He Knew Her !

Goa if one may put it kindly, has become a theatre of the absurd.

A young Russian woman working for a Goa five start hotel was allegedly raped by a minor local politician who offered to give her a lift to her home on completion of her shift. Instead of reaching her home directly, the scoundrel raped her first.

Now if one follows the news in Goa, this is in itself not unusual. Politicians in Goa and their families and anyone remotely connected to them seem to have discovered a variant of the ancient Norman privilege of 'droit de signeur'. In this case it being "if you come to my area of God's earth and talk to me, I have the right to rape you."

How else can one interpret an investigating cop saying in a local newspaper "This is not a major issue. She knew the person who raped her." Ah! we get it now. If you are in Goa, and you are female, if someone knows you, it is acceptable that he rape you. What if, Mr. Policeman, your wife is in conversation with the vegetable vendor in the Mapusa market every Friday buying vegetables from him. Is it OK for him to rape her on that basis?

As if to endorse what this policeman said, another more prominent politician and a government minister to boot, a mentor of the accused has gone on record in connection with this incident as saying something like 'these single women come on vacations here and ask to be raped'.

In Goa it is not only the culprit who commits the crime and his family and friends who abet him. The police and minsiters too will further victimize the victim.

Take away the Goa background of this despicable crime and we see exposed the Indian mentality of "she deserved it" or "she asked for it". Essentially this means that a woman has to severely curtail her freedom of action and movement - indeed her freedom of speech if she is not to be taken as inviting rape on herself. She is expected to demurely look down while she walks and glance away from anyone speaking to her.

The time is ripe for progressive judges to bring the real law down in the Indian courts. The concept that you may know a woman, be intimate with her even, but if she says the word no at any time, sex after that will be considered rape.

Of course there will be the comedians who will quickly interject to tell us that with most Indian females and sex, the word "no" usually means "yes". Well how about you being in a sex-starved prison and that mean and huge lifer in the next cell thinking on the same lines about you. "Oh the new fellow doesn't know how deprived (and depraved) this prison population is. If he did, he wouldn't mind being my bitch"

Meanwhile you young western or light-skinned woman, go elsewhere. Not beacause you have no right to go to Goa or have no right to be protected, but merely because there are a million better places where you can enjoy your vacations, without the risk of a rape and the trauma that usually accompanies it in the parcel of what was once God's own earth in a land called India.

The Sea-King - A Goan Seaman's Story

Minguel Antonio Piedade Gonsalves was born in Sinquetim, a large ward of Navelim village, the third child of a poor mundcar couple. He had nine other siblings, jointly the cause of his parents having to do all sorts of odd jobs in addition to their back-breaking share-cropper occupations.

As a child Minguel was the most spirited and energetic and yet the most respectful, often being rudely compared to the runt of the litter. It was these qualities that made one of his uncles who lived in Bombay and worked in the Port Trust, decide to take Minguel with him for a better life in the city. What could his parents do but acquiesce to what looked a better future than that he could expect in Goa.

So, when he was 14, Minguel tearfully left his family and took the first leg of many stages of the trip that would finally land him in his uncle's house in Umerkhadi. In those days there was no direct transportation from Goa and one would be lucky to reach a Bombay destination in less than 48 to 72 hours. Especially if one's travel budget did not allow for shorter routes.

He was placed in St. Joseph's School which had a largely Mangalorean student roster. Second only to of course the Muslims whose community dominated the neighborhood. By the time he was 18, he decided to drop out in commiseration with the lack of funds of his uncle and his desire to be independent through employment. The kindly priest in charge of the bursary at St Joseph's would always meet the shortfall in fees, uniforms and text book expenses but Minguel was a free spirit and had no desire to be obligated.

In no time at all a sympathetic soul in the municipal housing projects where he lived, took Minguel to the Seafarers Union and got him a job on a foreign tramp steamer. Minguel had at last found his niche.

The brotherhood of Goan sailors who transited Bombay to and from their villages in Goa were a united lot. They were utterly honest with each other. They had a self-imposed hierarchical system among themselves, based mostly on the years at sea. On returning from their long global voyages, they would meet their fellow-kudcars in the many clubs or Goan kudds that dot Dhobitalao, Girgaum, Cavel and even Ballard Estate and parts of the Fort Area. There they would debrief and that information would be used profitably by those coming from Goa and on to the lines at the Seaman's Club for jobs on the next available tramps, ro-ros, liners or tankers.

As he prospered, Minguel married Felicidade and built a small modern house on a minor parcel of land that his friendly bhatcar sold to him at a very concessional price. Minguel knew his place and though his house contained all the comforts of life, none of it was ostentatious and none of it flaunted in the face of his bhatcar.

It was in these pleasant surroundings that Feli gave birth to Minguel's son Valeri, a name taken by Minguel from a large Russian tanker that crossed his ship in the mid-Atlantic on one of his voyages. Felicidade was an educated Goan girl whose father was a PWD contractor from Portuguese times, belonging to the same low caste as Minguel.

Make no mistake. Every little luxury that Feli and little Valeri enjoyed was paid for with the blood, hard work and loneliness of Minguel at sea. He endured all manner of insults from the officers and all kinds of rough treatment from crew of various nationalities that he encountered. But so did his other Goan brother seamen. And none of them let out the slightest hint of that endurance to any of their family back home in Goa. Even over drinks at the local bar.

One day on his return, he presented his son with a Sea King swiss-made wrist watch from Favre Leuba. That model along with the Sea Chief also made by Favre Leuba was a favorite among Goan seamen. They gave it to their sons and to any of their non-seamen friends they genuinely liked.

Feli raised Valeri in the best Goan traditions. He was a an academically gifted boy and shone through school and college without much effort. In time he was admitted to the prestigious Indian Institute of Management in Ahmedabad and in his final semester he was recruited as a management trainee to work at Merrill Lynch in Manhattan at their Bond Desk. Within three years, Valeri was a VP sent out to bolster the Houston office to rake in all that oil money from their major accounts in that city. Wherever he went he carried his father's Sea-King. He didn't wear it for fear it would tarnish, but being automatic, he ensured it kept on working continuously. It reminded him of his father who had missed out on many of the family's milestones.

Minguel was proud of his boy but Valeri knew nothing of the ship's toilets cleaned and the officers' cabins washed by his father to make a living they enjoyed. He knew nothing of the small quantities of gold that Minguel fearfully smuggled through Indian Customs from time to time to pay for the IIM fees, nor the tearful submission to a pederast skipper on one ship who threatened to have his CD Certificate invalidated for insubordination if Minguel did not cooperate.

On his last voyage, Minguel's ship needed to pass through the South China seas. This long stretch of water is well known for its bad weather, typhoons and turbulent seas. Minguel wanted to make it his last. He had a good home waiting for him, a son who was a big shot in the USA and he wanted to spend the evening of his life in Goa with his loving wife Feli who had made the sacrifice of absence of her husband as intensely as he. The Gods of the South China seas had different ideas.

When he heard the news, Valeri was in St Louis Missouri. Quietly he took the diamond encrusted Rolex Oyster Perpetual from his slim left hand, walked to the Louis Vuitton, took out the Favre Leuba Sea King and placed it lovingly where the Rolex had been.


This story is dedicated to Eric Pinto of New York and Alfred Tavares of Sweden.
Two gentlemen whose knowledge and experience have always enriched.

Stand By Me

A five minute rendition of one of my favorite songs that will shake your legs.

A brilliant cameo mix of street musicians from all over the world, as
only street perfromers can perform.

http://bravefacari.tumblr.com/post/94543105/http-vimeo-com-moogaloop-swf-clip-id-2539741

Lok Sabha Application Form

1. Name of Candidate: _____________________
Include father's name and grandfather's name. Leave blank if these are
not known.

2. Present Address: Give details.
(i) Name of Jail: _____________________
(ii) Cell Number: _____________________

3. Political Party: _____________________
*List ONLY the Last Five parties in Chronological (Order)

4. Sex: [ ]
A- Male
B- Female
C- Transsexual
D- Uma Bharati

5. Nationality: [ ]
A- Italian
B- Bangladeshi
C- Indian

6. Reasons for leaving last party (circle one or more)
A- Defected
B- Expelled
C- Bought out
D- All of the above


7. Reasons for contesting elections (circle one or more)
A- To make money
B- To escape court trial
C- To grossly misuse power
D- To serve the public
(If you choose "D", attach Certificate of Sanity from a Recognized
Government Psychiatrist)

8. What kind of public service experience do you possess?
A- Social service (the middleman between criminals and dirty cops)
B- I was rejected for latrine cleaning
C- I sold bananas
D- I serviced the public

9.Give details of any criminal cases pending against you
(You may use as many additional sheets as no doubt required)

10. How many years have you spent in Jail? (Do not confuse with question 8)
A- 2 years less a day
B- 2-10 years
C- Life
D- None - I use anticipatory bail

11. Are you involved in any financial scams?
A- Of course why should I be left behind
B- No. It's always someone else.
C- I see a Pakistani hand.

12. What is your Annual Corruption Income? Include hawala.
A- 100-500 Crores
B- 500-1000 Crores
C- Swiss account deposit limit reached.

13. Do you have any developmental plans for India in mind?
A- No
B- Yes if they involve bribes and travel
C- Turning Bombay into Singapore.


14.Describe your achievements in space provided hereunder:
[_________]

15. Please declare your assets.
A- I don't have any. Everything belongs to my wife.
B- I shall acquire them after I am elected
C- So much even I don't know.

16. Do you believe in secularism
A- Yes, if it's the same as Hinduvta.
B- It's a dirty word.
C- It died with Nehru.

17. Do you believe in equality for women?
A- As long as they wear Pink Cheddies.
B- As long as they leave some liquor for the men
C- As long as they fetch dowry.

Mrs. Pereira's Boys

Remigia Claudina Pereira was a dour looking 24 year old, when girls that age look anything but dour. She trained to be a nurse at the Provincial Government of Bombay's St George Hospital near the landmark Victoria Railway Terminus in the city's south. No matter what St Georges looks today, it was then the premier hospital of the city. Anglo-Indian matrons and nurses many of them young and pretty, reigned supreme. Of the brightest minds in residency, there were many Goans and Parsis, training for their MDs and MSs - the medical and surgical masters degrees of that era.

Half a world away in Sindh-Hyderabad the Asrani brothers Gopal and Nandlal bade farewell to their father's family business and left for Bombay. They had nothing but the clothes they wore, a small suitcase each of personal possessions and photographs, and the most valuable asset of all, a couple of letters from their father Gulab Asrani. The letters were addressed to a few prominent Sindhi businessmen settled earlier in the city. These men were the original DPs (displaced
persons), Hindu refugees from an increasingly intolerant Muslim Pakistan. Gulab was the scion of a long line of wealthy shroffs, local bankers who made their living from lending money to aristocrat landowners and merchant princes. His reputation in Sindh was impeccable. Gopal and Nandlal were his only sons, nay his only children.

Remigia Claudina or Cloudy as her Anglo Indian colleagues called her, had an illustrious career path as a nurse-sister at Bombay's St Elizabeth Nursing home and later assistant matron at Breach Candy hospital. Both these august institutions were located in the elite Breach Candy and Malabar Hill areas of Bombay and well known for the excellent care provided to their patients. They were also expensive and therefore the haunt of only the elite citizenry. Cloudy was five feet eight but looked taller than that. A Goan to the core, from the village of Assolna, she was the terror of every ward. She knew no compromise as far as hygiene and strict hospital rules and regulations were concerned. And in the realm of nursing practice, neither patient, nurse nor doctor would be spared the sharp edge of her tongue or the bite of her pen if they were in transgression by even the smallest fault. But beyond this, Cloudy was a woman of patience, understanding, empathy for suffering and charity towards those that needed it. Humanity came first, sometimes even before her family, consisting of a quiet but loyal husband and two devoted daughters.

Gopal and Nandlal prospered in Bombay like most of their fellow Sindhis did. They conducted their money lending business in an honest but shrewd manner. Their customers eventually were the Mafatlals, Birlas, Khataus, Watumulls, Ispats, Singanias and every other big name that beat a path to the Asranis' Malabar hill mansion. The home was right next to the deserted bungalow of Mohammed Ali Jinnah, the arch-nemesis of the Sindhi Hindu community of Pakistan, owned by the Custodian of Enemy Property. In the world of high finance in Bombay, large sums of money are needed at very short notice by business barons. Banks and other traditional lenders are not quick enough. This money is often exchanged at enormous profit on both sides, no accompanying paperwork and always sealed with a handshake that is never betrayed. Bad faith is quickly punished with the perpetrator being banished from Bombay's business world, although delayed repayment due to genuine hardship is sometimes condoned.

It was inevitable that the path of the money lender kings of Bombay would quickly cross that of the assistant matron of the nearby Breach Candy. Gopal and Nandlal had nine daughters between them. It started off with the eldest pregnant daughter. They could think of no one else but the redoubtable Mrs Pereira for the best care at final trimester. A few words were exchanged with the hospital management, a very generous offer was made to Cloudy and she was granted a sabbatical from BCH. The first grandchild was a boy and the Asranis' joy knew no bounds. They lavished on Cloudy expensive gifts, double the money they had promised and air tickets to London for her family. Cloudy took every gift and every paisa surplus to her salary and gave it to the Pedder Road nuns, to be given to the poor children under their care. The tickets she sold back to the airlines and put the money away for her daughter's education. The family lived in far away Bandra. She could have bought a car with some of the money but she didn't.

After that, with their succeeding daughters marriages and later pregnancies, the Asranis would have no other midwife but Cloudy. Like most Hindu businessmen of Bombay, they were extremely superstitious and they decided not to tinker with God's gift to them. In the Indian Hindu family, the birth of a boy is celebrated with great pomp and joy while that of a daughter is gamely accepted but only so. Cloudy lived up to expectations. The scene became almost routine. No matter where the grandchild was born, whether in London, Paris or Berne, Gopal and Nandlal would be waiting outside the delivery door like anxious fathers. Cloudy would come out with the baby and announce "it's a boy Mr Asrani". The grandfather would hold the child for a minute, then pass him off to his son-in-law, the father and only then would Cloudy take the little bouncer back to his mother. Entire floors of the best hotels in the city were booked off for the Asrani retinue and the celebrations would add up to more than the latter-day oil rich Arabs would ever splurge.

Had Cloudy kept all the money and gifts she was given by the Asranis, her next three generations would have lived in comfort, not needing to work. That would have never crossed her mind. Nuns and the institutions they ran all over Bombay benefited much from Cloudy's firm principles that she was the mere custodian of what God had given her and that true happiness came from giving not from keeping. Her husband died a decade ago, a happy man from a happy marriage. No matter where she was with the Asranis, she would always contact him and let him know he and the girls were the love of her life. Her daughters went through good higher education and eventually crossed India's borders to settle in the US and in Canada. They married well and they are happy. Mrs Pereira, the Cloudy of Bombay, the sunshine of the Asrani family and the guardian angel of many poor and needy children in Bombay will be sorely missed.

Dying in Toronto - The Great Goan Transition

Everything is politically correct in Canada. Being next door to the USA, Toronto gets its political correctness from our neighbor much before the rest of Canada does. That means we get their garbage sooner as well, metaphorically speaking.

The latest word for death, slowly gaining popularity in Toronto is "transition". Although I am not a great fan of political correctness unless rooted in good reason, I think the word transition makes sense if you believe in an after-life. On the other hand the word Afro-American or Afro-Canadian is irrelevant to my mind. An American or Canadian black would, if he has the choice, nothing to do with living in Africa. Therefore me, I cling to Black and none of my black friends protest it.

Seniors in Toronto are a privileged lot. They get all sorts of substantial discounts, they have an excellent lobby group called the CARP (Canadian Association of Retired Persons) that has considerable political clout in Ottawa. The Canadian population after all is aging fast and the average age of a working Canadian is 49. Compare that to the Indian age at 19. Even considering the fact that an Indian is considered over the hill at 50 while his Canadian counterpart is considered young at 65, that is a big age gap.

Torontonians are considered seniors at 65 though the privilege is being extended to younger and younger people all the time. For example here in Scarborough there is a Goan club called the TEGSA (Toronto East Goan Seniors Association) which admits people over 55. Things like that. This club by the way, is so well managed and has so many different types of functions, one could very well say they do better than the ten times larger GOA (Goan Overseas Association), with all respect to that august institution.

It is not uncommon to see men and women at 85 driving large cars. Even after 80, no meaningful eye tests are done and as long as the family physician does not put an adverse remark in the provincial records about the person not being fit to drive, there is no obstacle to the senior driving. I am terrified of seniors on the roads and give them a wide berth ever since I sat in a relative's car and discovered he had no peripheral vision. In other words he would almost bump into persons crossing the road as he could only watch the road straight ahead. No too long ago there was an incident in Mississauga where a senior bumped into a jogging lady and dragged her under the car for about 300 metres all the way to the driveway of the home without realizing what had happened. Saiba Bogos I say, even though I know I may be a senior one day myself, if I don't make the Great Transition before that.

Mostly, Goan seniors are financially well heeled. The mortgage is paid off, leaving a residential asset of $400K or more, on average. They have savings, a company pension perhaps and goodly life-long payments from the government by way of Old Age Security and the Canada Pension Plan. They are entitled to free prescription drugs at 65 and of course free health care of a high level is available to the entire population.

Seniors go all the time on casino trips, vacations to Goa, China, Cuba and the Caribbean. Not to mention "pilgrimages" to some Marian devotional centres in the US that will not be complete without a detour to Atlantic City or Las Vegas. So come the time of the Great Transition, can one blame the senior who exhibits much reluctance to make it?

Dying (to use the common term) in Toronto is a class act. Or more to the point what happens after dying. The Canadian ritual of a funeral is something I have never witnessed either in India or in the Mid-East where I lived for some time. There the body is disposed of as if the ceremony needs to be completed as soon as possible. People cry even if they are not disposed to, and god forbid as in the times I remember, the habit of hiring professional mourners. That I must admit was only in Goa where the funeral used to be mainly comprised of crying, walking the coffin in the heat of the day to the church and then imbibing large amounts of feni as if to anesthetize oneself to all memories of the dear departed. No doubt the soul of the transitioned would have approved of the feni drinking if not of the entire ceremony, crying and all. The fact that even his worst enemies cried when they should have been laughing, added some spice to the whole affair.

Back to Toronto.

The funeral parlor plays the central role and no matter how ill prepared the relatives of the transitioned were, the folks at the parlor arrange everything as if they were prepared one year in advance. They arrange for the body to be brought to the parlor and they prepare it in awesome style. I have seen seniors whom I would not care to meet in dark alleys being transformed to look like St Peter's angelic assistants. That's how good the morticians are. Of course like almost every occupation in Canada they have to be licensed. Once, being bored of the visitation taking place above, I moved to the lower level where I met the guy doing the job and we hit it out with each other. He was a young Colombian who filled me in with his colorful experiences on the job that tickled me pink.

First is the visitation. Usually held on two evenings, from 7 to 9 pm, it gives the mourners a chance to pray for and wish goodbye to the dear departed if one cannot make it to the funeral. The parlor itself consists of 4 or 5 visitation rooms that on a busy day, are all filled with caskets and people. It is there in that room that you will see the Toronto Goan mourner in full form. There is only a minimum pretense of sorrow and seriousness. Five minutes after entering and viewing the easels filled with photographs of the person at his various milestones, they will retire to the back of the room and chat and laugh like it was C. D'Souza's restaurant outside Sonapur church in Goan Dhobitalao. There will be a pat on the back of Joaozinho who
has come all the way from California to pay respects to his late friend, with bonhomie and vigor, taking the ensuing conversation to paths that have nothing to do with the visitation.

On the closely following Saturday is the funeral mass at some lovely church where the coffin is laid out on the main aisle and the children and grandchildren say a few words either during or after mass. This is the inspiring part of the whole dying process and makes one proud of one's Goan children not matter how un-Goan they have become.

The mass is followed by the car trip to a nearby cemetery where each car is given a visible card to put out on the front, identifying it as a funeral procession car. It is a lovely sight with two Toronto policemen on motorcycles in full uniform regalia leading the cortege and two police cars behind. They will stop traffic even on green and lead the cars in state. Ever so often they will reposition themselves with the cars in front and the bikers behind.

Toronto cemeteries are the best I have ever seen. All well maintained, there are sections that have their own significance. Plots for priests, plots for war vets, plots for those who have given generously to start the cemetery. However unlike Goa where I have seen plots demarcated for first class and second class, Toronto cemeteries are first class for all. The plots are quite expensive ranging from $6K (if you pay while living) to $20K or more depending on which view or size the family wants, but all uniform in beauty. A very far cry indeed from the Catholic cemetery in Jogesheshwari where my mother had to be buried a few years ago as her seniors home was in that parish.

After the short burial ritual is over, with tears gently wiped from eyes, the people return to the Church Hall. Before I go further, I must note with appreciation the fact that the casket is lowered only after all the people leave the grounds. That to me is a thoughtful way of saving the closest family members from the act of separation - "to dust thou shalt return" - which could be undoubtedly traumatic with its significance of finality.

This last part is friendly and fun. The family is now centered on the celebration of life rather than the ritual of death. Mourning will come soon enough, but now is the time to recall the best memories of the one who has transitioned. Funny speeches are made, toasts are raised and laughter is brought to the fore. The tables groan under
delicious goan snacks. My perennial favorites are the green chutney sandwiches, beef croquettes and shrimp patties with the taste that only Goans can create.

The whole thing will have cost the family at least $15K and oftentimes much more. The govt will pitch in with $2500 if the person had worked for however little a time and was entitled to the CPP. Most seem to be able to afford these amounts. Most of them while living would have made provision for insurance that would have paid for it.

Another Toronto Goan departed, another wed and another born. As my Bombay friends would say "hatch, match and despatch". Life goes on for the living and who knows, in their own way for the dead as well. The void left by a friend, a sibling, a parent or a spouse will hopefully become fond memories with time.

The Thrill Of The 81st Oscars

For the past 3 or 4 years now, I have been ignoring the Oscars. Not really ignoring, just viewing a few minutes, until boredom set in. I and a host of other people, from what I read.

Yesterday's Oscars was somehow different. The old guard was overshadowed by the young brats and beauties. An hour and a half of watching the commentaries and the Red Carpet before the Oscars even started, held me enthralled. The gowns were spectacular. Anne Hathaway looked fresh and innocent with her large doe eyes and her eye pleasing cream colored jewel encrusted gown. So did Amy Adams in her red affair, and her bright visage, a far cry form the shy diffident young nun character she portrayed in Doubt. Penelope Cruz was neither impressive nor plain but my favorite Marisa Tomei was especially radiant in white. Meryl Streep was old guard. Yet she was gracious, smiling and happy. Another far cry from the cold bitchy roles she has had to recently play.

Kate Winslet who won the best actress was somehow disappointing. She continues to have a great personality but getting older, she has lost the winsome appeal she once had in the Titanic. Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt looked condescending most of the time. Also wary, as if there was an enemy lurking in every corner and very much on guard. The only time they looked human and vulnerable was when the nominee announcers presented and praised them like every announcer did for their candidate.

It was heart-touching to see tears in the eyes of those young actors, male and female when there was the emotional moment. And of that there were many. One of those bigger moments was when Jerry Lewis the comedian came on stage for his humanitarian award. It brought shiny tears to the faces of both young and old. The famous and not so famous. His-life time monumental work for Muscular Dystrophy for which he has collected 2.5 billion dollars so far, was a beacon of hope in a world of the very sick. Another big emotional moment was when Heath Ledger's parents and sister came on stage to collect his best supporting actor's Oscar. They were sad but accepting. Humble yet standing tall. Definitely a family proud of their late son and brother.

But for all that, it was a night for Danny Boyle, his crew, his team and his movie the Slumdog Millionaire. You don't have to be charitable to say that the night of the 81st Oscars was a night for India on the world's stage. There was a spectacular show on the stage, of A R Rehman's Jai Ho with Indian rhythm, fusion music and heart-racing dance. From the Kerala to the Naga drum beaters, from the floor embracing choreography to the music sung with Rehman joining in, it had Hollywood and the world agog with the 5 minutes that was totally Indian. I could see the attendees registering a look of wonderment and admiration like it was nothing they had seen before.

Dev Patel and Freida Pinto were Oscar stars too. They have been transported to dizzying heights by everyone from the media to the men in the studios that matter, to their actor idols. They had no role and came onstage only with the rest of the group for the Best Picture award, but their presence was underwritten, much like the small print on a doucment that is not much seen but quite important to the overall contract. To Dev and Freida goes as much of the success of Slumdog as everything else. Hope they can handle it. May be Dave can. He is British and seems to be flying in awe but firmly standing on the ground as well. About Freida I have my doubts. For someone from a Bombay suburb to the Oscars is a very big step indeed, but I wish her well.

Praise for the interest generated by the 81st Oscars would not be complete without a strong mention of Hugh Jackman the Australian actor and host. His singing, dancing and awesome personality held the eyes of all women young and old. For the men there was the Beyonce Knowles presence. She is a great singer and dancer and the Arab world with their fondness for plus size must have had their eyes glued to every Mid-East television screen with just a few inches to spare.

The Academy has pulled it off. From a waning, viewer-losing one day a year show, they have made the Oscars resurrect the interest of everyone, everywhere.

Here Comes The Goan Bride

There are three types of weddings that Goans usually favor.

One, is the classic wedding. It has all the trimmings, bells and whistles that make it a memorable day for the couple organizing it. They start preparing for it at least one and a half year in advance, taking as much time to find the banquet hall for the big day as one would take to find a new home. Off to the annual bridal show they go, to seek the latest ideas and perhaps get a prize or two in the form of discounts on the services offered. About 250 to 300 close friends and relatives are invited. Everything is done in style and I have seen brides break down at even one small arrangement going wrong.

The mass is a grand affair with the wedding singer taking the hymns and solos to great heights with a practised choir. The reception is equally memorable with toasts raised by the head table consisting of best friends and favored young relatives. They make the audience roar with all the private weaknesses of the couple and it is taken with humor. All this is during or after a sumptuous sit-down three-course meal. Buffet style is a no-no at these weddings. The dessert spread is equally impressive. Laid out on two or three massive oak or maple tables, it consists of every sweet, cake, eclair, tart and pudding you could want. To give it a Goan touch, the parents sometimes add the choicest Goan selections of bibinca, doce-baji, letri and coconut macaroons among others. The band then strikes up and its time for what the Goans do best - dance. At the end of it all, the couple will have spent about $200 or more per guest invited.

The other type of wedding is the more informal affair. The couple decide on a wedding package offered by hotels in some popular beach resort where all the arrangements are made by the hotel concerned. Cuba, Costa Rica or the Dominican Republic are favorite destinations. Since one must take leave from work and pay for the return flights and hotel stay, not to mention the cash present to the wedding couple, only a few close friends and relatives agree to go and that is what the couple really want. The intimacy of friend and family makes their wedding more meaningful and remembered. The guests in turn get a holiday for themselves and a chance to add joy to the newly weds in a more personal manner. Sometimes if the wedding is planned for Goa, more people will come for obvious reasons.

The third choice is a low-budget affair where the young couple call only their near family and go off to one of the many small towns in Ontario where the wedding takes place Canadian style, with the least expense and also the least fuss. The low key mass is held in the town church where the small population come wide eyed, to welcome the town guests and the reception is held in the community hall where sometimes the local police and the fire department will drop in for a couple of beers. In return they will parade the couple through the town, lights flashing and horns blaring, singing Irish or Scottish wedding songs interspersed with mandos that bring out the people from the homes to wave and cheer at the retinue. Money is saved that could be more usefully plowed into a home and car and the various other major expenses that loom on the horizon.

It is customary for people to RSVP to wedding invitations before the due date which is about a month ahead of the occasion. The couple will register with one of the larger department stores and make a list of the items they require for their new home. That way they will get presents of their choice of a wide range and without any duplication. The more expensive items are meant for the wedding and those of lesser value (between $50 and $100) can be given for the bridal shower. The male part of the couple of course is happier with a lady popping out of a large cake with nothing on except a nice hat at a stag party where beer flows like water. But then men have always been low maintenance. Presents for the wedding usually fall between the $150 to 200 range per person in cash or registered gifts. That helps to defray some of the couple's manifold costs.

The young Goan population in Toronto is unevenly balanced. There are more girls than boys and therefore the females become predators clothed in the nicest, brightest lamb-like clothing and with the sweetest demeanor. The boys will be macho. They will work out, have 6 feet tall muscular lean bodies and seemingly have razor-sharp minds. The girls although cleverer, will pretty much act like dumb blondes and let them get their way during courtship. The routine always works. However loud the boys, however quickly they chug seven to eight shots of the most throat-searing ouzo or vodka, after the wedding everything turns topsy-turvy. That small, gentle, sweet 5feet nothing of Goan seduction will turn that lion into a mouse.

Here is a typical conversation overheard from a young wedded couple.
He: My parents would like to come to Toronto this summer.
She: But we are going to France in June.
He: France? You never told me of that plan before. In any case they cannot come in the Canadian winter you know.
She: I know. So you can tell them to come next year.
He: It makes more sense for us to go to France in the winter.
She: Shush shush dear lets not go on about this.
End of all dialogue. Mum and Dad can come only next year. Subject of course to all her other future plans.

OK ladies, no offence. Boys, it could be worse. Home Depot sells dog houses they call "tool sheds" and in sweet revenge, she'll make you pay for it. Who says it's the economy you had to worry about after your wedding day?

Slum Dog Millionaire - One Thumb Down

Ended up seeing Slumdog Millionaire yesterday. Actually I would have seen it a long time ago before it became famous, at a Toronto Film Festival preview to which I had 2free tickets, had it not been for my wife who refused to see on film what we once saw in Bombay in actual life. Like women, she is mostly right.

Looking from the eyes of an ex-Bombaywalla, I was disappointed with the movie. Don't get me wrong, I wish it well and hope that in addition to all the awards it has already won, it wins at the Oscars too. Not only that, I wish that Dev Patel and Frieda Pinto get all the splendid spin-offs that result from a famous film. But the film itself was neither a tear-jerker, nor had a social message nor was just a feel good movie. It was a portrayal of reality in the Bombay slums or for that matter in the slums of any large Indian metropolis.

It was reality all right. The director dared to show:
Life in the slums
Filth in all its glory
Exploitation of children
Maiming little ones to put them out to beg
Third degree methods used routinely by Indian police

All, except an outrageously unreal theme right out of Bollywood. That a young boy wins a hefty monetary prize at a Bombay television game show based on giving answers that he actually experienced while growin up. It did have its undercurrent of love and hope - that of an enduring relationship of one five year old boy for another five
year old girl, though one had to stretch one's imagination for this.

I know why the film has won international acclaim. It shows the other side of India. One that has always existed, but to the Westerner, is especially relevant now that India has become an international player. This film would not have merited an 'also ran' ten years ago, although what is shown in it, has existed for more than the last fifty.

Something good may come of it, I hope. Perhaps some western countries may send their aid groups to Indian slums to mitigate the extreme poverty that is a fact of life there. Danny Boyle the director has certainly not made any plans for this. If not for the adults, then for the children, so that they might at least have hope. I doubt it will happen. The Indian govt is too proud to let it. After all one cannot have nuclear weapons and then need some 'goras' to look after your weakest links.

I have seen better Indian-English movies directed by Deepa Mehta, Mira Nair and before that by James Ivory and Ismail Merchant. I have heard better musical scores in those films than those of Abdul Rehman in this. Better stories, better direction, better themes. But that is only because I am an ex-Bombaywalla and know a good English film about anything Indian than most westerners do.

But inspite of all that, to those who have not seen Slumdog Millionaire, I sincerely say "dont miss it".

L'Chaim ! Next Year In Goa

And so, in the tone of the Bible, they came to the land, they toiled and their God was pleased. But it was not without pain.

Although their western background of the British and the Portuguese colonial eras helped the Goans in assimilating into Canada, there was yet a lot they did not understand.

They did not understand why the husband could not speak on behalf of the wife, or on behalf of their children of majority. They did not understand why in many cases their wives could earn more than they did. They could not understand why though they worked so hard and knew more, their colleagues who could verbally spout (that counted for 'communication'), would pass them for promotions. Those who did, thrived, and those who didn't, held on to the hope that one day they would go back to Goa where things were much saner. At least to them.

There was a lot of hubris to many a Goan male. Used to a background where a marriage was made for life, they could not reconcile to the pressures of living in the western world. To him, it was enough that he worked hard, that he brought his family to a better country and had made things possible. Bombarded from all sides from high pressure advertising, from conversations with female colleagues at the office and other pulls, the Goan wife deemed it not enough. The fact was, both needed to grow.

When the children rebelled, as children all over are wont to do, the mother took the children's side and the father felt betrayed. One's line in the sand was redrawn by the other. And the children took advantage of it. Still, there was nothing that could not be solved with some family or marriage counselling in which Canada abounds, but the Goan's inherent nature would not allow it. What would society think, was the paramount obstacle in their heads. It's the other's fault, not mine, was another obstacle.

But marriages survived and healed because Goan Toronto is Toronto. Families talked to each other, they called each other to their homes and they celebrated their occasions like Goans do and that helped in the healing. The problems after all, were not confined to them alone. That, and the financial effects of a separation, held the bond that was made in some old Catholic Church or Cathedral in Saddar Town, Panjim, Bandra or Entebbe.

And so the first generation families thrived despite all the conflicting pressures of jobs, children, marriages and a new society. The nest was the castle where the heating was adequate and the cold drafts of the psychological winters were kept at bay. The children had a home where both father and mother were present and the children too thrived in the warmth. For Toronto where the divorce rate is 60%, the
Goan rate of about 5 says a lot for the strong fiber of the community. Those rolling hills of Sangolda and the lush paddy fields of Cavelossim no matter how many generations ago, had played their part in a drama enacted in a young country more than 8000 miles away.

To the Gulf and the Indian Goan, the nascent dream of one day going back to Goa never went away. They dreamt of the days when Goa was pristine and poor and the people uncalculating. Like the Jews, whenever they met they toasted to the Goan equivalent of L'Chaim - To Life! Next year in Jerusalem! The children would have homes of their own and they would go back to the land they so loved. They went for their vacations to Goa as often as they could, husband and wife and they saw that Eden was not Eden any more. The wives broke ranks first. Goa, they said, not for me! Canada is much better even in my old age. Few cheat, the systems are orderly, I get good health care and I can have a say if something bothers me. Besides, my children are here. The husbands refused to let go of Jerusalem, but as more time passed and things got worse in Eden, they too agreed.

It's no longer L'Chaim for the Canadian Goans. It's more like I'm happy where I am.

The Second Generation Loses Its Roots

The first generation of Goans trooping into Canada from Africa, Pakistan, India and the Gulf came with great expectations for their children. Except where they came in to escape expulsions and persecution, they immigrated to a man because of the common hope that their children should live in a country that was stable, permanent, orderly, peaceful and rich.

Like Goans elsewhere, and generations before them, they wanted their children to face a better future than they did, and to that end, they were willing to face uncertainty in employment, a different, much unfriendlier culture than their own and the harsh vagaries of inclement weather. They were ready to miss the fish, the feni and the feasts so that when the time came for them to pass, they had something to show for their sacrifice. This was their culture right or wrong - that no matter how much you had missed in life, whether education, comfort or anything else, you would be determined to ensure that your children would miss nothing.

The Gulf Goans were the most to suffer. They had choice, they had money and they had a country to return to, where they could enjoy the rest of their lives in wealth and ease. But they forsook all this for what they had reckoned was the betterment of their children. They left well paying jobs, but without the education or the skills that were required for the Canadian market-place.

In those material hopes for their children, they were not disappointed.

The little tykes went into their public schools, fresh-faced and incredulous at their new surroundings. They quickly picked up the Canadian accent and bravely faced the cold of winter. Their teachers for their own good refused to let them stay in the warm classrooms at recess and shoved them into the playground cold. Red as tomatoes their cheeks turned. Bullied in many instances, they were. Used to the new teaching styles and curriculums they became. But before you could say Jack Robinson, they got to be Canadian like everybody else. Of course they were brown and not white, but in the multi-colored sea that is Toronto, they were as much at home as anybody else. The fact that by the 80s Canada had become completely non-racial, worked to their good.

In the years that went by, their native Goan genes gave them the edge they required. More than anyone else, the Indians and the Chinese filled Toronto's Universities and these young Goans became the engineers, scientists, business execs, doctors, bureaucrats and entrepreneurs their families wanted them to be. They got good jobs at Canada's leading corporations and they earn the money at 25 that exceeds what their parents struggle to earn at 50. They had made it and the future was bright under the Canadian sun and the snow.

But there is another side to all this. It was too optimistic for the Goan to expect that their children would become Canadian while still retaining what was good in the Goan. Children rebelled against their fathers. They disrespected them, seeing what they viewed as people just off the boat. The blame was not all theirs. The first generation immigrant wanted to foist their values and traditions on the second and the second would have none of it. In backlash, there was sullenness, anger and resentment. And the fathers said to themselves "And I came to Canada for all this." In their early teens, the children would have none of this thing they heard from their parents about being Goan. They rejected the food cooked by their mothers who cooked it the only way they knew and they settled for the burgers, the pizzas and the pastas. Must have made the Italians happy.

But as they grew, loved and married people from other cultural and racial backgrounds, they changed a little. They wanted to find out more about their being Goan. Going to see Goa, the land many of them had never seen before or couldn't remember, became de rigeur. Some of them even wanted to have their weddings there. Goa after all was for them an exotic destination. They came back wide eyed and happy. They loved the people, they loved the land and even more importantly, their spouses loved it more than they did. They promised to go back again and when they found the time, they do.

As their children in turn became parents, the old resentments healed. But the parents are smart now. They know these kids would never become Goan again.

Toronto's Goan Fabric

The Greater Toronto Area encompasses the City of Toronto (itself an amalgamation of the former cities of Scarborough, North York, York, East York and Etobicoke) and Mississauga. However the GTA as it is known, extends over a wide swathe of residential neighborhoods that would take you 2 hours driving time at 120 kmph on the connecting Highway 401 from west to east, end to end.

The main body of Goans live in Scarborough, Mississauga and Markham, which is north of Toronto, although in the last few years they have inhabited the newer neighborhoods of Pickering and Ajax. Downtown Toronto has it's share of Goan yuppies (with no children) and retirees who have splurged on luxury lakeside condos from the generous proceeds of downsizing from large homes that eventually became empty nests with all their children gone. The population of the GTA is about 4 million souls of which Goans must be about 70 to 80 thousand. The Goan numbers are estimates.

Goan immigration to Toronto, indeed Canada, came from the following waves:
1. Bombay Goans who came in the 50s and 60s with Indian passports and were admitted into Canada without any visas due to Commonwealth status. They just bought an air ticket and immigrated.
2. Karachi Goans also in the same period who were getting disillusioned with the Islamic State and were suffering religious persecution.
3. East Africa Goans from the 70s. The first major number was in 1972 due to Idi Amin's Uganda Asian expulsion.
4. Arabian Gulf Goans from the late 80s. The first Gulf wave was from Bahrain.
5. Bombay Goans from the 90s

The Gulf and Bombay Goans continue to come in significant numbers.

As a population, Goans are well-settled and could be considered affluent relative to other communities. Although mainly from the middle, non-professional class (unlike the USA), they worked diligently and hard, bought homes and accumulated assets. The Goans from East Africa are the most well-off as they joined the Federal and Provincial Govt in large numbers (shades of East Africa) and eventually the Govt turned out to be the best employer. Good salaries and especially fat retirement pensions. A husband and wife couple who reached the 80 factor (50 years old + 30 years service) get a monthly pension of about $8,000 per month in total. This is a significant amount, considering that the mortgage has been paid off, the children studies completed and no major expenses to take care of.

The Bombay Goans have been the biggest achievers. They did not hesitate to re-qualify, a distinct mentality difference from the Gulf Goans whose main mantra seemed to be "I am too old to study, the brain cells have rusted". The BGs also did not hesitate to take low paying jobs and rose quickly through the ranks. A main Canadian feature which takes much getting used to is "start low and rise fast". Another is very few non-Canadian qualifications are given any importance and the third is the insistence on "Canadian experience". The new immigrant gets stumped with this. How can I get Canadian experience if you don't give me the first job they ask.

In the first year or two, the new Goan immigrant gets really disheartened. He has left his comfort zone, his life-long friends, his titled position and is forced to draw down on his savings which can disappear at an alarming rate. This is the Canadian test of fire. Most survive. Only to be faced with the Canadian winter, which he discovers is about a little less than half the year.

The weather is the subject of another chapter.

Religion and the Toronto Goan

55% of Toronto residents are first or second generation immigrants. Of the Christian Torontonians, fully half are Roman Catholic. That means while Churches in the rest of Canada are quite empty for Sunday masses, Toronto Catholic Churches are always full. The first generation immigrant, misfortune-afflicted nothwithstanding, rarely
lets go of his God. However, the grip of faith doesn't last much beyond the first generation.

Take the Portuguese and the Italians for example. You will find old widowed Portuguese women in their traditional neighborhood enclaves of mid-town Toronto, trudging to church for a weekday evening mass even in the bitterest of cold snaps. Their children and grandchildren on the contrary, are only seen in the Church or the Rectory when they require certificates for marriage or citizenship. They go as Catholics but do little to profess their faith. I am not being judgmental, merely observant. Christmas and Easter to them are times to visit their parents for a good meal and exchange presents - nothing more.

The Filipino and the Goan communities on the contrary, hold on to their religion much more strongly than they did in the countries they came from. This is a phenomenon that never fails to amaze. Take the West Indian Hindu community for example. Brought to Trinidad, Guyana and other WI island nations by the Brits as indentured labor in the 18th century to tend to the sugarcane crops or work on other plantations. They were glad to escape the rigors of their Harijan life in Bihar or UP. Today, they have shed all likeness to their ancestors and exhibit all the characteristics of their black, white, chinese and portuguese island brethren except one. They hold on to their traditional Hindu beliefs many of which you will not find in India any more. Perhaps in a world of fleeting changes, some values act as anchors.

Catholicism in Canada is the legacy of the French Quebecers. They came to the New World as faithful subjects of their Kings and their Popes and fought the British who were Protestants, quite fiercely. They carved a home for themselves in what was then called Lower Canada and is now the Province of Quebec. Larger in area than even Ontario, Quebec became more prosperous than it's Anglo neighboring province. Montreal was THE city of Canada. The largest corporations were headquartered there and the city had a distinct European flavor that it's rival Toronto envied. Toronto was known as the good. The plain would have been a better description. Before that, Hogtown, as pigs to be slaughtered were brought to the city's meat packing plants.
Montreal on the contrary was smooth, sophisticated and a gourmet's paradise. All that changed when the Quebec government insisted on undue emphasis on the French language. The province emptied out it's riches which relocated to Ontario and British Columbia.

Montreal now holds only its grand relics of Catholicism. The Cathedral of Notre Dame, its St Joseph's Oratory and its manifold places of worship all along the St Lawrence River. No tourist to Toronto misses a visit to any of these. The Churches are mostly empty and in rural Quebec, it's much worse. None of the handful of people who patronize them are under 70 except for Goans who have populated Montreal and its surrounding cities from the days when Goan immigrants to Canada came to Montreal, not Toronto to build their new lives.

Toronto is a very immigrant friendly city. Cuisines from every country are served at its ethnic restaurants, while Greek, Italian and Portuguese food places have long since been considered almost mainstream. There are hardly any Goan restaurants (one to be exact) and that's a shame. Granted that the restaurant business is fiercely
competitive in Toronto, it is still surprising that not one Goan restaurant has survived over the years. The owners blame it on the reluctance of Goan patrons. They say that Goans look at the restaurant offerings and think "I eat better and cheaper at home". The patrons blame it on poor service, unimaginative decor and reluctance to invest for the long haul. The truth as usual is somewhere in between.

The Goan community I would say is split fairly equally down the middle as far as liberal and forward thinking views and values are concerned. There is the part of the community that has no problems with adapting to Canada. They are well socialized, change habits for the better and show no opposition to their sons and daughters marrying good people who are non-Goans and non-Indians. Their children are instilled with enduring values and education and they treat them and their peers in the community with respect. But there is that other section too. The people who have not changed much despite living in the western world for considerable time. They feel they are unjustly treated at jobs, they are beyond strict with their children, making no concession to modernity. Some of them are still caste-ridden. They might as well have remained in some backwoods of Goa. This difference between the two sections of the Goan community has no relationship to affluence or acquired wealth. It's just their state of mind, mostly a hangover of their upbringing. But then isn't that true of Goan communities everywhere? Even in Goa are not Goans split into such a division?

Toronto Goans though, truthfully are one of the most generous of the diaspora. Their hospitality rivals with that seen in Goa 50 years ago. They are friendly, they are helpful and to the new Goan immigrant they will stretch themselves no matter the lack of appreciation from the people they have helped and who are now well-settled. Gratitude sometimes seems a failing of certain sections of the community. But that is neither here nor there.