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The Portuguese left the enclave of Goa in 1961 after
a military operation by the Indian government. What they left behind
were memories and strong traces of Latin culture in the territory
they once ruled.
My close encounters with
the Portuguese began even before I was born. My grandmother (on my
mother’s side) was of Portuguese descent. Her father was a
Portuguese colonel with the Nizam of Hyderabad’s forces.
In those days the Nizam
had Portuguese officers to train his men, my grandmother’s
father being one of them.
My maternal grandmother
was born in Raichur and she spoke fluent Urdu. She was a paan (betal
leaf) addict and swore in the choicest Portuguese, English and Urdu,
which happens to be quite an unusual combination of three very varied
languages.
So whilst my mother’s
links with the Portuguese were very strong, my father was a true
Saraswati Brahmin of the Catholic variety. He came from Lovtolim, a
quaint village in South Goa, and we can trace our Hindu ancestry to
the Sardesais before being forcibly or otherwise converted and
baptized with the surname Miranda.
Even today, we are
closely associated with the original Hindu family temple of Shanta
Durga.
I grew up in an enormous
ancestral home in Lovotolim, which has always been the Miranda
stronghold for 300 years and this was where my early links with the
Portuguese began.
My earliest memories of
the Portuguese were the grand soirees held in the two main ballrooms
of my house in Lovtolim. The entire so called snob society of Goa
used to be invited, both the Portuguese as well as the local batcars
(landlords), the bureaucrats, the judiciary and not to forge the
clergy who came mainly to devour the delicacies of the traditional
Goan buffet.
Theymen wore tail coats
and white ties, the ladies in colourful silks and satins, the
Portuguese in their white and gold military uniforms, medals and
champagne glasses clinking merrily and the aristocratic Hindus in
their bright coloured Maharatta style turbans.
With my faithful dog Pee
Wee, I watched this colourful scanrio from the balustrade of the
staircase that led to the ballroom, which was illuminated by the
golden glow from candle lit chandeliers. The chief guest used to be
usually the Governor General of Goa, at that time General Joas Carfos
Craveiro Lopes, a dapper rotund little man with a Poirot moustache.
He was immaculately
dressed in his white uniform decorated with golden epaulettes, a red
sash and myriad medals of all shapes and size covered his chest and
ample midriff.
After the buffet upstairs
the Governor escorted my mother down the staircase towards the
ballroom. Her white lace ankleace around her neck, and matching
diamond earrings, outshone even the Governor’s medals. My
father, very dashing in white tie and tails but no medals, followed
with the Governor’s medals. My father, very dashing in white tie
and tails but no medals, followed with the Governor’s rather
voluptuous wife in hand. The rest of the guests tailed behind them.
Finally the ball was
declared open and the Governor led my mother to the dance floor to
the strains of a Strauss waltz rendered by Johnson and his Jolly Boys
one of Goa’s most popular orchestras.
The dancing began and I
watched with awe this colourful mass of people, swirling through the
dance floor, to the sound of waltzes, mazurkas and tangos and finally
the soulful Mandes, Goa’s traditional love songs.
Then there was another
close encounter with the Portuguese of a different kind altogether.
But one which I will never forget.
As a kid, my favorite
pastime was drawing cartoons of anything under the sun which, as a
matter of fact, is what I enjoy doing even today.
So my mother, as a form
of encouragement, provide me with leather bound, blank books and
prodded me in keeping a diary. Which I did nothing down the events of
the day in the life of a Goan village, depicted not so much in words
but in the form of cartoons.
My favorite subject were
the local priests. They came in all shapes and sizes and their
behavior provided ideal material for lampooning.
But the day came when an
old prelate, very much past his prime, came to know of my artistic
activities and complained to my mother that I was ridiculing the
local priesthood. Sacrilege! He bellowed in his crackling voice.
My mother wisely ignored
him but he lodged a complaint, with Dom Jose da Costa Nunes,
Archishop of Goa and Patriarch of the East Indies, a rather
formidable title. He was the kingpin of the Catholic church in Goa.
Finally, a polite summons
came inviting my mother to pay her respects to the Portuguese
Patriarch.
Fully aware of the cause
of the summons my mother decided to take me in tow. So clutching my
precious diary we drove up to the Episcopal palace in Panjim.
The prelate received us
in his sermonial hall. He was a portly man with a long white beard
and twinkling blue eyes hidden behind a pair of gold rimmed
spectacles. He wore a black cassock lined with a purple border with a
large golden cross hanging from a massive gold chain around his neck.
He had a deep red skull cap on his head, wore black patent leather
shoes with a silver buckle and had on bright red socks. Beneath the
black cassock I got a glimpse of his blue striped pyjamas.
He sat in a beautifully
carved chair a very imposing figure. My mother kissed his topaz ring
encrusted in gold and I did the same. I remember his hand had a
strong aroma of expensive tobacco.
Then my mother presented
him with my dairy and I was prepared for the worst excommuncation or
eternal damnation in the fires of hell.
The big man went through
a few pages then his eyes suddenly brightened and he burst out into
peals of laughter.
The more he turned the
pages the more he laughed uproariously, until he finally asked my
mother permission to keep the diary a few more days as he thought it
was absolutely delightful.
Then turning to me, he
said that I should not bother about these petty complaints but carry
on doing what I was doing, and wished me all the luck.
He blessed me, and I
kissed his ring again and wondered how much it was worth and what
brand of cigar he smoked.
The Portuguese were a
very charming lot and a good looking race, the men in particular.
But there were times
when I hated the Portuguese and this happened normally at the club
dance held regularly in the capital Panjim.
The Portuguese, unlike
the British had no discrimination as regards colour or creed. We
would all mingle at the same clubs and the dance were a happy
combination of the Portuguese and us locals.
But we locals in spite of
our bow ties and shark skin suits stood no chance in winning over the
local beauties, who were smitted by the good looks and the glamorous
uniform of the Portuguese military.
So as a matter of fact
many of the girls that I knew ended up marrying the Portuguese and
they have been living Happily ever after in Portugal.
And speaking of Portugal
my dream had always been to visit that country and meet the
Portuguese in their domain.
My dream did finally
come true and I arrived in Lisbon, with no plans for the future. But
once again my diary came to my rescue.
I showed it at the
Grelbenkian Foundation and was granted a year’s scholarship, to
do a series of sketches on Portugal.
I had a ball for a year,
but I did find time to contribute regularly to various Portuguese
newspapers and magazines, and produce enough work which enabled me to
hold two exhibitions in Lisbon, one of them sponsored by the
Grelbenkian Foundation.
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