Guirim-ville

Guirim-ville

Should ever I go back to Guirim-ville,...

It would be in the spring when marigolds bloom,

Oh, the hibiscus I know would still be there,

And the garden rose would brighten up the gloom.

Should ever I go back to Guirim-ville,

One thing is sure I'd not be seventeen,

As a young lad when I played there in the field,

But memories stay with me I can’t conceal.

How fresh the memory keeps for still I feel,

The falling monsoon rain and lush green fields,

And see again the fireflies in the night,

As I did so long ago when I was there.

Dreams of youth in that now distant day,

I did not heed, my heart did not reveal,

And now I know that I’m far away from home,

Far away from that old cottage at Guirim-ville.

In search of work to a far and distant shore,

Left my folks there so long ago,

Though I've sailed far from that sun-drenched land,

I've never found what I have left behind.

Oh the memories of my carefree and playful youth,

Is now but ashes and only fond memories dwell,

Time heals all wounds they say, but leaves the scar,

But I think I'll still go back to Guirim-ville.

Time heals all wounds they say, but leaves the scar,

Yet I think I'll still go back to Guirim-ville,

Yes I think I'll still go back to Guirim-ville

CORRIDORS OF TIME

CORRIDOR

leading to the Sacristy

St. Diogo's Church

Guirim/Sangold Parish

Bardez - Goa

THE HAUNTING SOUND OF THE 'MAATRAAS'

Scanned image. Original print made

on Kodak photo paper from film.

Quaresma (Lent) 2005.

PICTURESQUE GOA

The 'Maatraas'

              Lenten services at St. Diogo's Church of Parishes of the twin villages of Guirim and Sangolda in Goa, bring back memories of childhood. Taking part in the solemn procession winding its way around the hill-side and around the perimeter of the cemetery with life-size statues of Christ carrying the Cross, and hearing the touching notes and words of the motets sung in Konkani, sent a chill up my spine. In enacting the crucifixion elders guided the young men who climbed up on the ladders to retrieve the image of Christ from the Cross, while the haunting rattle of the ‘matraas’ echoed through the church,reminding me once again of my childhood.

              In Goa, the 'Maatraas' (Colloquial Konkani) 'Matraça' Portuguese) is used as a signal instead of a traditional bell for conducting solemn Lenten services like the Passion of Christ on Good Friday. Basically, it is made from wood with a cut out handle, and fitted with 2 pair of hinges on both sides. The loud and distinct sound from this invention is made by holding it by the handle, and twisting one's wrist from side to side, the action of which causes the metal hinges to swing from side to side creating a loud sound.

              In the picture below is the traditional 'maatraas', all spruced up, varnished, set and ready to rattle, temporarily leaning against the red cement bench (Konkani: 'sopo') before going into action, in the aisle and corridors of St. Diogo's Church - Guirim/Sangolda Parish, Bardez, Goa.

              "In a re-enacted scene from the crucifixion, elders guided the young men who climbed up on the ladders to bring down the “body of Christ” from the Cross, while the spine-chilling and haunting rattle of the ‘matraas’ echoed through the church, reminding me of my childhood.

http://tonferns.blogspot.ca/2009/02/diasporic-re-visitation-part-3.html

SENTINEL OF THE DAWN

“However long the night, the dawn will break.”

SENTINEL OF THE DAWN

Misty, calm, serene.

Cross at the Piazza 
 St. Diogo's Church, Guirim/Sangolda, Bardez Goa.

http://tonferns.blogspot.ca/2012/03/st-diogos-church-guirimsangoda-bardez.html

ST. DIOGO'S CHURCH, GUIRIM/SANGOLDA, Bardez, Goa, India

ST. DIOGO'S CHURCH

Guirim/Sangolda Parish

This church is dedicated to St. Diogo, Patron of Guirim and Sangolda villages, facing true East. This magnificent church was constructed in 1604 A.D. and is the 13th of the 24 Churches erected in the Bardez taluka.

The distinctive features of this church are many. The main altar is dedicated to the patron St. Diogo and on either side is St. Anthony of Padua and St. Francis of Assisi. There are 5 other ornate altars located  in the nave. The altar on the left hand side is dedicated to infant Jesus and on the right is dedicated to Our Lady of Rosary. Incidentally, just nearby to the West is St. Anthony's High School, an alma mater to so many across the world and the Franciscan Friary along with the Chapel of the Patron, St. Francis of Assisi. 

There are three bells to this church, two belong to Sangolda and one to Guirim. Three arched doors lead into the church, while a smaller arched door leads to the sacristy. There is also a side entrance on the Guirim side.

There are many stories about this church and the people of the two villages in myth, legend and folklore. Here is one about the 3 bells. The church is actually shared between 2 villages - Guirim on the North and Sangolda on the South side. Legend has it that soon after the church construction was completed, the elders decided that the villagers who install the bell will claim the rights. One day, when they were working on the church, it was very late, and it was then decided that they sleep it over and start the work on the bells next day. It is believed that the Guirim villagers went home, but the crafty and manipulative Sangolda villagers had ulterior motives! They decided to work through the night and installed 2 of the 3 bells and rang them aloud waking both the villages. Hence Sangolda claims 2 Bells of the church!

Among many other feuds and legends, one particular anecdote comes to mind which is a classic. An old woman from Guirim was on her death-bed, when a young neighbour whispered into her ear: "Ague, Jesu pau munn gue", ('Call out to Jesus") but to everyone's surprise, the dying woman is said to have opened her eyes saying "Jesu amcho nhuim, Jezu tancho, Ruzai Saibinn amchi. Aum Saibinn maim pav munttelim," (Jesus is not ours, Jesus is theirs; Our Lady of the Rosary is ours, so I will say 'Mother Mary come to me') and saying those words she breathed her last.

That explains the left side altar being dedicated to Infant Jesus (Sangolda side - South) while Our Lady of the Rosary is on the right (Guirim side  - North).

In a classic traditional layout of most churches, this church is no different. Typically, attached on the left is the sacristy, the vestry, a garden, surrounded by offices of the Parish, the Vicar's living quarters, kitchen and a well. Located on the right is the side entrance to the church like many other churches in Goa. Also located on the side is the cemetery with the timeless phrase on the arched transom of the doorway that reads in Konkani 'Aiz Maka, Faleam Tuka' (lit.trans: Today for me, tomorrow for You).

Facing the church is the Cross that stands in monumental white-washed glory, surrounded by a compound wall around with access to the church from four sides: from the back, from the Guirim side, from Sangolda side and from the front with steps that lead to the road through the vast fields to the east with a magnificent view of the hills of Sucorro and Porvorim.

Guirim-ville

Guirim is a small town in the district of Bardez, north-western part of Goa, India, south of the city of Mapusa, and 12 km north of the capital city, Panjim. Local village affairs are handled by the Panchayat system, under the Mamlatdar's Office located at Mapusa. The village lies west of Bastora hills, with the major arterial Highway 17 passing through this scenic village, famous for the academic institution of St. Anthony's High School at Monte de Guirim.

Guirim-ville

(Tony Fernandes)

Based on and adapted from the song

"Camooweal" by Australian singer, Slim Dusty

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SUYqWT7KKnY

Should ever I go back to Guirim-ville,

It would be in the spring when marigolds bloom,

Oh, the hibiscus I know would still be there,

And the garden rose would brighten up the gloom.

Should ever I go back to Guirim-ville,

One thing is sure I'd not be in my teens,

As a young lad when I played there in the fields,

But memories stay with me I can’t conceal.

How fresh every memory keeps for still it feels,

The falling monsoon rain and lush green fields,

And see again the fire-flies in the night,

As I did so long ago when I was there.

Should ever I go back to Guirim-ville,
It would be at Yuletide when the lanterns glow,
Christmas sweets I know would be everywhere,
Wishing folks a Merry Christmas time.

Dreams of youth in that now distant day,

I did not heed, my heart did not reveal,

And now I know that I’m far away from home,

Far away from that old cottage at Guirim-ville.

In search of work to a far and distant shore,

Left my folks there so long ago,

Though I've sailed far from that sun-drenched land,

I've never found what I have left behind.

Oh the memories of my carefree and playful youth,

Is now but ashes and only fond memories dwell,

Time heals all wounds they say, but leaves the scar,

But I think I'll still go back to Guirim-ville.

Time heals all wounds they say, but leaves the scar,

Yet I think I'll still go back to Guirim-ville,

Yes I think I'll still go back to Guirim-ville.

Tony Fernandes

PARTICULAR DAYS AT MONTE

Particular Days at Monte!

by Tony (Felicio) Fernandes

It seemed like a long hike from the village of Cumbiem Morod to the hilltop. The journey seemed endless. It was Felicio’s first day at school. He held his older brother’s hand as he climbed through the winding path lined by cashew trees. The legend ‘ST. ANTHONY’S HIGH SCHOOL', 'AD 1947' was visible high up on the stepped steeple – the distinct and typically striped pinnacle and façade of the stone school building. As he reached the top of the hill, he turned to look back and take in the panoramic view. The villages of Guirim set beautifully in the forefront, Arpora, Nagoa, Parra and Verla to the west, Bastora toward the east and in the distance towards the north was the town of Mapusa. The surrounding hills in the distance were also a delight to the eye.

It seemed rather unusual to Felicio that the first official day of onset of the monsoon season should be the first day of school. Luckily it had not rained that day, although low grey clouds loomed in the skies. Sitting in the first row on the first day in school seemed a far-cry from his initial Sunday school Catechism class at the village chapel of Our Lady of Assumption at Vancio Vaddo in Gurim. This seems to be really an upgrade, Felicio thought. And even better than the massive one-room classroom of the Portuguese Escola Primária adjacent to the village chapel.

Another thing that Felicio also wondered about was why it was that, after the Christmas holidays, school days began again starting on his birthday which was the 7th of January. Perhaps, was it because his name was Anthony? A childish thought, he mused!

Felicio was a day scholar. One of the favourite first words that he heard during the first week in school, and 'particularly' liked, was the word “particular”. The boy seemed to be fascinated with the word and thought it had a nice ring to it. “Particular! Particular!”, he went on saying when he came home from school. In his own childish way he would repeat it to himself and to his folks at home, “Particular! Particular!”

As days and years passed by, Felicio got used to attending his new school and various other activities like the massive ‘drill’ under the giant 'nunerca' tree and ‘Mocidade Portuguesa’ conducted in front of the grotto. The long walk to and from school, though arduous, was just a normal part of school life, serving as a natural exercise keeping the students fit. Felicio liked his school, the Fathers, Brothers and teachers,and he thought that perhaps they in turn seemed to have liked him too. He especially showed a great interest in drawing. The face he liked to draw was of Samson. Every last period used to be a ‘drawing’ period. Sometimes towards the end of the period the drawing teacher would ask and encourage him to draw on the blackboard using white chalk. Quick scenery sketching was one of his favourite things.

Once he had taken part in the School Concert when he was selected as one of the three child artists, who painted a scene, on a large canvas set up on the stage, in three minutes carrying water-based colours in buckets, marching to the canvas to a music beat, alternating with 3 different colours. This concept was brilliantly enacted by the guidance of the excellent resident school artist, Brother Vitalis, OFM Cap. The annual school concerts were held on two days.

The school concert was held on two days. The first day was for the students only. The second day was for the parents and the public, and also to students who received prizes. The Portuguese Governor General as well as other prominent doctors, leaders, priests and teachers and ex-students attended the concerts on the second day.

Felicio’s mother was among the packed audience in the hall on the second day. He could not see her from where he stood. The blinding bright lights in front of the stage made it impossible to recognize her. He wondered whether his mother would cry with joy as usual, or smile. Hope she smiles today, he thought. Students who excelled in their school studies and extra-curricular activities were awarded prizes that were distributed on the second day of the school drama. Felicio was waiting among other students on the right-hand side of the stage to receive his prize. He hoped he could hear his name called out clearly. It might be very embarrassing if he did not hear, or else may be he would miss out on collecting his prize, Felicio thought! He was a bit nervous as Sir Veloso, a senior teacher at the school, began calling the names in his admirable and booming voice and an imposing personality to match, that needed no microphone. Finally, the great moment had come. Felicio was ready for his name to be called. Although slightly nervous, he happily proceeded to the stage to receive his prize for his favourite subject, drawing.

After the concert ended Felicio’s mother embraced and kissed him. Obviously she was happy for him. A few neighbours from his village were present there too, and they came forward to greet and congratulate him as he came out of the school building. It had turned dark by the time the concert ended. There were stalls set up in front of the grotto, selling soft drinks and snacks, by the light of the petromax lamps. They all walked home lighting the path with a battery-powered torch light that they had remembered to carry with them.

On the way home the dogs barked in front of some of the houses. They passed through the fields and other wards of their village. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. The moon cast a faint glow over the eastern horizon as it was about to rise up in the east. All the youngsters walked in front followed by their parents discussing and commenting on how good the school drama had been.

As the village folks approached and turned towards the path that led to his house, Felicio could faintly see the lights through the open window of his house in the distance. The front door was open. He saw the silhouette of his grandmother who was sitting outside on the bench in the balcony, anxiously waiting for their return. As he turned left over his shoulder, he noticed the lights of Monte in the far distance. Felicio had often heard that one should never look back while walking in the night. Somehow he just could not help but look and remember what a wonderful day it had really been.

“I’ve be waiting for you all to come home, and I was worried”, Grandma said, as she rose from her seat. “I was not sure whether you had carried along a torch light, or at least a candle, as it gets dark soon these days”, she continued as we stepped in. “I said three rosaries waiting for you all”. “I wish I could have gone along with you all, like I did in the past”.

Felicio’s grandma suffered from arthritis. She would not have been able to climb the hill now that she was getting older. She said she had watched a few concerts up there in the past, and had also many times been there for the annual candle-lit procession held after a Holy Mass, held every year, late in the evening of the 8th of December – the day of the feast of Our Lady of Immaculate Conception. “Come on now, let’s all go in” she said, “Supper is ready, and I have to rise up early to attend Mass in our chapel, come on, I will start serving whatever little that I have prepared for you.”

Felicio’s neighbours proceeded on their way. “Good night” they said in succession. “Deo bori rath dhium”, one of them said. “Sleep tight” said another, with a prompt and quick follow-on with: “Don’t let the bugs bite.”

Felicio was very fond of his Grandma. She would always wait for everyone to join in for dinner whenever they went out for salves and novenas. Felicio related to her about the concert and the prize that he had received for excellence in drawing. The play, ‘Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves’, had turned out to be very good and well-enacted by students. One of his class-teachers had played the lead role. His name was Thomas Mendonça. His diction was impeccable. He was very proficient in English and French, and had passed his SSCE in the same school. The students also sang in Portuguese, as the Governor General was present. His Excellency had been very kind to dedicate his precious time to watch the entire play.

The school concert had begun with the school boys in uniform singing the Portuguese national anthem on stage: ‘Herois do mar, nobre povo, naçao valente, immortal’. Felicio also liked the tone of the Portuguese word ‘immortal’. For Felicio, it had a special ring to it as well. Also, he remembered his father reciting a prayer that consisted of that particular word at the end of the evening Rosary.

The light from kerosene lamp in the centre of the table of the ‘sala’ cast oversized flickering shadows on the wall as young Felicio took his turn in relating and re-enacting some of the scenes of the play. His grandma loved him, he thought, as she did not show any signs of boredom. Even though it was quite late in the night, she was a patient listener. As he finished his supper, he looked up and turned sideways in the direction of his grandma. She was crying too. “Now these must have been particular tears of sheer joy”, Felicio thought, as he had cried too.

After supper they all sat in the balcony for a short while as the moon had risen bringing a glow to the sandy front yard of the house. The tall coconut and mango trees cast soft shadows on the cool earth. As for Felicio the next day was a holiday. Visible and twinkling far away in the distance over the sprawling fields were the lights of Mapusa town. Then it was time to say “Boa Noite”.

Those were the great days of schooling and some of the memories of Monte de Guirim of long ago. In retrospect, as I reminisce about them every now and then, it seems it was just yesterday. We lived a happy and simple lifestyle with loving folks. We got through with the basic necessities. Though hard days sometimes prevailed, adversely facing some scarcities from petrol to cereals, we learned to take it all in stride.

Tony ‘Felix’ (Felicio) Fernandes
Guirim, Cumbiem Morod,
Bardez, Goa.
CLASS OF 1964

The huge hall on the first floor was actually a dormitory for senior students. It was temporarily converted into a drama hall for the two special days in the school calendar as described above. On one occasion, I had also witnessed an Ordination to priesthood of one of the students of Monte in the late 1950’s, by the Archbishop of Goa.

The large dormitory comprised of a purpose-built stage with permanent fittings. It was well-known for its unique curtain that resembled a beautiful scarlet drape, far ahead of its time in its operation and the way it opened during the 1950's. It consisted of a timber frame-work that was fitted to the lower half of the curtain at the rear. The ropes were attached to the top of the timber frame, and the curtain was completely lifted up into the ceiling, aided by a pulley syestm, forming a neat horizontal crease midway, making it look majestic as it went up. It had also had other rolling scenic curtains which were painted by Brother Vitalis. The stage had an array of boxed floor lights in the front end. The entire facade from ground to the sloping roof, and side to side, was painted in light bluish-grey hues resembling marble Roman architectural columns.

On the second day of the school concert, students attended Holy Mass at the school chapel, followed by breakfast in the hall mentioned above.

ADIEU

SENTINEL OF THE DAWN

Misty, calm, serene.

Cross at the Piazza

 St. Diogo's Church, Guirim/Sangolda, Bardez Goa.

http://tonferns.blogspot.ca/2012/03/st-diogos-church-guirimsangoda-bardez.html

             None of Felicio’s visits to Goa would be complete without going to St. Diogo's Church and then visiting his Alma Mater, situated atop the hill and known as “Monte de Guirim”.

             This time, a guided tour of the new building followed a long conversation with the Principal and the Headmaster of the school.

             The new purpose-built wing, which features a novel sky-light, broad corridors and stair-well, is actually built on the very same spot where a humble but massive shed first stood in the early sixties.

             Felicio seemed to drift far away in his thoughts taking him back in time, remembering his class in that shed, when the Headmaster who was once a pupil in that same school startled Felicio echoing his own sentiments when he said: “Remember the old days?” “Oh, yes,” Felicio replied, “I still remember those were the days when during a heavy downpour in the monsoon the students would have had to shift to a safer place to avoid the drops of rain ruining their study books”. This was during the time when the new school building was in the process of being erected, and a a huge temporary thatched roof shed was built that had nearly 3 class with 3 divisions each, to accommodate the sudden increase in the number of students in the late 1950's - early 1960's.

Old Country Church - Goa, India

Church of St. Diogo, Guirim/Sangolda - Bardez, Goa. India

OLD COUNTRY CHURCH

PEN & INK LINE DRAWING

Size: 12" x 9"

by Tony Fernandes

           The lyrics of my favourite song by Sean Wilson, somehow bring poignant memories of my childhood in Goa where I grew up and went to school at St. Anthony's High as a day-scholar. There seems to be such a stark similarity in the lyrics of the song to the days of my teenage years that I spent there. On Sunday mornings I walked to Church along with my folks  to attend Mass, and later in the afternoon for Catechism classes.  I served Mass in Latin as a young boy.

Thereafter, I completed my college education in Bombay, and later I worked far away from home. Every year I went on a holiday to see my Mum and Dad, and attended Mass in the same old  village church again re-living the times of my childhood, albeit just briefly, the difference being my childhood friends had grown up into men too. We met outside the church after the Mass, spoke about old times, bringing tears to my eyes that I vainly tried to hide.

          In my drawing of the old country church, on the far right is the cemetery. There lie the graves of my Mum and Dad.

Old Country Church

There's a place near to me, where I'm longing to be
With my friends at the old country church
There with mother we went, and our Sundays were spent
With our friends at the old country church.

As a small country boy, how my heart beat with joy
When I knelt in the old country church
And the Saviour above, by His wonderful love
Saved my soul at the old country church.

How I wish that today all the people would pray
As we prayed in the old country church
If they'd only confess, Jesus surely would bless
As he did in the old country church.

Of't my thoughts make me weep, for so many now sleep
In their graves near the old country church
And sometime I may rest, with the friends I love best
In a grave near the old country church.

Precious years of memories,
Oh what joy they bring to me they bring to me
How I long once more to be,
With my friends at the old country church...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJ8YInU-Ihc

DAYS OF NARAYAN THE POSTMAN

DAYS OF NARAYAN THE POSTMAN

Those were the good old days of April sunshine and humidity in Guirim, Cumbiem Morod, Bardez, Goa. The schools were closed for the summer and I was looking forward to enjoying my holidays. Sitting on a small stool in our balcão, I was using the bench as a table. I was doing what I liked to do best right after lunch - drawing before the evening coolness arrived. After that I would join other boys from the village playing football in the vast parched fields of summer stretching far north towards the hills of Mapuςa.

At times the sudden intermittent gusts of gentle breeze brought us some relief from the afternoon heat. The coconut trees gently swayed, and often dislodged the ripe mango from its stem on the nearby tree. The discernible thud from the fall of the mango on the sandy ground provided a short-lived sport for us as we raced towards the mango tree to grab and retrieve the mango.

At this time my mother usually sat in the front balcão of our house, doing one of her daily smaller chores. Some days, it meant darning my old trousers; other days it was altering the hem line of my cousin’s dress. I can still remember the flower pattern she sewed on a pillowcase, and the words “God Bless our Home” on the altar cloth. No matter what the chore, she never failed to repeatedly move her glance from her needle to the winding path that led to our house.

I remember the look in her eyes as she tried to conceal her feelings, but I knew why my mother appeared anxious. It was that time of day when Narayan the postman would bring the mail. We were waiting anxiously to hear about the news when my father would arrive from Bombaim (Bombay) where he worked. My mother was also worried because we had not heard from my uncle in Belgaum in quite a while. I could sense her concern as I continued with my drawing.

Several similar days passed until we finally saw Narayan far away in the distance, dressed in his khaki uniform – short-sleeved shirt, long trousers and sandals with a satchel slung over his shoulder as he trudged along with an envelope in his hand. How true, we thought. The crow, the harbinger of yore, of ‘Kaunvllea Kiteak Roddtai Dharan’* fame, perched on the fence of our backyard that very morning, had already predicted the postman’s arrival!

I still remember the smile on my mother’s face as she read the letter. My father was coming home!
A  few days later, we also heard from my uncle from Belgaum that he too would be arriving for his holidays. It was so true that Narayan brought us joy in the form of letters. The amount of good news that he brought surpassed the bad. The happiest time of my childhood was Yuletide when everyone in the village received Christmas cards from relatives and friends. And Narayan would be making his rounds almost every day of the season happily delivering them to us. In retrospect, I tend to think that he could have been our very own unique Santa Claus! Conversely, he wore a solemn face when he was about to hand over a letter with a black border which meant bad news about the demise of a relative or a friend.

Some postmen delivered mail on bicycles. However, Narayan preferred to deliver mail on foot as it was difficult to ride a bicycle through the sandy paths of the villages. Tired and perspiring, he would sometimes sit on our front porch for a minute or two, taking rest from the summer heat. Wiping the sweat from his face with his handkerchief, he would always ask us how we were doing. ‘Koxim assat tumim?’ (How are you all?) he inquired. Sometimes we would offer his water to quench his thirst. He would then leave to deliver a few more letters before heading back to the main post office in town, where he would then board a bus to his home in Colvale.

Sometimes Narayan would ask me to hand over a letter whenever someone was not at home in the village. The old lady who lived behind our house often asked me to read letters to her that her son wrote from Bombay. She trusted me and expected to keep to myself whatever I read. In return, to read the letters and perhaps to remain silent she rewarded me with guavas or ‘chikoos’ that grew on the trees at the back of her house.

All postmen were generally known by the village folks as ‘postacar’. But our postman was known as ‘Naran Postakar’. He was always polite and humble. Whenever I went to the post office to purchase postage stamps in the morning I could see him inside the old postal office. He would be busy sorting out mail and getting his bag ready for the afternoon delivery. He never failed to wave instantly when he saw me.

Narayan served as a postman for many years, having seen the days of the transition from Portuguese colonial rule to Indian rule. His knowledge and fluency in Portuguese, Marathi, English and Concanim amazed me. He retired from service in the mid nineteen sixties. The world is so different now since the days of Narayan the postman. In these times of electronic mail, blogs and text messaging, I cannot help but reminisce about a a postman from a different generation - an experience of my youth.

* * *

*'Kaunvllea Kiteak Roddtai Dharan’ : {literal meaning: Crow! Why are you crying (crowing) in front of the house}. A traditional Goan folk song in which a wife asks the crow if it has brought news from her husband in a telegram and she beckons it to better fly away if it has done so, lest it should get itself killed by a rifle shot.

This essay is dedicated to the Goan postmen of a bygone era, and especially to Naik Chikhalikar, a.k.a. Baba Postakar. Narana Forjento, Colvale, Pernem District, Goa. India.