on Goa hardly rake in profits -- at a suitable point of time.

Vaz's life spans colonial and post-colonial Goa. Had he not written it, many of these personalities would have been unknown to or forgotten by the generation of youngsters which don't have much contact with the past and can't read Portuguese either. Vaz has come up with an impressive listing.

Early on, Goa gained a plethora of big names amidst the Catholic religious. There were two Cardinals -- Valerian Gracias in Bombay and Joseph Cordeiro of Pakistan -- and two Apolostic Nuncios. Eight archbishops of Goan origin have served in Bhopal, Delhi, Calcutta, Nagpur, and Agra, besides Goa itself. Vaz lists over three dozen bishops too, the latest being Filipe Neri Ferrao, who was consecrated auxiliary bishop of Goa in 1994. Later, people from this region went to excel in many other fields.

Great men of science also have the made-in-Goa stamp on them. One of India's pioneer of the food-irradiation programme was Dr Norman Lewis of Goa. Other prominent men of science included medical practitioner Emidio Afonso, who was also a mini-sculptor, a violinist or an ingenious mechanic. Just out of his teens, he reconstructed with the simplest available material a simplified version of Sir J C Bose's crescograph, an instrument for measuring the sensitivity of plants.

It was a Goan who discovered protozoa, parasites, microbes and viruses many of which bear the Latin name given by him followed by the name "de Mello" as the discoverer. Dr Froilano de Mello (1877-1955) was a research scientist of high calibre, a successful professor, a literary man, and an eloquent impromptu speaker. He did remarkable work for improving the health of the malaria-endemic city of Old Goa by mapping the entire area so as to discover the source of malaria. By 1927, this work was completed and over 18,000 wells with stagnant water were uncovered in the jungle that had grown where Old Goa existed two centuries earlier. He fought valiant battles against TB and leprosy. He was hailed as one of the foremost leprologists.

Datta V. Naik (50), known as Kumar to his friends, is a product of St. Xavier's Mapusa who showed that youngsters given the opportunities in Goa can even receive a Certificate of Recognition from the US National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA).

Remember the Bunsen burner from your chemistry lab? It was Goan scientist Agostinho Vincente Lourence (b.1862) who went to Germany to work under the famous chemist Bunsen. There's a bust of Lourence in the Lisbon Academy of Science, which stands besides Lavoisier and others.

There's also a bust at the Municipal Garden in Margao. Abbe Faria's achievements in hypnotism are also too well known.

Goa threw up renowned Indologists and were experts in studying coins. One such illustrious figure was Damodar Dharmanand Kossambi (1907-1966).

Goa's supercops include the well-known Julio Francis Ribeiro, later ambassador to Romania. John Lobo (b.1921) was the Director of India's Central Bureau of Investigation. He introduced innovative features in the Bombay police, including its data processing unit, dog-squad, conviction index bureau and the like. He was Chief Security Liaison Officer to two prime ministers.

Caejetan Joseph Vincent Miranda of Loutolim was director of the Anti-Corruption Bureau. "During his scintillating tenure of three years, the ACB struck terror into the hearts of smugglers, and as a result of his successful anti-smuggling drive, the government exchequer was substantially enriched," says Vaz.

Big names from Goa in the military include Air Marshal Terence Joseph de Sa (b.1928) of Sangolda, Major General Antonio Caetano da Silva (b.1930), Major Gen. Eustace D'Souza, Lt. Gen. F.T.Dias of Velcao, Lt. Gen.S.L.Menezes of Sangolda, Lt.Gen Eric Alexander Vas of Saligao, Gen Sunit Francis Rodrigues of Curtorim, who rose to the highest post in the Indian army.

Manoel Antonio de Souza of Mapusa who went to Mozambique and consolidated “his little kingdom" by "driving back the attacks of natives". He played a role in pushing ahead the frontiers for the Portuguese, and organised a little kingdom and a "perfect little state" with an army of 30,000 men and its own guns, fortresses and administration.

Goans -- despite coming from a tiny portion of Planet Earth -- are everywhere, it would seem. In a plane crash, when a VVIP plane crashed while accompanying ex-PM Morarji Dessai at Jorhat in Assam, the pilot who died was a Goan, Clarence de Lima.

Both in propping up a colonial order, and trying to destroy it, Goans had a role.

Pio Gama Pinto boldly took the side of Africa in colonial times, and rose to become director of the Pan African Press. He worked to set up the Lumumba Institute, designed to train party officials of the KANU.

Aden-born Keith Vaz of the House of Commons, and Canon Castilho Serpa do Rosario Noronha (elected for three successive terms as representative of Portuguese India) are other prominent members of Parliament.

Rama Krishna Hegde played the role of peace-maker between opposing factions of Goan patriots. Patriot Telo Mascarenhas did a Portuguese translation of the autobiography of Mahatma Gandhi. Laxmikant Bhembre, in forced exile in Portugal, conducted classes on the Bhagvadgita for Portuguese enthusiasts. Peter Alvares, from Parra, was a seasoned activist, socialist and founder of many unions for railways employees.

Others from here have earned fame by wielding the pen. Journalists like Dom Moraes (b.1938) has won the American Press Club Citation for Excellence in Reporting, for some 20 articles he wrote for the "New York Times Sunday Magazine". People like humourist and management expert George Menezes speak as many as nine languages -- French, German, Portuguese, Spanish, Hindi, Marathi, Konkani, Kannada and English!

Jawaharlal Francis "Joe" Rodrigues was an editor in Nairobi, and an executive board member of the International Press Institute. Frank Moraes is, of course, a big name. Writer Ladis da Silva has written on the Inuit and the North American Indians. Joseph Furtado (1872-1947) of Pilerne was one of the early Goans who attempted to write poetry in English.

Books by Goan authors -- like Lambert Mascarenhas' "Sorrowing Lies My Land" has been translated even into languages like Telugu, points out this new book.

Goa has also thrown up multi-faceted scholars like Jose Pereira (b.1931) who is -- all at once -- a writer, orator, historian, musicologist, theologist and a naturalist of a high order. Mariano Jose Saldanha (1878-1975) was involved in organising Konkani programmes to be broadcast to Goans in British East Africa and the Gulf region. Fr Antonio Pereira (b.1919) has scores of books and publications to his credit, mainly in Konkani. Francisco Luis Gomes (1829-1869) of Navelim was hailed in Europe as the "prince of intellectuals".

Mons. Sebastiao Rodolfo Dalgado (1855-1922) of Assagao had a penchant for knowing the basic structure of a language. He acquired familiarity with Malayalam and Sinhala, with Bengali and Kannada, and even studied Marathi and Sanskrit. In 1892, he produced a Konkani-Portuguese dictionary and later a grammar.

Sixteenth century Quelossim genius Krishnadas Shama left behind several stories in pure Konkani, which entitle him to be called a brilliant writer of Konkani of the sixteenth century.

Other talent too flows from the hands of people from Goa.

Artist Francis Newton Souza (b.1924) was the subject of a book published in London. Titled "Souza", the book with text by English critic Edwin Mullin looks at this artist's career in the UK. Ramchandra Pandurang Kamat of Madkai was hailed as a genius among the sculptors of his time, during his travels in Europe.

Agnelo da Fonseca, of Santo Estevam, is noted for his talent of presenting Christian themes in Indian setting and style. Fonseca painted for powers both spiritual and temporal. His paintings are in churches of Pune, while Lisbon commissioned him to do a large painting on the death of Dom Joao de Castro in 1953. He was also requisitioned by Lady Maharaj Singh, wife of the then Governor of Bombay, and Viceroy of India Lord Linlithgow.

Goa has produced a number of top medicos too.

Dr Sanjay Khope of Cuncolim has a surgery technique named after him -- Khope's Operation. Dr Sandra de Sa Souza (b.1943) has been hailed as one of India's pioneer in cochlear implant surgery, providing new hope to the totally deaf. Her dad, Dr Joe de Sa, was a well-known ENT specialist in Bombay. Dr Luzito de Souza, her cousin, is an internationally known oncologist. Dr Chicot Vaz is a leading neurologist in the country. Other prominent medical specialists and surgeons include Dr. Eustace J. de Souza, US-based medico-surgeon Dr Yvan J das Dores Silva, cancer-surgeon Dr. Luis Jose de Souza, physiologist Dr Anthony Charles Duarte-Monteiro, and late Dr Manuel Vincente Alfredo da Costa (who has a hospital named after him in Lisbon).

Dr Arthur E de Sa of Asnora was an eminent surgeon, and accompanied Lady Edwina Mountbatten to riot-stricken areas of West Pakistan at the height of the communal frenzy after Partition. Dr Vithal N. Shirodkar, of Shiroda, has the famous 'Shirodkar Technique' for opening blocked fallopian tubes and the cervical hood. Noted cancer surgeon Dr Ernest Borges of Ucassiam is another big name. Dr Acacio Gabriel Viegas (1856-1933) is credited with the discovery of the outbreak of bubonic plague in Bombay in 1896. He was responsible for saving many lives and eventually controlling the plague.

Dada Vaidya, from a family of Ayurveda physicians, and in true family traditions never accepted any fees and on the contrary gave drugs he prescribed free. For him the art of healing was a vocation and a sacred duty. He also began a campaign towards preventing diseases.

Goans have also come out tops in the fields of judiciary and law.

Fitz R S de Souza, bar-at-law and PhD from London, was an important figure in African politics. Particular Kenya's struggle for freedom. John Maximian Nazareth (1908-1989) was president of the East African Indian Congress, and also served as puisne judge of the Kenya Supreme Court. Justice Vassant Krishna Tamba (b.1926) has served as a judge of the Supreme Court of Portugal. Goan judges have served in Angola and Mozambique, as did Aleixo Antonio Xavier Jose Ludovico da Costa (1904-1976). Justice Kashinath Trimbak Telang was called to the bar at the age of 22 and was an authority on Hindu Law. He later was judge of the High Court of Bombay, and he was the only one to be selected for special mention in the Cambridge History of English Literature. Luis da Cunha Gonsalves (b.1875) wrote as many as 14 volumes on his studies of Civil Law.

Late Manuel Menezes (1922-1996), recently caught up in the Konkan Railway controversy in Goa, was a high-caliber technocrat. Alfred Julius D'Souza (b.1923) of Saligao was an assistant commissioner of income tax.

John Francis Ludger Gracias (1888-1969), among the first Goans to migrate to Kenya, played a major role in the establishment of the Kenya and Uganda Railways and Harbours. He was awarded with an MBE by King Edward VIII -- one of the few honours bestowed by King Edward in his short reign.

Brilliant Goan civil engineer Bismark Dias is remembered for designing the town of Vasco da Gama, with its tree-lined boulevards and gardens. In the US, he has done work on devices used in colour TV receivers, and also ultrasound imaging devices.

Charles Correa, another Goan, has designed monuments ranging from the Kasturba Gandhi Samadhi at Pune, to Salvacao Church in Bombay and hotels in Andamans and Kovalam. F Paul de Mello is a Goan engineer who has earned name and fame in Brazil. His brother Dr Victor F B de Mello rose to professorships at the three principal universities in Sao Paulo.

Engineering prodigy Suman Moolgaokar, born in Bombay, earned a big name in Tata's. In his tenure, TELCO's entry into the manufacture of passenger cars merited him being called the father of India's automobile industry.

Way back in 1957, Albert Vivian D'Costa of Aldona was already investigating weak bridges. William Xavier Mascarenhas, an associate of the legendary Sir Visheshvaraya, was involved in pre-Independence planning of major roads, bridges and river valley projects. Engineer A X Moraes rose to meet the crisis of floods in Gujarat in 1927. Grateful public thanked him at a public meet in Nadiad.

Despite what it might seems, Goans have skills at diplomacy too.

Placido D'Souza (b.1933) was ambassador to a large number of countries, including in the West Indies, Panama, Zaire, New York, Port of Spain, Hong Kong and Nairobi. Another diplomat of Goan origin, Peter Lynn Sinai (b.1933) topped the competitive exams in 1956. Anthony Lancelot Dias, ICS (b.1910) was praised for negotiating India's foodgrains with "great ability and success". He was appointed Lt. Governor of Tripura in 1970 and later Governor of West Bengal.

During the time of the Bangladesh war, a Goan was taking care of refugees flooding into the area -- Governor A. L Dias -- while another, Peter Lynn Sinai, was involved with the formation of the Bangladesh Division at the Ministry of External Affairs.

Educationist Rev Dr Hubert Olympus Mascarenhas (1905-1973) was an Indologist of repute who spoke 11 European languages, in addition to Sanskrit and several Indian languages. But his intense patriotism brought him into conflict with the then British archbishop of Bombay.

Jose Gerson da Cunha (1844-1900) from Arpora in Bardez is one of India's prominent historian and Orientalist. Besides Konkani and Portuguese, French, English and Sanskrit, he could handle Pahlevi, Italian, Persian and German. He was also conversant with Marathi. Collector of coins, he had a collection of nearly 27,000 pieces of gold, silver and other baser metals. Dharmanand Kosambi (1876-1947) studied Pali and was a renowned Buddhist scholar.

Goan Victor J Menezes (b.1949) of Bardez has been storming the corporate world as one of the heads of Citicorp. Peter Joseph Joaquim Pinto (b.1915) of Sangolda has been appointed alternate executive director for India on the boards of the IMF and World Bank. Maurice Gracias (b.1923) of Carmona is an economist. In the US foreign service, Gracias was chief auditor and was assigned to 16 African countries. Prabhakar R Narvekar has the distinction of being appointed one of the three deputy managing directors of the IMF. Born in Goa, he was educated in Bombay and Columbia University. He joined the IMF in 1954.

Eric P.W.da Costa (b.1909) has been heading the Indian Institute of Public Opinion, after a significant meet in 1952 with George Gallup, past president of Gallup Polls Inc. He was also earlier president of the World Association for Public Opinion Research. Earlier, da Costa was appointed as assistant to the chief minister of Mysore State. He was invited by noted industrialist, G.D.Birla, to direct the Textile Machinery Corporation of India, and was editor of the 'Eastern Economist' in the 'forties.

Musicians have also made their name for Goa in a big way.

Rev Dr Lourdino Barreto is author of over 100 major works, and his compositions have been performed both in India and abroad. Noel do Carmo Flores was dean of the faculty of music at the University of Vienna. He started piano studies at the age of five, tutored by Goan teachers, and is an alumni of Don Bosco's in Panjim. Kishori Amonkar, Luis Remo de Maria Bernardo Fernandes, Jitendra Abhisheki, Lata Mangueshkar, gifted opera singer late Olegario Frank based in the UK, Kesarbai Kerkar (1892-1977), Dinanath Mangueshkar, and the father of the Goan tiatr Joao Agostinho Fernandes (1871-1947) are among the other names mentioned in the music section.

Dr Owen Pinto made his name in the field of sports medicine in Bombay. Leo Pinto was part of the flood of Goans who hit Indian hockey at one time. In 1948, for instance, there were five Goans in the Indian Olympic hockey team that played at Wembley. Other Goans were also early starters in the field of sports. In 1913, the club of Goans calling itself the Lusitanians won the prestigious Aga Khan Hockey Tournament.

Former 'O Heraldo' editor Dr Carmo Azavedo makes some interesting points in his article on the Goan Diaspora. Britain occupied Portuguese Goa between 1798 and 1812. During their stay here, they had to avail themselves of the services of Goans in various capacities. Appreciating their qualities of "head and heart", the British began recruiting Goans in increasing numbers. First as cooks, butlers and stewards and then as clerks, accountants and so on, as Azavedo puts it.

This was the beginning of migration out of Goa. We don't have a clue as to how many emigrants there are now. But the oft quoted figure is that at the turn of the century, out of a total population of 500,000 people in Goa, abound 100,000 lived outside the territory. Primarily in Bombay.

Goans have since fanned out to various pockets of the globe -- Madras, Calcutta, Delhi, Belgaum, Poona. Pakistan too. Burma, Ceylon and Aden, all then part of British India. Then farther, into Kenya, Uganda and Tanganiyka, as well as to Australia and New Zealand. Some reached Macau, Timor, Mozambique, Angola, Cabo Verde, Guinea and Sao Tome e Principe. Goans have also reached Portugal, UK, Brazil, Australia, Canada and the US.

"It is natural for any group of persons to glory in their own heroes. That gives them a deeper understanding of their own identity. It also affords them role models for imitation and a sense of collective achievement and pride," comments Bishop Ferdinand J. Fonseca in the foreword to this book.

Priced at Rs 400, Vaz's 'Profiles of Eminent Goans: Past and Present' was published late last year by Concept in New Delhi.

Sorry Sam, We Indians Need To Hang Our Heads In Shame

Sent to me by a friend. I do not know who wrote it nor where it was first seen, but it is noteworthy

The passing away of the only Indian to be appointed Field Marshal when in active service has been remarkable for the warmth of the ordinary men and women who queued up to say "meebeenamet" to the adorable dikra who put his life on the line for them.

It has also been remarkable for the complete lack of grace and gratitude, civility and courtesy, decency and decorum on the part of the bold-faced names rapaciously grazing the lawns of power in Delhi and elsewhere, for the brain behind India's only decisive military victory.

Sam, the Bahadur, had been unwell for a while now. From about 1000 hours on June 26, reports of his being 'critically ill' had appeared in the media. Yet, when the 'expected tocsin' sounded at 0030 hours till the guns were fired in salute around 1500 hours on June 27, 'civil society' chose to show its incivility.

a.. Pratibha Patil, the commander-in- chief of the armed forces with all the time in the world: Absent

b.. Hamid Ansari: Vice-president releasing books and writing reviews of books by fellow-travellers: Absent

c.. Manmohan Singh, the prime minister who could do with a bit of the field marshal's charisma and heroism: Absent

d.. Sonia Gandhi: daughter-in-law of the woman the field marshal called 'sweetie': Absent

e.. L K Advani: prime minister in waiting of the party which would like to do to Pakistan what Manekshaw did: Absent

f.. M Karunanidhi and Surjit: chief minister and governor of the state which Manekshaw had made his home for 35 years: Absent

Politicians may have their reasons. They always do. Maybe, there are issues like protocol. Maybe, this is one way in which 'civil India' shows the armed forces its place. Maybe, this is why we are not as militaristic as Pakistan. Maybe, the knees are just too old to climb the hills.

But what about the armed forces itself?

a.. A K Antony: the defence minister 'now behaving like the chairman of the confederation of the armed forces' trade unions: absent 'due to prior political engagements'.

b.. The chief of army staff: absent (away in Russia)

c.. The chief of navy staff: absent

d.. The chief of air staff (incidentally, a Parsi ): absent

The fact that the defence minister was represented by his deputy Pallam Raju, the fact that the navy and air staff sent two-star general rank officers, shows that however high or mighty, however rich or powerful, civilian or military, if you should die as you must, you should do so somewhere in the vicinity of New Delhi -- or Bombay. Or else, they must have some use for you. Or else, too bad.

As he rightly surmised once:
'I wonder whether those of our political masters who have been put in charge of the defence of the country can distinguish a mortar from a motor; a gun from a howitzer; a guerrilla from a gorilla -- although a great many of them in the past have resembled the latter.'

The contrast couldn't be starker:

a.. When Amitabh Bachchan was ill after being socked in the stomach during the shooting of Coolie, Indira Gandhi flew down to Bombay to show her concern.

b.. When Dhirubhai Ambani died, L K Advani cut short his Gujarat tour to pay his respects to an 'embodiment of initiative, enterprise and determination'.

c.. When Pramod Mahajan was shot dead by his brother, Vice President Bhairon Singh Shekawat had the time to attend the funeral.

Our VIPs and VVIPs have time for dead and dying celebrities, charlatans, fixers. Not for a field marshal? In his biography, K M Cariappa, the only other field marshal India has had (and who too died at age 94), writes of his father's cremation in May 1993:

'Honouring him in death as they did in life were Field Marshal Manekshaw, the three service chiefs all of whom belonged to the same course and at whose passing out parade from the joint services wing father had presided, the gracious chief minister M Veerappa Moily and C K Jaffer Sharief, Minister for Railways representing the president as the supreme commander of the armed forces.'

Somebody should have told the geniuses in Delhi that Sam, the Bahadur, passed away in Wellington, Ooty, not Wellington, New Zealand. The nearest civil airport is Coimbatore, just 80 km away.

If this is how we say goodbye to Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw, any wonder why Rang de Basanti could successfully tap into the angst of an entire generation?

Anglo Indians, Cotton Mary and the Bombay of Those Days

ANGLO INDIANS, COTTON MARY ... AND THE BOMBAY OF THOSE DAYS

By Roland Francis
roland.francis at gmail.com

The Anglo-Indians bring many of my Bombay childhood memories
to mind. In the 1960s, Byculla, where I lived, was the
Anglo-Indian core of Bombay. There were their institutions
and neighborhoods, like Byculla Mechanics, Berkeley Place,
Clare Road, the spacious bungalows in avenue-lined Bombay
Central and of course the Shelter (which was an orphanage of
pretty girls) where we hung out a lot.

We had many adventures with our Anglo friends. They came here
for work from places like Amla-Nagpur, Jhansi, Bhusaval,
Igatpuri, Itarsi, Bangalore (remember the Anglo from
Bangalore), Hyderabad, Kolar Gold Fields and Ratlam-Ajmer.

These boys and girls passed out -- or, more
frequently, dropped out -- from high school. Their
fathers either worked in the Railways, the Posts
and Telegraphs or the Armed Forces. They were fed
up of small-town life and longed for the glamour of
the big city of Bombay much like their counterparts
of Boise, Idaho or Paducah, Kansas who make a
beeline to New York or Los Angeles for the bright
lights of the metropolis.

Of course many Anglo-Indians were long a part of Bombay city.
These families were the community elite, most of them high
ranking officers in the Police or the Army, Navy and Air
Force.

They were very kind to those less fortunate in their
community, but were limited in their ability to help the
young fellows, as the latter lacked a college education. Rare
was the town-and-country Anglo in those days that went to,
much less passed out, from college. Foremost among the Bombay
elite were the Amore family (pronounced ay'more). They were
good friends of Frank Anthony, an eminent lawyer, nominated
MP, friend of Jawaharlal Nehru and a mover and shaker in New Delhi.

The Amore patriarch was a successful businessman, who was
nominated an MLA to represent the Anglo-Indian community in
Maharashtra legislative assembly. At that time it was very
difficult to get immigration to racist Australia, but Frank
Anthony had persuaded the authorities there to allow in Anglo
Indians without any qualification or money on the grounds of
their (tenuous) British connection. They agreed, and gave him
the authority to certify an Anglo-Indian for this purpose.
Frank Anthony, in turn, gave the Amores the authority to do
this for the Bombay area. All travel and other expenses were
in most cases borne by the Australian government.

I mention all this to set the background for my
Cotton Mary story. Cotton Mary was so called
because she wore mostly cotton dresses. She was a
dark-skinned slightly gnarled woman with premature
wrinkles and the demeanor and gait of what we in
North America call a bag lady.

On any one but her, those dresses would have looked
fashionable and trendy but on Cotton Mary they showed very
poorly. No doubt some young stylish Anglo women must have
passed them on to her as hand-me-downs.

She had a Bombay reputation so widespread that her name could
possibly have inspired in the late 1990s, an Ivory-Merchant
film of the same name. The plot and setting of the Cotton
Mary of that film however bore no relationship to the real
life of her Bombay counterpart.

She was about 40-ish but looked more like in her 60s,
possibly due to her lifestyle which included roaming around
the streets of middle-class Bombay with a small child,
seeking alms. Mind you, she never asked, but she was quite
happy accepting them presumably on behalf of her young
toddler. As we later discovered, the toddler was not hers.

She was fond of imbibing copious amounts of Auntie's stuff
from the money she collected. The cooked food that people
gave, she took for her family whoever and wherever they were.

Cotton Mary made her rounds in Byculla, Bandra, Colaba and
many other Goan populated areas during late weekend evenings.
She chose lanes that had tall buildings on both sides,
occupied by middle class families. These locations were
perfect for coins that would come raining in, making it
convenient to collect and move on.

People on a Saturday evening were generally in a good mood
with the working week behind them and the Sunday to look
forward to. Weekends for the average Goan meant several
visits to Aunties' dens swigging country stuff along with
good friends, watching a football game at the Cooperage
grounds, a Konkani tiatr or an English play, or a movie.

If one got lucky, one would be invited to a foreign ship
docking at Bombay port where a fellow Goan would treat you to
scotch, choice ham and a variety of cheeses along with some
sherry or port.

We youngsters looked forward to the Saturday Date,
a one hour pop music radio program starting at 10
pm, the only English music program broadcast all
week by All India Radio in those days. We would
gather around the hi-fi 'radiogram' at the house of
one of the group, drinking no-name pop locally
bottled in nearby Mazagon and filled with dubious
colors and ingredients, but which was cheap. The
main thrill besides the music was having guys'
sisters joining us and being able to break out in
dance from songs on vinyl long playing records,
once the radio program was over.

On such a mellow evening, at 6 o'clock, Cotton Mary would
make her entry into the 'hood with the toddler in tow. Her
act consisted of cupping her hands for the bullhorn effect,
turning her face towards the sky and singing in a loud and
raspy voice:

I went to see my darr-lling
Last Saturday night

This was the only discernible part of the song. She used to
skim over the rest and we suspected she didn't know the
lyrics. Actually, it was the first line of a number called 'I
Ain't Nobody's Darling' sung by Byron G. Harlan. He was a
balladeer and comic-minstrel American cowboy from Kansas, USA
who recorded it in 1921. It must have been popular with some
up-country Anglos. The opening lyrics go like this:

I went to see my darling, last Saturday night
I went to see my darling, while the moon was shining bright
I asked her if she'd marry me and whaddya think she said
She said she wouldn't marry me, if the rest of the world
was dead

I doubt any alms-giver understood the song's words other than
the opening lines. It was a Saturday, she sang it in style,
she had a toddler and that was enough for the people to throw
their coins or to go scurrying into the kitchen to find some
food. On many occasions besides the rupee coins we threw her
from our third floor balcony, Mum would wrap some nice potato
chops or cutlets which she cooked for the weekend and send me
downstairs to give it to her.

I and the other lads of my building had a love-hate
relationship with Cotton Mary. Although many of us would
bring food and coin given by our parents, we would not part
with it without endlessly teasing her. Put it down to the
cruelty of teenagers. We asked questions like why her
boyfriend dumped her; who would have a girlfriend like her at
all; whose child was it she brought along; why she drank so
much and other barbs in that vein.

In today's world, no well-brought up kid would do that to a
less fortunate member of society, but in those days the bar
of what you could not do was much lower than it is now.

Don't forget that the beating we got from our
parents and teachers, sometimes for little reason,
was something our own children could not imagine
today, or will call it physical abuse and ask us
why we allowed it. For society then in general, it
was all part of raising well-mannered children, the
core of prevalent child-rearing philosophy being
'spare the rod and spoil the child'. And we the
victims took it lying down, never giving it a
second thought. The battering of our generation is
the subject of another tale.

Cotton Mary, as I said, both hated us and loved us. She would
sometimes ask us to help her collect the coins thrown on to
the road, when there were many, but suspected that we
pocketed some of it (untrue). She also suspected that we
pocketed part of the money our parents gave us to give her
(true). But generally, we treated her kindly.

Once, we decided to play a prank on Cotton Mary. We planned
to get her drunk, keep back her toddler for a little while
and put the fear of bejeejus into her, to have a few laughs,
not realizing where this could go.

So one Saturday, early on, we made off from home, with a
little hooch, each of us with a small measure from our dad's
stock, so as not to raise suspicions. We gathered around to
pour and found that we had the sum total of nearly a bottle.
Being a mixture of ten different country liquor stocks, the
resultant volume must have been quite potent. But the alcohol
was key to our plan.

So when Cotton Mary had done the neighborhood sing-and-collect
rounds, we invited her to have a drink on us in a quiet
corner of the compound of one of our buildings. She was not a
person to refuse such an offer.

So we made her comfortable, brought some seekh
kebabs and got our plan underway. We talked and she
drank and ate until she realized that it was
getting dark. Meanwhile one of us spirited the
toddler away from sight. He was cute as a button
but did not speak much. His talking consisted of
few words, not enough to make any meaning.

When she got ready to go, she was quite up the gum tree,
metaphorically speaking. She collected her bag of coin, her
bag of food and started walking towards the Byculla Railway
Station to catch a train to go home. We gave her a good head
start and then followed, toddler alongside, with intention of
returning the little fellow to her and chiding her for
leaving him behind.

Surprise of surprises, she was suddenly nowhere to be found.

We divided ourselves into scouting parties that went to the
railway platforms and the nearby lanes and restaurants to see
if she decided to continue with her singing there. But she
was gone without a trace. One party even went to Dhiraj's
matka and gambling joint to see if she had decided to indulge
herself from her collections, but to no avail.

Worried, we took a quick decision to keep the lad for the
night with Salu and his mother. Salu's dad was a steward on a
P&O cargo ship. His mum was a very kind and gentle woman who
would give us all sorts of English chocolates and crackers
that her husband brought when he disembarked.

More importantly, his mum was the only one who would fall for
our fibs, hook, line and sinker, while our Mums would ask a
thousand questions. Besides, she was quite happy giving
shelter to a talking, gurgling, smiling, happy two year old.

The next day, Sunday morning we all went for the early 8
o'clock children's mass at the Gloria Church, fully expecting
Cotton Mary to soon come looking for the young 'un. She came
at 10, crying, along with the boy's mother and his aunt.

We gathered around, keeping them busy while Salu
went to fetch the boy. Slowing releasing him,
without being seen himself, the boy wandered into
the group, to cries of "miracle, miracle" from the
three women. The lad muttered "Salu, Salu" in an
incoherent voice, probably more happy to remain
behind with Salu and his Mum's chocolates and tasty
Goan cooking rather than what he had now to return
to. We were glad to see our prank end. I am sure
Cotton Mary would forgive us had she known what we
did.

So the years passed with Cotton Mary still heroically doing
her rounds. The toddler had now outlived his purpose and she
started getting some other toddler. Her voice had become more
croaky with the constant serenading to the balconies.

Growing older with Auntie's stuff as prime nutrition didn't
help either. So one day I called a meeting of the boys with a
plan in mind. I explained the need to help our friend who had
provided us with many hours of fun and laughter, with some
meaningful present.

Some in our group were Anglo-Indian boys and they
told us how Mr. Amore would come once a month to
inspect the Anglo-Indian hostel where they lived.
During that visit, he would also enquire whether
any of the working lads were interested in
immigrating to Australia where their future would
hold much more promise.

For those who were interested, after a few questions about
where their parents lived, he would fill in their names into
an important-looking log book. At his next trip would give
them an official looking certificate, signed and sealed in
red wax, together with an air ticket to Perth, Brisbane or
Sydney -- their choice.

All they had to do after that was to make a passport, submit
Amore's papers and get the visa stamped at the Deputy High
Commission in the Fort area. No fuss, no checks and no proof
needed to show you were an Anglo-Indian. All it took was an
English sounding name. Real Anglos with names like Fernandes
(and yes, there were some) had more explaining to do.

This information was all we needed to hatch our plan for a
present for Cotton Mary.

We asked her whether she wanted to go to Australia. She
rather set us aback with "Where is Australia?" However we
were determined to do our good deed for her. We sat her down,
this time with no drink and asked what her last name was. She
told us it was Tully. That was a start.

We went on to mention that Australia was a land that was much
nicer than India. That she would no longer need to sing
there, that she would get a government pension and a house
and lied that Grandfather Tully's relatives would be there to
welcome her. She shook her head, not wanting to miss out on
the simple life she already had. Auntie's stuff and Goan
food. She wouldn't believe that she would get money in
Australia for doing nothing.

In retrospect, we were patient little monkeys. Here we were,
willing to give her a shot at a better life and she didn't
want it. She kept on repeating "I am happy baba, I don't know
what will happen to me in Australia."

We kept on at it and finally she relented if we
could include her younger sister. That was the
break we wanted. We now knew we had Cotton Mary
well hooked. After that, we spent a few months
prepping her to talk to Mr. Amore. No croaky
laughs, no attempt at stale jokes and especially no
asking Mr. Amore for money. On the appointed day
she came, dressed in her finest along with a real
beauty she claimed was her sister. We would never
know.

Mr. Amore came in as usual. After doing his round of the
rooms, he sat at the desk in the hall. In we came trooping
with Cotton Mary and her sister. There were Rudy Kerr, Rodney
Jackson and myself, accompanying. As the chief architect of
the plan, they had insisted I come, even though I was a Goan.
I was the spokesman and they knew the only one who could talk
them out of a jam.

It was a slow day for immigration interviews at the Anglo
Indian hostel in Byculla's Third Cross Lane. Surrounding it
were the Masina Parsi Hospital, Gloria Church and Bombay's
biggest timber mart (Lakda Bazar). I don't know why I
remember, but Miller and Company was almost next door.

Perhaps I was dreaming of Australia and what would
happen if I got entry myself. I quickly shut the
possibility out of my mind. I would get a whacking
for my efforts from Mum who every week had to buy a
fresh cane from the Byculla market since my hide
was getting tougher by the day with all that beating.

"So what's your name?" Mr. Amore started with me.

"But, but", I stuttered.

"No but, buts, son," said Amore.

"What is your name?"

"Roland Francis, sir" I began, getting more confident by the
word.

"So you want to go to Australia, Roland?" he asked.

"No sir," I said.

"And why not may I know?"

"I am too young for that sir", I said. "I have come to help
out with my aunts Mary and Cynthia Tully".

Mr. Amore took one look at them and shook his head. He had
heard many yarns from his people during his lifetime, but
this one seemed to take the cake. Deciding not to pursue it,
he asked Cotton Mary and her sister why they wanted to go
Australia.

"I won't have to sing 'I went to see my darling...."

"Shut up Mary", I interjected. Amore looked surprised.

"Is that the way you talk to your Aunts, Roland?" he asked
frostily.

Before I could reply, the Lord above sent his messenger in
the form of Amore's aide entering with a burra peg of scotch
that he carried for his long visits to the hostel. After the
first sip, thankfully there were no more questions.

I could see he entered Mary Tully and Cynthia Tully neatly in
his book and waved us off. The boys and I did mental flips.

We had pulled it off! While I still had Amore's attention, I
said, "Thank you sir, but do they have to come again to get
their visas and tickets or could I do it for them?" "Do you
trust this young bugger?" he asked Mary, who quickly nodded.
"Then that is that," said Amore, ending the conversation and
the interview.

After I collected the visas, we had a small party
for Cotton Mary on a roof corner of Alexandra
Terrace. She had tears in her eyes. So had we. It
was forgotten in the goodbyes and god bless. She
walked away from our lives and I hope that she
safely walked into Australia. I wish her happiness
wherever she is.

Now, Cotton Mary is Bombay's urban legend. Some women who
were mere girls then, still say 'I went to see my darling' to
describe any female who wears fancy clothes that do not suit
her. There have been Cotton Mary sightings long after she had
gone. There are tales of as lately as a few years ago that
Cotton Mary lookalikes were going around Bombay streets doing
her act.

Some will say that Cotton Mary was a tall, fair Anglo-Indian
woman who had a small pretty girl along with her. Others will
vouch that even in the early years of this century she could
be seen singing with the same voice in places like the
quadrangle of Grant Road's Dias buildings. All I can say is
that by 1971 the Cotton Mary we knew had disappeared from sight.

This is the stuff of days gone by. In the Western world
today, almost nobody beats their children or is allowed to.
Few neighborhoods in Toronto and New York look out for the
disadvantaged except with cheques to charity that are mostly
swallowed by 'administrative expenses'.

Sex to us, meant a little kissing and at most necking and
petting. That is no longer the case. No pre-teens and teens
play together in innocent fun. They either sit in front of
computers or are encouraged to use condoms in their 'sexually
active lives'.

Emigrating to the UK, Australia and Canada with the forms,
clearances, proofs and bank statements now required, is no
more the simple process that the kindly Frank Anthonys and
Amores had set up. People in USA and Canada do not like it
when you pat their small child with affection. They will
certainly call the police on you if you ask to take their
toddler for a walk within their view. Few people even of the
same community trust each other. And there are certainly no
Cotton Marys to entertain a First World city with 'I went to
see my darling, last Saturday night....'

--

Roland Francis is based in Toronto, Canada, and wrote this in
June 2008. This article is to be published in a forthcoming
book about Goans (and written by Goans) who lived in the
Bombay of the 1930s to the 1970s. If you would like to
contribute a chapter of your own slice of life there -- it
needs to be evocatively written -- contact the book's editor,
journalist Reena Martins at reenamartins at hotmail.com

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Of Aunties and all that ... The end of a Bombay Goan era

OF AUNTIES AND ALL THAT: THE RISE AND FALL OF A BOMBAY GOAN ERA

Roland Francis
roland.francis at gmail.com

If Bombay in its post-Raj era had been a relic of British
rule in India, growing up in the city, we knew nothing of it,
or maybe just didn't care. To us youthful Goans, it was a
place where our parents had emigrated to and where we were
born.

Correctly said, we didn't even call ourselves
Goans. We were labeled makapaos, just as there were
labels for everybody else. The Parsis were called
bawas, the Sindhis papads, the Maharashtrians
ghatis, the Gujaratis gujjus, the Sikhs surds and
the Anglos payday kings.

If Byculla, Mazagon, Colaba, Girgaum, Mahim, Bandra, Chembur,
Malad and Borivali were Goan kingdoms, then Dhobitalao was
surely the capital of them all. It was the fountainhead of
the Goan in Bombay and the place where no matter where you
lived, you always knew someone there.

So it was no surprise what happened when Morarji Desai of
'pisskey' fame (he banned whiskey but believed in 'auto-urine
therapy') decided in his Gujarati bania wisdom that the
Bombayite needed to abstain from liquor. It was in Dhobitalao
that the legend of the Goan Aunty was born.

Dhobitalao was the area which had the most Goans per square
inch. Perhaps historian Dr. Teresa Albuquerque -- the sister
of editor Frank Moraes, and aunt of Dom Moraes -- may explain
why, but it could have been due to the kudds or village clubs
locating there.

It was the Goan heartbeat with the Sonapur lane its aorta.
Though mainly lower-class Goan in population, it was a
vibrant neighborhood comparable to a bustling village church
area on a Sunday morning.

If you were an uncharitable traveler, you may have compared
it to Warsaw's Jewish ghetto. There were the similar winding
streets and narrow lanes we called gullies. Hardly any dead
ends and, if you knew the place well, even a battalion-sized
force could not encircle you.

So, Dhobitalao became the Goan Aunty's liquor heartland.

A place where any drunken Goan's wife could at last find the
solution to her financial woes. Don't forget that although
Bombay's Goan community was solid burgher in it's work ethic
-- with more than it's share of educators, doctors, lawyers,
high ranking police and army officers who made their name
throughout the country -- these elite Goans formed the
fringes who lived mostly in places I have described above,
outside of Dhobitalao.

The core was the underclass of barely educated and
underemployed Goan labour, a goodly chunk of which
lived in Dhobitalao. Of this, quite a few did
nothing more in life than hit the bottle and
consequently their families suffered. Whether it
was the frustrations of a city or the longing for
their native Goan village, it was difficult to tell.

Not only the Goan community, but the rest of Bombay took
their Goan Aunties to heart. Bombay was a bon vivant place
then. The music scene, the advertising crowd, the business
community, the religious groups -- all had the need of a
tipple when the occasion arose. And such occasions were many.

Give a man the freedom of a bottle and he may choose to
ignore it. Take the choice away from him and he will spare no
effort to drink when he can.

It started out with a few Aunties allotting a small room in
their house to known musicians and fellow village seafarers
living in nearby kudds, to sit, have a few drinks and thereby
earn a little income. The moonshine was bought from East
Indian Christians living in the suburbs, who distilled it in
their large backyards mostly in Bandra and Borivali and
transported it to the city in rubber packs. The kind you fill
with hot water and use as a compress on your aching back.

Overripe fruit was used as the ingredient and the resultant
distillate had a rather palatable flavor, while giving you
the necessary high. Few Goan musicians could blow or play
without this nectar and few Goan college professors could
unwind without it.

The police took a rather benign view of the whole
thing in the beginning. Police stations were headed
by Anglo Indians, Parsis and Jews. It was not
unusual for, say Inspector Mistry, to caution an
enthusiastic aunty that she should tone down her
operations to no more than a few bottles, enough to
care for her family with as less disturbance to the
neighbors as possible.

However as Aunty's services to the thirsting Bombayman spread
beyond the original confines, the Aunty, like any good
corporation, expanded her market share. Except that beyond
word of mouth, she had no need of any marketing.

Liquor needs went beyond what amateur operations could supply
and the channels expanded to South Indians operating giant
vats in the marshes and vast hutments of Dharavi, Asia's
biggest slum. Using, at times, groups of lepers to carry the
booze to avoid police searches.

They used battery-grade sulphates commonly called battery
powder to distill it faster, and spoiled rice and sugarcane
molasses instead of overripe fruits. Police saw an
opportunity of their own, in this expansion process. They
made fortunes from extorting the Aunties and their suppliers,
though extortion might be the wrong word here. It was all a
peaceful business process. The cops got a feel of Aunty's
turnover and put a proportionate 'toll' on it.

Business was good for everyone -- the Aunties, the cops and
the consumers. A win-win situation as we call it today.

Village socials, dances and weddings were no longer the muted
occasions they became when Prohibition was initially
introduced to the city. Aunties spread everywhere and no
place in Bombay was more than a little walking distance from
the nearest speakeasy.

With competition the business evolved. The drinker
needed some visual stimulation and younger and
fulsome Aunties began wearing low-cut revealing
blouses and throwing flirting looks and
invitations. The older ones substituted with
putting their frisky nubile daughters to serve the
clientele with strict instructions on how far to go
and advice on how to further relationships when
they encountered eligible and responsible regulars.

Many an Aunty's daughter was married off to a Times of India
reporter or an upcoming schoolteacher or even a prosperous
businessman's son. The Uncle was completely out of the
picture. He was either told to get out of the house by 5 pm
and sleep at a relative's, or better still he was packed off
to Goa with a regular remittance following.

Just as Goans prospered with a stint in the Gulf countries or
earlier than that, in Africa, the Aunties too prospered. Most
were possessed of shrewdness and spent their money educating
their children and buying flats and homes in the suburbs.

Bandra was a favorite. In fact I was dating a very beautiful
girl of Sophia College which was then the St Xavier's College
female equivalent, who went on to become a medical doctor and
who unbeknownst to me, was an Aunty's daughter. The day of
enlightening came when she invited me over to her house in
Dhobitalao quite early in the evening, but not early enough
to discover (to her chagrin) a few customers straggling in.

She avoided me after that, though having a rich Aunty as a
mother in law would not have found disfavor with me.

Prohibition spanned more than one generation and an entire
Goan culture encompassed it. Tiatrs were staged around
Aunty's lives or with her financial assistance. Booze was
supplied to the tiatrist if he was good and his presence in
the joint would increase the clientele.

Bands would not venture to the show without a nip sized
bottle in their inside pocket and this helped the composition
as well as the quality of the music. Many a hot song would
not have been birthed without this necessary ingredient.

My father had a good friend who after liberation went from
Bombay to a police officer's career in Goa. There was an
occasion when he had to come back to the city to arrest and
take back a criminal who had fled here after committing a
crime in Bardez. Having found and handed the felon to the
Byculla Police Station for temporary custody, he came over to
where we lived nearby and whispered an invitation in my
father's willing ear to celebrate his success at a nearby Aunty's.

By this time the Prohibition Branch had been added to the
Bombay Police and they had a habit of raiding speakeasies at
their peak hour of business. Both my father and Blasco, his
friend, were trapped along with the 50 or so other customers.

Mum had suggested to them that they drink at home, but they
ignored her advice. So when they did not return at a late
hour, I was sent to see what the problem was. I was too young
to visit such joints then but I was the usual smart Bombay
kid and in no time I found out from word on the street that a
certain place had been raided.

Walking, I came across my father and Blasco coolly returning
from the other direction. It transpired that while the
clientele were lined up for questioning, Blasco could have
stepped out of the line and revealed he was from Goa Police
but he feared that he might be arrested instead of released
and would lose his job as a Police Officer breaking the law.
However when his turn came he decided to reveal it and was
told as a brother officer to walk away and take his
companion, my father, with him.

When I came of drinking age myself, I was a regular visitor
at Cardozo's joint in Mazagaon. Peter Cardozo was in a much
senior league than the biggest Aunty. He employed trucks to
bring commercially bottled feni and naval rum from Goa to
Mazagon and my favorite was the Old Barrel brand which he
sold for 20 rupees, the same price as the rum.

The feni was good, better than today's Big Boss and I
considered myself too haughty to drink the usual country
stuff. I was one of Cardozo's VIPs as I used to bring my
friends almost every weekend and was a big spender.

For us, the all-you-can eat fresh Bombay Ducks fried in
turmeric outside his doors was a complimentary from Cardozo
who was a young mid-30s entrepreneur.

One day while relaxing in this manner with three others,
suddenly the word 'raid' was heard. Leaving the bottle and
the tasty Bombay Ducks, we ran to the nearest window that let
out into a side street, along with the other customers and
jumped from a height of about six feet.

Not all of the others were as young, athletic and of the
level of sobriety as we, and a couple of them at least landed
on their bones and started moaning and shouting in pain. We
were not callous boys but we had no wish to remain to help
them when faced with an arrest.

My Mum was a strict nurse and would have given me a
strong Catholic guilt trip of how she had raised
her only child to no good result. We walked back
discretely to the front and saw Cardozo, limbs
akimbo, telling one and all it was a false alarm.
We went back to our places as if nothing had
happened. Cardozo took care of the injured in style,
by brazenly calling an ambulance and paying all the
concerned charges.

When V. P. Naik the new state of Maharashtra Chief Minister
replaced Morarjibhai of the Bombay Province, he relaxed
prohibition. Not only because it had caused lasting harm to
the Bombay public's health and guts but was also because of
the culture of bribery and corruption that was taking root in
the Bombay Police force.

I am sure that being a big grape grower had something to do
with his decision. Beer was now made available and the
government started permitted Country Liquor outlets, selling
brand names like Rocket and Double Ghoda (Twin Horse), which
kicked you much harder than a horse could.

No doubt these liquids had their origins in distilleries
belonging to Naik and his sugar-baron cohorts from the
Vidharbha region of Maharashtra. This gradual relaxation of a
meaningless law sounded the death knell of the Bombay Goan
Aunty. By then she had made her money and she could well say
like Shakespeare 'all's well that ends well'. It was the end
of a Bombay Goan era.

--

Roland Francis is based in Toronto, and wrote this in May
2008. It is to be published in a forthcoming book on Goans in
Bombay, covering the 1930s to the 1970s, currently being
edited by Reena Martins, a feature-writer and journalist
based in India's commercial and media capital.

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GOANET-READER WELCOMES contributions from its readers, by way
of essays, reviews, features and think-pieces. We share
quality Goa-related writing among the 12000-strong readership
of the Goanet/Goanet-news network of mailing lists. If you
appreciated the thoughts expressed above, please send in your
feedback to the writer. Our writers write -- or share what
they have written -- pro bono, and deserve hearing back from
those who appreciate their work. GoanetReader welcomes your
feedback at goanet at goanet.org Goanet Reader is edited by
Frederick Noronha fredericknoronha at gmail.com Please visit
Goanet's website at http://www.goanet.org For the latest Goa
News headlines visit: http://www.goanet.org/newslinks.php

Spring in Toronto

Spring has sprung in mid-June Toronto but the heatwaves seem to be heralding a hot summer. We have just passed a very nasty winter and were looking to the sunshine, but now that it has come it's time to do the Canadian thing again.
Whine.

So the routine starts. People go off to the cottages weekends and the visitors from outside arrive. Some of them are fun, but it can be trying for us locals to continuously do the CN Tower and the Niagara Falls rounds. If that is the price we have to pay, we'll happily do it, especially for the welcome visitor.

One such is Rajaram Krishnaswamy. If anyone can combine fun and hard work it is Raju. An achiever, IIT engineer and classmate of mine from the Xaviers School Bombay Class of '65, I am meeting him after 40 odd years. There are 5 of us in Toronto and all are anxious to meet Raju and reminisce about the old days. Who knew those old days would come so soon? Thank you Salvis for making all these reunions possible.

So for one afternoon downtown we shall meet, talk, have fun and if wasn't so early in the day, we might get drunk. That wouldn't be a good thing as we have to reach home sober and ready for the next working day. But who can tell? We might do it anyway. Raju is definitely worth it.