My uncle Paixao (pronounced Pashao) was the third and dominant figure of the unholy family trinity of Paixao, Exaltacao and Visitacao - the Passion, the Exaltation and the Visitation. If I was not so closely related to them, the irony of this trio would have struck me speechless. However, Goan families being hush-hush in such matters, I would learn of the skeletons in the family cupboard only years later and that too by mere chance, from the local pedho (gravedigger) who was too drunk to hold the secret. Common knowledge, though not to me, was that Passion who was Exaltation's older brother, in his youthful days was Visitation's beau until the time she was Exalted (meaning shotgunned by Exaltation, a man who saw no finery in courtship) and therefore rushed into marriage with him by her parents before Passion could be served the second course.
However Passion bore no grudges towards his brother for jumping his gun and in the fuller scheme of things decided that since he couldn't have Visitation, he would have every other pair of skirts who had the misfortune of coming his way. A sort of revenge on the world one might say. Passion worked for the Agriculture department in the Portuguese Goa administration and with the aid of his Agricultural Science Degree obtained in Bellary in far-away Mysore, (in those days when you were unfit for any other post-secondary discipline, you were sent into agriculture) and with his natural charm which was appreciated by the wives of his Portuguese bosses, he soon rose to Assistant Deputy Chief Agricultural Inspector of Salcete. He was of course offered an equally hollow position with the Banco Nacional Ultramarino, another refuge or dharamshala of the useless scion of influential and landed Goan families. He was offered the bank position even though mine was neither influential nor landed, but had 2 priests which was equivalent to the same thing. He preferred agriculture since it afforded him a chance to get free liquor from errant landowners and roam around at will in his Govt-issue Volvo (no bigger than a Peugeot in those days), making trysts with all those man-hungry, field-working country girls. Compared to this, why take a job sitting on a corner desk in the Ultramarino's Margao branch, even though one would have to make no more than 3 to 5 entries in some musty ledgers the entire day. Passion, was if nothing else, an egalitarian in the matter of women. Salcete or Bardez, village bred or town schooled, native, mestizo or Portuguese, meant nothing tro him. So Paixao lived a full life, but his Brazilian cigars (they are stronger than the Cuban), a penchant for garrafaos of the local brew and his philandering, eventually took its toll and one day in the rainy month of August, he passed from this world, onto the journey to his maker, who we hope would remember Paxao's faithful churchgoing and lusty baritone at all village novenas, and forget that he breathed his last in in the arms of the wife of the local regedor (village headman) who was a rather fat and demanding woman. Now Paixao was no mineowner, but he left a tidy sum behind, as he had little ocassion to spend his generous salary, all his neccessities of daily living being met by either said errant landwoners or the said grateful country girls. So when his will was read by Exaltation and Visitation his most trusted relatives, he specified certain details of his burial, one of which was to have no less than 15 professional mourners. To those of you not in the know, in the lazy, hazy and glory days of Portuguese Goa, funerals were a thing of great pomp and elegance. While on a scale of one to ten weddings were nine and a half, funerals claimed at least an eight. And having a paid mourner was as much a status symbol as having a Burma teakwood coffin. Sorry for their tantrums, as they approached the church they cried in such loud unison that all the processionists couldn't help but join in. Hearing such a loud noise pade-vigar rushed outside the church and joined in, not to be outdone. The professionals had by now stopped, but the crowd didn't. The yelling and crying continued throughout the brief service and into the cemetry. By now they were crying for their own misfortunes that life had dealt them and Uncle Paixao would have all been been forgotten had it not been for his brother who wished to return to the bottle he so reluctantly left behind in the house. The funeral is remebered in Orlim even today and anyone you meet there will tell you how when you cry, the world cries with you. Paixao's funeral was to start at a leisurely 11 o'clock in the morning of a day that was excessively hot in temperature. The cortege was to leave from his vast home (a gift from the Agriculture Dept for his yeoman services, even though such yeoman services were never spelt out), in the village of Orlim which is flanked by Varca on one side and Carmona on the other. The Brass Band of Betalbatim was there early, having been promised a bonus for being there at all, since they were wont to absent themselves on several days after every feast day which in Goa are so frequent, one wonders if there are any working days at all. The village priest had made careful preparations for the best service money could buy (Paxao shared both his liquor and his black book with the reverend and was a generous church supporter to boot, firmly believing that doing such was an investment for one's future). These preparations entailed much labor from the sacristan, the church volunteers and the gravediggers but none from the padre who was quite used to lording it over his flock.. The mourners started trickling in, foot, cart, carriage and cars, by 12.30, instead of the appointed 11am. Time meant nothing in a Goan village, nor does it, even to this day. To the Goan, every occasion is a feast, whether to celebrate a hatch, match or despatch. It was going to be a feast, with boiled grams, cake, feni to be served and who knows what else. And damned if they wouldn't attend it. Those already packed in the house were by now profusely sweating. The ice packed around Paixao's lifeless form did nothing to alleviate it. Nor did it help Paixao in any way. With the constant bloating and distention of the corpse, Piaxao even in death, sent noises and mal-odors full bodied into the crowd. Unable to bear this any longer, a cry went up from the more suffering souls, to start the march to the church. Now, to access the Orlim Church from the Margao-Cavelossim road, one has to pass sevreal fields and even a small river. It was on the long journey that the criers were paid to play their part. Hardly had the coffin been borne outside the house then the lot of them raised loud, piercing cries. One said between sobs how she would miss him (even though she had never met him in life), one sang a sorrowful song on how his wife and children would bear the loss (until an attentive processionist nudged her and said that he was a bachelor), three of them tore their veils to shreds (they were meant to be discarded anyway) and another lit up a bidi, unable to bear the deprivation of tobacco any longer. Half way through, the heat took it's toll and they stopped crying until Aunt Visitation quickly reminded them that they would get half the pay for half the work. Which started an immediate ruckus amomg all 15 that took the whole crowd to pacify. Not wanting to spoil their reputation for future events, they quickly subsided and started their lusty voices in cries again. Any stranger wondering why no tears were flowing, would have concluded (falsely) that evaporation was the culprit. _______________________________________________ Goanet mailing list Goanet@lists.goanet.org http://lists.goanet.org/listinfo.cgi/goanet-goanet.org
