Happy Birthday Mai

Dedicated to Mrs Laurenca Silva -
of Mungul Pequeno, Salcete, Goa
On her 100th birthday.

by Brian Mendonca


To live a hundred years
Is to be blessed by an age.
A century is inadequate
To sum up your graces.
You live in the eye of time -
The matrix of the past
the present and the future.
May your journey be blessed
Your loved ones around you.
Each day is your signature
O seraph of Eternity.

(6 May 2012
Joecon's Garden Restaurant
Benaulim, Goa)

Baba's Day Out

May You Have a Spirit-filled Easter!

Happy Easter! It's been a long journey over the 40 days of Lent, and now, almost unbelievably, it is here. The Lord has risen.He has risen indeed. Alelluia!

After the ignominy of seeming defeat which we witnessed Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ which was screened on Good Friday on Sony Pix at 9 p.m. we were almost swamped in unrelieved gloom. Still a CD of Goan Lenten Motets saw us through,with the Chinchinim choir, directed by Fr Romeo Monteiro, intoning the sonorous songs. We even had the delight of listening to the St. Cecelia choir of Rachol seminary performing the concert of sacred music at the magnificent church of St. Ann at Talaulim, Tiswadi, Goa.

The Archbishop Fr Felipe Neri Ferrao gave a sprightly message on the occasion observing that the festival of sacred music allows us to ontemplate on the passion and death of Christ. He also lamented that the practice today in many churches is to use contemporary musical idioms for worship. This he felt was distracting and did not serve the purpose. He recalled how the Gregorian chant unified the Catholic church under Charlemagne. Standing for Maundy Thursday Mass at Pallotti House, Chicalim, I was reminded of the Archbishop's words - when the hymn preceding the washing of the feet was set to a swinging country and western tune! After the solemn homily it sounded so out of place. 'Father forgive them for they know not what they do'!

I was also wondering about whether there were any female apostles -and would Father wash their feet too? For a pluralistic society no form of worship can be complete without accepting the place of women in the life of Jesus. Do we not have to recognize this? The Lord's mother, Mary; Mary Magdalene, the women of Galilee were all there on the journey to Calvary. It is unlikely Jesus did not have any female followers. Or is it that this is an edited portion of 'History.'  On one occasion, the person I sat next to on a flight, was immersed in a book called The Thirteenth Apostle. I think I have also blogged on it here.

Interestingly, in a local newspaper during Holy Week a young girl had sent a painting of the last Supper with 3 women as apostles. Happily, the paper carried the painting. Exclusion is often internalised. Just as there were no girl altar servers in the past - and there are now, we hope this thinking will reach to the apostles too.

The recent pronouncements by the Pope about women priests, may indicate the church is on the backfoot. There are websites like womenpriests.org from where this visual is taken. Time will tell.

'Nishte Zai Go!'

                                                                                  - Brian Mendonça

When Jesus fed the multitude, all he needed were 5 loaves and 2 fish. Today it takes nothing short of a miracle to do that -- or a lot of money. 4 large white pomfret were selling for Rs. 500 last evening at the Vasco fish market. A medium-sized kingfish was for Rs 400.  There were teesrios, modso, dodyare and lepe. I came away with 8 mackeral for Rs. 100 and a fistful of prawn for Rs. 50.

That was the easy part. These days to save Queenie the trouble of cleaning the fish – ever since our cooking maid dumped us – I  stride manfully up to the cement slabs at the rear of the fish market and ask one of the gents who double up as fish cleaners, to clean the fish I have bought.  (Earlier, dad says, I would not venture within a mile of the place!) The fish cleaner did not say a word as I placed my two poti’s of fish within inches of his cutting board which seemed like a sawn-off tree trunk.

We usually source fish from here as the choice is more. The fish market near Butteabhat, down the road from Mangor Hill where we live, could give the city market a run for its money, but the catch there is iffy. Also, on the last occasion the prawns (cleaned and kept) I had picked up in a spurt of misguided euphoria were a shade stale. The fisherwoman who has been coming to our locality at mid-morning since mum’s time advertises her catch by yelling the customary, ‘Nishte Zai Go . . .!!’ for the benefit of all those women who want to buy some. But she charges more than the usual price -- no doubt for the door to door service. The upside of it is that now baba-Dwayne has begun imitating her, and he even puts his hands on his head to balance his basket of fish! All of us have our tryst with fish, sooner or later.

Halfway through the mackerals, a man strode up to the fish cleaner with a single fish, whose length seemed endless. I smelt trouble. I waited as I sat on the makeshift plastic chair (sans arms) in front of the fish cleaner. Sure enough, the moment he was through the 8, he took the king-sized hisson and said he would not be able to do the shumta. ‘Chodd ha’ he said. What I had considered my good fortune at the fisherwoman’s largesse, now paled into a liability! What is more, that chit of a man who had just gate-crashed, began to hold forth on how people like me should not be bringing puny prawns to self-respecting fish cleaners.

Should I leave? -- For I saw no way of how the meek were going to inherit the earth. I indignantly pointed out to the fish cleaner that if he wasn’t going to do it he should have told me so in the first place. He would not budge. There was no succour in sight. The fisherwoman from whom I had bought the prawns would no doubt shoo me away now, I thought despondently. And it was nearing time to pick up Queenie from the gym.

To lose one’s shirt and stalk off in anger would have been the easiest thing. I took a different tack. I waited. I could feel my senses simmering with each neat fillet he cut of the kingfish. The rasping sound of steel on stone as he sharpened his knife took on demonic proportions. He was soon done though. The man threw down a large note and swaggered off with his prize.  The moment he was gone the fish cleaner seemed to lose all his bravado.  I waited for the right moment. Surely he was not too proud to earn a buck rather than sit idle? ‘Masso kor,’ I ventured, standing up, ‘Thodde kor.’ He shrugged. As he condescended to finger the prawns, he called out in what sounded like Kannada, to a woman who was pottering around close by. ‘Haath lai,’ he said, switching to Konkani.  Seeing my perseverance she started cleaning and deveining the prawns expertly. Soon the mound was almost gone. More fish buyers lined up to have their fish cleaned. But the two stood steadfast until the prawns were done, grinning and sharing wisecracks about their work.  I was wondering what turned the tide.  We often have to think on our feet to rescue a seemingly hopeless situation. But it’s worth the effort for a tasty prawn curry with rice – you should taste Queenie’s!

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Cartoon by Mario Miranda

i10 Intent

What amazed me was the number the RTO Vasco, Goa, gave me for my vehicle. I had gone to collect it on 24 February 2012. I was hoping for a significant combination - but I was not going to pay 10,000 for it! Next to me a man was squirming and sweating making mental calculations and calling frantically on his cellphone as to which was the most suitable number to take. I think he had forked out the extra cash.

Now you know that my birthday is on the 7th. Apart from that, in the Bible, the seven priests carry the ark of the covenant 7 times around the temple. I have always regarded 7 as propitious. 'D' of course is for Dwayne our little son - if it were not for him a lot of life would not have happened. And then there was 24 the day we picked up the vehicle. GA-06-D-7324, here I come!

The photo featured above is the one Hyundai Verna took when I was taking the car. It was sent by Xyra - or was it Zyra? Thank you Hyundai. :). In the picture is Sachin, who has become a friend by now. The several conversations we used to have, the advice we considered, all finally grew to fruition.

Driving the car in Vasco has been a sheer thrill. In the city we drive dead slow. That is also the toughest part - to drive in low gear. Queenie and me are still discovering the car and baba (1+) is taking the car apart. As we said yesterday, 'When baba puts first gear, dada fas gya'!

We enjoy listening to music on the sound system in the car. 6 FM stations are backed by our selection of CDs. Our fav CD is the music CD of the Divine Retreat Centre Fathers, composed by Fr Joby. It calms us and soothes our nerves. We wouldn't have come this far without Him. May His name be praised.

One day in February

February 5, 2011 was my last working day at a prominent multimedia concern at Okhla, Delhi. For reasons best known to them, after hiring me in end-October they decided there was no place on board for me by Feb. I had actually worked just 2 months for them, i.e. from December 2011 to Jan 2012.

This was the first step of what was to be a long and eventful journey. Our baby boy Dwayne came to us on Makar Sankranti, viz 14 Jan at Holy Family hospital, Okhla. Queenie always maintains that the job was god-sent, as I got lots of time to be with her in hospital during the lunch breaks. The hospital and the office were a stone's throw away.

But when the axe fell - for no apparent reason - we did not know what to do, except pray. In the teeth of good sense, we celebrated baba's christening on 27 Feb. Manish Kusumwal of Capitol hotels at the Ashoka gallantly offered to bring his cook along and stir up a rousing chicken xacuti  to serve the guests we had invited. Dad came from Goa, and my sister and her family came from Pune.

Meanwhile I kept looking for a job. Time was not on my side and a senior position in editorial was not easy to come by. Besides there was baby to look after and mama was recovering.

Slowly we got around to the realisation that Delhi was not to be the place to be. We furtively asked dad if we could come down and stay with him - and he agreed.

A year now, we are happy to be together in Vasco, Goa. Maybe I could not spend much time when mum was there, but I'd like to now. I have a job I enjoy - as a teacher in college. I come home for lunch and I have the time to write.

I am thankful that I was asked to leave that job - because it gave me the pretext to do what I always wanted, i.e. come home.

A Peace of India: Narrative of a Nation

-Brian Mendonça

When I bounced the title of my second book of poems 'A Peace of India'

with friends a while ago, some of them wryly retorted 'Piece'? - or 'Pieces'?

That was the time Jharkhand was happening and and we had not yet got

to Chattisgarh. Telangana was nascent and the Manipuris were doing

their bit with the head hunters. Nearer home, trains occasionally got

stoned at Hubli or Belgaum and the only safe transit point between two

states seemed to be the silence in Silent Valley.

After the hermeticism of 'Last Bus to Vasco' my first book of poems,

India itself, I thought, would be my canvas. So from Delhi - or Goa

depending on what my base was, I travelled from Kashmir to Trivandrum

and from Kachch to Kohima to peel the skin of India. The search took

more than a decade.I am more convinced than ever now that my homonymic association with the word will vouch for 'peace' rather than 'piece.'

A great part of my working life was spent in a room at the top of the

stairs.Weekends, I rushed frenetically across India to discover my

adopted 'family.' 'Family' was an all-inclusive term really:

Yes I Will Go

Yes I will go

to see my 'friends'

the rivers, the birds

and the trees

Where the wind calls

and the forests wait

in the stories of an India

yet to be told.

India is a huge carpet.

The narrative of the nation is told in her stories. Each experience humbled me. The Narmada river told its story in its terrifying descent at Amarkantak. The river then flowed across to Gujarat from Madhya Pradesh. Does the river pause when it crosses the state boundary? Saramago -- speaking of the river Tagus which flows from Portugal into Spain -- ponders whether the fish give a second thought when they cross the border in the fluidity of the river. Nature like India is free and bountiful.

'What were you doing at midnight at a crossroad at Jamshedpur? Don't you get scared of the naxalites? Fortunately, this was asked to me after I returned to Delhi. But then again, it would not have deterrerd me. I know friends with NGO's who work with villagers in abject poverty. What is their recourse when they are the undead of the State? We had a superb poetry session in the makeshift guest bedroom of my friend who is a documentary film maker in Jharkhand. 'Ek shaam kavita ke naam se,' wrote a senior poet who had attended the session.

Amid all vicissitudes, I have found poetry has the power to redeem. There are people everywhere in this land of Bhavabhuti, Kalidasa, and Shudraka who revere the poetic. Poetry inspired us all to join hands and knit India into a poetic canvas. Poetry enabled  Indians to rise above seeming differences to enjoy a space of bliss. It gave us the inspiration to believe that we had a higher destiny to realize. United in this common goal, India received me in peace wherever I went.

‘A chronicler of our times,’ wrote a critic after my poetry reading at the Pasha in Chennai. The ordinary, in India, seemed so momentous simply because it was reified by experience – and chastened, as it were, by a uniquely Indian sensibility. Whether it was a reflection on a sadhu urinating from a railway platform at Tatanagar or on a railway vendor making parotha bhaji at Lumding station, these were all vignettes of a tactile, sensuous India. Here was India live with all its folkways and mores. From the  homegrown wisdom in Chamba of ‘Halwai kitna khayega’ [How many sweets can a sweetmeat seller eat?] we moved to the sagacity of a grandmother in Gujarat reassuring us that ‘Koteshwar is not far away.’ With every breath there was a lifetime to be learnt or to lament.

The horrific disasters India has been through, mellowed us all. ‘On the Anjar road, the ceiling hangs like a curtain’ was all that was needed to remind us of the Gujarat earthquake. So many had lost their lives here. And how was one to say to the proud safa-headed mahout that his city of lakes was reeling from drought? Your heart went out to these simple villagers whose stoicism saw them through their curtain of pain.

Staring at Majuli across the Brahmaputra you knew Sanjoy still lived. Bhupen-da’s music still reverberates in wayside eateries in Assam. Legends pass on but India lives on. ‘Of a valiant race / all that remains  . . . / Is mawa tiranga / And a woman on a hill’-- Maharani Gayatri Devi epitomized Jaipur. What now?

The panoply of the ancient and the modern, is what makes India so timeless. To key into that energy, is to partake of some of that eternity – to be outside time. At the Gajner palace, the very wind hums the name of the daughter of Oudh, ‘diadem of the pleasure gardens.’ Basking on the lawns at Pinjore you are behoved to know the Pandavas once walked by followed by a dog.

And the ignominy of it all – when we reduce our most moving epitaphs to the dead to a jamboree for a carnival horde – the Taj. Peace is sometimes chastened by irony. Or in the case of the sights of India: Palace on Wheels / You do the rounds  . . ./200$ per day / For a package of India / What can I offer you? / I am only an Indian.

You see the same trees everywhere in India – or in most places. Trees, animals, rivers, skies are unifying tropes which stitch India into a many-splendoured quilt. The motifs reappear in the  myriad art and craft traditions only serve to accentuate the enduring beauty of this land, each in its own medium: ‘Sanganer’s scrolls / Sport Krishna’s dalliance / As Amber’s turrets / recall the watches of the night.’ Then again to the East: ‘Lanterns from Pipli / Patachitra on the walls / Off NH33 / This is home / Once more.’

This timeless land is also under threat: ‘Sand mining / Has denuded you / Of your waters / O mighty Bharatpuzha / Refuge of the ancients.’ When one whistleblower after another is laid low by the scythe of evil, it unites us as never before. When a finger is lifted to voice the truth  and the truth is silenced by murder, it unites us – to preserve an India we believe in. From the fierce patriotism of Haldighati to the sinking of the sailors in INS Khukri, off Diu, the supreme sacrifice does not go unnoticed. It is the purpose of the poetic to reveal these truths.

Moving India on her journey is the eternal Indian woman: ‘Instant city / Home to hot millions / Gita Govinda / Of Taya and Rukmini.’ You will always find an ‘autumn woman’ waiting by the kerb in end-October. ‘Does one still shed clothes / In a summer reprieve / Or is it that / You are just too hot?’ Indian women personify India. The maiden from Satna ‘bedecked in bangles / ardhanareeshwara . . ./ Are you fleeing / from, or to, love / in such precocious haste?’ Travelling across India is to discover the beauty of woman in all her dimensions. ‘Daffodil Kahmee, bound for Imphal / Fumbles for the chords / As she strums the guitar / For the girls from Manipur. . . / Praise and worship / In the North East night.’

 I just let the places speak for themselves through my poems. In Morni hills I wrote, ‘In Rumi’s night my life is in surrender / In the way of life of the villagers / And the trundle  of the city bus.’ Movement is the antidote for any cul-de-sac. The lessons of India may not be learnt in many lifetimes. Gadar still calls ‘From the land / Of the landless.’ On the Hooghly, ‘Under the absent moon . . . / A lonely man appears / And consigns sheets of newspaper / theatrically on the silent river . . .’
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This article - except the last 3 lines beginning from Gadar - was published in 'Spectrum,' the Sunday supplement of the Tribune issue, of Sunday 22 January 2012. This was a specially commissioned article to commemorate India's Republic Day (26 January). Pix courtesy: Asia Trans-Pacific Journeys Photo Contest