THE CUSTOM - SHIRT FOR NEW YEAR

THE CUSTOM – Shirt for New Year

It was a day of great joy for all the boys in the school. It was the last day of the academic year. One last examination paper remained to be answered. And that would be all. It was a half-day session.

The previous night all the boarders would pack their suitcases ready to load them the next afternoon straight on the bus. As the last paper was answered, which would always invariably be “Religion”, there were wide smiles on all the students' faces.

The buses were slowly climbing up the hill to take the boarding students home for their summer holidays. These transport buses were especially hired to take them to their respective home districts in Goa. The engines of the buses laboured very hard to climb the slopes of the spiral road up the hill. They could be heard right up in the classrooms just below the chapel.

Felicio was a dayscholar. He did not have any packing to do or a bus to board. He lived in Guirim. He had just to walk home two miles away.

Felicio wrote the last few lines on his answer paper. He had almost finished writing his paper when, as he glanced towards the side doors the school clerk walked into the class. The clerk then turned towards him and whispered in his ear: “The Principal would like to see you after the exam is over”. “Alright, Sir,” Felicio replied.

The clerk walked away and Felicio wondered: Why would the principal want to see him? He was worried. He could almost hear his heart beating faster. He could hardly hold his hand steady as he wrote the last line. Suddenly, he seemed to have lost his smile. Did he do anything wrong? Would he be punished? Did he fare badly in the subjects that he had already answered? He had no idea.

He was also anxious to wish goodbye to fellow students and then head home. He wondered whether he could do that before meeting the Principal. Felicio was afraid that his class students might leave before he got back from the Principal's office. So he hastily said good-bye to all his friends wishing them happy holidays and ran up the several flights of steps to the Principal’s office on the top of the hill. He stopped suddenly a few feet from the door. Gasping for breath and trying to get back his composure, he tried to remain as calm as he could.“Hello there young lad, come in” the Principal said as they boy felt his knees tremble. “Here’s something for you.”

What is it? Is it a gift, Felicio wondered. “Take this, it is a gift from us” said the Principal. "Open it", he continued. His hand shaking, Felicio opened it unsteadily. There it was. He could not believe his eyes. It was a pair of shirts and short trousers that made part of the set of the school uniform for the new year.

“This is for you to use in the next academic year”, the Principal said. “Tell your mother that it is a gift from the Fathers and Brothers at Monte. I know that your mother works very hard. I know sometimes it is hard for her to pay your fees. It breaks my heart to see some boys being sent home at times on account of the delay in payment of school fees”. “Tell her not to have any uniforms tailored for you during the holidays for the next year.” “You have done quite well this year my boy.” "Keep on studying hard."

The young boy almost froze as he stood there in silence. Tears ran down his cheeks. He thought about his mother. She would be very happy to hear the news. He wanted to fly home if he could to tell her about what the Principal had said.

So, anxious as he was to get home, he thanked the Principal, shook hands and was ready to leave. “Don’t go”, he said, “here’s something especially for you from me. It is a water-colour box. I know you like to draw and paint. I am sure you will like it. Have a nice painting done during your holidays for me. It will look nice on that blank wall there in my office”, the Principal joked. The boy shook hands, almost genuflected and hurried down the slope clutching his prized possession, out of the courtyard of the Principal's office.

The boarding students were all ready to leave for home. There were a lot of buses, a lot of din; their drivers trying hard in negotiating to reverse and park on the steep slopes. There was hardly any place for them to make a turn and head back. Some big boys helped in placing bricks behind the tires - chocking them to prevent the huge buses from rolling back.

As the buses started to leave, some of the boys threw confetti, cut out of old exercise books, through the windows of the buses. Felicio was happy that the buses had not left yet so he could wave out to his friends. “Good-bye”, he shouted above the roar of the whirring engines. “Enjoy your holidays.” “See you in June, best of luck in the results of the finals", someone said behind him.

Was Felicio forgetting something? Of course he was. How could he forget. So then he ran to see the school clerk who had whispered the Principal’s message in his ear just a while ago. After he thanked and told him how frightened he was, the clerk told Felicio that he would like to share with him a little secret that it was customary for the school to present a set of school uniform to deserving students who worked hard and whose parents could barely afford their school expenses. He was touched by the clerk's message. He looked back as he walked out of his office, still dazed from what had transpired a little while ago.

Felicio started his journey home. He walked faster than usual on that hot April afternoon. It was quite a distance but on that day he felt that had walked much less than the actual two miles he did everyday along the winding path through the fields and villages. As he briefly stopped and turned to look at his alma mater high up on the hill behind him, he could still read the famous bold capital letters right across the façade: ST. ANTHONY'S HIGH SCHOOL. Above those letters on the left was the acronym A.D. and on the right was the year 1947. What a coincidence, and how lucky he was, he thought, that in fact his first name was Anthony and he was born in 1947. He paused for a moment, turned and started walking homeward again.

He jumped precisely on the laterite stepping stones across the shallow rivulet that he crossed everyday. Felicio's mother would be waiting for him to have lunch together that afternoon. She would probably cook something special today for sure, he mused to himself. He too would have his own special surprise for her. Would she cry like he did when he handed her the gift? Would she have tears of joy when he tells her what the Principal had said? All these thoughts raced quickly through his mind as he walked home. He tried to shield his face from the blinding glare of the mid-day afternoon sun with the palm of his hand. The hot earth pierced through the soles of his feet. In a short while he would be home. No more school for some time.

In the distance Felicio could see his mother, sitting outside on a low stool, in the shade of the guava tree at the back of his house, waiting for him. The boy wondered whether his mother would guess what the packet he was carrying in his hand contained. She probably would not, he thought. He walked slowly towards her holding the packet behind his back. He handed it to her and asked her to open it.

Felicio's mother opened it slowly and carefully, showing a big surprised look on her face. She could certainly not believe her eyes. She then said: “May God bless the Capuchin Friars of Monte de Guirim”. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she hugged and kissed her son.

And Felicio said to himself: “I knew my guess would be right! I was certain my mother would cry!”

She did cry. I know that for sure because I was there. She was my mother. I was that boy.

Excerpted from my book:
Goa - Memories of My Homeland
(Poems and Stories)
by Tony Felix (Felicio) Fernandes
Ex-student 1953-1964

THE HEALING FRIAR OF MONTE DE GUIRIM

Bro. Peter - The Healing Friar of Monte de Guirim

  Born: 14-3-1910 — Died: 4-5-2009.

It is with great sadness that I learned about the death of Bro. Peter Ratos.

Bro. Peter Rato, OFM Cap., was in charge of the "Infirmary" at St. Anthony's High School, Monte de Guirim, Bardez, Goa. He was already there at Monte in the year 1953 when I joined the school. He served there for many more years after that before moving on to the Capuchin Minor Seminary at Navelim. He celebrated his 100th birthday recently.

Boarding students who fell ill would be entrusted into his care. The Infirmary was equipped with beds for sick students. It was located away from the classrooms. Students would be confined to these quarters until they fully recovered and were fit to attend classes. He was also in charge of the vaccinations/inoculations that were regularly carried out at the school. Students were also given medical check-ups, and age, heights and weight were recorded under his supervision.

During the afternoon recess we often played on the terrace below the Refectory. Should any of the students get injured or happened to have a bruise from a fall, they would immediately run to Bro. Peter who would dab tincture, ointment, antisepetic or apply a band-aid.

But most of all what he was best known for was his cure for the deadly snake bites. These cures were nothing short of miracles. Brother Peter was a simple and humble friar, and completely dedicated to a way of life of caring for students and the folks around Goa in the true sense of the word. He never bragged of his prowess. He did not boast of his competence nor did he expect any reward or demand money in return. People had faith in him. He cured all for free. He was well respected for his humility and his special ability in his field. He had a remedy for them all.

He must have certainly been bestowed by the Almighty with the powers of healing just by touch and prayers. The medicine he applied or prescribed must be acting as a go-between - a mediator and a catalyst.

What a great and long life of dedicated service to humanity. He lived a cool hundred years. Definitely a great healer of a bygone era, Brother Peter Ratos, the healing Capuchin Friar of Monte de Guirim.

Requiescat In Pace, Bro. Peter Rato. My sincere condolences to relatives, friends, students and Friars at Monte de Guirim.

Tony Fernandes
Ex-Student, S.A.H.S.
Monte de Guirim
Class of 1964
http://www.tonferns.blogspot.com/

WORLD LAUGHTER DAY

QUOTABLE QUOTES

ON WORLD LAUGHTER DAY

(Some of my experiences)

OUT OF TOWN
And then just recently at a craft show, there was this couple who walked into our booth. They browsed around and then they started to read all the labels on the jars loudly. After they had finished reading them all, they said the labels looked very nice, but couldn’t take a jar home because the wife just can’t stand turmeric, mother- in-law is allergic to vinegar, and the husband’s system cannot handle garlic.
The only one who simply adores pickles is their son. And he is out of town.

NEVER FOUND
A lone ranger walks into our booth. Tries 4 types of relishes. Says he likes them all, but right now can’t find his wife who he believes a little while ago was apparently sampling away at another booth nearby. Then he walked away saying he will be sending his wife as soon as he finds her.
But she never showed up. I guess her husband never found her.

SHORTER ARMS
Some people are rich and well-off. They have a lot of money. They could afford to spend tons of cash. They also have deep pockets where they keep their money, but shorter arms.

SORRY I’M FULL
We never put any pressure on customers. But this over 6 ft. chap was staring at our products for a good 5 minutes from 6 feet away out in the aisle. Thinking that he might have been feeling awkward to ask for a sample I took the liberty to ask him if I could offer a sample.

“No,” the customer replied, “Sorry, I’m full”.

Full? Did he think I was offering him lunch?

SOME OBSERVATIONS

SOME OBSERVATIONS (Humour)

Customers :

Man with folded arms:
1. Non-committed.
2. Has nothing better to do.
3. Surveying

Man with both hands in pocket:
1. Looking for loose change.
2. Broke

Man with one hand in pocket:
1. Not sure what he wants
(in life, or otherwise).

Man/Woman
with wallet/purse in hand:
Pretending to buy.

Man/woman
Both hands at the back:
They've got something to hide.

Man/Woman holding
Spouse’s hand:
They want nothing - except each other.

Man holding wife’s purse:
Doesn’t want her to spend.

Man/Woman with dark glasses
(in dimly-lit aisles, day or night) :
1. They probably think they can remain anonymous
2. They want to avoid absolutely all eye contact.
3. Competition is checking prices in dark shades!

BOOKS BY BEN ANTAO

1. Images of Goa ($25),
a memoir covering the years 1943-64.

2. Goa A Rediscovery ($10),
a travelogue of Goa, 2004.

3. BLOOD & Nemesis ($25),
a novel about Goa's freedom struggle from the Portuguese rule covering the period 1946-62.

4. Penance ($25),
a novel about a love quadrangle set in Toronto.

5. The Tailor's Daughter ($25),
a novel about a young Goan woman of Nairobi and her struggle to break out of the caste barrier.

6. Living on the Market ($25),
a novel about a supply teacher of Toronto who is trying to support his family by playing the stock market.

7. The lands of Sicily ($25),
a bilingual travelogue Italian and English) about the author's visit to Sicily in October 2007.

8. Images of the USA ($25),
a memoir of his journalistic experiences in the US (1966-67)

TO ORDER PLEASE EMAIL:

BEN ANTAO

ben.antao@rogers.com

JOURNEY ACROSS THE ARABIAN SEA (Part 3)

Windtowers of Dubai

'Dubai Creek 1970'
Oil painting by Tony Fernandes
Size 3ft x 2ft
View of Bur Dubai across the Creek from Ras Deira
Across the creek: Left Customs House & Ruler's Office,
centre: Nat.Bank of Dubai and backdrop of the wind towers of Bastakiya Quarter.

Dubai - United Arab Emirates

(Oil Painting by Tony Fernandes) 
BEYOND THE ARABIAN SEA

aboard the m.s. SIRDHANA

Part 3 (Final)

Muscat, Oman

The early morning of Day 5, (6th September 1967), found us approaching Muscat, Oman. The s.s. 'Sirdhana' cast anchor about half a nautical mile away from the breathtaking mountains of Oman. Cargo shipments were unloaded and loaded to and from small boats that came alongside. Although Muscat had no port, it was a magnificent sight to behold from the sea with beautiful cliffs some of which had names of visiting ships painted by sailors in large letters on the sloping sides. We knew that this was our last port of call before reaching Dubai.

After leaving Muscat in Oman by the afternoon, passengers disembarking in Dubai seemed quite excited. The morning of Day 6 (7th September 1967) saw us through the Straits of Hormuz. Dubai would be the next stop in about 18 hours as I had learned from a fellow traveler. There were in fact many passengers on board who had traveled this route before. As the ship sailed towards the Hormuz Strait, the Hajjar mountain range loomed high and large in the distance on the port side.

Then everyone was reaching for their note books, writing names and addresses of their new friends, so that we could keep in touch in the future wherever we would be or wherever our destiny would take us eventually. It was almost like a family leaving their relatives behind at this point. Most of my friends that I made on board the ship seemed to be in their twenties or thirties. Some were headed for other places like Doha, Bahrain, Kuwait and the final destination Basra from where some said they would hitch-hike across Europe.

It was Thursday, 7th of September 1967, having sailed through the Straits of Hormuz, the ship turned south-west towards Dubai. On the portside was the Hajjar mountain range of Ras al Khaimah and on the starboard side was the vast expanse of the Arabian Gulf. It was a hot and humid afternoon with bright sunshine. Simmering in the heat far away I could see what seemed like silhouettes on horizon of high-rise apartments. Oh! Skyscrapers! I thought, but they in fact were beautiful wind towers in disguise.

As the 'Sirdhana' steadily edged towards Dubai, she dropped anchor about a nautical mile off the entrance to Dubai Creek. After a while Immigration officials from the Trucial States arrived in a in a police boat and boarded the ship to check on the visas that were issued by the British Consulate in Dubai. The ship’s officers’ main dining area was immediately converted into an immigration office for the purpose.

Dubai did not have a sea port for the m.s. Sirdhana to berth then. We disembarked using the ship’s ladder onto small boats that took us ashore, through the winding creek. The small shuttle motor boats were berthed at the jetty near the market place in Bur Dubai. 

I jumped on to the quayside with the famous BOAC blue bag slung over my shoulder with quite a relief. It wasn’t difficult to spot my brother in his trademark crew-cut who had been waiting at the Customs House. We both chatted while waiting for my luggage that would be arriving on another boat. We then headed home in his Volkswagen.

My sea voyage had ended. A new life and a new venture in a different place and culture was about to begin.

The seven sheikhdoms namely, Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Sharjah, Ajman, Fujeirah, Umm Al Quwain and Ras Al Khaimah, were then known as the TRUCIAL STATES OF OMAN, a British Protectorate. Four years later a federation was formed aimed at attaining subsequent independence. The British left and the United Arab Emirates was born in August 1971.

Today Dubai is a great, modern and magnificent city which boasts of a man-made sea port so large that it can be seen from space. There are many other man-made architectural and engineering wonders of the modern world that we have heard about. The creek is still beautiful albeit bedecked with skyscrapers on both sides, but the cluster of the original wind-towers that I had spotted nearly 42 years ago today still exists on the heritage site at the mouth of the creek still basking in warm sunshine - a reminder of the day when I first set foot in this beautiful country.

*****     *****     *****

Interestingly, the Sirdhana was the first passenger ship to berth at the opening of Port Rashid on 9th November 1970. Other sister ships were the Dwarka, Daressa, Dumra, and sadly the unfortunate Dara which sunk as a result of a tragic and powerful explosion near Dubai on 8 April 1961, causing the deaths of 238 of the 819 persons on board at the time of the voyage, including 19 officers and 113 crew.

*****     *****      *****

One and a half year after I first landed in Dubai, I flew on a BOAC VC-10 Aircraft to Bombay on my first vacation, perhaps leaving a jet-trail like the one I had seen from the s.s. SIRDHANA!!!

'TonFerns' holding on tight to his BOAC Air Ticket 

JOURNEY ACROSS THE ARABIAN SEA (Part 2)

Dubai - Trucial States of Oman - 1967
Photo by Tony Fernandes

BEYOND THE ARABIAN SEA

(aboard the m.s. SIRDHANA)

Part 2

High Seas

Rising early morning the next day we went to the dining hall for breakfast and met the entire group of guys involved in the tete-a-tete that we had the previous night. It was the beginning of Day 2 (3rd September 1967). We were on high seas, heading for the port of Karachi in Pakistan. It was another long day of chit-chat. Some passengers were playing chess, draughts and cards. The lunch fare consisted of rice, curry, and vegetables. Soon the afternoon turned into evening, when most of us went to the prow of the ship to watch the beautiful sunset once again. The cool breeze fanned across our faces while silhouettes of sea-gulls glided effortlessly in the distance.

My compass indicated we were heading north-west. After dinner my friends and I sat on the aft upper deck till midnight. Each one of our group of friends told where they were heading, some relating a little bit about themselves. The final destination point of the s.s. Sirdhana was Basra in Iraq, the other intermittent stops being Qatar, Bahrain and Kuwait. 

The moon was low in the eastern sky, its faint glow simmering faintly on the horizon. The white surf that the ship left astern glimmered in its trail, leaving a long and wide V-shaped wash in its wake. With a dark foreboding sea towards the north, the faint lights of another vessel in the south kept us company for a while. The faint and hazy white band of the Milky Way stretched almost overhead across the clear sky, brilliantly lit by myriad twinkling stars. I was surrounded by some of my favourite constellations in a breath-taking stellar sight. To the north I could see the Great Bear in the constellation of Ursa Major with two of its stars pointing to the Pole Star in the constellation of Ursa Minor, the Little Bear. To the south I could see the rising Southern Cross. We then retired to our berths. There had not been a single day when I did not think about my folks and friends back home before falling asleep. Across the aisle, in dim lights of the lower deck I noticed a co-passenger smile. I wondered if he had seen me wipe a tear from my eye. He must be missing his folks too, I thought. Good night, he whispered.

Rising at dawn on Day 3 (4th September) it was time to go up to the main deck for breakfast. To my astonishment as I was standing on starboard side I could see far in the distance a landmass over the horizon. Just like one of the pursers on board had mentioned the previous night I surmised that we must be in fact nearing the port of Karachi. As we glided through the calm seas for about another two hours we saw many ships around us. Soon after that tugboats approached the Sirdhana. She was then soon docked and tethered to the bollards by the quay-side. Later I went to the fore-deck and watched as the ship used its winches to load cargo right up till the afternoon. I was amazed by the adept operators of the winches and impressed by the precision of how they raised and lowered the cargo. We then left port after having lunch. It was almost evening when we were again out into the open seas. We were now heading towards Muscat in Oman, full steam ahead. Once again after a long conversation on various topics that evening, we decided to take count of how much ‘foreign exchange’ was left from the pittance of an allowance of $5 US Dollars (Indian Rupees 75/- in those days) that each one of us had for the entire journey. It wasn't enough at all. Most of this meagre amount had already been spent on beer! Any extra meal or snacks would have to be paid in US Dollars. Another moonlit night – quite peaceful, silent and calm. As for me I was slightly tired. Perhaps a little ruffled, but looked forward to arriving at Muscat.

Day 4. (5th September) A quick check on my only favourite possession – my magnetic compass. We were westbound by south west. Brilliant sunshine, blue skies and scattered cumulus clouds high above. A long white jet trail pierced the sky. Perhaps a VC-10 or Boeing 707 on its way to Bombay, Hong Kong, Singapore or Australia - some lucky guys - but some day I'll fly too, I thought.

Sitting by the side of a vent cowling, I was facing the bridge, with my back toward the bow of the ship reading a book. High up above on the bridge of the ship officers seemed to be on the afternoon watch. They appeared to look out far ahead, out into the sea. During the afternoon my new friends and I stood near the prow of the ship. As we cautiously looked over the rails down below us we saw the hull of the ship slice through the waters as several pairs of dolphins raced alongside keeping at an amazing and steady pace along with the ship. Looking back over my shoulder I noticed naval officers high up through the window of the captain’s navigation deck, taking a reading through a sextant, flanked by 2 or 3 others. Trainees or juniors perhaps, it appeared so, presuming from their actions.

(to be continued)

JOURNEY ACROSS THE ARABIAN SEA (Part 1)

m.s. SIRDHANA

Photographs Courtesy: John Coulthard & Dave Alexander

Journey Across the Arabian Sea

(ON BOARD THE m.s. SIRDHANA)

Part I

Bombay, India
The days preceding 2nd of September 1967 were pretty hectic, with thoughts dwelling on my forthcoming travel to a foreign land. It was a busy time - making arrangements in getting a passport for the first time in my life. It would be my first venture abroad to a place called Dubai. Many on the Indian sub-continent knew where it was, but perhaps in those days very few people knew about it in other parts of the world.

Having been excited since the day I received my visa, the thought of finding employment abroad brought sadness and happiness at the same time. Sad because I would be leaving my parents and friends behind. On the other hand happy because I was going to try something new – an adventure. It was an opportunity not to be missed, an opportunity knocking at my door to venture abroad. So finally after much debate I took the brave step of leaving in search of greener pastures overseas in my favourite blue shirt and jeans, a carry-on bag slung over my shoulder, an Art Diploma and a suitcase with a few clothes in hand 

No doubt it was already an age of jet travel then, but I had only one option at my disposal, and that was to rough it out on a sea voyage of 5 days and 5 nights across the Arabian Sea on board the B.I. steamship, the m.s. SIRDHANA.

The day of my departure was getting closer and there was so much to do. Some of my friends wanted to take me out to lunch and dinner, while others wanted me to join them at the movies. Some college friends from as far away as Malad, Bandra and Andheri came over to the place where I lived at Colaba to say good-bye on the eve of my departure.

It was surely a sad moment for me and for my friends too. Late one evening I sat in the balcony on the fourth floor of the apartment in Colaba where I lived. I looked down below at the main street - the bright lights of Colaba Causeway - a shopper's delight - it still seemed busy. As I looked towards the south east, I could see the glimmering lights of Sassoon Dock and the neon signs of Empire Shoe Mart towards the north. Cafe Alexandria across the street was open, and people still lined up for Kulfi at Chandu's even at such a late hour. I'm certainly going to miss this neighbourhood a lot, I thought. How much I would miss seemed too much to count - the movies at the Strand, the Metro, the Empire, the Rex, the Regal and Eros Cinemas, lunch and dinners at Martin's Corner just around the corner, cold coffee at Gables, and matinee shows at the Excelsior, the evening strolls along Cuffe Parade and Gateway of India, the occasional visit to Venice and Volga's, the hop on the double decker buses at Electric House, the early morning Mass at the Wodehouse Church, Paranjoti's Choir, music shows and contests among beat groups like The Mystiks, The Savages, Beat Four, Reaction and Lone Trojan (Biddu), and sipping coffee while listening to the hits by the Ventures, The Shadows, The Seekers, Ricky Nelson, Jim Reeves, Cliff Richard, Elvis, Everly Brothers and others on the juke-box at Cafe Mondegar. I had a lump in my throat just as it does now.

Finally the morning of 2nd September 1967 dawned. It was time for me to leave for the docks - off to the Ballard Pier in Bombay (now Mumbai). There, tethered to the bollards was the awesome and gleaming white steamer, the SIRDHANA, one of the last B.I. ships of its kind to sail the seas. My friend, Leslie, may God bless his soul, accompanied me in the taxi to the pier. I was surprised that so many of my friends had already arrived there to say goodbye.

After all the routine checking in, it was time for the passengers to board. I hastened along the gangway to find my berth. Placing my luggage there I hurried back to the deck to have a last glimpse at my friends who kept on waving out to me. I waved back intermittently and I was convinced that they were adamant in waiting by the quayside till the ship's departure. With sustained smiles on their faces and mine, it was a sad moment.

It was almost noon when I heard a rumble beneath my feet, as the ship raised anchor. As it was gently towed away out of the harbour by two tug boats into the open sea, I could see people still waving goodbye in the distance, becoming smaller and smaller till I could see them no more. Soon the tug boats had left the Sirdhana to steam on its own power. We were heading North-West for sure, I thought. To confirm this I took out my old pocket compass, one of my treasured possessions from my school days, to check and confirm that I was right in my assumption.

Having made it back to the berth on the lower deck after a while, I decided to settle down take it easy and try to come to terms and brace for a long journey ahead.

Later that evening, I reached into the side pocket of my favourite blue carry bag of those days (that ironically had the letters "BOAC"- British Overseas Aircraft Corporation). From it, I anxiously took out a world map that I had purchased from the agent. Not wanting to make a laughing stock of myself, I then quickly put it away before somebody could see me, as we had barely been out of Indian waters, and had hardly started our journey! There was silence among the passengers nearby except at the far end of the sleeping quarters. A group of guys seemed to go on chatting endlessly. These guys must be regulars, I assumed. After taking a short nap I decided to go to the lounge on the upper deck. Some passengers were watching a glorious sunset on the horizon of the Arabian Sea. Soon twilight turned into darkness with a grand canopy of a star-lit sky above us. As I remember, one of the famous hit songs of those days was 'World of our Own' by The Seekers, lyrics of which seemed to aptly come to mind. We were surely far away from the bustle and the bright city lights, albeit headed to a new place that I had yet to know and experience, in a new world that hopefully I would strive to make and build on my own.

It was dinner time. Not having had a single known person on a steamer that carried nearly a 1000 passengers I thought it was time to make friends. So I put down one of the books that I had carried to read on board the ship.

Later I realized that in fact everybody wanted to make friends with everyone else. The saying “we are all in the same boat” literally held true in this case. All that had to be done was to break the ice initially. As I now recall, conversations carried on till past mid-night.

When I rose up the next morning I already had a lot of friends on board - in fact more than I had expected.

This is just the beginning, four more days and nights to go, I thought.

It was much unlike the banner head-line in BOAC advertisements of the VC-10 aircraft of that era that proclaimed: 'Swift, Silent, Serene'.

We were going to get there for sure, but differently: Definitely slow, but steady. Surely ruffled, but determined.

(to be continued)

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.

THE RESURRECTION

HOLY SATURDAY

HOLY SATURDAY

GOOD FRIDAY

THE CRUCIFIXION

MAUNDY THURDSDAY

THE LAST SUPPER

DAHLIA, HER MUSIC & LYRICS

RELEASE of NEW CD

By

DAHLIA FERNANDES

TO LISTEN TO THE TRACKS

PLEASE CLICK ON DAHLIA'S WEB-SITE:

http://www.dahliafernandes.com

Behind the Music

Tomorrow Tonight

Written by: Dahlia Fernandes

Piano: Marco Dela Cruz

Vocals: Dahlia Fernandes

Jump!

Written by: Dahlia Fernandes

Piano: Marco Dela Cruz

Vocals: Dahlia Fernandes

While You Were Gone

Written by: Dahlia Fernandes

Arrangement: Anant Persad

Vocals: Dahlia Fernandes

Illusion

Written by: Dahlia Fernandes

Piano: Marco Dela Cruz

Vocals: Dahlia Fernandes

Coming soon to I-Tunes!

To buy the CD,

send an email to:

contactme@dahliafernandes.com

DELICIOUS & EXQUISITE

GOAN PICKLE

MADE IN CANADA

EDNA'S PICKLES

Edna's Pickles is a Canadian business based in Mississauga, Ontario, that makes a line of Indian chutneys and relishes.We also sell two recipe books that are collections of tried and tested recipes which are the result of over 30 years of cooking for family and friends

Edna’s Pickles only sells through fairs, festivals, trade shows and exhibitions. Please see our show dates and visit us at our next event. They are not available in stores, but can be ordered online.

Indian pickle is like a relish or chutney. It is a combination of fruits or vegetables with a special blend of spices, sugar and vinegar. In India, there are many varieties of pickle and each family makes their own version. Flavour, texture and ingredients can vary from pickle to pickle.

Edna’s Pickles are an unique blend of spices that lend a perfect taste and texture to our line of relishes of mango, eggplant, gherkin, carrot, lime, turnip and pumpkin flavours.

Indian relishes and chutneys are traditionally served with rice and are used to add flavour to a meal. A spicy pickle accents a mild curry and a sweet pickle complements a spicy curry. Today, pickles can accompany everything - rice, noodles, barbecued fish, grilled chicken and meats, roast beef and cold-cut sandwiches to enhance the taste. They can also be used as a dip with tortilla chips or bread, samosas, on hamburgers, hot dogs and even with goat cheese.

We also sell two recipe books that are collections of tried and tested recipes which are the result of over 30 years of cooking for family and friends.

ELEVEN VARIETIES

Super Spicy Mango
Mild Mango
Hot Eggplant
Crunchy Gherkins
Mango & Gherkin Mix
Savoury Carrots

Tangy Lime
Sweet Lime
Sweet Mango Mash

Tasty Turnips
Pumpkin Delight

Online Orders in Canada thru website:

www.ednaspickles.com

For shipping charges outside Canada:

Please contact edna@ednaspickles.com

http://broadwaybooksgoa.com

http://broadwaybooksgoa.com/book_info.php?cid=45&scatid=102&bid=756

GOA - MEMORIES OF MY HOMELAND

A nostalgic collection of poems and stories that transport the reader back to blessed times. Evocative glimpses into a blissful era that has aged perhaps with time, but not forgotten.

Simple, rustic life
captured through descriptive renditions
via narrative poetry, drawings, paintings and photographs.

To order a copy of this book please send an e-mail to:

tonferns@hotmail.com

It can also be bought at Broadway Book Centre, Panjim, Goa. India

or ordered on line from:

http://broadwaybooksgoa.com/book_info.php?cid=45&scatid=102&bid=756

To order on line in Canada click on the following website:

http://www.ednaspickles.com/

ROMANCING THE BRIDGE

ROMANCING THE BRIDGE

Bridge over the River Zuari

Goa, India

(Painting in Water Color by Tony Fernandes)

It has always been man’s quest since Eden to explore the other side of the river. We see land across on the other side for years. To explore that land we need to get to that side first. So then we make an effort to build a canoe and row to the other side with oars. Then we build a boat. We are still not happy and we want to make things easy, so we put a sail on it.

Things are going smooth but not fast enough. We want to get to the other side much quicker. Hence we fit a motor to the boat. But then we have to face rough seas and stormy weather at times. And all this is too much work and trouble to get across. So we link two separate pieces of land by building a bridge across the river.

Ever since then we have been building bridges across the rivers joining different landscapes and this way people are brought closer too. In real life we can use the bridge as an illustration or an example of bridging the gap between two people who love and care for each other uniting them with their ideas and thoughts as easily as driving to the other side.

When most of the things in our life seem to have carried on fairly well, then its an ideal time to enjoy the view around us from the very bridge that we built, and the scenic panorama can be as spectacular as your life itself.

A bridge can be set as an example of a permanent promise of unity that connect two personalities and two minds of people into similar thoughts, ideas and respect for each other, running smoothly in both directions forever, even though the distance may be short.

But life on the bridge sometimes can be as difficult and turbulent as the waters that gush beneath it. The tide plays its part too just like the ups and downs of life or the boatman who struggles below the bridge fighting the stormy winds or the strong current.

However, and unfortunately rather, these wonderful bridges, these seemingly strong links over water between two pieces of land get broken by war and strife created by man - just like a rift that lead to a breakup of hearts of two souls that once lived and promised to love each other forever.

But then, after all, life’s like that - like a bridge over troubled water - and as long as the romance endures.

DAYS OF THE BULLOCK CART IN GOA

BULLOCK CART
Parra, Goa - India

(Photo: Tony Fernandes, 2005)

The ‘gaddo’ is a 2-wheeled carriage drawn by trained bullocks commonly used in Goa till today. It is constructed fully from wood. Its fastest travelling speed could be compared to the usual leisurely walk of a steer.

My earliest memorable experience in travelling on this sort of conveyance was when I was young, hitching a ride on my way home from school. This type of carts were privately-owned and almost every village had one or two.

The two large iron-rimmed square wooden-spoked wheels serve a dual purpose - as fly-wheels and riding wheels combined, giving the cart the needed momentum. It seems it is effortless for the bulls to haul these carts once they get rolling. These carts are used to transport a gamut of goods from firewood, furniture and laterite stones to roof tiles, sacks of paddy, coconuts and lumber. Quite often we can see a few school kids getting a free ride home just for the fun of it in the villages.

Among my earliest memories in witnessing something valuable delivered to our house by this versatile cart was in the early nineteen sixties. The furniture it carried was a wooden cupboard or almirah (almar in colloquial Konkani) with a full length mirror, chairs and a folding dining table that my father had purchased from the huge annual fair held at the feast of Nossa Senhora de Milagres in Mapusa.

This sort of a cart was also used by the ‘gaddekar’ from Nagoa, Bardez, who plied through the villages at dawn selling salt just before the onset of the monsoon season, with his high-pitched and very distinguished call: ‘Hey Mitt’. One of the most audible continuous sound that emanated from it was the crunchy and grinding noise produced by the turning of its wheels, and its most outstanding visible feature was the huge pair of wheels. And of course, I can still recall its unforgettable and discernible trademark – its peculiar musty odour.

These flat-bed carts provided a cheaper means of transportation of goods and other provisions such as the ones mentioned above. They did not have any springs for suspension - hence the ride was bumpy. The fixed rigid axle consisted of approx. 6 in x 6in wooden beam with a track width of about 6 feet, and was fitted to the underside of the flat-bed made up of butt-jointed wood slats and side beam fitted with side-rails. A canvas or hessian bag slung over the outside of these siding would hold the drivers personal belongings, and of course his lunch tiffin. Often a bucket and a net containing hay was tied to the longitudinal beam. The wheels were of about 6 ft. dia. with large hubs (around 12" dia.) and iron rims (about 2-1/2" wide). The fully timber-crafted wheels were locked or stopped on the outer edge by means of drop-pins into well-greased axle ends. The outer iron rims were 'shrink-fitted'* to the wooden wheel that comprised of the assembly with 12 wooden spokes, hub and the wheel segments that made up the entire wheel itself.

During the rainy season an arch-shaped high covering would be fitted over the cart in order to provide protection for the safe transportation of merchandise or goods.

The front end consisted of a double bow yoke that was placed on top of the longitudinal single centre-piece that ran along the full length of the cart itself, forming a cross at the head. The yoke was fastened to the longitudinal beam by means of a rope thereby giving it the flexibility of pivoting it to some degree, and giving it a marginal swivel action between the pair of bullocks. This feature aided tight turns. The yoke was harnessed over their necks in order to pull the carriage. The centre-piece curved and extended downward at the front so that, without the bulls, the cart would rest at a least possible slant.

Braking on these carts was unique, provided by a cleverly designed device. It consisted of two wooden poles, fitted parallel across the front and back of the wheels. They were connected into an intricate double acting trapezoidal contrivance of ropes. This device was in turn connected by a longer rope from the rear to the front. The master of the cart perched himself sideways on the longitudinal beam whenever the cart carried a full load, whereas when empty he made himself comfortable on the front edge of the flat-bed. The driver himself acted like a mechanical master cylinder - and by means of applying pressure on this rope with his leg or some his whole body weight he would be able to slow down the cart, while going downward on a slope or bring it to a stop in an emergency. This was achieved by the action of the parallel wooden poles pressing against the outer iron rims of the wheels. These wooden poles that acted as 'brakes' were slightly flattened at the point where they came in contact with the outer iron rims of the wheels. In overall action the whole system resembled the opposite of caliper drum brakes of the present day.

Additional stopping or braking power was provided verbally, or with gentle 'ho-ho'. The rest of the maneuvering and negotiating was done by means of touch or contact conveyed to the bullocks by the driver with a stick - a slight nudge here and a slight tap there - on their backs. If parked on a slope the wheels were chocked with a stone. At most times the bullocks seemed ever obedient, gentle in nature and never seemed to be in a hurry, but there were the odd instances when they got unruly and didn't pay heed to any commands. These animals were held in reverence by the owner and his family members, and respected for the work and sustenance they provided.

The yoke rested over the necks of the bullocks, and in hauling it stopped short just before the ridge of their shoulder blades. In some cases bells hung around the bulls’ necks rang constantly as they passed by on the road. These bells had a distinct sound and acted as warning bells to others, or merely let the people know about the presence of the ‘gaddo’ passing through the area. They sound of the bells 'kinni-kinni' could be heard far away and long into the quietness of the night as the lone hard-working driver returned home. A gently swinging hurricane lamp hung low in front, beneath the main beam and between the bulls. The light from this lamp was more to warn others of its approach to oncoming motor vehicles rather than a light to guide itself or light up the road.

They are less common nowadays and are gradually being pulled out of service as their popularity goes on the decline due the increasing number of motor transport vehicles, commonly known as ‘tempos’. They were mainly confined to their own districts and seldom made long trips over the hills.

Another impression stuck in my mind is that people walking briskly along the road often overtook them. Among my childhood memories are the ones that the bulls usually seemed to make a good team: faithful, quiet, with their downward and humble gaze, always seemingly engrossed in their own thoughts, and also the very rare sight of the driver asleep, with the bridle reins and stick in his hands. But there were one or two instances that I recall of the runaway cart, when the disgruntled bulls ran uncontrolably fast to the utter dismay of the driver, but to mischievous glee of the youngsters.

There was certainly an advantage in having trained bullocks so that way the driver could be assured of reaching home safely by taking the shortest route possible after a long and hard day’s work. Having trained bullocks meant like putting them on auto-pilot and be on the right track. And without a GPS system he could still reach home while he took a short nap.

The era of these types of slow but fairly reliable vehicles is slowly making an exit, replaced by the 'tempos' or trucks or rickshaws with a trailer.

Those were the days of innovative ways of another period of yore. It is now just a childhood memory - gone but not forgotten.

Tony Fernandes

*Shrink-fitting is a process that our science teacher taught us in school about 'expansion' and 'contraction", whereby the pre-formed iron wheel was heated by the blacksmith to expand it. The iron rims were rather made smaller than the wooden wheel in the first instance, and then they it would be placed on the ready wooden wheels and immediately cooled by dousing it with water. The quick cooling brought about by contact with water would contract or shrink the iron rim tightly over the wooden wheel and at the same time also prevented the likelihood of it catching fire.