from www.timesofindia.com May 12, 2008
Balcao Banter Familial kichddi Goans going away; Goans married to foreigners. A common enough phenomenon. Almost every family knows it firsthand. But it can lead to unexpected interptretations. Gayle, the fouryear-old granddaughter of the celebrated cartoonist Mario Miranda was asked by her teacher if she had any cousins. Remembering their recent visit from Vienna, she promply replied, "Yes, I have two. They are half-Ostriches and half-Goan." Military man or migrant? Speaking of phenomena, the Goan obsession with losing its identity to migrants, reached a ridiculous pitch recently. Walking past the military headquarters in the heart of Panaji, our reporter encountered a near accident, when a car almost knocked down a military officer crossing the road. The ensuing argument was inevitable. But it turned curious when in his frustration, the driver abusing the officer in English, went on to call him a 'bhailo' (outsider). How an officer of the forces could be compared to the Kannadiga waiter or Andhra construction labourer is anybody's guess. We think it's time to worry about the worry. Wild cat? Present! This is one cat that's driving the dogs and professors crazy. If reports from residents living around the Goa University campus in Bambolim are to be believed, there's a bipto vaag (leopard) prowling the grounds, since the last fortnight. It's got the strays barking incessantly and officers from the forest department searching profusely. We're not sure if it's zoology or human-ology that's attracted the four-legged beast. Mom, I want to be a diver You've heard of water babies. Three and five-year-olds taking to the water naturally. At 11, Daniel Fernandes is one, but that is not much to cause a splash. But that he is 'sea-excited'—if you can call it that—and fascinated by scuba diving and has taken up training will surely make those who fear to venture out to sea, stop in their tracks. Fernandes is a regular visitor to the swimming pool at Little Italy, Calangute where Goa aquatics office is located. He saw some trainees being taught the rudiments in the swimming pool and decided that he wanted to do the course. "I had been attracted to diving after seeing Discovery and National Geographic channels," he says. When he told his mom, Philipa Hoyes, a British national that he was keen on the course, she encouraged him to do it. He did the open water diver course for four days and answered the written examination. "He scored 86 marks," says his trainer, Anindya Mukherjee. "You should have seen his face after the first dive." The shy and taciturn boy wants to continue training and is nursing an ambition to become a diving instructor. Fear of water or the sea? "Are you thinking of the big fish like sharks?" he asks a counter question. "Well, that is why people are afraid of diving underwater," he explains. Dark tales If you thought only mafia dons and terrorists drove around in cars with dark tinted glasses, you are wrong. Several Goan MLAs, their wives, their brothers, VIPs, besides the general public, were caught in the ongoing drive against tinted glasses, conducted jointly by RTO and traffic police. Yes, these lawmakers are also law breakers. It is a known fact that when a citizen's license is suspended for offensive driving, there is a barrage of arrogant phone calls from MLAs asking the authorities to let the man go. This high-handedness would have spilled onto the roads when they are caught with tinted glasses beyond permissible limits. But the drive has officers from both the RTO and the police. Worse, the electronic media is often around with their cameras whirring. So what do our representatives do? They pay the fine alright. But they also saddle up to the enforcement officer and in hush-hush tones, ask how long the drive is going to continue. We will keep our cars inside till then, they say. Enforcement officials are embarrased at the lawmakers' proclivity to shady, secretive driving. We'd think it was simply a matter of them practicing what they'd rather not preach. Where have all the drinkers gone? Mario Miranada was most reluctant to be interviewed — too many callow journalists have been unleashed on him by his editor friends down the years — and when he finally agreed, it was clear that it was on sufferance. We were given a time of 10.30 am and the car near flew all the way from the Miramar office to Loutolim in our anxiety to make it on time. We arrived in a rush before the imposing Casa Dos Mirandas with three whole minutes to spare. An orderly showed us into an office with an old but handsome mood. Its burnt ochre walls were closely mounted with heavy framed works, the large windows had ornate gilt pelmet eyebrows, and a sunburst desk faced a more inviting side arrangement of easy chairs. Our photographer quickly chose the one on which the still soft sunlight was falling and warned us to steer clear, that's where he wanted Mario slackly but safely pinioned. He entered sideways through an inside door, a slim man in a pale yellow shirt and navy trousers slipping down his waist, held up by a comb in the back pocket. The hair, grey but all there, was brushed back in a full sweep. "Only one photograph," to the photographer and "Don't ask me the same questions," to the interviewer, after which he quietly delivered the coup de grace. "In any case, you're late so we don't have that much time." Astounded, we opened with the promise that all we wanted were his memories of working with the various publications in The Times Group, and thus reassured, he began to revisit those times with mounting enthusiasm, from the days when as a student of English Literature in St Xavier's College in Bombay he would tramp around the Fountain area trying to get newspaper offices to buy his cartoons, to his stint in the Times where his office was near the ladies loo, to the hours of rum-soaked fun with the circle of friends that he hung out with. Nostalgia is the best lubricant for it was here that the poet in him spoke. "We used to visit the Aunty's shops in Dhobitalao. The rubbish we drank. I don't know how we survived, smelly but powerful stuff. It was a crazy lot, but so talented. Behram (Contractor) had his finger typing. Dom (Moraes) used to sit before his typewriter, put down a glass of whisky and then type as if was playing the piano, just like that, no corrections. Everyone was drinking heavily. The way some of them could drink. There was something wrong with us but Bombay doesn't have people like that anymore." Flying objects of mass destruction The high court has ordered all ore and debris bearing vehicles to cover their haul in order to protect road users. However, the implementation has been more of a cover up than a cover, discovered one of our own. Rather painfully. On Saturday, racing along the four-lane DB road between Miramar and Panaji, was a debris-laden truck, tarpaulin wildly flying. As it recklessly overtook vehicles and jumped the median, chunks of concrete rained unkindly onto the road. A piece grazed our reporter's arm leading him to worriedly wonder how much more damage would have been caused had it landed on the eye instead. As oft happens with awareness, it also led to a better understanding of the fate of villagers in mining areas in Goa, for whom life and danger are synonymous. (Contributed by Bachi Karkaria, Gauree Malkarnekar, Andrew Pereira, Paul Fernandes, Joaquim Fernandes, Nina Martyris and Raju.)