Major Days of the Morris Minor ________________________ by Tony Fernandes
As I grew up in Goa during the 1950’s and 1960’s it was quite common to see American and European cars on the roads then. Although no one in my family owned a car, I was very happy to receive a new adult-size bicycle (I think it was as though even the bicycle was bought keeping the usual 'vaddtea angar' benefits in mind for a fast growing teenager) and an occasional ride in a Morris Minor that belonged to our family physician. The Morris was quite a popular car among other 'foreign' cars those days. They were seen in many colours: black, dark blue, grey or white, and were mainly owned by landlords, doctors, lawyers, merchants and priests. As a young lad I ran errands for many households in the village other than my own. One of these errands, on many occasions, was to get a doctor to the village in an emergency. Sometimes I would be summoned by a neighbour for a short brief: name of the town, name of the doctor and directions, not forgetting to let the doctor know that’s it is urgent and that he has to come as soon as he possibly can. One of these doctors who often visited our village had a clinic in the town of Mapusa, Bardez - a district in North Goa.And, of course, he happened to own one of these fine cars of yesteryear – the ‘Mighty’ Morris Minor. Having made it to the doctor’s clinic on my bicycle, I would first make sure I locked my bike. Then briefly speaking to the nurse with a request for the doctor’s visit, I would wait outside for the doctor to conclude examinations of his remaining patients in the clinic, if there were any. Leaving my cycle there, I would ride along with the doctor giving him the directions to the patient’s house in the village. It was customary those days, for the errand runner to carry the doctor’s medical kit bag from the car to the house. As for me, it was a great experience doing that. For a brief 3 minutes’ walk to the house, from the winding road that ran through the village, I felt as if I was actually the doctor. I momentarily also got carried away in my thoughts: “Some day I will be a doctor” and 'someone else will have to carry this bag” I thought. After examining ‘The Goan Patient’ this is what the doctor would usually say to the folks of the household, having been convinced he had diagnosed the illness: “Binaka re. Tum zatlo boro. Rexeth boroun ditam. Hem vokot, hea burgeak Mapusa thaun porot hetanam, adduni. Ani koxem dista tem porot maka faleam gomon dilea puro." What the doctor said: ‘Don’t worry. You will get alright. I’m writing a prescription. Tell this lad to buy this medicine on his way back from Mapusa. And tomorrow let me know how you feel.’ After putting the sphygmomanometer and stethoscope back into the bag, the doctor washed his hands with new soap on the window sill while I poured water on his hands, and he wiped his hands on the clean towel. Suddenly my thoughts wandered off, thinking as if I was in the village chapel doing the duties of an altar boy. As a courtesy he then asked about the general health of the rest of the family members. Soon after that, it was time for me to pick upthe doctor’s bag and accompany him to the Morris car when he was kind in inquiring as to how I was doing in school. After getting back on my bicycle from the doctor’s clinic, I would quickly ride to the pharmacy where I had to wait till the pharmacist made the concoction ready, and pasted the paper cut-out notches, that indicated the doses, on the bottle. With the added benefit of riding in the doctor’s Morris Minor, it was also an enjoyable and major errand for me. My reward depended on the affordability of the family of the patient. Sometimes it was a ‘falooda’, sometimes tea and patties or at times just a limboo-soda, in the interim period while the medicines got ready. Tony Fernandes Mississauga, Ontario, Canada _,_._,_ http://tonferns.blogspot.com/ _________________________________________________________________