Major Days of the Morris Minor,
the Doctor, my Bicycle and Me
by Tony Fernandes
I grew up in Goa during the 1950’s and 1960’s. It was quite common to see American and European cars on the roads then. Although no one in my family owned a car, I was very happy to receive an occasional ride in a Morris Minor that belonged to our family physician.
On a side note, I was happy with a new adult-size bicycle that my father bought for me after I passed fifth standard. “The roads are far too narrow and dangerous, son; the cars and trucks are speeding” he said, while I had been waiting for my own bicycle for some time. (By the way, I think it was as though even the bicycle was bought keeping in mind the usual 'vaddtea angar'* principle that prevails until today (*literal meaning: for the growing body to benefit a fast-growing teenager!).
My bicycle played its part alongside the Morris Minor which was quite a popular car among other 'foreign' cars as they were commonly called in those days. It was a fine medium-sized piece of English automotive engineering of that era. They were seen in many colours: black, dark blue, grey or white, and were mainly privately owned by landlords, doctors, lawyers and merchants.
As a young lad I ran errands for many households other than my own. One of these errands, on many occasions, was to fetch a doctor to the village in an emergency. Sometimes I would be requested by a neighbour at a short notice for a quick brief: name of the town, name of the doctor, directions and special instructions for not forgetting to let the doctor know about the urgency and that he had to visit as soon as he possibly could.
One of these doctors who often visited our village had a clinic in the town of Mapusa, in the district of Bardez , North Goa, approximately three kilometers away from my village of Cumbiem Morod in Guirim. The good doctor happened to own one of these fine cars of the time. I would call it the ‘Mighty’ Morris Minor of yesteryear!
Having made it to the doctor’s clinic on my new bicycle, the first thing on my mind was to lock it. Then briefly speaking to the nurse at the clinic with a request for the doctor’s visit, I would wait outside for the doctor to conclude examinations of his remaining patients, if there were any. Leaving my bicycle outside the compound wall of the doctor’s clinic, I would ride along with the doctor giving him the directions to the patient’s house in our village.
It was customary in those days for an errand runner to carry the doctor’s medical kit bag as a courtesy. Walking and leading the way from the car to the patient's house, I must say I humbly did my duty. As for me, I considered that it was a great experience in doing so. During the short walk from the road to the house on the winding pathway through the village, my thoughts wandered away and I felt as if I was the doctor. I momentarily also got further carried away in my thoughts. “Some day if I ever decide to be a doctor, then someone else will have to carry this bag” I thought.
After examining and having been convinced he had successfully diagnosed the illness of ‘The Goan Patient’ the following is what the doctor would usually say to the folks of the household in Konkani: “Bienaka re. Tum zatolo boro. Rexeth boroun ditam. Hem vokot, hea burgeak Farmacia Joao Menezes Mapxeam thaun porot etanam, adduni. Ani tuka koxem dista tem faleam sangun dilea puro.’ (Here a translation of what the doctor said: ‘Don’t worry. You will get alright. I’m writing a prescription. Tell this lad to buy this medicine on his way back from Joao Menezes Pharmacy. And tomorrow let me know how you feel.’)
Having said this, the doctor placed the sphygmomanometer and stethoscope back into his bag, washed his hands with a bar of new soap set aside solely for his use on the window sill while I poured water on his hands. The doctor smiled and wiped his hands on the clean towel. Suddenly, again my thoughts wandered off, thinking as though I was in the village chapel doing the duties of an altar boy pouring water over the fingers of the chaplain’s hand before coming back to reality.
As a courtesy the doctor then asked about the general health of the rest of the family members before heading for the door. Simultaneously, it was time for me to pick up the doctor’s bag and accompany him to his ‘Morris’ car. As we walked he was kind in inquiring as to how I was doing in school.
After getting a 'jolly good ride' in the well-kept 'Morris Minor' we arrived back at the clinic. After thanking the doctor for his visit, I pedalled quickly to the pharmacy and hand over the prescription to the pharmacist (a.k.a. 'compounder'). I would wait till the medicine was prepared and kept ready for collection. Through the swing doors of the laboratory I watched him cut out notches on a strip of paper, that indicated the doses, and paste it on the side of the bottle of the medicine.
Sometimes, along with the major benefit of enjoying a ride in the doctor’s Morris Minor in running this errand, there was also another reward for me in accomplishing this task at a later time from a family member of the patient with a treat of a cold drink or a ‘falooda’, sometimes tea and patties or a 'limboo-soda' (fresh lemonade).
After collecting and paying for the medication, I happily hurried back to my village on my bike, reaching home safely with the medicine bottle intact, at times in the hot afternoon sun, or monsoon rain, and sometimes just before sun-down. I handed the medicine over to the responsible member of house-hold, wishing the patient a quick recovery.
This brought to a close of yet one more major day for the Morris Minor, the Doctor, my bicycle and me, and also ending one more among many other stories of my wonderful and happy childhood that I will never forget.
Tony Felix Fernandes – Mississauga, Ontario - Canada
