Dr Shankar (Priti) Kamat (Dr Xencora Camotim), 93, a successful senior advocate, a respected member of the Bar and a nationalist, the eldest son of late Prof Babusso Kamat and late Smt Indira Kamat, passed away peacefully in Lisbon on December 11 2014. Deeply mourned by wife Fernanda, son Dinar, daughter Nitah, sister Kunda, grandchildren and a large circle of relatives, friends, admirers and colleagues. This tribute is by his niece in Mumbai for Goanet Reader.
Vibha Kamat vibhaka...@gmail.com My earliest memory of my uncle, Priti Camotim, is from the time I was eight, when he came visiting with his children Dinar and Nita. They were a bit older than my sisters and me and made much of us. But the star was Priti. For days before his arrival, my father spoke of his coming, reminiscing about their childhood and youth in Goa, his move to Portugal and then his illustrious career. Through all those talks shone deep pride and awe. But what leaped out was the fierce love that he felt for his brother. Like tales of yore, we were told anecdotes about Priti -- his stupendous intellect, his brilliant years as a student, first at the Lyceum and then even after he went abroad for higher studies, his ability to argue and hold his own... I enjoyed listening to my father, to those stories -- waiting for Priti's arrival. And when he did come, he did not disappoint. Handsome, with his shock of white hair making him even more so, the ready smile with the crinkled nose and that deep timbre of his voice -- he seemed to live up to the image we had created of him. Yet, that visit remains a fuzzy memory. It was only in later years, as we all grew up that we got to know our Uncle. And he us. Not because he came every year or every other year. There were long gaps between his trips home. But whenever he came, he did something special. He set up little meetings with each of us -- the adults of course, but even us, the youngsters. The first time round, we were all intrigued: was he going to hold forth? Would there be words of wisdom? What was all this about? When the time came however, in a relaxed, informal way, he gently asked about our lives, our interests. This was not about himself at all. This was his way of showing he cared, of getting to know us, even the smallest of the lot. We felt grand. As we grew up and got married, the same affection and genuine interest were extended to our spouses. Priti was the first-born, the one on whom rested the heavy hands of expectations. He was named for his paternal grandfather -- Shankar (Xencora). But his father, Bapa, called him Priti, after a much-loved teacher Pritidas. Early on, he showed the promise of a keen and sharp mind and an independence that saw him leave the family home in Mungul (near Margao) to move to Panjim at the age of 15. He worked hard, assiduously, read widely and in at least three languages -- Portuguese and Marathi, but also English. Later, he added French. It was often said that the Hindus in Goa were good at the sciences and that the Christians did well at languages and the humanities. Priti excelled at both, a prince among his peers. And so he grew into a formidable young man. To his family, therefore, he was a bit of Goldsmith's Village Schoolmaster: The more they gaz'd, the more the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew Here are a few vignettes: He was considered a lawyer who came out of the top drawer in Lisbon. He fought cases for political prisoners like Mohan Ranade -- secured his freedom -- and for others, many of these, even when he knew they could not pay his fees. Though it was not his first language, he was said to speak and write Portuguese better than a native. We know what high praise that is; many of us have learnt a foreign language at some time in our lives. When he appeared for a "proficiency" exam in English, held by the British Council, he stood second in the world! The only way I could come second in anything was among my siblings, in birth order, with no credit to me. My mother talks of the time she was discussing a Sanskrit couplet with him -- he remembered it from his school days in Goa and interpreted it perfectly. What a mind that was! He loved theatre -- so when he was here, my parents made it a point to take him to see a play or two. One year, as he came home from seeing Shirwadkar's "Chandra Jithe Ugvat Nahi", my father mentioned that it was an adaptation of an English play. But it has been done years ago, said Priti. A Hindi film, with Devika Rani in it. And he was right. This from a man who had grown up in Portuguese Goa and left India in 1945...! And most recently, when a professor from New Zealand was studying Father Thomas Stephens, the 16th century English Jesuit and early writer and linguist in Konkani, Priti answered questions about the amazing priest with details that threw light on how the Hindus in Goa came to know and revere him. Details that went back more than 75 years! He made Lisbon his home and his karmabhoomi. He loved the land, its literature. Western classical music, theatre, history and art, museums and opera jostled with his earlier education in his native Goa. But he made place for all his passions and pursued them with vigour and joy. When I visited him the first time, he took me to see the statue of Eca de Queiroz and the tomb of Fernando Pessoa. He insisted I go to the university town of Coimbra, where he himself had studied and he introduced me to Camoes. The only gifts he ever asked for when pressed, were books -- in Marathi, in English, those of Indian writers. His life then, became a vast canvas which reflected what Zweig called a "life in which intellectual labour was the purest joy and personal freedom, the highest good on earth". Since he was considered "dangerous for Portugal" (partly because of his stand on Goa), his passport was confiscated and, therefore, he could not leave the country for about six or seven years, between 1962 and 1968. In 1974-1975 (just after the Portuguese revolution that restored democracy), Priti was offered the position of Portuguese Ambassador to India. He declined the invitation saying that "since I feel that I am an Indian, I could never accept to be the 'Ambassador of something in my India', as this would imply that I am not Indian". To me, he became a repository of those whom I loved and had gone before him :Bapa, his father, and Narendra, my father. When I went to France in 2010, I specially took a trip to Lisbon to see Priti and my cousins. He was 89 then, dapper and charming as always. I was still grieving for my father who had died two years earlier. One morning, as we sat there in a cafe, I suddenly noticed the way Priti had his fingers at his temple, the index and the middle finger folded and the thumb flush against the cheek, exactly like my father used to. I noticed how they had the same fingers and nails, my father and he, which in turn were like my grandfather's. I cannot explain the feeling of solace I got, almost as if some essence of those departed loved ones, was there in those fingers, in that thumb, in the rich timbre of that voice, in memories of Goa. What was wonderful was that he continued to make plans, travelled in the summer, bought season tickets to the opera in the winter. When Nita went with him this July to London where he took in the sights, the plays and the museums, he enjoyed himself and spoke of going to Paris next year. He wanted very much to come to Goa to celebrate his cousin's 100th birthday last month. But he realised it was going to be difficult, and urged Nita to go in his place. How can I, when you are unwell, she said to him. All right then, next year, said Priti. After all, you don't have to be there on the day... My cousin is going to be a 100 for the whole year. And now he is gone. His ashes will be immersed in the river Tagus, on which Lisbon stands. Near the Torre de Belem. The family will choose a sunny day. What a confluence of happenings -- this is the place from where that great explorer Vasco da Gama set sail more than 500 years ago and eventually landed in Goa, to make it part of his country. Which led many young men to travel to those shores in search of higher and perhaps better education -- among others, a certain Priti. And now, he will once again be part of this river as he sets out on his final journey... to his home? I will miss him. His lovely voice, that way he had of saying "sim senhor!", his smile... Dinar called to break the news of his father's passing and said, as he put down the phone that day: "He was one of a kind". A quote from Simone de Beauvoir comes to mind: "When a person dies, all that he stood for goes a-begging... the best way to keep him in our midst is to remember what we most loved and admired in him, to bring it into our own lives, and in so doing, keep alive his unique energy". Unique energy -- I can think of no better way to describe Dr. Xencora Camotim, my uncle. Farewell, Priti Kaka. Good-night, sweet Prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest