FROM AN EYE OF AN EAGLE
VOL. 2 (2005) by Tony Fernandes
I was visiting my folks who have their abode high up in the Western Ghats bordering Goa at its southeastern quarter bordered by covetous neighbours who have had their eyes and minds absolutely set on diverting waters from our main river and artery of life towards their own selfish needs.
I have been spending almost a fortnight with my relatives at their guest house aerie during the peak tourist season combined with the grand festivities of the Exposition of the Relics of our beloved Patron, Saint Francis Xavier, the revelry of the much-hyped fancies of IFFI, banquet on the new bridge, followed by the festivities of Christmas, and the merriment and partying that went along in ushering in the New Year, all in a row. I was held spellbound and was still reeling from the sweet pressures of excitement of these events.
But at the same time, deep in my heart I feared for the lives of my people down below, while they checked out all these functions going on all over the land, traveling by buses, trains, mopeds of myriad varieties, compounded with the added chaotic situation on our deadly roads – phantom deathtraps lying in wait. I was sure it was going to be an impossible task for them to commute on these roads where at most times caution and discipline is thrown to the wind.
How absent-minded could I be? I’m an eagle – the majestic lord of the skies. Of course I can fly and keep out of the congestion on our mind-boggling traffic situation. I know the situation has even worsened by erratic driving habits of most of our mindless road-users that defy description. Any transportation device that has more than two wheels has priority here in this bustling tourist attraction where vulnerable men, women and children fear to tread. They risk their lives daily in doing simple chores, be it in traveling to visit their relatives, going to the market place or even just standing by the side of the road.
So come one cool December early morning my three cousins and I decided to go sightseeing, flying over our southern coastal area and central cities with Cousin Senior in command. Cruising leisurely due west at an average speed of 20 kph we were over Palolem Beach in no time. Briefly, while gliding through these southern skies we thought we were in Paradise. The overwhelmingly serene and magnificent vista of this coastal area below had us fooled into believing we were lost, albeit momentarily, mesmerized by the sheer breath-taking beauty of our sandy shores. After having been forced back to reality in a little bit, we banked north-westwards towards Margao city cruising in unison.
We pride ourselves in flying. And we wished the earthlings did the same too. We follow strict codes of aviation discipline. Just to make certain that we were on the right path we swallowed our pride and signaled for directions from what looked like an unruly bunch of black birds, and as bad luck would have it, these vagrants crossed us flying north. We got no response from this lot at first. Then after a while we received a coded Morse that seemed alien. My cousin Harry-Eagle was quick in de-coding and deciphering the strange signals. He was probably right in assuming that these guys must be “bhaile”. My other cousin Larry-Eagle confirmed this wayward flying pattern coupled with strange garbled signals that they are not residents of the area. No need to carry on any further conversation or investigation, he thought. “Gang of nomads, lamanis?” he wondered, “Are they surveying areas of business interests where our ‘Ganv-Bhaus’ fear to tread?” he queried.
Just as we stopped pondering over these negative aspects and effects of the trivia about this “bhaile” and “bitorle” mentality, we tried to look upon the better side of it. Just reflect and see how benevolent, tolerant and peace-loving bird-souls we have always been. We have been very tolerant – we have accepted migrants not only from neighbouring areas but also flying backpackers from Europe and Russia who are taking over and laying eggs in the very aeries built by our forefathers.
The cool sea breeze from the serene western shores gently hit our portside wings. The brilliant sun in the east lit the northwestern slopes. Meandering rivers of liquid waste reflected sunlight into our eyes, and smoke-spewing factories made us gasp. Chimney stacks certainly seemed to have made a huge irreparable and ecological damage. Unseen disaster seems to be looming, waiting to happen. Or perhaps the damage is already done. We are not aware of the consequences. Effects will be felt after some time. Protrusions of the chimney-stacks have also marred the beauty of their once glorious, verdant and pristine hilly slopes.
My thoughts seemed to wander. I was lost in deep thought, flying blindly, so to say. Suddenly, I was interrupted by my cousin, an experienced and senior navigator. He brought to my attention that we were already soaring over the city of Margao. So we circled around trying to locate the once beautiful and mythical Margao Municipal Garden that he wanted me to see. After a frantic search among the chaos of unruly parking, the pollution in the main city square amidst the din created by cars, buses, trucks and scooters plying in all directions, we finally found the once mystical garden. One calling it a garden nowadays would be a grave error, a misnomer and very unjustified title indeed! My cousin said it that this is not how he remembers it. The city had lost its former charm, dignity and glory and old world charm. I wished hopes were not lost not forever. The city mayor had tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to hang on to a well-laid out pattern of a former picturesque town, with medieval grace, with broad sidewalks and cafes with awnings. Sadly the sidewalks were now used a free shelves for hawkers peddling trinkets. The old city dwellers dared to stand up unsuccessfully to the ravages of time, with the once beautiful garden now teeming with jobless day-lodgers, free sleepers on the municipal benches and idle waywards whiling their time away sprawled on what we could now hardly call lawns. A couple of lungi-clad idlers were using the once famous Trellis-gate as a shade for a nap.
As we glanced west we were saddened to observe the crushed coaches of KRC Elevated Mass Transportation System. It was supposed to be the most modern and revolutionary innovation on this side of the globe. Sadly, there went their dream! And ours too!
Generally, to surmise, we were not at all impressed with what we saw of the city. The squalor of side lanes, the unbearable stench in the market place that could be sniffed at an altitude of over 5500 feet, nearly sent my younger cousin into a downward spin!
Long ago the people of this great metropolis spoke three languages, mainly Konkani and also Portuguese and English. With our ultra-sound sensing devices we could now hear a rattle of over two dozen alien tongues and dialects, excluding foreign tourists conversing in strange lingo, babbling in mixed jargon of a variety of speech and idiom, defying the times of the Tower of Babel. They now seemed to be a confused lot, lost in a rat-race heading nowhere.
We had another problem yet again just before heading out of town. We seemed to have got lost in this city, given our fabled vision, flawless sense of direction and unmatched navigational skills. I know I am brag, but we felt challenged in this disturbed metropolis. We tried to locate a once well-known street. So we inadvertently signaled another bunch of unruly fliers, that we yet again unluckily ran into, for directions. After a slight delay, came a reply that we quickly deciphered and christened it as “Konkanarese”. My youngest cousin, linguistically adept as ever, was quick to decode the message. Strangely, it read: “Street ka Naam changed hai, saar, also now streeta goinga all DIE-WRECKTIONS, saar, but afternoona time each and everyone buddy goinga one-way, saar”. “Another bunch of ‘bhaile’obviously” blurted my no-nonsense flying partner, adding: “Very shoddy message drafted with obvious help from a “bitorlo” in preparing the original draft, I guess”. “Don’t be so rude” said I “You should not say things like that. After all some even genuine NRI’s are sometimes wrongly referred to as aliens in their own homeland!”
Following the glistening train tracks from Margao towards the north, we were soon cruising over Majorda and Cansaulim in succession, and before we realized it we were over Vasco in no time. We circled over the city for a while, keeping out of the path of the nosy and noisy flying machines landing and taking off from the nearby airport that we believe is still under the management of a naval command. It was almost noon – the peak hours of a peak season of incoming and outgoing tourists either landing or taking flight!
As good guests we had promised our uncle and aunt that we would report back in time for lunch. We wouldn’t like to have them worried about us. So we decided to speed up a little bit to their settlement situated high up in the mountains, along a row of aeries southeast of the border, down Canacona way, where a sumptuous meal and eager folks would be waiting anxiously for us.
Tracing our path back to the mountains was very easy. We simply followed our beaks, so to say. The train tracks led us due southeast at first. We then headed towards Colem before turning south. Our radio-operator gem of a cousin, Harry-Eagle, radioed our aerie-base about our whereabouts and ETA. Headquarters responded how anxious they were to hear about our escapade. We would definitely have an interesting tale to tell over another scrumptious afternoon home-meal that we have been so eagerly looking forward to. Just like hungry birds.
Tony Fernandes
Author
Goa: Memories of my Homeland
Poems and Stories
I was visiting my folks who have their abode high up in the Western Ghats bordering Goa at its southeastern quarter bordered by covetous neighbours who have had their eyes and minds absolutely set on diverting waters from our main river and artery of life towards their own selfish needs.
I have been spending almost a fortnight with my relatives at their guest house aerie during the peak tourist season combined with the grand festivities of the Exposition of the Relics of our beloved Patron, Saint Francis Xavier, the revelry of the much-hyped fancies of IFFI, banquet on the new bridge, followed by the festivities of Christmas, and the merriment and partying that went along in ushering in the New Year, all in a row. I was held spellbound and was still reeling from the sweet pressures of excitement of these events.
But at the same time, deep in my heart I feared for the lives of my people down below, while they checked out all these functions going on all over the land, traveling by buses, trains, mopeds of myriad varieties, compounded with the added chaotic situation on our deadly roads – phantom deathtraps lying in wait. I was sure it was going to be an impossible task for them to commute on these roads where at most times caution and discipline is thrown to the wind.
How absent-minded could I be? I’m an eagle – the majestic lord of the skies. Of course I can fly and keep out of the congestion on our mind-boggling traffic situation. I know the situation has even worsened by erratic driving habits of most of our mindless road-users that defy description. Any transportation device that has more than two wheels has priority here in this bustling tourist attraction where vulnerable men, women and children fear to tread. They risk their lives daily in doing simple chores, be it in traveling to visit their relatives, going to the market place or even just standing by the side of the road.
So come one cool December early morning my three cousins and I decided to go sightseeing, flying over our southern coastal area and central cities with Cousin Senior in command. Cruising leisurely due west at an average speed of 20 kph we were over Palolem Beach in no time. Briefly, while gliding through these southern skies we thought we were in Paradise. The overwhelmingly serene and magnificent vista of this coastal area below had us fooled into believing we were lost, albeit momentarily, mesmerized by the sheer breath-taking beauty of our sandy shores. After having been forced back to reality in a little bit, we banked north-westwards towards Margao city cruising in unison.
We pride ourselves in flying. And we wished the earthlings did the same too. We follow strict codes of aviation discipline. Just to make certain that we were on the right path we swallowed our pride and signaled for directions from what looked like an unruly bunch of black birds, and as bad luck would have it, these vagrants crossed us flying north. We got no response from this lot at first. Then after a while we received a coded Morse that seemed alien. My cousin Harry-Eagle was quick in de-coding and deciphering the strange signals. He was probably right in assuming that these guys must be “bhaile”. My other cousin Larry-Eagle confirmed this wayward flying pattern coupled with strange garbled signals that they are not residents of the area. No need to carry on any further conversation or investigation, he thought. “Gang of nomads, lamanis?” he wondered, “Are they surveying areas of business interests where our ‘Ganv-Bhaus’ fear to tread?” he queried.
Just as we stopped pondering over these negative aspects and effects of the trivia about this “bhaile” and “bitorle” mentality, we tried to look upon the better side of it. Just reflect and see how benevolent, tolerant and peace-loving bird-souls we have always been. We have been very tolerant – we have accepted migrants not only from neighbouring areas but also flying backpackers from Europe and Russia who are taking over and laying eggs in the very aeries built by our forefathers.
The cool sea breeze from the serene western shores gently hit our portside wings. The brilliant sun in the east lit the northwestern slopes. Meandering rivers of liquid waste reflected sunlight into our eyes, and smoke-spewing factories made us gasp. Chimney stacks certainly seemed to have made a huge irreparable and ecological damage. Unseen disaster seems to be looming, waiting to happen. Or perhaps the damage is already done. We are not aware of the consequences. Effects will be felt after some time. Protrusions of the chimney-stacks have also marred the beauty of their once glorious, verdant and pristine hilly slopes.
My thoughts seemed to wander. I was lost in deep thought, flying blindly, so to say. Suddenly, I was interrupted by my cousin, an experienced and senior navigator. He brought to my attention that we were already soaring over the city of Margao. So we circled around trying to locate the once beautiful and mythical Margao Municipal Garden that he wanted me to see. After a frantic search among the chaos of unruly parking, the pollution in the main city square amidst the din created by cars, buses, trucks and scooters plying in all directions, we finally found the once mystical garden. One calling it a garden nowadays would be a grave error, a misnomer and very unjustified title indeed! My cousin said it that this is not how he remembers it. The city had lost its former charm, dignity and glory and old world charm. I wished hopes were not lost not forever. The city mayor had tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to hang on to a well-laid out pattern of a former picturesque town, with medieval grace, with broad sidewalks and cafes with awnings. Sadly the sidewalks were now used a free shelves for hawkers peddling trinkets. The old city dwellers dared to stand up unsuccessfully to the ravages of time, with the once beautiful garden now teeming with jobless day-lodgers, free sleepers on the municipal benches and idle waywards whiling their time away sprawled on what we could now hardly call lawns. A couple of lungi-clad idlers were using the once famous Trellis-gate as a shade for a nap.
As we glanced west we were saddened to observe the crushed coaches of KRC Elevated Mass Transportation System. It was supposed to be the most modern and revolutionary innovation on this side of the globe. Sadly, there went their dream! And ours too!
Generally, to surmise, we were not at all impressed with what we saw of the city. The squalor of side lanes, the unbearable stench in the market place that could be sniffed at an altitude of over 5500 feet, nearly sent my younger cousin into a downward spin!
Long ago the people of this great metropolis spoke three languages, mainly Konkani and also Portuguese and English. With our ultra-sound sensing devices we could now hear a rattle of over two dozen alien tongues and dialects, excluding foreign tourists conversing in strange lingo, babbling in mixed jargon of a variety of speech and idiom, defying the times of the Tower of Babel. They now seemed to be a confused lot, lost in a rat-race heading nowhere.
We had another problem yet again just before heading out of town. We seemed to have got lost in this city, given our fabled vision, flawless sense of direction and unmatched navigational skills. I know I am brag, but we felt challenged in this disturbed metropolis. We tried to locate a once well-known street. So we inadvertently signaled another bunch of unruly fliers, that we yet again unluckily ran into, for directions. After a slight delay, came a reply that we quickly deciphered and christened it as “Konkanarese”. My youngest cousin, linguistically adept as ever, was quick to decode the message. Strangely, it read: “Street ka Naam changed hai, saar, also now streeta goinga all DIE-WRECKTIONS, saar, but afternoona time each and everyone buddy goinga one-way, saar”. “Another bunch of ‘bhaile’obviously” blurted my no-nonsense flying partner, adding: “Very shoddy message drafted with obvious help from a “bitorlo” in preparing the original draft, I guess”. “Don’t be so rude” said I “You should not say things like that. After all some even genuine NRI’s are sometimes wrongly referred to as aliens in their own homeland!”
Following the glistening train tracks from Margao towards the north, we were soon cruising over Majorda and Cansaulim in succession, and before we realized it we were over Vasco in no time. We circled over the city for a while, keeping out of the path of the nosy and noisy flying machines landing and taking off from the nearby airport that we believe is still under the management of a naval command. It was almost noon – the peak hours of a peak season of incoming and outgoing tourists either landing or taking flight!
As good guests we had promised our uncle and aunt that we would report back in time for lunch. We wouldn’t like to have them worried about us. So we decided to speed up a little bit to their settlement situated high up in the mountains, along a row of aeries southeast of the border, down Canacona way, where a sumptuous meal and eager folks would be waiting anxiously for us.
Tracing our path back to the mountains was very easy. We simply followed our beaks, so to say. The train tracks led us due southeast at first. We then headed towards Colem before turning south. Our radio-operator gem of a cousin, Harry-Eagle, radioed our aerie-base about our whereabouts and ETA. Headquarters responded how anxious they were to hear about our escapade. We would definitely have an interesting tale to tell over another scrumptious afternoon home-meal that we have been so eagerly looking forward to. Just like hungry birds.
Tony Fernandes
Author
Goa: Memories of my Homeland
Poems and Stories
1 comment:
off white outlet
supreme clothing
black golden goose sneakers
kyrie shoes
kyrie shoes
air jordan
palm angels
golden goose outlet
golden goose outlet
bapesta shoes
Post a Comment