Khell-Tiatr a Mirror of the Goan Catholic Society

There is no doubt that the Tiatr or even for that matter the Khell-tiatr reflects the Goan Catholic Society completely, be it on the social level or even the political one. A murder in Canacona will be sung with gusto by a tiatrist in Margão, Mr. Parrikar’s appointment as the Defence Minister may be lauded but in all probability will be criticised, the Nigerian drug wars were a topic for heartfelt change for a very long time. Chances are that if you manage to go for a Tiatr these days it will be all about the absence of beef in the local markets. Oh yes, the tentacles of the Tiatr reach far and wide and very deep, touching every little bit of life in Goa.

There are of course differences between the Tiatr and the Khell-tiatr, not in content of course but in the manner of portrayal. Whilst the Tiatr has a single story broken up in parts interspersed with most of the times satirical songs as well as comic interludes also satirical in nature.

On the other hand the Khell-tiatr has three distinct parts with three separate stories unconnected to each other called Parti, the partis are interspersed with comic interludes, hardly ever songs. Of significance is that Khell-tiatrs are held only during the three days of Carnaval, the best part is that they are roaming troupes, with their own band, in buses with a loudspeaker in front, large Banners advertising the Khell-tiatr hung on the sides and back of the very colourful bus. What joy to see and hear the Khell-tiatr making its way through the village.

Last year the central theme of the Khell-tiatr I had attended was conversions, spreading the Word of God. In one Parti, a girl who marries a Hindu had not only converted her husband’s entire family but managed to get the entire Ward to follow Catholicism. I was disgusted and the audience bored to tears with the preaching. It was Carnaval for God’s sake!

This year I hoped that there would be more humour in the Parti and less preaching. Sitting under the mango tree we waited in impatient anticipation, the band with two very energetic keyboard players announced with a flourish the opening Chorus. The first Parti had begun;

                                                     Alisha and her lover Franzell come skipping onto the stage, very much in love, murmuring sweet-nothings, promising each other eternal fidelity. Taking a break from their cooing to discuss their problem, Franzell has managed a job in Kuwait but is running short of money. The problem looms large, just then Franzell’s friend Alister pops on to the scene. On hearing their problem, Alister decides to help, speaks to his mother Rosalin, after much discussion and dire predictions from the mother Rosalin, they decide to hypothecate their house and lend the money to Franzell. The young couple is overjoyed; Franzell can now leave for Kuwait.

Every day at an appointed time Franzell calls Alisha, Oh my God! Screams Alisha in exasperation and utter boredom, doesn't this guy have anything else to do? He is supposed to work not bore me to death with his the-most-boring-love talk. Here I was meeting Jodric and we were to eat pizza. Franzell sends her money regularly, just pay Alister, he says, I want them to have their house back. Ok, ok darling, murmurs Alisha as she quickly disconnects the phone and moves away with Jodric her new boyfriend. Does she pay Alister any money? Never, not a penny, why should she? Sadly and much as Rosalin had predicted, Desmond to whom they had hypothecated their house takes away the house as they are unable to pay any money within the stipulated time. Rosalin dies at her sister’s place.

Meanwhile Alisha has been cheerfully feeding Franzell the most outrageous lies, she claims that every time she went over to Alister’s place to pay him the loan, Alister made a pass at her and one fine day actually raped her. Franzell is so incensed that without informing any person in Goa he decides to confront Alister.

Comes to Goa, insults Alister for taking ‘advantage’of Alisha. As luck would have it, Franzell meets another pal of his, Francisco, who explains the entire scenario to Franzell, they decide to confront Alisha. Arrange a meeting with her. Alisha comes with her latest boyfriend, Macenroe.

Alisha looks very mischievously at Franzell and says ‘Franzell you told me to buy anything I wanted, you sent me the money, I was so tempted, I just had to spend it. I like to be with men, you are never there...I love pizza too, so what could I do? And skips off in excellent humour, no pleading, no remorse, no talk of God, no moralising, nothing, just skips away with Macenroe to eat a pizza which she adores.

Franzell, Alister and Francisco look at her with envy.

I could not believe my ears, talk of being astounded, I truly was. The Director had in one stroke liberated Women from being the servile, docile creatures forever wronged, always begging for forgiveness. They could have the upper hand too, if they felt like it; truly the roles had been reversed with vengeance.

We relaxed had a cup of strong tea, ate some boiled kabulli channa and waited for parti three of the khel-tiatr.

                                                     Facyll leads a terrible life married to Snowden, every day the mother-in-law Mari Santan insults her, curses her, wishes she would fall into the nearest well, or die under a fast moving train, that way her precious Snowden could marry a nice girl and have wonderful children.

But Snowden and Facyll love each other and despite having no children and even if Mari Santan is a virago par excellence they manage four years of married life.

 Everyone urges them ‘go to a doctor’ ‘no says Mari Santan, my son is as virile as Quistod’s Bull. There is absolutely no need. It is this barren woman’s fault.’ Even Snowden’s vagrant brother, Snivio urges his brother, ‘Irmão go men, maybe some treatment will help you ...both’, he adds hurriedly when he sees his Mother’s dark glare.

Snivio the vagrant gambles heavily, anything will do cards, matka, tablam and best of all bets placed on Quistod’s Bull during the bull fights, dirio. He is always asking for money, begging every family member, ‘give men only ten rupees, will return no as soon as I get the winning number for matka. He does win sometimes but that money goes towards bets placed on Quistod’s Bull. Sometimes he pleads with Facyll, ‘give men, why are you such kanjoos , you earn nicely working as a teacher no?’ Sometimes Facyll does give some money tired with all the disgusting pleading, truth be told she does like Snivio, he can be quite funny at times.

Everything is fine, if of course you can consider it fine living with Mari Santan and her insults, humiliations. Mari Santan at times does not rest until she has humiliated Facyll to such an extent that Facyll has been reduced to sad person who is a nothing. But Facyll and Snowden lead a decent life, until Facyll’s father, Rosario, comes for a visit and is horrified to hear Mari Santan berating Facyll in that terrible, terrible way. He urges them to go to a Doctor, but Snowden refuses. Now Rosario comes often, he realises Facyll needs support and love. Although he urges them repeatedly to consult a doctor it falls on deaf ears. On one such day when Rosario is at Facyll’s house, Facyll talking to him collapses in a dead faint. Everyone rushes and the Doctor is brought, a brief examination, the doctor beaming says, ‘good news Mari Santan, Facyll is pregnant. Pregnant? Scream all of them, how could it be? And then Facyll says, ‘yes it was Snivio, who attacked me, raped me repeatedly’ Snivio just looks on and says not a word. But Facyll says, ‘see it was not my fault’. Everyone is thunderstruck, no one urges Facyll to get rid of the baby, Mari Santan content, and happy to have a grandson, does not blame Facyll for leading her precious son astray, perverting her darling son Snivio. Rosario does not urge Facyll to go to the police. Everyone thinks after all these years a Baby.

Was it rape? Who knows, who cares, and after all there is a baby at the end of it all. Again the Director makes the woman a powerful person, she wanted a baby and it is her choice to have one whatever the methods employed. Once again no scenes of crying, pleading, recriminations. Everyone so joyful.

I go home happy, the Director has made it crystal clear, the Woman has a right to decide her own course of action.

Sri Harimandir Sahib or the Golden Temple at Amritsar

The Sri Harimandir Sahib or the Golden Temple at Amritsar is the central religious place for Sikhs. As it symbolizes brotherhood and equality, all people irrespective of their caste, creed or race can seek spiritual solace and religious fulfillment without any hindrance. But for the Sikhs the Sri Harimandir Sahib represents their distinct identity, glory and heritage.  

                Since deep antiquity a small lake in the midst of a quiet forest had been a site of meditation and a retreat for wandering mendicants and sages. The Buddha is known to have spent time at this place in meditation and contemplation. Two thousand years after the Buddha, another philosopher-saint came to live and meditate by the peaceful lake. This was Guru Nanak, the founder of the Sikh religion. After his death, his disciples continued to visit the site and as centuries went by it came to be a sacred place for the Sikhs.

It was Sri Guru Ram Dass Ji the Fourth Sikh Guru who decided to enlarge and deepen the Amrit Sarovar - Holy Lake in 1577 A.D.  Sri Guru Arjan Dev Ji the Fifth Sikh Guru started the construction of Sri Harimandir Sahib. Land had been bought by the previous Guru Sahibs or sometimes the local Zamindars –landlords had donated it. The construction of a town settlement was also undertaken, so the building work on the Sarovar and the town started simultaneously in 1570.

From the early 1600s to the mid 1700s, the Sikh Gurus were constantly called upon to defend both their religion and their temple against Muslim armies. On numerous occasions the temple was destroyed by the Muslims, and each time the Sikhs rebuilt it more beautifully. From 1767 onwards, the Sikhs became strong enough militarily to repulse invaders. Peace returned to the Harimandir.

Sri Harimandir Sahib, the Golden Temple, has a unique form of architecture, which can be termed the Sikh form of architecture. Unlike Hindu Temples, Sri Harimandir Sahib is at a level lower than the surrounding land level, thus symbolizing egalitarianism and humility. The four entrances to the Sri Harimandir Sahib situated at the four cardinal points go to show that any person without any distinction of caste, creed, sex and religion have a place at the Sri Harimandir Sahib.

Sri Harimandir Sahib is built on a square platform right in the middle of the Amrit Sarovar- the Holy Lake, at every Cardinal point of the Sri Harimandir Sahib a door beckons you.

Connecting the Sri Harimandir Sahib to the wide Parikarma  - the circumambulatory path which runs right round the main shrine, is the Guru’s Bridge or causeway. The Darshani Deori – Arch, stands at the shore end of the causeway.

Sri Harmandir Sahib is in all aspects a three-storied edifice. The front, which faces the causeway, has a repeated design of cusped arches. The roof of the first floor is at the height of the 26 feet and 9 inches.

At the top of the first floor, a four feet high parapet rises on all the sides, this has four ‘Mamtees’ on each of the four corners. Exactly on the top of the central hall of the main sanctuary we find the third storey. It is a small square room and has three gates. Prayers from Guru Granth Sahib are recited continuously. The fluted Gumbaz-dome shaped like an inverted lotus; it took 220 lbs. of Gold to cover its surface. The top of the dome has a Kalash topped by a Chhatri.

The combination of several dozens of large, medium and miniature domes of gilded copper create a unique and dazzling effect which is enhanced by its reflection in the water below.

Amidst a crowd of fervent and solemn devotees, scriptures from the Holy Book are sung beneath a canopy studded with jewels. A chauri - whisk is continually waved above the Book as pilgrims pay obeisance by touching their foreheads to the temple floor and walls, and moving in a clockwise direction at a relaxed pace.

After its compilation, Sri Guru Arjan Dev Ji installed the newly created Guru Granth Sahib – the scripture of the Sikhs, in Harimandir Sahib on August 16, 1604 A.D. Baba Budha Ji a devout Sikh, was appointed as its first Head Priest or the first Granthi, the reader of Guru Granth Sahib.

Within the sanctuary, on a jewel-studded platform, lies the Adi Grantha, the sacred scripture of the Sikhs. This scripture is a collection of devotional poems, prayers, and hymns composed by the ten Sikh gurus and various Muslim and Hindu saints. Beginning early in the morning and lasting until long past sunset, these hymns are chanted to the exquisite accompaniment of flutes, drums, and stringed instruments. Echoing across the serene lake, this enchantingly beautiful music induces calm in the pilgrims strolling leisurely around the marble concourse- Parikarma encircling the pool and temple. An underground spring feeds the sacred lake, throughout the day and night, in any weather, pilgrims immerse themselves in its water, a symbolic cleansing of the soul rather than an actual bathing of the body.

Amritsar, the original name of first, the ancient lake, then the temple complex, and still later the surrounding city, means ‘pool of ambrosial nectar’. Peering deeply into the origins of this word amrit, we find that it indicates a drink of the gods. This is an example of the spirit, power, or energetic character of a holy place lending its name as a geographical place name. The waters of Amritsar flowing into the lake of the Hari Mandir were long ago and remain till today a bringer of peacefulness as well as resoluteness.

I hurry; I am on my way to the Sri Harimandir Sahib or the Golden Temple Complex. Thinking of my Father who quoted often ‘An army marches on its stomach’ I fortify myself with a thick, Amul-butter oozing, aloo paratha and strong tea, enough to quieten my stomach for a long time, although Sikhs around me are guzzling parathas and luchas joyfully.

As usual when entering a place of worship I need to knock off my footwear, I head to the place for footwear, a huge room with tiered racks upon racks, as I hand over my dusty, worn out flip-flops, I am ashamed that the lady behind the counter has to touch the dusty footwear. I apologise; she smiles picks the flip-flops and moves away after handing me a token. Here at the Sri Harimandir Sahib everything is about humility and Seva.

I need to dip my feet in water, it is winter, the water must be cold; it’s a little channel with running water. As I step in, the water is warm and pleasant. I wonder do they warm the water?

I step up to the Ghanta Ghat Deori, the Clocktower, the Gurdwara's main entrance. As I stand on the threshold, the entire Harimandir Sahib Complex with the huge lake, lies in front of me, the majestic Amrit Sarovar, calm, beautiful with shreds of mist hanging all about it, although the sun is up and about glinting off all the domes. I gasp at such stark simplicity and most of all the utter peace. Although everywhere and everything is of marble which in itself is opulent, the overriding appearance is that of Simplicity.

As I walk around the wide Parikarma-the circumambulatory path which runs right round the main shrine, I see that it is made up entirely of white marble, inlaid with vari-coloured stones in amazing designs. To prevent pilgrims from slipping, as all men dip themselves in the Amrit Sarovar and there is water everywhere, long coir carpets are placed as walkways. There is such organization, a place for shoes, water for pilgrims in clean steel cups, place for wet clothes, separate enclosures for women to dip themselves in the Amrit Sarovar and of course the Langar, serving thousands of meals every day. Next to the temple complex are enormous pilgrims' dormitories. It is well known that the meals as well are free for all persons irrespective of their caste, creed or race.

In my circumambulatory path, I get to the the shrine of Baba Deep Singh.

Legend says that In April 1757, ‘Ahmad Shah Durrani raided Northern India for the fourth time. On his way back to Kabul from Delhi with precious booty and young men and women as captives, the Sikhs make a plan to capture him, take away his booty and free the captives.  Baba Deep Singh and his band took their position near Kurukshetra, a battle ensues, a large number of prisoners are freed, Durrani's considerable treasury raided and looted.

Durrani is incensed, embittered by his loss, orders the demolition of the Harimandir Sahib. The shrine is blown up and the sacred pool desecrated with the entrails of slaughtered cows. Durrani assigns the Punjab region to his son, Prince Timur Shah, and leaves him a force of ten thousand men under General Jahan Khan.

Baba Deep Singh, then aged around 75, feels that it is up to him to redress  the sin of having let the Afghans desecrate the shrine. He emerges from his scholastic retirement and declares to a congregation at Damdama Sahib that he intends to rebuild the temple.

Five hundred men go forward with him. Deep Singh offers prayers before starting for Amritsar: "May my head fall at the Darbar Sahib." As he goes from hamlet to hamlet, many villagers join him. By the time Baba Deep Singh reaches Tarn Taran Sahib, ten miles from Amritsar, over five thousand peasants armed with hatchets, swords, and spears accompany him.

The Sikhs and the Afghans clash in the battle of Amritsar, at the village of Gohalwar on November 11, 1757, and in the ensuing conflict Baba Deep Singh is decapitated.

The first version has it that Deep Singh continues to fight after having been decapitated, slaying his enemies with his head in one hand and his sword in the other. In this version, only upon reaching the sacred city of Amritsar did he stop and finally die.

Another version, on being mortally wounded with a severe gash to his head, a Sikh reminded Baba Deep Singh, ‘You had resolved to reach the periphery of the pool’ On hearing this the Baba, supported his head with his left hand and swept away the enemies with the strokes of his double-edged sword with his right hand, reached the periphery of Harmindar Sahib where he breathed his last.

The spot where Baba Deep Singh's head fell has a monument in the Golden Temple complex, of course  Sikhs from around the world pay their respects there and so did I. Baba Deep Singh's 40 kg Khandha- double-edged sword, which he used in his final battle, is still preserved at Akaal Takhat Sahib.

As I read the inscription, I smile not out of sheer disbelief, but admiration, the Sikhs will do anything to save their religion, and death is just a part of upholding the religion.

Strangely although there have been so many battles, decapitations, looting, plundering, desecration of the Amrit Sarovar, not forgetting the horrible carnage of the Operation Bluestar, the Sri Harimandir Sahib is so peaceful and serene. No noise, no frenzy, no raucous shouting. Just peace. How do the Sikhs merge their militancy with such peace and contentment? I am bemused.  

Slowly with absolutely no hurry I walk towards the the Darshani Deori, which stands at the shore end of the causeway. I watch people sitting around, silently conversing, I watch a baby rolling around with only its pink feet peeking out of its woolens.

I get my ‘Karah Prasad’ and take it to be blessed at the Sri Harimandir Sahib. Such a long queue at the Darshani Deori, everyone opens their little books and pray in deep concentration. Prayers waft over us, we keep going.

I peek into the depths of the Amrit Sarovar, fat and well fed carp move about secure in the knowledge that no one is going to harm or disturb them.

At last we make it to the inside of the Harmindar Sahib, the Guru Granth Sahib is being recited by the Granthi, and except for the prayers there is silence, people huddle at the balconies praying. On the top floors, Guru Granth Sahib is revered with prayers. Golden canopies shield the Guru Granth Sahib; there are chandeliers and jewelry, for after all the Guru Granth Sahib is the Word of God Himself.

Sources

http://www.goldentempleamritsar.org/

http://sikhism.about.com/od/history/a/Golden_Temple.htm

http://fateh.sikhnet.com/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baba_Deep_Singh

http://www.sikhiwiki.org/index.php/Structure_of_Harmandar_Sahib

Sources

http://www.goldentempleamritsar.org/

http://sikhism.about.com/od/history/a/Golden_Temple.htm

http://fateh.sikhnet.com/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baba_Deep_Singh

http://www.sikhiwiki.org/index.php/Structure_of_Harmandar_Sahib

We the girls from Carmel….

Carmel College, Nuvem completes fifty years and this brings to mind those wonderful years we spent there as a bunch of teenagers.

I would love to dedicate my reminiscences to my beautiful companions, scattered all over the world. 

Here is to us.

Antonieta Teles e Noronha

Belinda Rodrigues

Elizabeth Kovoor

Kirona Furtado

Glynis D'Silva Vashi

Ruffy Rose D’Costa

Blandina Dias

Laura Reis

Shelley D’Costa

Teresa

Viena Rodrigues

Prabha Naik Raikar Dhume

Frieda Rodrigues
Annabel Aguiar
Geeta Iyer Mahadevan
Sonia do Rosario Gomes

Our parents sent us to Carmel College for Women with confidence, a sense of well being and unadulterated glee.

Confidence and the sense of well being were based on the fact that Carmel College provided quality education in a select atmosphere and the glee came from the certitude that there were no boys who could and would cast polluting glances on their darling daughters. Never mind that boys could be met anywhere, we knew boys, our neighbors, but they were not considered dangerous, you see we knew their parents too. The boys they were afraid of were those at neighboring colleges. Those were the boys we longed to meet. But sadly our opinions were not sought nor were they ever taken into consideration.

                Oh yes, Carmel College was a homely place, accommodated in the Holy Rosary Convent at Nuvem, here we were masses of women of all shapes and sizes.

There were the nuns of course, housed in their own wing. We were extremely curious, what did they do? How did they live? Forgetting that they were women just like us. At sixteen those finer distinctions escape you.

 The Holy Rosary Convent was a fully operational School, a much older Institution than the College, the school had its own boarding. The College had its own Hostel.

How was all this arranged? It does seem amazing that nothing overlapped; everything did run so very smoothly.

Psst do not forget even for a moment they have God on their side…

We were a very small group of girls who entered the First Year Science, a First Class or even a High Second Class convinced our parents that we were intelligent indeed. Of course we too were pretty sure we were and surreptitiously looked down on those lesser beings, those who studied Arts. 

At the beginning of each day, we stood in rows in the Biology Lab and belted out the Carmel Hymn.

‘O Carmel fair whose peaks arise

O'er Esdraelon's thrice fruited trees;

Bathe in the blue light of the skies,

And laved forever by the seas,

I love the greenness of thy woods,

The fragrance of thy spiced air,

Thy wine inspired solitudes

 Carmel dear ! O Carmel Fair!

How good it felt to sing at the top of our voices, a little childish perhaps but oh so therapeutic. We trooped to our classes after the Bell for the day had been clanged.

The Nuns taught us practically all the subjects. I for one felt terrible when they changed their White habit with a Black veil and that lovely wooden rosary at their waists to an ordinary sari. They swished in and out of the classrooms so elegantly in those habits; it gave them a sort of classy distinction.

As in all aspects of life they varied in their teaching, there were those who strongly believed in the maxim, ‘Spare the rod, and spoil the Child’. And then there were those, who believed that we were adults, old enough to study and lead our own lives.

Sister Josephita belonged to the first lot; she the terror of Mathematics is a beautiful lady, those flashing black as coal eyes struck such fear in our hearts. She worked hard; she wanted us to master the subject. Of course there were some who just loved every equation she taught, but sadly Antonieta and I wanted other things in life. 

Antonieta loved debates, acting in plays, speeches, I on the other hand was a quiet little mouse, but we shared a passion. Reading, and more reading, just about anything that came our way. We plundered the Library, for books. We begged and borrowed books. All that reading did not leave much time for Mathematics to the despair of Sister Josephita or for that matter Physics, which was the domain of another Tartar, Sister Linda. Mention her and I shake like a jelly. They wanted us to do beautifully, they wanted us to absorb as much as they gave us; Unfortunately we never realized it then.

The calm and poised gang of Chemistry, Sisters, Odille, Florence Mary and Margaret Angela had decided long back that they would teach us, but they would also give us a choice; learn if you want to, the choice was ours. A wiser decision with much less stress for us, as well as for them.

Most of us came from the surrounding villages or Margão, our clothes were those stitched by our tailor, he came once a year to our homes, we combed catalogues, we discussed patterns, length of the hems, buttons, rick-rack, we dressed up neatly, nothing exotic, although the Panjim crowd did have a more fashionable wardrobe. But one term, all of a sudden, a bunch of girls from Africa descended on Carmel College. Talk of sophistication, they spoke excellent English, they wore the most fantastic clothes, they studied well, they were good at sports, they were something to behold. To us the gauche village girls they were exotic. On the one occasion where we could display our clothes and our dancing skills, The Carmel Ball, they were the stars.

We of course had some sort of revenge on our parents, as the Science section had so very few girls we went to Chowgule College for all our exams, which included the Practical Exams. One of our Africa returned colleague, Shelley D’Costa had a WV Beetle, we piled into that and went for exams.

You can imagine the grand entrance we made, nothing short of a red carpet.

For the duration of that week we were the toast of Chowgule College.

  Antonieta Teles e Noronha and Sonia do Rosario Gomes

A tin of sardines....

Whenever we had visitors who in all probability would be staying over for lunch, people were always staying over for lunch, there was hardly any transport and guests were part of the daily routine.  So if there was going to be a guest, who at the moment was relaxing, been given comfortable slippers and was staying over for lunch, the Dona-de-casa sent her young child to the nearby grocer’s shop ‘Loja de Lataria e Vinhos finos’ for a tin of sardines.

Carefully, the tin was prised open, the sardines were removed and with infinite care placed on a travessa, the cat meanwhile delicately licked the remnants of the brine or oil still lingering in the now open tin. Onions were cut in very fine rings, if the guest was lucky and there were tomatoes these were cut in roundels, a delicate vinaigrette added to the onions. The onion and tomato salad surrounded the sardines placed in the centre of the travessa. The edge of the travessa was wiped very carefully for any fingerprints of oil.

Of course, the sardines were not the only food at the table, the food that was always eaten for lunch was there too, rice, fish curry, fried fish, a beef dish and maybe a dish of vegetables.

The sardines were in honour of the guest who taken the trouble to visit the family.

There was nothing special about the shop selling all these fine goods, they were definitely not called gourmet shops, it was our next door neighbour, Militão Fernandes, who ran a shop selling not only these  fine goods but everything that was required in the village, a grocery shop.

Militão Fernandes a very tall gentleman ran the shop with his wife; his house was overloaded with gourmet goods rubbing shoulders with ordinary stuff like soap and kerosene. It was not considered special to sell all types of olives, olive oil, tinned sardines, salmon and even tinned peas, wines such as Macieira, Granjó, Tinto, Whisky and of course Genebra were always available.

Who knew anything about Gourmet goods?

But Militão Fernandes’ foray into entrepreneurship began much before his Loja, he and a group of nine partners pooled in a princely sum of Rupias Eight Thousand and bought a Batliboi rice husking machine from Bombay. The story goes that the Manager at Batliboi regretted selling the husking machine to Militão and partners; he even offered to pay them an additional sum of Rupias Six Thousand if they would return the husking machine. But our dynamic partners refused the kind offer.

At that time, there was a tremendous need for a husking machine, Militão and his partners plunged into this opportunity, this husking machine ran from 6 in the morning to Midnight, with staff working on shifts. It was a tremendous success with people from neighbouring villages coming in droves to get their rice polished.

Militão Fernandes however was not really happy with just a husking machine, that too in partnership, he went to Bombay slogged as a compounder of medicines in a Doctor’s Clinic, saved every penny and got his ‘Loja de Lataria e Vinhos finos’ going in 1924. Whatever Militão Fernandes touched turned to gold, no wonder then that his shop was another huge success.

At the Doctor’s he had picked up a great deal of information, he started mixing his own Ayurvedic potions and ointments.

If you had terrible burns, you did not rush to the doctor or the chemist, you rushed to Militão who gave you an ointment which you rubbed oh so gently on your burns and voilá you were cured with not even a scar to show.

 If your baby had tummy pains, Militão to the rescue with an ointment that left the little guy smiling. Oh yes, Militão was doing exceedingly well.

And then you realise with a pang, there is no longer a ‘Loja de Lataria e Vinhos finos’ and you wonder why, what really happened? To these questions, Militão’s son Caetaninho replies,

‘It closed in 1954’ ‘the year my brother João Pedro said his First Mass.’

We discuss this troublesome happening and although we do not say it in so many words, we realise the reason.

The setting was that of a Portuguese Colony, all around the village there were only Catholics. Having a business was not really a wholesome activity. If you were brave enough to ask,

‘Why are Hindus so successful in businesses?’

 A ferocious glare was directed your way and somebody said in a harsh whisper,

‘They know how to rob, they bend the rules, and they have no morals and principles.’

Forget the streak of entrepreneurship that Hindus have, or the money sunk in enterprises, or the risks taken. All that was said was ‘they were good in business because they know how to bend rules.’

So you can well imagine Militão’s pride when his son became a Priest. The respect his family now had in the village was immense. No longer would it be called the Shopkeeper’s house but the Priest’s house.

But on the other hand, it must have been a terrible, terrible wrench for Militão to close an enterprise that he had built single- handedly from scratch with his hard earned savings.

Militão’s lived in an age of repression as well as envy and jealousy. A Doctor who lived in the village and who  had the most abysmal practise, with hardly a living soul in his Consulting room complained to the authorities that Militão was selling spurious drugs, that is an offence as we all know.

Militão feared the worst and discontinued his Ayurvedic drugs.

He must have been a really dispirited person to see so much of his effort and work washed away through no fault of his.

They say that genetic traits skip a generation and so it is in the case of Militão, his grandson, Joseph runs a very successful Chemist Shop. But what really would have made Militão gloat with pride is that his Ayurvedic potions and ointments are sold openly with pride and nobody thinks of complaining to the authorities. We in India know all about Ayurveda...

I must apologise deeply to any Hindus reading this blog. I most definitely do not believe Hindus are successful in business because they know how to rob, they bend the rules, and they have no morals and principles. It was ignorance talking and a great deal of envy. Nevertheless I do apologise deeply.

Sybil goes to London…..

Every evening we asked ourselves the same question, shall we? And we always did, we always had our Tertulia at Sybil Silva’s house. Did I do my homework, probably not, however I am sure my sister did hers. At the Silva’s; we, Sybil, Pamela and Savita had plenty to chat about, clothes, boys, books. Talk we did, we could go on for hours, but a hot topic of discussion was dancing, how we loved to dance, we did not care if the person was black, white, tall or short, all we wanted was that he should dance well. Sometimes, we in the village would get hold of a Cassette player, beg some kind-hearted soul who had a large enough living room, dressed very nicely indeed and dance to our heart’s content. We called these dance-till-you-drop-unconscious sessions- Hops. Of course the next few weeks were spent dissecting the Hop with a very sharp scalpel.

Although we five girls discussed everything worth talking about at great length, of course a very good marriage was foremost on our minds. But do I remember Sybil mentioning that all she wanted to do was to leave our village and dash off to London? No! Try as I might I just cannot remember, maybe she did, maybe she did not fearing our derision, but oh yes Sybil just wanted to be in London. Now who can we blame or laud for this passionate wish?

Our parents who had returned from East Africa, Kenya a British Colony. ..

or could you blame those Agatha Christie’s novels with Paddington or Piccadilly which we thought were wonderful…

could you blame Enid Blyton and her root beer which we were sure was delicious. ..

could you blame Beano and Dandy, those naughty Bash Street Kids…

of course there was fish and chips just waiting to be tasted.

Truth be told, we were neither awed nor enamored by the British Royal Family, we did not fancy Prince Charles, we found Princess Anne horse-faced and the Queen oh-so-badly-dressed. Give us Caroline of Monaco any day.

But I do think it was the Beatles who incited a vigorous passion in Sybil, ‘let me just get out of here, let me just get to London.’

All Sybil had was grit and determination, nothing more. Going to London in one go was totally impossible, it had to be done in stages, a tiny jump to Bombay, hard work, saving every available penny, but despite hardships, Sybil brought her brothers to Bombay, shared her tiny living space with them so that they too could have a start.

Then like Vasco da Gama rounding the Cape of Good Hope, an opportunity to teach in Nairobi, once again hard work, poor living quarters, a box-room much like Harry Potter.

Mombasa a long period of waiting, hoping, working and most of all saving and skimping and then the most important document in her life……A British Passport….. London here I come!!  

Life in London was not at all that easy, it was not all fish and chips, but Sybil was not giving up. A job, then a series of temporary jobs, ‘temping’ which is amazing if you want to make money a tad quicker.

It is at this time that Sybil decided to pursue her other passion, dancing. What better place then the Goan dances held on important occasions, a saint’s feast, Christmas, or New Year. So here was our little belle togged in her best, on pins and needles, itching to have a go at the convoluted jive, a hearty rock-and-roll or even a sedate waltz. Sadly, the men from Goa had carried along with their, sorpotel, caju feni and bebimca, their prejudices. Under the watchful eyes of their well-corseted, nylon stockinged Mamas, they were very careful only to dance with fair-of-face ladies.

Oh, darling did you have to dance with that Silva girl?

But Mummy she jives beautifully!

Darling you are here to… Dance with the Gama Pinto girl

But Mummy she is so heavy, she cannot, twirl or twist!

Louie my boy…. enough of this.

This was more of a marriage market, not something our twinkle toed belle had envisaged. After a couple of attempts at these prestigious occasions where the elite from Goa, now in London, congregated, Sybil yawning her way through  a Coke,  bored to tears, with just a dance thrown in by the one Goa swain, who actually loved to dance, she  decided that such social occasions were just not for her. She wanted to Dance, nothing more.  So without a backward glance at the prancing Mama’s boys she quit the Goa expat scenario completely. Hung her dancing pumps in her cupboard. This was one time she gave up.

And then George came to the rescue, pssst you will have to ask Sybil who George is, I have been sworn to secrecy. Anyway, on a bright and sunny afternoon, George insisted she dress up well, no jeans, no shorts and absolutely no T’s. Agog with excitement Sybil just followed, at the end of the journey at Chorleywood Memorial Hall, Sybil could not believe her eyes and ears, there was Mr Wonderful the resident DJ playing the tunes. Everyone was dancing a very hectic jive. Oh yes, she pinched herself but she pinched George harder.

It was Paradise, it was a London concept called a Tea Dance. No more stuck up elite, Sybil now jives, rock-and-rolls, rumbas practically every day of the week, sometimes goes out of London on weekend Tea Dances; her suede soled shoes are always tucked in her large bag, her spangly, strappy black dress too.

 Sybil my dear you have well and truly arrived!

Tracing the history of a Tea Dance

A tea dance, thé dansant which is French and literally means ‘dancing tea’ is a summer or autumn afternoon an early-evening dance from four to seven, when everything is languid. It could be said that the function evolved from the concept of the afternoon tea. J. Pettigrew traces its origin to the French in Morocco. Books on Victorian Era etiquette such as Party-giving on Every Scale (London, n.d. [1880]) include detailed instructions for hosting such gatherings.

The usual refreshments in 1880 were tea and coffee, ices, champagne-cup and claret-cup, fruit, sandwiches, cake and biscuits.  Another writer on etiquette, Mrs. Armstrong, told her readers that "refreshments are going on all the afternoon, and gentlemen take the ladies to the tearoom during the intervals between the dances. The lady's maid pours out the tea ... the edibles consist of bread-and-butter and cakes, though some hostesses add sandwiches, ices and fruit."

Even after the introduction of the phonograph the expected feature was a live orchestra – often referred to as a palm court orchestra – or a small band playing light classical music. Dancing at tea-time was an elegant part of afternoon tea parties into the first decade of the 20th century. And then a new dance took London by storm and triggered a totally new approach to afternoon dances. The Argentine Tango, having first driven Parisian society into frenzy, arrived in London in 1910.

Tea dances were taking place all over the capital and in the provincial towns. Social columns reported that 'private 'Thés Dansants' are very much the rage just now in London houses and the Tango is the principal dance on the programme..' Beatrice Crozier in her book ‘The Tango and How to Dance it’ explained that for tea events at the Waldorf Hotel in London, tickets were available at the door and cost five shillings for tea and dancing, and three shillings for tea only. Once in the white and gold ballroom, ‘little parties of from two to six can sit and enjoy a most excellent tea between the dances, or remain throughout the afternoon watching the others dance.’ The craze for tea dances continued into the 1920's, but for the fashionable young set, cocktails and the Charleston were the next trend and took over from refined tango teas.

The Waldorf continued its tea dances until 1939 when a German bomb caused the glass roof of the Palm Court to shatter and frivolities such as tea dances were cancelled.

It was not until 1982 that the hotel once again became the venue for London's best known tea dances. Today, every Saturday and Sunday afternoon, the foot-tapping music of The Waldorfians tempts colourful couples away from their scones and clotted cream onto the marble dance floor and into the whirling steps of the Waltz, tango, quickstep and the 'Tea For Two' cha cha cha.

Tea Dances, cater to every type of person, quoting from 

http://www.timeout.com/london/alternative-nightlife/tea-dances-in-london

Lindy hopping to Metallica: not as easy as this lot make it look (© L Sauma)

‘I did a quick vox pop at our last tea dance,’ says Art of the Dog’s Vic, ‘and someone was born in 1932! Having that sort of age mix is superb.’
It’s not without its dangers, though. ‘The etiquette can seem a bit funny, like making sure you dance in the same direction as everyone else, but crashing into an 80-year-old is only going to end up in a broken hip.’
Since her first tea dance at the gorgeous Old Finsbury Town Hall last October, Vic – ‘just Vic’ – has been actively recruiting locals who remember the current trend for tea dances the first time around. Happily, they’ve been coming in droves.
‘I love Vera,’ she says, ‘she always comes in a pair of sparkly shoes, and there’s one guy who’s known in the Duke of Denmark pub as Dancing Dave. Yes, he really can dance.’
Afternoon tea dances like Vic’s are far more serene, romantic affairs and are chock full of elderly folk whizzing around the floor. Leave your looks of pity at the door and expect to be wiped off the dance floor by participants 50 years your elder.
‘The older people know what they’re doing at a tea dance,’ says Vic. ‘It’s their thing.’
City workers won’t be left out for, for they can – ahem – swing by Spitalfields Markets on the last Friday of every month for the Covent Garden Dance Orchestra’s free afternoon tea dance. 

Thank you ever so much for the inputs

http://www.timeout.com/london/alternative-nightlife/tea-dances-in-london

http://www.teamuse.com/article_010702.html

The Khmer Rouge trials Justice late, better late than never

The Khmer Rouge trials

Justice late, better late than never

Aug 7th 2014, 13:34 by L.H. | PHNOM PENH

For Cambodians it has been a long wait. Almost 35 years after the Khmer Rouge were driven from power by a Vietnamese invasion, the movement’s last surviving senior leaders have been found guilty of crimes against humanity and sentenced to jail for life.

Or whatever is left of their lives. Nuon Chea, chief ideologue for the Khmer Rouge and “Brother No. 2” after Pol Pot, is 88 years old, Khieu Samphan, once the head of state in Democratic Kampuchea as the country had been renamed, is 83. When they were taken away from the purpose-built courthouse on August 7th, a palpable sense of relief descended on the room.

Hundreds of Cambodians had been brought from far and wide to pack the public gallery for the historic decision. Many of them hugged, smiled and bowed in a show of respect to the tribunal that saw the case through, the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC). Bou Meng, a survivor of the S-21 torture and extermination camp, smiled broadly and expressed his approval simply: “good, good”.

In passing their final sentence, the judge Nil Nonn said that these two leaders had stripped Cambodians of their fundamental rights in the course of perpetrating a joint criminal enterprise to “suppress and subjugate the human population”. They were found guilty of conducting a systematic attack on civilians.

“The attack took many forms, including forced transfer, murder, extermination, enforced disappearances, attacks against human dignity and political persecution,” Mr Nil Nonn said. “This attack victimised millions of Cambodians.” He cited one testimony according to which witnesses saw “a Khmer Rouge soldier tear apart a crying baby who was crawling on his dead mother's body.”

As many as 2.2m people perished between April 1975 and January 1979. At that point the Vietnamese-led Communist takeover marked the end of one civil conflict but also the beginning of another, as Pol Pot led his loyalists into the jungle to fight a rearguard war against the new regime in the capital.

While the Khmer Rouge were still in Phnom Penh, the institution of money itself was abolished—along with all semblances of traditional Khmer life—as the cities and towns were emptied and millions of civilians forced into the remote countryside. There they were worked under wretched conditions, desperately lacking food, water and medicine.

In a way, there were too many crimes with which Nuon Chea, Khieu Samphan and many of their cohorts should have been charged. The fraction of their guilt that was decided in this hearing, Case 002/01 it is called, focused on the forced evacuation of Phnom Penh, the forced movement of people up until late 1977 and the persecution of former soldiers, civil servants and their families from the regime of Lon Nol, the American-backed nationalist who preceded them.

Nuon Chea wore his characteristic grimace and black sunglasses and remained seated in his wheelchair. Khieu Samphan stood as their verdicts and sentences were read. Neither man flinched.

Both had insisted they were innocent of the specific charges against them. At its heart their justification was that the evacuation of Phnom Penh had been deemed necessary to save the Cambodian people; they had reason to believe that the Americans were intending to bomb the capital. Mr Nil Nonn said the bench of international and Cambodian justices had decided their defence deserved no credence.

Nuon Chea had also claimed evidence used against him was “littered with doubts and full of lies”, in particular the testimony given by Kaing Guek Eav. “Duch”, as he is also known, is already serving a life sentence, for the role he played in killing thousands of detainees processed under his command at a prison complex called S-21.

Khieu Samphan’s judgment was less severe. The court found that he had never held sufficient authority to issue orders to commit the crimes in question. He had however “justified, defended and praised the common purpose and policies” of the Khmer Rouge that resulted in the atrocities.

The ECCC, which is backed by the UN, has been criticised sharply during its nine years in operation. Its critics fault it for lengthy delays; its susceptibility to interference by Cambodia’s current prime minister, Hun Sen; and for kickbacks to local staff, when it was being established.

It has also been costly. More than $200m has been spent on its proceedings already. The tribunal’s supporters justify the high cost by arguing that the total sum works out to equal about $100 for each person who died under the reign of the Khmer Rouge. It makes for a macabre accounting of the ultra-Maoists’ dream of moulding Cambodia into an agrarian utopia.

Youk Chhang is the executive director of an NGO called the Documentation Centre of Cambodia, which has been dedicated to collecting evidence from the Khmer Rouge period that could be used in a prosecution. He is among those who thinks that the court’s search for justice was better late than never, even if its legal processes were flawed.

Its accomplishment is more significant, Mr Youk Chhang says, in light of the fact that the world has done so little to change its ways in the decades since the Cambodian nightmare. Indeed, in his view “since the UN signed the Genocide Convention in 1948, not one genocide has been prevented. A court of law is only established after millions have already died. We need to search for a means to prevent such crimes from happening again,” he said.

Nuon Chea and Khieu Samphan know now where they will be spending the rest of their days, as they did long before this verdict. Whether this will be their final conviction is another question. Both men are facing additional charges of genocide in Case 002/02; it was launched last week and is expected to take another two years.

http://www.economist.com/blogs/banyan/2014/08/khmer-rouge-trials

Who says it’s not a man’s world?

Listen... Amaya 

Listen... Amaya is a 2013 Hindi drama film directed by Avinash Kumar Singh, starring Deepti Naval,  Farooque Shaikh and Swara Bhaskar as leads. 

Story by Geeta Singh.

On television, rarely do I catch a movie from the beginning, I always end up with dismembered parts, here a quarter, there a bit and sometimes just the end which always makes me want to see more, if of course the movie is good. But was I lucky, the movie had just begun, I was filled with joy, my favourite actors too, Deepti Naval and Farooque Shaikh and a new entrant Swara Bhaskar. I got comfortable, cosy chair with a deep cushion, a stool for my legs and of course a long cool drink……

Deepti Naval, a mother and a widow and her daughter Swara Bhaskar have carved a niche for themselves after the death of their father. They have a book-café, a very popular place, people drop in, browse, drink coffee, eat some snacks, go off as friends for life.  

Farooque Shaikh has been a loyal customer and friend for around three years, everyone knows that Deepti and Farooque nurture a deep affection for each other, sadly the daughter does not see it, or chooses to ignore all the signs. Swara collaborates with Farooque aka Jazz to produce a coffee table book about the ‘bazaars of Old Delhi’, she the writer he the photographer, the book goes down well with the editors and is slotted for publishing.

Just as everything is going on extremely well, Swara discovers that Deepti and Farooque are not just platonic friends but are having sex, an affair. All hell breaks loose, she shouts, she is extremely rude to everyone, she bangs doors, she refuses meals, every act that a petulant spoilt pampered teenager can muster.  Deepti and Farooque, both justify her actions, ‘she is shocked and thinks her father’s place is being invaded by a total stranger’ but her rudeness hardly abates, she seems to enjoy her new avatar. No matter how much Deepti tries to explain that she too like any woman needs some company and of course a healthy sexual relationship, Swara goes on and on in her role of an aggrieved martyr. Somewhere down the line, after talks with oh so many people, Swara realises her mother is human too, deserves a break, some love and of course sex in her life. So everything back to normal, Swara urges Jazz to buy her mother a really good ring.

One fine day, Swara finds Farooque at an traffic intersection totally confused, not knowing where to go, he speaks of things past, his daughter and we realise he has Alzheimer’s. During one of his lucid moments, Farooque slips a ring on Deepti’s finger and I sigh with disgust whatever is she supposed to do with a man who has Alzheimer’s?

Is author regressing back to those days when women were supposed to be self-sacrificing, devoting their entire lives to caring for their families?

But excuse me; isn't this her second marriage where she is supposed to enjoy her life after having taken care of her own family, she had looked forward to travelling, companionship and sex which made her feel complete. What a sad future, reading how to deal with Alzheimer’s, not to forget that our Alzheimer’s patient gets a free nurse to take care of him.  The author has cheated us women and as usual glorified women’s eternal self-sacrifice.

I finish my cool drink in utter disgust tinged with anger; we women are never allowed to win. Who says it’s not a man’s world?