Toronto Goan

On The Ground in Toronto

2010-07-28T16:33:00.005-04:00

Canada is widely acclaimed for it's true diversity - and rightly so. Many other cities in other countries can claim diversity, but only as a veneer. Rub the surface and you will get racism, communalism and versions of other isms too. But in Canada and especially in its larger cities, there is true tolerance.

Walk the streets of this city and you will see what I mean. Talk to a stranger who is a resident and you will see even more. No one cares who you are. Rich or poor, Indian or European, professional or unskilled, everyone is accorded the dignity of the human race. This shows in its intermarriages and its dating. Russians with Filipinas, Jews with Muslims, Blacks with Chinese. It is a very colorful mosaic and one which is a pleasure to behold.

I have often asked myself what single factor has been responsible for this. Is it Government policy, is it the schools, is it the pulse of the workplace, is it the older inhabitants - the previous generations, or is it just the feeling one gets that racism will not be accepted or tolerated here. Twenty years of living in this country and I have not reached a conclusion. I have given up seeking the casue, more than happy that it suffices to experience it without needing to know how and when it all came about.

Our neighbor the United States can claim a little but not too much of this. The people are too haughty and arrogant without really meaning to be so. They are constantly bombarded with how great a nation theirs is. May be so. But they have come to make that truism a part of their pysche. And the accompanying pride comes in the way of acceptance of other cultures. Not on a personal level, for Americans are one of the friendliest people you can meet, but on a more collective plane. This reflects in what their government does and in their phobia of the hispanic influx.

The Europeans on the other hand are terrified of the 'Mohammedan' invasion. It has taken place before their very eyes and their governments have been slow to react. When they do look at the speed at which their Muslim communities are growing, they act with knee-jerk reactions like that banning the hijab. Those in southern Europe feel especially vulnerable. A ferry across and the immigrant is there. Before long the specter of racism comes to haunt.

Indians though, have lived with racism in one form or another all their lives. They are comfortable with it and have accepted it as part of 'doing business', never mind the hurt caused to the target-victims. In facts the victims too have adjusted to that disadvantage and have overcome it with education and the sudden accumulation of wealth and position. Yesterday's low caste police constable now has a son who is an IPS officer and hence capable of making victim of anyone he wants. Yesterday's harijan dirt collector has become today's PWD contractor on whose bribes the 'higher-born' authorities depend. The village panchayat clerk of a few years ago is today a powerful MLA who can manipulate anyone, including the law enforcers at will. The situation in India is unique. 'Mera Bharat Mahaan' is an an empty slogan for those who know how the country really works.

OK, OK I am not saying that Canada is the only jewel in the 'all humans are equal' crown. It just seems like that to me.

He Knew Her !

2009-12-10T17:20:00.006-05:00

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

2009-08-30T20:31:00.005-04:00

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

2009-04-18T22:40:00.001-04:00

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

2009-04-01T08:59:00.002-04:00

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

2009-03-12T21:36:00.004-04:00

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

2009-02-28T16:28:00.012-05:00

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

2009-02-24T23:57:00.003-05:00

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

2009-02-16T20:28:00.005-05:00

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

2009-02-15T13:50:00.001-05:00

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

2009-02-01T22:16:00.001-05:00

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

2009-02-01T22:15:00.004-05:00

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

2009-02-01T22:14:00.003-05:00

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

2009-02-01T22:05:00.003-05:00

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.

The Bombay I Shall Never Forget

2008-12-23T09:53:00.002-05:00

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

2008-07-09T08:51:00.000-04:00

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

2008-07-06T18:53:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-29T14:18:00.002-04:00

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

2008-06-29T14:18:00.001-04:00

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
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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
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News headlines visit: http://www.goanet.org/newslinks.php

Spring in Toronto

2008-06-13T00:07:00.000-04:00

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.