Anecdotes from a Film Festival
Fighting the forces of darkness – with Delegate Cards
By Cecil Pinto
My friend, movie critic Ervell E Menezes, recently wrote that the IFFI
campus should establish itself as "an oasis of movie buffs; a floating
population that eats, drinks, talks and regurgitates films like
zombies and that is, as it should be - 10 days of total film bliss!"
How very true. I unapologetically admit to being one of those zombies,
now recovering from three to four movies a day since the 23rd of November.
Of course some of the movies were brilliant and some absolute turkeys.
But despite everything at nearly midnight on the 2nd of December,
following the screening of the last movie Song of the Sparrows - from
Iran, the mood was despondent. The Film Festival was over and we
zombies would meet again only a year from now for another film feeding
frenzy.
Through the course of my young adulthood I used to go to Margao maybe
just once or twice in a year. While on these rare visits I noticed
that the Margao people seemed more attractive than those of Panjim or
Mapusa, towns I used to frequent. The girls prettier, the women
sexier, the men smarter, the vendors more colourful - what have you.
At one time I had reason to spend two weeks in Margao. At the end of
the two weeks I found the people less fascinating. Was it due to some
unfortunate encounters? Not at all.
I have a theory. Quite simply I feel that when one spends many days in
a particular place the mind unconsciously registers all the faces at
some subliminal level over a period of time. Even the faces of
hundreds of people in passing who you have not actually closely
encountered. They then become familiar faces in your unconscious - and
hence no longer fascinating.
After spending ten days relatively cloistered at a Film Festival, in
and out of dark auditoriums with a floating population of strangers, a
much closer bonding occurs. You are unconsciously part of a sort of
temporary community of a few thousands who share a common love for
movies. You have occupied the same physical spaces. The seat I occupy
on Day 10 has been previously and recently occupied by at least 30 odd
other people over the past few days. All delegates, and hence my
unconscious friends!
The fantastic movie 'Blindness' was in a class apart. The theme about
how unrelated humans, cloistered in a group with a common enemy and
circumstances, rewrite the rules of society is also explored quite
differently in 'Famly Rules'. To an extent all of us 3000 odd
dedicated delegates, the rest are just there to be seen, have gone
through a similar transition.
And when I say odd people and delegates I mean odd.
This one spectacled thirty-something woman was wearing a sleeveless
cotton nightie over blue denim jeans. I kid you not. And these two
decent ladies from Guwahati condemned the group rape scene in
'Blindness' but were ok with the gratuitous and excessive sex in
'Cumbia Connection'.
Speaking of which a story doing the rounds is that a young man had
this relatively harmless fat Swiss multi-blade penknife in his pocket.
Fearing he might be caught at the security check-point he slipped it
into his underpants. The security guard patting him down found a
rather abnormal protuberance in his groin. The young man explained in
Hindi, "I've just come from Cumbia Connection. What did you expect?"
He was let through with a knowing smile.
One elderly Goan Portuguese speaking woman had made 'gussao-ing' in
queues into an art form. She would pick up a conversation with just
anyone standing at the front of the line and manage to shove herself
in the queue without anyone complaining or even noticing. Another
woman, constantly wearing sports sneakers, used to converse loudly on
her mobile, in the silent theatre before the movie started, forcing
all of us to listen to the mundane details of her pedestrian
existence. Fortunately someone complained and the management piped in
sufficiently neutralizing music for subsequent screenings.
Cellphone behavior itself, in theatres, could make for a series of
columns. Some people have the most inappropriate and jarring ring
tones. But those at least can be overlooked if they are shut off fast
enough. It is the indignant 'shut-uppers' who cause even more of a
disturbance. 'PLEASE SHUT OFF THAT BLOODY CELLPHONE", a loud British
accented voice will boom from one end of the auditorium, antagonizing
the whole audience, 96% of who had not even heard the initial ring
tone that attracted that disproportionate response.
And what is it about women, mostly, that they can have an SMS text
conversation throughout a film? Why can't they just walk out the
theatre, go the whole hog and talk to their friend? Agreed SMS texting
is not as irritating as someone who speaks on a cellphone while a
movie is going on. but a bright LCD glowing a few feet away from you
can be quite difficult to ignore in a darkened theatre.
Seating at the Kala Academy is the worst. It is an auditorium designed
for stage performances and not film screenings and hence the gradient
of the rows is much too gradual. Let one tall person in front move his
head slightly and a zig-zag effect extends to four or five rows back.
Of course the Kala Academy's auditorium being so vast, sleepers can
choose unoccupied areas for a snooze. Which I have no problem with,
but what irritates me are the folks who sleep in the seat next to me
and then start snoring.
Why come for a movie if you're going to snore right through it? Go and
sleep somewhere else. Actually I don't have a problem with the light
and rhythmic snorers. The human mind accommodates and can soon filter
away the regular snores. It's the loud and un-rhythmic snorers who
cause irritation. One well endowed woman was always carrying a huge
bag that appeared designed for sleeping. Half way into the movie you
could look in her direction and see that she had used the gigantic bag
as a pillow cum sleeping bag and was fast asleep. Fortunately she did
not snore, but did open her mouth extremely wide when asleep.
Whereas from a movie viewer's point of view the back seats at the Inox
theatre would seem more desirable, half way through the festival
delegates starting avoiding them because of slight odours. Many
theories are doing the rounds to explain this (1) Since these seats
are much in demand they have a higher turnover and hence more human
residual odour is natural (2) These prime seats are reserved for Press
and Special Delegates who can watch more movies than normal delegates.
Naturally they try to use this advantage to see maximum number of
films. The running between theatre to theatre, with no time to freshen
up, causes them and consequentially the seats to smell more (3) Hot
air rises, hence smelly air will naturally move upwards in the
direction of the higher seats.
As expected the only Konkani movie at the festival, Rajendra Talak's
'Savariyaa.com' was house-full well in advance. Apparently tickets for
the movie had been given to hundreds of non-delegate friends and
relatives of the producers. The queue for the movie at Kala Academy
interestingly was formed on the red carpet instead of snaking in the
direction of the Art Gallery like usual. There were security concerns
as the many silk sarees in contact with the carpet were causing static
electricity sparks.
One delegate, a rather short chap, had this 'kit bag' from which an
astonishing array of items would appear before the movie started. One
small and one big mineral water bottle which both he would plunk into
his and the neighbour's armrest glass holders. Then would emerge his
Film Guide, Film Schedule, pen, anti-acid tablets, mobile, tickets and
what not. Following this started a running discussion over the phone
with his friend about what movies to watch in the next few days.
Fortunately he shuts up when the movie starts, and removes his bottle
from my armrest glass holder when asked.
I of course meet my good friend, movie reviewer Sachin Chatte, every
day for his recommendations on what to watch and what not to.
Then there are the folks who laugh too loud. Which by itself is
tolerable, but rather irritating when the laughter is at the wrong
time or not in keeping with the mood and moment in the film. Maybe
these folks are a subset of the sleepers, and are laughing in their
dreams at some incident which has no connection with the movie the
rest of us are watching.
While we are discussing reactions I must say that sexual content
evokes the most and strongest reactions from both ends of the
spectrum. I was present for the repeat showing of 'Cumbia Connection'
at Kala Academy. More shocking than the blatant sex on the screen,
with accompanying frenzied music, were the reactions from the
audience. While many 'decent' people walked out in disgust, many
others were struck immobile and pretended they didn't see what they
just saw. Many males arrived in groups, slightly drunk, and all in
anticipation of the sex scenes they had heard about. Their loud bawdy
remarks could be quite unnerving to a single female sitting nearby.
On the other hand I wonder if I am being prudish in my criticism of
their remarks. They are after all reacting to what they see on screen.
Some scenes may evoke laughter, some tears and well some, bawdy
remarks! Who is to decide where a line has been crossed in a response?
Are we delegates taking ourselves and the Film Festival too seriously?
There was this delightful pair of sexy European women dressed in tight
fitting semi-opaque sheaths that masqueraded as dresses. From all
externally visible appearance their undergarments had been lost in
transit at the airport. Somebody told me they were lesbians. I think
he labeled them thus because they didn't return his smile!
There are three types of quitters, those who walk out halfway through
a movie, because (1) it does not meet their expectations or (2) they
have foolishly booked their next movie for a time before the current
one ends or (3) because they feel the need for urination as the Air
Conditioning is too cold.
I always do justice to a movie by waiting till the end, however bad it
may be. The only movie I desperately wanted to walk out from was
'Autistic Disco' because it was going nowhere but then I was seated
next to the young German director, who I had previously conversed
with, and it would be rather impolite.
There are also the dumbfounding Film Festival moments that everyone
encounters. You will be discussing with a fellow delegate about how
great a movie was, for example 'Lust Caution', and another delegate
will walk up and make a blatant statement like "Lust Caution sucked
and dragged on forever!" Or a movie you considered an absolute turkey
is the toast of the town. While many people were angry with 'Cumbia
Connection' nobody was angry with Ang Lee! Ha! Just had to get that
horrible pun out of my head!
At the end of the festival though, one feels quite sad. Not just that
the great movies have ended but also that your fellow zombies will go
back to being absolute strangers. The sleepers and snorers, the
queuers and quitters, the talkers and laughers – all of them, the
floating population that made up your community for a while, are gone.
We shall congregate again in a year to fight the forces of darkness –
with light and shadows. And Delegate Passes!
--------
The column above appeared in two parts on 4th and 5th Dec 2008 in Gomantak Times.
====
Friday, December 19, 2008
Customary first haircuts
Customary first haircuts
Bad hair days like no other
By Cecil Pinto
Many cultures place a lot of significance on a child's first haircut, treating it as a sort of rite of passage. Some Native American Indians commemorate it with a ritualistic song and dance. The Goan Catholic tradition actually is not vastly dissimilar.
A determined young mother, an embarrassed looking father, and the child enter the barber shop where they are subjected to collective frowns from the barbers, all from Andhra Pradesh, and the clients. While awaiting his turn the child will appear perfectly calm, and in fact be quite amused by the multiple reflections in the parallel mirrors and by the mist spraying bottle.
The designated barber, normally the shortest, places a small padded platform on the chair and the child will sit down there and start displaying signs of wariness as a large white cloth is wrapped around his neck.
(1) Only one barber I know, opposite Café Bhonsle in Panjim, has a small independent child chair shaped like a small pony (pronounced 'horsie ghodda'). Why can't more barbers have such chairs? (2) A reasonably tall stool placed in the middle of the room makes much more sense, giving the barber and parents room to maneuver, specially since the child is not interested in watching, his hair being cut, in the mirror and is only interested in escaping (3) Is it unethical to use total anesthesia on a child for his first haircut? (4) Surely there's scope for haircutting shops specially designed for very young children. Is any entrepreneur listening?
The father looks around in advance offering unspoken apologies to the other barbers, clients and even bypassers. After all he has to return here someday while his wife has no such compulsion. The barber approaches and at the first snip of the scissors the child breaks out into a wail that could crack crystal glass at a hundred paces. What follows is an entertaining tableau worthy of Mario Miranda's keen pen.
The father tries to establish authority, rather inadequately, by holding the child's hands down. The mother is trying to keep the child's head steady with a firm grip on his jaw and scalp. She also says, "Don't worry baba. Nothing will happen. Uncle good. Baba good. Mama give chocolate, ok? Baba nice!" and such gibberish. The barber tries to weave in and out between these parents and get a jab at the child while trying to rein in his impulse to cut the shrieking, spitting child's ear off!
At this point some of the other clients waiting their turn, unable to bear the commotion, will discard their outdated and well worn Stardust or Men's Health magazine and go off for a drink to return later. The already seated clients have no escape and have to bear the ordeal as they hear their individual barbers getting nervous. They just pray for a steady hand – for their respective barber. And for a good view through the mirrors at what has now become a spectator sport.
The father has decided that next time around he's going to borrow a small straightjacket to keep the child immobile. The mother by now is alternating between singing lullabies and making threats of 'Budda-man will come!' to try and quiet down the child. The child starts crying even louder because more frightening than the Budda-man is the appearance and disappearance of the short barber as he darts between the bodies of his parents.
All semblance of decorum is now lost. The father and mother both blame each other for the fiasco and will be at loggerheads for days after this incident. The mother is cooing 'Almost finish baba, almost finish!' to the child who can clearly see in the mirror that the
haircut is far from finished. The short barber by now fancies himself a sort of struggling midget matador. He keeps yelping in Telegu and all the other barbers give him advice, which can be quite unnerving for the paranoid Goan father who does not know Telegu and wonders if they are encouraging Shorty to cop a feel from the Mrs., who is well positioned and in such a state of frenzy, for such activity to go unnoticed.
After a lot of weaving, ducking, jabbing, pleading and wailing the job is finally done with baby hair covering all participants. If this isn't a 'song and dance' to rival the Native American Indians then what is?
Considering the strain on the marital harmony that the first haircut causes a lock of hair is sometimes preserved and taken home, not so much as a souvenir but as proof of paternity, through DNA testing, in case the situation leads to a separation.
Following our first such traumatic experience for a few months Beatrice tried to cut Desmond's hair while he was sleeping but even the slightest trim would take many weeks and loads of patience and nocturnal disturbance. When groggy, the sight in a dimly lit bedroom, of one's wife approaching stealthily with a pair of scissors in hand can be misconstrued. Remember John Bobbit?
I came home from work one day to find Beatrice being very coy and extra nice to me. Walking past her I stopped shell shocked to see Desmond's hair resembling a war zone. Under the clumps and patches he was smiling, quite unaware of his appearance. Beatrice explained, while serving me my favourite masala tea with only milk and no water, that she had attempted giving him a proper haircut, not trim, with the kitchen scissors bereft of comb. We rushed him to the local barber who told us disdainfully that there was precious little he could do to salvage the situation and that Desmond would have to go under the 'machine' for a total tonsuring.
Seeing how easily head shaving could be done using the 'machine' I procured a cheap China-made set of electric clippers and a few months later proceeded to experiment on, who else but, Desmond. His hair had grown quite a lot since the last tonsuring and he now more resembled a hedgehog than Humpty Dumpty. I thought with deft use of the smallest blades of the clipper set I could give him a slight trim.
Anything to avoid the trauma of another barber shop visit. Beatrice had gone out shopping. Well I must have got carried away and, to put it politely, the results were lopsided. It was me who had to make masala tea with only milk and sheepishly open the door for Beatrice. Off we trooped again to the barber who, as expected, made some smart remarks in Telegu to his colleagues.
----------
The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 11th December 2008.
Bad hair days like no other
By Cecil Pinto
Many cultures place a lot of significance on a child's first haircut, treating it as a sort of rite of passage. Some Native American Indians commemorate it with a ritualistic song and dance. The Goan Catholic tradition actually is not vastly dissimilar.
A determined young mother, an embarrassed looking father, and the child enter the barber shop where they are subjected to collective frowns from the barbers, all from Andhra Pradesh, and the clients. While awaiting his turn the child will appear perfectly calm, and in fact be quite amused by the multiple reflections in the parallel mirrors and by the mist spraying bottle.
The designated barber, normally the shortest, places a small padded platform on the chair and the child will sit down there and start displaying signs of wariness as a large white cloth is wrapped around his neck.
(1) Only one barber I know, opposite Café Bhonsle in Panjim, has a small independent child chair shaped like a small pony (pronounced 'horsie ghodda'). Why can't more barbers have such chairs? (2) A reasonably tall stool placed in the middle of the room makes much more sense, giving the barber and parents room to maneuver, specially since the child is not interested in watching, his hair being cut, in the mirror and is only interested in escaping (3) Is it unethical to use total anesthesia on a child for his first haircut? (4) Surely there's scope for haircutting shops specially designed for very young children. Is any entrepreneur listening?
The father looks around in advance offering unspoken apologies to the other barbers, clients and even bypassers. After all he has to return here someday while his wife has no such compulsion. The barber approaches and at the first snip of the scissors the child breaks out into a wail that could crack crystal glass at a hundred paces. What follows is an entertaining tableau worthy of Mario Miranda's keen pen.
The father tries to establish authority, rather inadequately, by holding the child's hands down. The mother is trying to keep the child's head steady with a firm grip on his jaw and scalp. She also says, "Don't worry baba. Nothing will happen. Uncle good. Baba good. Mama give chocolate, ok? Baba nice!" and such gibberish. The barber tries to weave in and out between these parents and get a jab at the child while trying to rein in his impulse to cut the shrieking, spitting child's ear off!
At this point some of the other clients waiting their turn, unable to bear the commotion, will discard their outdated and well worn Stardust or Men's Health magazine and go off for a drink to return later. The already seated clients have no escape and have to bear the ordeal as they hear their individual barbers getting nervous. They just pray for a steady hand – for their respective barber. And for a good view through the mirrors at what has now become a spectator sport.
The father has decided that next time around he's going to borrow a small straightjacket to keep the child immobile. The mother by now is alternating between singing lullabies and making threats of 'Budda-man will come!' to try and quiet down the child. The child starts crying even louder because more frightening than the Budda-man is the appearance and disappearance of the short barber as he darts between the bodies of his parents.
All semblance of decorum is now lost. The father and mother both blame each other for the fiasco and will be at loggerheads for days after this incident. The mother is cooing 'Almost finish baba, almost finish!' to the child who can clearly see in the mirror that the
haircut is far from finished. The short barber by now fancies himself a sort of struggling midget matador. He keeps yelping in Telegu and all the other barbers give him advice, which can be quite unnerving for the paranoid Goan father who does not know Telegu and wonders if they are encouraging Shorty to cop a feel from the Mrs., who is well positioned and in such a state of frenzy, for such activity to go unnoticed.
After a lot of weaving, ducking, jabbing, pleading and wailing the job is finally done with baby hair covering all participants. If this isn't a 'song and dance' to rival the Native American Indians then what is?
Considering the strain on the marital harmony that the first haircut causes a lock of hair is sometimes preserved and taken home, not so much as a souvenir but as proof of paternity, through DNA testing, in case the situation leads to a separation.
Following our first such traumatic experience for a few months Beatrice tried to cut Desmond's hair while he was sleeping but even the slightest trim would take many weeks and loads of patience and nocturnal disturbance. When groggy, the sight in a dimly lit bedroom, of one's wife approaching stealthily with a pair of scissors in hand can be misconstrued. Remember John Bobbit?
I came home from work one day to find Beatrice being very coy and extra nice to me. Walking past her I stopped shell shocked to see Desmond's hair resembling a war zone. Under the clumps and patches he was smiling, quite unaware of his appearance. Beatrice explained, while serving me my favourite masala tea with only milk and no water, that she had attempted giving him a proper haircut, not trim, with the kitchen scissors bereft of comb. We rushed him to the local barber who told us disdainfully that there was precious little he could do to salvage the situation and that Desmond would have to go under the 'machine' for a total tonsuring.
Seeing how easily head shaving could be done using the 'machine' I procured a cheap China-made set of electric clippers and a few months later proceeded to experiment on, who else but, Desmond. His hair had grown quite a lot since the last tonsuring and he now more resembled a hedgehog than Humpty Dumpty. I thought with deft use of the smallest blades of the clipper set I could give him a slight trim.
Anything to avoid the trauma of another barber shop visit. Beatrice had gone out shopping. Well I must have got carried away and, to put it politely, the results were lopsided. It was me who had to make masala tea with only milk and sheepishly open the door for Beatrice. Off we trooped again to the barber who, as expected, made some smart remarks in Telegu to his colleagues.
----------
The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 11th December 2008.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Park-ing in and around Panjim
Park-ing in and around Panjim
Even innocent people don't want the police comingBy Cecil Pinto Most weekday evenings my paternal duties consist of taking my two young brats for a ride to one of their favourite 'spots', all within a three kilometer radius of our Miramar residence. During this time their mother gets quality time at home to herself to listen to FM radio, catch up on her TV serials, and clean up the apartment. Just to clarify.
The main purpose of Beatrice cleaning up the apartment is so that the maid who comes every morning to clean up does not think we are a totally messy family, which in actuality we are. It is important to create a good impression on maids else (a) they will leave, or worse still, (b) they will tell the neighbours what a messy uncivilized family we are. So every evening around six o'clock I set out on my Yamaha with Fabian perched on the motorcycle tank and Desmond sitting pillion, and talking to me non-stop. His absurd questions, opinions and assumptions would bewilder and appall the most hardened anthropologist. But we will leave those musings for another day.
The closest 'spot' is the riverside near the Sports Authority swimming pools in Campal; a lovely place to watch a spectacular sunset. But more often than not the magic of the moment is shattered by one of those stupid noisy cruise boats passing by, blasting Bollywood music at volumes that would waken the dead. I hear that a big time cruise boat owner damaged his hearing during an
underwater salvage operation. The deafeningly loud volumes are for his benefit.
Another favourite spot is Kala Academy. Usually there's some art or book exhibition to keep me engrossed while the boys enjoy screaming, while mindlessly running up and down the steeply inclined passage to the outdoor auditorium. The lawns are off limit but the mini-outdoor auditorium also provides nice spaces for fun. A
nd of course the picturesque wooden jetty, built before the 2006 IFFI for two crore rupees but never used except for film shoots, also makes for lovely sunset viewing. "Dada why we can't walk on the jetty? Why is this sign saying - NO ENTRY?" "They are afraid that tourists might come here and commit suicide by jumping in the river." "But Dada they can jump from the bridge, or Dona Paula jetty, or the promp, promin…""Promenade. I know Desmond. There are a million places better places in Goa where tourists can jump into the river for a guaranteed death instead of the shallow water here." "So then why Dada? Why do they stop us from walking on the wooden jetty?" "You want to know the truth? Top Secret?" "Yes. Yes!" "You know what are xinnanio? The fried mussels your mama made yesterday?""Yes!" "Well xinnanio attach themselves to rocks and anything solid in the low tide area. They are particularly fond of metal poles like the ones that hold up this jetty. There is a man named Deshprabhu who climbs down the poles every night, harvests the xinnaneo, and shares them with another guy named Rane. Between them they make sure that the jetty is closed to the public so nobody can else can harvest and eat the xinanneo." "I see. Selfish greedy fellows, no Dada?""Yes!" Another 'spot' is the Church of Immaculate Conception. From up there you can have a crow's eye view of Panjim traffic. The boys of course enjoy screaming and mindlessly racing each other up and down the steps. Once the spotlights come on after sundown, one can also make nice huge shadow puppets on the walls of the church.
The Children's Park in Campal used to be a top favourite but now attracts a very ill-mannered touristy crowd. The Joggers' Park at Altinho is uncrowded but has no playground equipment. The once bustling Municipal Garden is in a state of being repaired for so many years now that probably my grandchildren might enjoy it someday. The beachside park in Caranzalem, often referred to as Babush's Park, has a splendid colourful Multi Play installation that incorporates slides, swings, see saws, climbers, spiral scramblers and a whole lot of such stuff that the kids enjoy.
Every evening it's populated by noisy mirthful kids having a grand time. The parents and guardians either walk on the jogging track, send SMS to their friends, screech at their kids to be careful, or do all of the above Regardless of the political and legal controversies surrounding it, Babush's Park is a hot favourite with any kid who has visited it, and a nice place to meet interesting people from all social classes. Carry Odomos for protection.
The other day at this park, seated alone a few meters from me, was this mother of a cute little girl who was throwing sand on my Fabian. I never interfere in kids' fights unless they get really lethal. But the mother was of a different mentality. Keralite I think."Priya, you stowp throwing seind rait now!""Mummee he first kicking for me…!""If you naut stowping rait now police will come!" I grabbed the opportunity to take some proactive steps in salvaging the reputation of our corrupt and inefficient police force from 'outsider' attacks. "Hello!", I said, "It's ok. The kids will resolve their own problems. Why are you giving your impressionable young daughter a negative stereotype of a policeman as an undesirable person? Children then grow up with such negative concepts and are uncooperative with the police. Crimes that could have been kept in check escalate and witnesses don't come forth..." I paused mid-sentence as the look she gave me was of one who has just encountered an alien being from Mars."Priya", she screamed in panic, "chalo beti we goes home!" as she practically ran away from me to grab her daughter and disappear.
So much for trying to change mindsets. Was she being a bad mother? Was this a clash of cultural values? Was I being a bad father for not insisting everyone on the motorbike wear helmets? Is it unethical to complain about noisy cruise boats and allow your kids to scream at Kala Academy? Who does the jetty really belong to? Can you build a permanent structure like a park within 200 meters of the high tide line? How come other families manage to retain maids for so many years? Does anyone really ever want the police to come?
-----The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 27th March 2008 =====
Even innocent people don't want the police comingBy Cecil Pinto Most weekday evenings my paternal duties consist of taking my two young brats for a ride to one of their favourite 'spots', all within a three kilometer radius of our Miramar residence. During this time their mother gets quality time at home to herself to listen to FM radio, catch up on her TV serials, and clean up the apartment. Just to clarify.
The main purpose of Beatrice cleaning up the apartment is so that the maid who comes every morning to clean up does not think we are a totally messy family, which in actuality we are. It is important to create a good impression on maids else (a) they will leave, or worse still, (b) they will tell the neighbours what a messy uncivilized family we are. So every evening around six o'clock I set out on my Yamaha with Fabian perched on the motorcycle tank and Desmond sitting pillion, and talking to me non-stop. His absurd questions, opinions and assumptions would bewilder and appall the most hardened anthropologist. But we will leave those musings for another day.
The closest 'spot' is the riverside near the Sports Authority swimming pools in Campal; a lovely place to watch a spectacular sunset. But more often than not the magic of the moment is shattered by one of those stupid noisy cruise boats passing by, blasting Bollywood music at volumes that would waken the dead. I hear that a big time cruise boat owner damaged his hearing during an
underwater salvage operation. The deafeningly loud volumes are for his benefit.
Another favourite spot is Kala Academy. Usually there's some art or book exhibition to keep me engrossed while the boys enjoy screaming, while mindlessly running up and down the steeply inclined passage to the outdoor auditorium. The lawns are off limit but the mini-outdoor auditorium also provides nice spaces for fun. A
nd of course the picturesque wooden jetty, built before the 2006 IFFI for two crore rupees but never used except for film shoots, also makes for lovely sunset viewing. "Dada why we can't walk on the jetty? Why is this sign saying - NO ENTRY?" "They are afraid that tourists might come here and commit suicide by jumping in the river." "But Dada they can jump from the bridge, or Dona Paula jetty, or the promp, promin…""Promenade. I know Desmond. There are a million places better places in Goa where tourists can jump into the river for a guaranteed death instead of the shallow water here." "So then why Dada? Why do they stop us from walking on the wooden jetty?" "You want to know the truth? Top Secret?" "Yes. Yes!" "You know what are xinnanio? The fried mussels your mama made yesterday?""Yes!" "Well xinnanio attach themselves to rocks and anything solid in the low tide area. They are particularly fond of metal poles like the ones that hold up this jetty. There is a man named Deshprabhu who climbs down the poles every night, harvests the xinnaneo, and shares them with another guy named Rane. Between them they make sure that the jetty is closed to the public so nobody can else can harvest and eat the xinanneo." "I see. Selfish greedy fellows, no Dada?""Yes!" Another 'spot' is the Church of Immaculate Conception. From up there you can have a crow's eye view of Panjim traffic. The boys of course enjoy screaming and mindlessly racing each other up and down the steps. Once the spotlights come on after sundown, one can also make nice huge shadow puppets on the walls of the church.
The Children's Park in Campal used to be a top favourite but now attracts a very ill-mannered touristy crowd. The Joggers' Park at Altinho is uncrowded but has no playground equipment. The once bustling Municipal Garden is in a state of being repaired for so many years now that probably my grandchildren might enjoy it someday. The beachside park in Caranzalem, often referred to as Babush's Park, has a splendid colourful Multi Play installation that incorporates slides, swings, see saws, climbers, spiral scramblers and a whole lot of such stuff that the kids enjoy.
Every evening it's populated by noisy mirthful kids having a grand time. The parents and guardians either walk on the jogging track, send SMS to their friends, screech at their kids to be careful, or do all of the above Regardless of the political and legal controversies surrounding it, Babush's Park is a hot favourite with any kid who has visited it, and a nice place to meet interesting people from all social classes. Carry Odomos for protection.
The other day at this park, seated alone a few meters from me, was this mother of a cute little girl who was throwing sand on my Fabian. I never interfere in kids' fights unless they get really lethal. But the mother was of a different mentality. Keralite I think."Priya, you stowp throwing seind rait now!""Mummee he first kicking for me…!""If you naut stowping rait now police will come!" I grabbed the opportunity to take some proactive steps in salvaging the reputation of our corrupt and inefficient police force from 'outsider' attacks. "Hello!", I said, "It's ok. The kids will resolve their own problems. Why are you giving your impressionable young daughter a negative stereotype of a policeman as an undesirable person? Children then grow up with such negative concepts and are uncooperative with the police. Crimes that could have been kept in check escalate and witnesses don't come forth..." I paused mid-sentence as the look she gave me was of one who has just encountered an alien being from Mars."Priya", she screamed in panic, "chalo beti we goes home!" as she practically ran away from me to grab her daughter and disappear.
So much for trying to change mindsets. Was she being a bad mother? Was this a clash of cultural values? Was I being a bad father for not insisting everyone on the motorbike wear helmets? Is it unethical to complain about noisy cruise boats and allow your kids to scream at Kala Academy? Who does the jetty really belong to? Can you build a permanent structure like a park within 200 meters of the high tide line? How come other families manage to retain maids for so many years? Does anyone really ever want the police to come?
-----The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 27th March 2008 =====
The measure of a man
The measure of a man
Still my 'causo' of Caju Feni overflows
By Cecil Pinto
Extracts from Chapter 12 of the bestselling book, "Elixir of the Gods: The definitive guide to purchasing, storage and consumption of Caju Feni", by Cecil Pinto.
"In the last chapter we saw the difference and relationship between'alcohol by volume', 'alcoholic proof' (using a standard Sykes hydrometer) and the traditional grao used to measure the strength of Caju Feni. Keep in mind also that grao measures strength and not purity or quality. In this chapter we shall look at retail and wholesale volume measures for this fascinating liquid."
"Long before 'What is the Goan Identity?' became the dominant debate in recent years, there was the far more important question that fascinated Goan males since 1622 or thereabouts when Caju Feni was first commercially marketed, 'How many bottles are there in a causo of feni?'.
That query continues to fascinate us and till date has no specific answer. Keep in mind that what is called a causo by North-Goan Catholics is called kollso by a Goan Hindus and causo-u by South Goans - who make good Palm Feni but know diddlysquat about caju."
"Ask this question to any bar man and pat will come the reply, '18 bottles of 750 ml each' but ask an astute barman, like Edwin D'Souza of Bar Manuel in Aldona, and he will reveal that the actual figure is closer to 20 bottles. How it works is that the supplier, normally the kazkar (distiller) himself, carries a standard measure causo that
contains approximately 20 bottles of Caju Feni. The additional two bottles are to compensate for losses in transportation due to spillage, pilferage, tasting etc. Similar to a Baker's Dozen – as branded Caju Feni czar Mac Vaz would certainly say."
"All that is very well. From a commercial viewpoint we need standard measures but this book was written for the non-commercial minded enthusiast. Every Caju Feni drinker worth his half-quarter will have his own personal stock of a few causos, of his very own favourite feni from his trusted kazkar, in his storeroom. Unless of course his wife
is a nagging shrew, in which case he will store his stock at the storeroom of a friendly relative – preferably a non-drinker."
"Now this personal cache is not the standard commercially produced stock that most barmen purchase. This is usually an excellent, and hence expensive, reservoir. But here comes the quandary. Ask most any feni enthusiast, who stocks his own booze at home, how many bottles in a causo and you will get a range of replies, from 15 to 25 bottles!
All of them have the same trusted supplier for many years, and are happy with the quality and the quantity. And, here comes the stunner, all of them are absolutely right in their measure of a causo!"
"How is that possible? – is the question that comes to the mind of any non-feni drinker. The feni drinker himself is not perturbed. Such minor matters do not bother him. He is wiser than the average man and is also at peace with himself and the universe. Even at Rs. 1000/- a causo, and even if he gets only 15 bottles to the causo, he is still paying only Rs. 67/- for a bottle of the Nectar of the Gods, whereas even a regular non-premium whiskey will cost more than Rs. 100/- a bottle, even wholesale, and is nothing short of rot gut. If you see anyone in Goa drinking a whiskey costing less than Rs. 250/- a bottle please understand that (a) he knows nothing about booze and (b) he probably also has a damaged alimentary canal."
"To understand the inconsistency in causo measures let us take a step back and re-visit the earlier photo-enhanced Chapter #5 where Siolkars Alister Miranda and Nilesh Vaigankar (son of late Dina - the legendary kazkar) walked us through the actual Caju Feni making process. Approximately 14 kousuli (totaling approximately 90 litres) of fermented caju neera is poured into the bhann. This bhann (copper, or rarely earthen) which contains the liquid to be heated has a pretty standard size. Vapours get distilled in either a coil process or in an earthen pipe and container process, depending on which we get either standard Caju Feni or 'launecho caju' which is the Holy Grail for any Caju Feni enthusiast - and is almost impossible to source nowadays.
Please excuse my foaming (feno!) at the mouth when I speak of launecho caju."
"Now, as explained earlier the first distillation gets us a light urrack. Re-distillation of this with more neera gives us cazulo, and re-distillation again gives us Caju Feni. The grao for these three are 12, 18 and 22 approximately whereas the volumes of each are in inverse proportion – i.e. one bhann will produce 24, 18 and 15 bottles approximately of Urrack, Cazulo and Caju respectively. Viola!"
"Therefore a non-commercial causo is not an exact measure of volume but rather, say this loudly and memorise it, 'that amount which is distilled from one full bhann'. Depending on the grao of the resulting distillate the volume will vary. All other factors being equal lesser the volume of liquid in the causo, stronger the grao."
"Keep in mind though the factors that decide this grao. Besides the material used for the bhann a crucial component is the nature of the fire used to heat the liquid neera into vapour. It has to be a low wooden fire kept at a particular consistency throughout till the ubb (shimmering) appears. The fire is then totally extinguished and re-lit
to get a particular grao. Making the fire stronger will hasten the process but also lessen the grao - and hence increase the causo volume measure."
"In the next chapter we will move from measures of quantity and discuss factors effecting quality - such as ripeness of cashew apples, juice extracting process etc. but before we get there let's look at popular retail consumption measures. Conventional wisdom tells us that a half-quarter should be 90 ml, or one and a half peg, but in
actuality this is not so. Hark back to the days when Caju Feni was served in a coconut shell or cotti. Over a period of time…"
--------------
The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 10th April 2008.
=======
GULF-GOANS e-NEWSLETTER (Since 1994)
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gulf-goans/
Still my 'causo' of Caju Feni overflows
By Cecil Pinto
Extracts from Chapter 12 of the bestselling book, "Elixir of the Gods: The definitive guide to purchasing, storage and consumption of Caju Feni", by Cecil Pinto.
"In the last chapter we saw the difference and relationship between'alcohol by volume', 'alcoholic proof' (using a standard Sykes hydrometer) and the traditional grao used to measure the strength of Caju Feni. Keep in mind also that grao measures strength and not purity or quality. In this chapter we shall look at retail and wholesale volume measures for this fascinating liquid."
"Long before 'What is the Goan Identity?' became the dominant debate in recent years, there was the far more important question that fascinated Goan males since 1622 or thereabouts when Caju Feni was first commercially marketed, 'How many bottles are there in a causo of feni?'.
That query continues to fascinate us and till date has no specific answer. Keep in mind that what is called a causo by North-Goan Catholics is called kollso by a Goan Hindus and causo-u by South Goans - who make good Palm Feni but know diddlysquat about caju."
"Ask this question to any bar man and pat will come the reply, '18 bottles of 750 ml each' but ask an astute barman, like Edwin D'Souza of Bar Manuel in Aldona, and he will reveal that the actual figure is closer to 20 bottles. How it works is that the supplier, normally the kazkar (distiller) himself, carries a standard measure causo that
contains approximately 20 bottles of Caju Feni. The additional two bottles are to compensate for losses in transportation due to spillage, pilferage, tasting etc. Similar to a Baker's Dozen – as branded Caju Feni czar Mac Vaz would certainly say."
"All that is very well. From a commercial viewpoint we need standard measures but this book was written for the non-commercial minded enthusiast. Every Caju Feni drinker worth his half-quarter will have his own personal stock of a few causos, of his very own favourite feni from his trusted kazkar, in his storeroom. Unless of course his wife
is a nagging shrew, in which case he will store his stock at the storeroom of a friendly relative – preferably a non-drinker."
"Now this personal cache is not the standard commercially produced stock that most barmen purchase. This is usually an excellent, and hence expensive, reservoir. But here comes the quandary. Ask most any feni enthusiast, who stocks his own booze at home, how many bottles in a causo and you will get a range of replies, from 15 to 25 bottles!
All of them have the same trusted supplier for many years, and are happy with the quality and the quantity. And, here comes the stunner, all of them are absolutely right in their measure of a causo!"
"How is that possible? – is the question that comes to the mind of any non-feni drinker. The feni drinker himself is not perturbed. Such minor matters do not bother him. He is wiser than the average man and is also at peace with himself and the universe. Even at Rs. 1000/- a causo, and even if he gets only 15 bottles to the causo, he is still paying only Rs. 67/- for a bottle of the Nectar of the Gods, whereas even a regular non-premium whiskey will cost more than Rs. 100/- a bottle, even wholesale, and is nothing short of rot gut. If you see anyone in Goa drinking a whiskey costing less than Rs. 250/- a bottle please understand that (a) he knows nothing about booze and (b) he probably also has a damaged alimentary canal."
"To understand the inconsistency in causo measures let us take a step back and re-visit the earlier photo-enhanced Chapter #5 where Siolkars Alister Miranda and Nilesh Vaigankar (son of late Dina - the legendary kazkar) walked us through the actual Caju Feni making process. Approximately 14 kousuli (totaling approximately 90 litres) of fermented caju neera is poured into the bhann. This bhann (copper, or rarely earthen) which contains the liquid to be heated has a pretty standard size. Vapours get distilled in either a coil process or in an earthen pipe and container process, depending on which we get either standard Caju Feni or 'launecho caju' which is the Holy Grail for any Caju Feni enthusiast - and is almost impossible to source nowadays.
Please excuse my foaming (feno!) at the mouth when I speak of launecho caju."
"Now, as explained earlier the first distillation gets us a light urrack. Re-distillation of this with more neera gives us cazulo, and re-distillation again gives us Caju Feni. The grao for these three are 12, 18 and 22 approximately whereas the volumes of each are in inverse proportion – i.e. one bhann will produce 24, 18 and 15 bottles approximately of Urrack, Cazulo and Caju respectively. Viola!"
"Therefore a non-commercial causo is not an exact measure of volume but rather, say this loudly and memorise it, 'that amount which is distilled from one full bhann'. Depending on the grao of the resulting distillate the volume will vary. All other factors being equal lesser the volume of liquid in the causo, stronger the grao."
"Keep in mind though the factors that decide this grao. Besides the material used for the bhann a crucial component is the nature of the fire used to heat the liquid neera into vapour. It has to be a low wooden fire kept at a particular consistency throughout till the ubb (shimmering) appears. The fire is then totally extinguished and re-lit
to get a particular grao. Making the fire stronger will hasten the process but also lessen the grao - and hence increase the causo volume measure."
"In the next chapter we will move from measures of quantity and discuss factors effecting quality - such as ripeness of cashew apples, juice extracting process etc. but before we get there let's look at popular retail consumption measures. Conventional wisdom tells us that a half-quarter should be 90 ml, or one and a half peg, but in
actuality this is not so. Hark back to the days when Caju Feni was served in a coconut shell or cotti. Over a period of time…"
--------------
The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 10th April 2008.
=======
GULF-GOANS e-NEWSLETTER (Since 1994)
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gulf-goans/
Three little pigs
Three little pigs
Contemporary Goan Fairy Tales
By Cecil Pinto
Once upon a time there lived on a farm a widow pig named Solloga, who
technically was a sow but was in a ward reserved for women and hence
fancied herself a pig. Solloga had three piglets named Dukullo, Dukona
and Barranv.
Dukullo, the youngest, liked to play in the mud and listen to Konkani
pop songs on FM radio. Throughout the day you could see him pigging
out in the mud with his headphones on, while simultaneously forwarding
witty SMS to his friends.
Dukona, the sister pig, was quite the hog and could eat and drink any
and every thing – and did. She was into Bollywood movies and music and
often heard voices in her head. Every evening as she drunkenly
approached the poured swill she could hear it singing to her, "Main
hoon donn, main hoon donn!"
"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!", on the other hand was Barranv's refrain. He was
the shrewdest little pig. When not taking matka bets Barranv was busy
devising Multi Level Marketing scams and also sending pigs to the Gulf
– without telling them that no pork is allowed there.
Solloga tried to bring up her three little pigs to be ethical. "Build
good character. Build strong houses", was her constant refrain. But
they just ignored her. In her own words it was like, "Throwing pearls
to swine!". "Stop being such a boar Mom", the three little pigs would
say to her.
One day while returning from the market Solloga said to her piglets.
"You have grown up and are now too big for our little house. It's
beginning to resemble a pigsty. Who's going to build their own houses
now?" The three pigs were happy to leave and shouted "We, we, we!",
all the way home.
As could be expected Dukullo built himself a mud house but did not
follow the sound technical expertise given by Eng. Jose Lourenco from
Velim. Dukona built herself a house of cabbages, with a cowdung floor,
and got it registered as an NGO for Garbage Management and made quite
a decent living on the subsidies and was in fact able to afford a huge
liquid plasma screen to watch Bollywood Song and Dance Competitions
all day.
Barranv forged papers and bribed a talathi to show he was a tenant, on
Form I and XIV, of a derelict 'Portuguese style' house, whose owners
were abroad for many generations and as could be expected were
clueless. He then indulged in 'acts of ownership' like painting the
house and doing up the compound wall. When nobody objected Barranv
just occupied the house and signed an affidavit saying he was in
possession of the house for many years. He then proceeded to refurbish
the old house.
In the backyard of the house Barranv built some of those horribly
pretentious un-Goan cottages, with exposed laterite walls and domed
RCC roofs, and sold them to retired Brits for huge sums through
taxi-driver-cum-brokers. Barranv did not laugh all the way to the
piggy bank, but rather invested his excess funds in real estate – and
not Mutual Funds.
One day a hungry jackal named Kolo, who loved to eat Goan sausages,
decided to taste pork directly. His theme song was "I'm too foxy for
my wolf!" Kolo chanced upon Dukullo's mud house and shouted, "Little
pig, little pig, let me come in." To which Dukullo answered, "No, no!
Not by the hair of my chiny chin chin." Kolo rightly figured Dukollo
hadn't heard right as his headphones were still on. So he bellowed,
"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in." And he
did. The house collapsed and Dukullo went limping for protection to
his sister and her cabbage house.
Kolo approached Dukona's house and asked to be let in. "No, no! Not by
the hair of my chiny chin chin", said the obese and drunk Dukona. Kolo
discarded his normal response and shouted, "Use Fair & Lovely for
heaven's sake. It will bleach your facial hair and improve your skin
pigmentation!" Dukona didn't get the pun and shouted out, "How come
you're not offering to blow me and my house?" Since the TV was on full
blast Kolo didn't hear that and just blew the house down. Drunken
Dukona carried Dukullo piggyback as they ran to take refuge in
Barranv's huge estate.
When Kolo approached Barranv's residence the security guard, at what
was by now a gated complex, asked him to fill up a form - which
stumped Kolo as he was illiterate. But Barranv, who was just returning
in his Mercedes from some meetings at the Secretariat, welcomed Kolo
into his house. He appointed Kolo as his liaison agent for Government
offices and then proceeded to combine all three pigs properties and
start work on building and marketing a huge residential/holiday
complex with 60 bungalows and 220 luxury apartments (with swimming
pool, gymnasium, security, lifetime maintenance and rent-back
facilities) named 'Dukorville'.
When some neighbours protested the hill-cutting and other
environmentally destructive actions he convinced them by giving them
jobs as supervisors, pool attendants and security guards. They were
happy. The others he offered a fat brokerage and commissions, to get
him buyers for his properties. They were happy. The few who still
continued to protest he ignored as by now he had bribed the local
panch, the sarpanch and the local MLA to ensure inaction.
Continuing in this pig-headed manner he purchased prime property from
the corrupt and inept village Communidade and started work on Three
Pigs Resort which was marketed as a resort solely for foreigners and
other non-Goan pigs.
When we last caught up with them… Dukona had had 34 cosmetic surgeries
but was still unattractive – and a drunk. Dukullo was producing
Konkani pop-song VCDs. Kolo had finally stopped fantasizing about
eating Dukona, or any pig for that matter, and stuck to chouris-panv
and sorpatel. He had his eye on the Chairmanship of a Government
Corporation. Barranv was financing the re-election attempts of six
MLAs.
Konkani proverb: Dukran kedna kondd sodunk na.
(While some pigs just wallow, others succeed by being shallow).
----------
The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 17th April 2008.
=====
GULF-GOANS e-NEWSLETTER (Since 1994)
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gulf-goans/
Contemporary Goan Fairy Tales
By Cecil Pinto
Once upon a time there lived on a farm a widow pig named Solloga, who
technically was a sow but was in a ward reserved for women and hence
fancied herself a pig. Solloga had three piglets named Dukullo, Dukona
and Barranv.
Dukullo, the youngest, liked to play in the mud and listen to Konkani
pop songs on FM radio. Throughout the day you could see him pigging
out in the mud with his headphones on, while simultaneously forwarding
witty SMS to his friends.
Dukona, the sister pig, was quite the hog and could eat and drink any
and every thing – and did. She was into Bollywood movies and music and
often heard voices in her head. Every evening as she drunkenly
approached the poured swill she could hear it singing to her, "Main
hoon donn, main hoon donn!"
"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!", on the other hand was Barranv's refrain. He was
the shrewdest little pig. When not taking matka bets Barranv was busy
devising Multi Level Marketing scams and also sending pigs to the Gulf
– without telling them that no pork is allowed there.
Solloga tried to bring up her three little pigs to be ethical. "Build
good character. Build strong houses", was her constant refrain. But
they just ignored her. In her own words it was like, "Throwing pearls
to swine!". "Stop being such a boar Mom", the three little pigs would
say to her.
One day while returning from the market Solloga said to her piglets.
"You have grown up and are now too big for our little house. It's
beginning to resemble a pigsty. Who's going to build their own houses
now?" The three pigs were happy to leave and shouted "We, we, we!",
all the way home.
As could be expected Dukullo built himself a mud house but did not
follow the sound technical expertise given by Eng. Jose Lourenco from
Velim. Dukona built herself a house of cabbages, with a cowdung floor,
and got it registered as an NGO for Garbage Management and made quite
a decent living on the subsidies and was in fact able to afford a huge
liquid plasma screen to watch Bollywood Song and Dance Competitions
all day.
Barranv forged papers and bribed a talathi to show he was a tenant, on
Form I and XIV, of a derelict 'Portuguese style' house, whose owners
were abroad for many generations and as could be expected were
clueless. He then indulged in 'acts of ownership' like painting the
house and doing up the compound wall. When nobody objected Barranv
just occupied the house and signed an affidavit saying he was in
possession of the house for many years. He then proceeded to refurbish
the old house.
In the backyard of the house Barranv built some of those horribly
pretentious un-Goan cottages, with exposed laterite walls and domed
RCC roofs, and sold them to retired Brits for huge sums through
taxi-driver-cum-brokers. Barranv did not laugh all the way to the
piggy bank, but rather invested his excess funds in real estate – and
not Mutual Funds.
One day a hungry jackal named Kolo, who loved to eat Goan sausages,
decided to taste pork directly. His theme song was "I'm too foxy for
my wolf!" Kolo chanced upon Dukullo's mud house and shouted, "Little
pig, little pig, let me come in." To which Dukullo answered, "No, no!
Not by the hair of my chiny chin chin." Kolo rightly figured Dukollo
hadn't heard right as his headphones were still on. So he bellowed,
"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in." And he
did. The house collapsed and Dukullo went limping for protection to
his sister and her cabbage house.
Kolo approached Dukona's house and asked to be let in. "No, no! Not by
the hair of my chiny chin chin", said the obese and drunk Dukona. Kolo
discarded his normal response and shouted, "Use Fair & Lovely for
heaven's sake. It will bleach your facial hair and improve your skin
pigmentation!" Dukona didn't get the pun and shouted out, "How come
you're not offering to blow me and my house?" Since the TV was on full
blast Kolo didn't hear that and just blew the house down. Drunken
Dukona carried Dukullo piggyback as they ran to take refuge in
Barranv's huge estate.
When Kolo approached Barranv's residence the security guard, at what
was by now a gated complex, asked him to fill up a form - which
stumped Kolo as he was illiterate. But Barranv, who was just returning
in his Mercedes from some meetings at the Secretariat, welcomed Kolo
into his house. He appointed Kolo as his liaison agent for Government
offices and then proceeded to combine all three pigs properties and
start work on building and marketing a huge residential/holiday
complex with 60 bungalows and 220 luxury apartments (with swimming
pool, gymnasium, security, lifetime maintenance and rent-back
facilities) named 'Dukorville'.
When some neighbours protested the hill-cutting and other
environmentally destructive actions he convinced them by giving them
jobs as supervisors, pool attendants and security guards. They were
happy. The others he offered a fat brokerage and commissions, to get
him buyers for his properties. They were happy. The few who still
continued to protest he ignored as by now he had bribed the local
panch, the sarpanch and the local MLA to ensure inaction.
Continuing in this pig-headed manner he purchased prime property from
the corrupt and inept village Communidade and started work on Three
Pigs Resort which was marketed as a resort solely for foreigners and
other non-Goan pigs.
When we last caught up with them… Dukona had had 34 cosmetic surgeries
but was still unattractive – and a drunk. Dukullo was producing
Konkani pop-song VCDs. Kolo had finally stopped fantasizing about
eating Dukona, or any pig for that matter, and stuck to chouris-panv
and sorpatel. He had his eye on the Chairmanship of a Government
Corporation. Barranv was financing the re-election attempts of six
MLAs.
Konkani proverb: Dukran kedna kondd sodunk na.
(While some pigs just wallow, others succeed by being shallow).
----------
The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 17th April 2008.
=====
GULF-GOANS e-NEWSLETTER (Since 1994)
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gulf-goans/
A linguistic approach to un-Goans
A linguistic approach to un-Goans
New nomenclature to reflect modern migratory patterns
By Cecil Pinto
Dr. Oscar Rebello's bombastic statements during the NDTV, We The People, episode have drawn much flack. The TV feature examining the issues surrounding the ghastly Scarlett Keeling death, often veered of into the non-Goan v/s Goan debate that is an inevitable part of any conversation in or about Goa.
"Hello Sachin? Let's meet up in Panjim for an omlette panv."
"Sure Cecil. Near Cine National?"
"Why not walk along the promenade and enjoy the Mandovi river?"
"Are you crazy? The stink is unbearable. All these labourers crap at
the riverside. Bloody non-Goans!"
"But Sachin…"
"And do you know that along the riverfront, right from Ribandar through Panjim and Miramar to Dona Paula there's not a single cart selling omlette-panv? You can get varieties of bhel puri, chaat, panv bhaji, gola, paani puris, ragda pattis and what have you - but not a single Goan omlette-panv. Bloody non-Goans!"
"But Sachin I'm not quite sure that omlette-panv is uniquely Goan."
"And Cecil how can you have a pleasant walk along the riverfront with those bloody tourist cruise boats blasting Bollywood music so loud?
Bloody non-Goans!"
"But Sachin the boat owners and operators are all Goans."
"Oh!"
Anyway first let's clarify exactly what Oscar said on TV. I had watched the original episode but can't remember his exact words. So let me do what any sincere self-respecting investigative journalist would do under such circumstances - put words in other people's mouths. Just kidding. I read a recent article by Oscar, clarifying his
views on the non-Goan issue, and just worked from there backwards to deduce what he originally said on TV. For those of you in the Dark Ages, Dr. Oscar Rebello heads the Goa Bachao Abhiyan which generated a mass movement that exposed a dastardly Regional Plan that was poised
to totally destroy Goa. Or something like that. Let me clarify that, like most Goans, I have no reason to doubt Oscar's sincerity or integrity.
Barkha: "And the Oscar goes to Mike. Oops! The mike goes to Oscar!"
Oscar: "I will fight with the very last drop of my blood. We will save Goa with sweat, blood, tears and flamboyant sound bites. We will fight them on the roads and on the hills. And if they are widening the roads and cutting the hills for a project we will fight them in the new cement drains!"
Barkha: "Actually Oscar we were talking about the Scarlett death."
Oscar: "Exactly what I was saying. We are poised at the death of democracy which is etched in the deepest interval of my pulmonary aorta. There are no non-Goans. My aunt is not a Goan but..."
Barkha: "So there are Goan aunties and aunty-Goans?"
Oscar: "And the green eyed monster killed my great grandmother who came from blue blooded Portuguese stock without any…"
Barkha: "Without what? Bina kya?"
Oscar: "Without any Goan blood! As Goan as a lamani."
Barkha: "Bina Ramani!"
Oscar: "Whatever. Take Rajan Narayan…"
Barkha: "No sorry! You take Rajan, we don't want him!"
Oscar: "We are not like crabs in a basket."
Barkha: "More like fish in a tin?"
Oscar: "Sort of…"
Barkha: "So Sudeep Chakravarti is a Goan?"
Oscar: "Hanh?"
Which raises many interesting questions. Who is a Goan? Whose aunty is a Goan? Who is anti-Goan? Is Oscar qualified to confer Goanity on anyone? What is Goanity? Is it transferable? Is it encashable? Does it get one discounts at supermarkets? Are we mixing ethnicity with residence and loyalty? Is Loyal-T a cool name for a chain of branded chai shops that also serve omlette-panv? Most importantly, did any of
these non ethnic Goans ask to be referred to as Goans?
This I think is the crucial question. I have a few non-Goan friends who have lived here for many years but have never asked to be labeled as Goans. Why should they? If I lived for thirty years in Maharashtra would I want to be called a Maharashtrian? No way! I will always be a proud Goan and detest being labeled anything else! So what makes us think that the Maharashtrians and the Bongs and the Sindhis are waiting to be labeled Goans? Aren't they proud of their own culture?
Of course they are. They stick to their language and culture and lifestyle and aren't in any hurry to imbibe ours. They are not Goans.
If you want to be polite call them 'un-Goan', but for Goa's sake don't ever call them Goan.
On the other hand I see Oscar's reason for being inclusive. There are so many non-Goans who have done so much for Goa that we need to recognize and appreciate it and Goanise them to some extent – if they so desire of course. Perhaps a new nomenclature to reflect changing times and migratory patterns?
My suggestion is that we use the prefix of the state of origin and stick on a 'goan-esque' suffix to get a new description of ethnicity-residence. That will give us Karnagoans, Tamigoans, Uttar Pragoans, Bihagoans, Maharagoans - and of course Bengalis resident here become Bongoans! There isn't much of a problem coining these new words.
The problem arises when native Goans living overseas have to coin words that reflect their ethnicity-residence. Gonadians (Canada), Gomericans (USA), Goatish/Goats (UK), Gortuguese (Portugal), Guwaitis (Kuwait), Gostralians (Down Under), Gongladeshis (Bangladesh), Gormans (Germany), Gosraelis (Holy Land), Gopalese (Nepal), Gokistanis
(Pakistan) and Goruvians (Peru) are pretty straightforward. But are there really Goans in Peru? Where is Peru anyway?
Respected historian and linguist Teotonio D'Souza has been approached to head the committee to decide the exact rules of how these new words are to be coined. For example a Goan in Sri Lanka should be known as a Goalankan or a Goleynese? Goans in China are Goanese or Goenchins? Or is that a restaurant in Panjim? Goans in Burma are Goarmese or Gonyanmarites? Are Goans in Denmark Gonish, and Goans in Saudi Arabia
Gaudis?
Once all that is in place we can attack the next problem - people of other nationalities permanently resident in Goa. We have to put in place a nomenclature for the Brits, Germans, Israelis, Russians, Portuguese, Tibetans and others living here. We will do it using linguistics. The tongue can reach where the sword cannot.
--------
The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 24th April 2008.
====
GULF-GOANS e-NEWSLETTER (Since 1994)
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gulf-goans/
New nomenclature to reflect modern migratory patterns
By Cecil Pinto
Dr. Oscar Rebello's bombastic statements during the NDTV, We The People, episode have drawn much flack. The TV feature examining the issues surrounding the ghastly Scarlett Keeling death, often veered of into the non-Goan v/s Goan debate that is an inevitable part of any conversation in or about Goa.
"Hello Sachin? Let's meet up in Panjim for an omlette panv."
"Sure Cecil. Near Cine National?"
"Why not walk along the promenade and enjoy the Mandovi river?"
"Are you crazy? The stink is unbearable. All these labourers crap at
the riverside. Bloody non-Goans!"
"But Sachin…"
"And do you know that along the riverfront, right from Ribandar through Panjim and Miramar to Dona Paula there's not a single cart selling omlette-panv? You can get varieties of bhel puri, chaat, panv bhaji, gola, paani puris, ragda pattis and what have you - but not a single Goan omlette-panv. Bloody non-Goans!"
"But Sachin I'm not quite sure that omlette-panv is uniquely Goan."
"And Cecil how can you have a pleasant walk along the riverfront with those bloody tourist cruise boats blasting Bollywood music so loud?
Bloody non-Goans!"
"But Sachin the boat owners and operators are all Goans."
"Oh!"
Anyway first let's clarify exactly what Oscar said on TV. I had watched the original episode but can't remember his exact words. So let me do what any sincere self-respecting investigative journalist would do under such circumstances - put words in other people's mouths. Just kidding. I read a recent article by Oscar, clarifying his
views on the non-Goan issue, and just worked from there backwards to deduce what he originally said on TV. For those of you in the Dark Ages, Dr. Oscar Rebello heads the Goa Bachao Abhiyan which generated a mass movement that exposed a dastardly Regional Plan that was poised
to totally destroy Goa. Or something like that. Let me clarify that, like most Goans, I have no reason to doubt Oscar's sincerity or integrity.
Barkha: "And the Oscar goes to Mike. Oops! The mike goes to Oscar!"
Oscar: "I will fight with the very last drop of my blood. We will save Goa with sweat, blood, tears and flamboyant sound bites. We will fight them on the roads and on the hills. And if they are widening the roads and cutting the hills for a project we will fight them in the new cement drains!"
Barkha: "Actually Oscar we were talking about the Scarlett death."
Oscar: "Exactly what I was saying. We are poised at the death of democracy which is etched in the deepest interval of my pulmonary aorta. There are no non-Goans. My aunt is not a Goan but..."
Barkha: "So there are Goan aunties and aunty-Goans?"
Oscar: "And the green eyed monster killed my great grandmother who came from blue blooded Portuguese stock without any…"
Barkha: "Without what? Bina kya?"
Oscar: "Without any Goan blood! As Goan as a lamani."
Barkha: "Bina Ramani!"
Oscar: "Whatever. Take Rajan Narayan…"
Barkha: "No sorry! You take Rajan, we don't want him!"
Oscar: "We are not like crabs in a basket."
Barkha: "More like fish in a tin?"
Oscar: "Sort of…"
Barkha: "So Sudeep Chakravarti is a Goan?"
Oscar: "Hanh?"
Which raises many interesting questions. Who is a Goan? Whose aunty is a Goan? Who is anti-Goan? Is Oscar qualified to confer Goanity on anyone? What is Goanity? Is it transferable? Is it encashable? Does it get one discounts at supermarkets? Are we mixing ethnicity with residence and loyalty? Is Loyal-T a cool name for a chain of branded chai shops that also serve omlette-panv? Most importantly, did any of
these non ethnic Goans ask to be referred to as Goans?
This I think is the crucial question. I have a few non-Goan friends who have lived here for many years but have never asked to be labeled as Goans. Why should they? If I lived for thirty years in Maharashtra would I want to be called a Maharashtrian? No way! I will always be a proud Goan and detest being labeled anything else! So what makes us think that the Maharashtrians and the Bongs and the Sindhis are waiting to be labeled Goans? Aren't they proud of their own culture?
Of course they are. They stick to their language and culture and lifestyle and aren't in any hurry to imbibe ours. They are not Goans.
If you want to be polite call them 'un-Goan', but for Goa's sake don't ever call them Goan.
On the other hand I see Oscar's reason for being inclusive. There are so many non-Goans who have done so much for Goa that we need to recognize and appreciate it and Goanise them to some extent – if they so desire of course. Perhaps a new nomenclature to reflect changing times and migratory patterns?
My suggestion is that we use the prefix of the state of origin and stick on a 'goan-esque' suffix to get a new description of ethnicity-residence. That will give us Karnagoans, Tamigoans, Uttar Pragoans, Bihagoans, Maharagoans - and of course Bengalis resident here become Bongoans! There isn't much of a problem coining these new words.
The problem arises when native Goans living overseas have to coin words that reflect their ethnicity-residence. Gonadians (Canada), Gomericans (USA), Goatish/Goats (UK), Gortuguese (Portugal), Guwaitis (Kuwait), Gostralians (Down Under), Gongladeshis (Bangladesh), Gormans (Germany), Gosraelis (Holy Land), Gopalese (Nepal), Gokistanis
(Pakistan) and Goruvians (Peru) are pretty straightforward. But are there really Goans in Peru? Where is Peru anyway?
Respected historian and linguist Teotonio D'Souza has been approached to head the committee to decide the exact rules of how these new words are to be coined. For example a Goan in Sri Lanka should be known as a Goalankan or a Goleynese? Goans in China are Goanese or Goenchins? Or is that a restaurant in Panjim? Goans in Burma are Goarmese or Gonyanmarites? Are Goans in Denmark Gonish, and Goans in Saudi Arabia
Gaudis?
Once all that is in place we can attack the next problem - people of other nationalities permanently resident in Goa. We have to put in place a nomenclature for the Brits, Germans, Israelis, Russians, Portuguese, Tibetans and others living here. We will do it using linguistics. The tongue can reach where the sword cannot.
--------
The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 24th April 2008.
====
GULF-GOANS e-NEWSLETTER (Since 1994)
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gulf-goans/
Grave matters: Done to death
Grave matters: Done to death
A guide to dealing with more than just grief
By Cecil Pinto
Recently the father of a friend of mine expired. My wife Beatrice and I dropped in for a pre-funeral condolence visit. The situation in the house was quite hectic with people dropping in to condole and to help.
We said the obligatory prayer near the corpse resting in the coffin in the hall. Next step is to wish close relatives. I was looking around for my friends' mother.
Beatrice, who does not know the family well, quite by instinct, went up to a woman sobbing bitterly near the coffin and hugged and sat next to her sympathetically with an air of extreme empathy, as would be expected. I on the other hand was, within the confines of the sober environment, trying to signal to Beatrice to come away immediately.
The woman she was mistaking for my friend's mother was actually a distant neighbour, Filsu Aunty, whose grief stricken countenance was a permanent feature and had nothing to do with the immediate death. It was an embarrassing moment for Beatrice as awareness dawned - but knowing neighbours and relatives did not snigger and just kept a straight face. This was a common occurrence.
Some three years back John D'Silva in one of his tiatrs, I forget the name, had this brilliant comedy skit. The local village newsmonger enters a house and announces to the housewife that so-and-so has died and hands over to her what appears to be an invitation in an envelope. On being questioned as to its contents he explains that all details of the death and funeral were there in the printed announcement. It was
like a FAQ (Frequently Asked Questions) section on a website, and had all the answers. How did he die? What time? Where? Who was with him?
What date and time is the funeral? Will the elder son from Kuwait be coming? And the daughter from Toronto? Will there be a bus from his native village? Etc etc.
At that time I thought to myself that it was nice idea and would soon be the done thing at Goan deaths. It has not yet happened but I am sure it eventually will, what with everyone now having computers and printers. In fact there are so many innovations that can be undertaken to make the whole death-funeral process a bit more organised and
'professional' as it were.
For example, similar to weddings we could have 'family flowers' that identify close family members so nobody makes embarrassing mistakes, like Beatrice did, by wishing someone not even distantly connected to the deceased. Miniature artificial wreaths maybe that family members could pin up on their clothing? We could take a step further with little name tags that not only identify the person but also establish his relationship with the deceased. Eg: "Fatima Lobo: Wife's eldest sister" or "Brandon Gonsalves: Son of second daughter Kathryn".
At any funeral you will see mourners siding up to one close neighbour, who with an air of authority will tell you all you wanted to know about the deceased and those present.
"Who is that woman with the short dark blue skirt with a slit?"
"That's Kathryn the second daughter. She's a divorcee and works in Mumbai."
"And that old man with the suit. He doesn't look Goan."
"That's Mr. Nayak, who used to be the manager at the bank where he worked."
"And why is the eldest daughter and her family keeping in the background?"
"Ever since she joined the Believers the family has sort of written her off and…"
Most of these semi-truths would be clarified with the advent of printed Death FAQs, Family Flowers and Name Tags.
Also how come nobody has a Handy Goan Death Guide similar to the half-dozen Goan Wedding Guides currently available? These guides have detailed chapters on how to prepare for your wedding, how to organize the reception and also a directory of wedding related service providers.
How does this sound? "Aiz Mhaka Falea Tuka" from Here Today Gone Tomorrow Enterprises. A handy guide for Goan Catholics on Announcement & Arrangements related to death (with a sub-section for Goan Hindus – "Urn While You Burn"). I hope some enterprising publishers and undertakers are reading this column.
Suggested chapters: Registering the Death, Catering without Celebrating, Newspaper Advertisement Conventions, Riding the Obituary Wave, Illustrated Coffin Layouts for Standard Living Rooms, Seating Protocol, Wishing Protocol, Transportation, D-Day Checklist, Lowering Standards for Graves, Post Funeral Conventions and Non-Alcoholic Alternatives etc.
A Customization Section could offer suggestions of themes, colours, music, flowers etc for a personalized effect.
Trivia sections could deal with mundane matters like the ethics of what can be put in the coffin to keep with the deceased wishes, Is there a protocol of priority for coffin pallbearers? Who carries Offertory items to the altar? Who delivers the eulogy?
Pros and cons could be presented by Subject Experts: Cremation v/s Burial, Formalin or Morgue, Why waste a good suit and shoes? Is it right to deny condolence visits? Requesting mourners to give donation to a favourite charity instead of bringing/sending floral tributes, Organ donation issues etc.
Post-funeral procedures could advice on whether it is really necessary to thank all doctors, priests and minor politicians by name in the Acknowledgement Advertisement. Procedures surrounding the Month's Mind Mass, Annual Anniversary Mass and Niche Marketing. Illustrated suggestions for designs on the marble slab covering the niche could also be one section - with a choice of lettering, typefaces, photo borders etc.
How does one reconcile the bank accounts, insurance policies, loans and email addresses of the deceased in the absence of a will? Is pre-payment for one's own funeral acceptable?
I'm not very familiar with Goan Hindu procedures regarding death but I'm sure there is a lot to be discussed regarding Scattering of Ashes, 12th Day Procedures, Eldest Son's Obligations, To Shave or Not, etc, etc.
Keep in mind that a man, or woman, in today's comparative and competitive world is remembered not only by how he lived his life, but also by the quantum and quality of mourners at his funeral.
Here is an example of how uninformed Goans are about matters regarding death.
In a recent instance an undertaker approached the family of the deceased and asked them, "Would you like a package?" They looked at each other nonplussed and then one member told him, "Actually we would prefer a coffin!"
---------------
The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 1st May 2008.
========
Gulf-Goans e-Newsletter http://www.yahoogroups.com/group/gulf-goans/
GULF-GOANS e-NEWSLETTER (Since 1994)
A guide to dealing with more than just grief
By Cecil Pinto
Recently the father of a friend of mine expired. My wife Beatrice and I dropped in for a pre-funeral condolence visit. The situation in the house was quite hectic with people dropping in to condole and to help.
We said the obligatory prayer near the corpse resting in the coffin in the hall. Next step is to wish close relatives. I was looking around for my friends' mother.
Beatrice, who does not know the family well, quite by instinct, went up to a woman sobbing bitterly near the coffin and hugged and sat next to her sympathetically with an air of extreme empathy, as would be expected. I on the other hand was, within the confines of the sober environment, trying to signal to Beatrice to come away immediately.
The woman she was mistaking for my friend's mother was actually a distant neighbour, Filsu Aunty, whose grief stricken countenance was a permanent feature and had nothing to do with the immediate death. It was an embarrassing moment for Beatrice as awareness dawned - but knowing neighbours and relatives did not snigger and just kept a straight face. This was a common occurrence.
Some three years back John D'Silva in one of his tiatrs, I forget the name, had this brilliant comedy skit. The local village newsmonger enters a house and announces to the housewife that so-and-so has died and hands over to her what appears to be an invitation in an envelope. On being questioned as to its contents he explains that all details of the death and funeral were there in the printed announcement. It was
like a FAQ (Frequently Asked Questions) section on a website, and had all the answers. How did he die? What time? Where? Who was with him?
What date and time is the funeral? Will the elder son from Kuwait be coming? And the daughter from Toronto? Will there be a bus from his native village? Etc etc.
At that time I thought to myself that it was nice idea and would soon be the done thing at Goan deaths. It has not yet happened but I am sure it eventually will, what with everyone now having computers and printers. In fact there are so many innovations that can be undertaken to make the whole death-funeral process a bit more organised and
'professional' as it were.
For example, similar to weddings we could have 'family flowers' that identify close family members so nobody makes embarrassing mistakes, like Beatrice did, by wishing someone not even distantly connected to the deceased. Miniature artificial wreaths maybe that family members could pin up on their clothing? We could take a step further with little name tags that not only identify the person but also establish his relationship with the deceased. Eg: "Fatima Lobo: Wife's eldest sister" or "Brandon Gonsalves: Son of second daughter Kathryn".
At any funeral you will see mourners siding up to one close neighbour, who with an air of authority will tell you all you wanted to know about the deceased and those present.
"Who is that woman with the short dark blue skirt with a slit?"
"That's Kathryn the second daughter. She's a divorcee and works in Mumbai."
"And that old man with the suit. He doesn't look Goan."
"That's Mr. Nayak, who used to be the manager at the bank where he worked."
"And why is the eldest daughter and her family keeping in the background?"
"Ever since she joined the Believers the family has sort of written her off and…"
Most of these semi-truths would be clarified with the advent of printed Death FAQs, Family Flowers and Name Tags.
Also how come nobody has a Handy Goan Death Guide similar to the half-dozen Goan Wedding Guides currently available? These guides have detailed chapters on how to prepare for your wedding, how to organize the reception and also a directory of wedding related service providers.
How does this sound? "Aiz Mhaka Falea Tuka" from Here Today Gone Tomorrow Enterprises. A handy guide for Goan Catholics on Announcement & Arrangements related to death (with a sub-section for Goan Hindus – "Urn While You Burn"). I hope some enterprising publishers and undertakers are reading this column.
Suggested chapters: Registering the Death, Catering without Celebrating, Newspaper Advertisement Conventions, Riding the Obituary Wave, Illustrated Coffin Layouts for Standard Living Rooms, Seating Protocol, Wishing Protocol, Transportation, D-Day Checklist, Lowering Standards for Graves, Post Funeral Conventions and Non-Alcoholic Alternatives etc.
A Customization Section could offer suggestions of themes, colours, music, flowers etc for a personalized effect.
Trivia sections could deal with mundane matters like the ethics of what can be put in the coffin to keep with the deceased wishes, Is there a protocol of priority for coffin pallbearers? Who carries Offertory items to the altar? Who delivers the eulogy?
Pros and cons could be presented by Subject Experts: Cremation v/s Burial, Formalin or Morgue, Why waste a good suit and shoes? Is it right to deny condolence visits? Requesting mourners to give donation to a favourite charity instead of bringing/sending floral tributes, Organ donation issues etc.
Post-funeral procedures could advice on whether it is really necessary to thank all doctors, priests and minor politicians by name in the Acknowledgement Advertisement. Procedures surrounding the Month's Mind Mass, Annual Anniversary Mass and Niche Marketing. Illustrated suggestions for designs on the marble slab covering the niche could also be one section - with a choice of lettering, typefaces, photo borders etc.
How does one reconcile the bank accounts, insurance policies, loans and email addresses of the deceased in the absence of a will? Is pre-payment for one's own funeral acceptable?
I'm not very familiar with Goan Hindu procedures regarding death but I'm sure there is a lot to be discussed regarding Scattering of Ashes, 12th Day Procedures, Eldest Son's Obligations, To Shave or Not, etc, etc.
Keep in mind that a man, or woman, in today's comparative and competitive world is remembered not only by how he lived his life, but also by the quantum and quality of mourners at his funeral.
Here is an example of how uninformed Goans are about matters regarding death.
In a recent instance an undertaker approached the family of the deceased and asked them, "Would you like a package?" They looked at each other nonplussed and then one member told him, "Actually we would prefer a coffin!"
---------------
The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 1st May 2008.
========
Gulf-Goans e-Newsletter http://www.yahoogroups.com/group/gulf-goans/
GULF-GOANS e-NEWSLETTER (Since 1994)
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