Nazario Crispino (Naz) Da Silva
(January 28, 1929, Kampala, Uganda ~ March 13, 2022, Moira, Goa, India)
It is with deep sadness that we announce the passing of Nazario Crispino Da
Silva. Husband of the late Clare (née Sequeira).
Brother of Libano/Eufrasia(Zia), Sr.Cecilia RMI(Elmira), Ernest/the late
Laura, and Roy.
Father of Jude, Michael & Cheryl, Louella & Eric, Kevin & Nirmala,
grand-father of Alysha & Sonali, Nolan & Sonia, Nathan & Rachel.
Passed away peacefully on March 13th at his home in Moira Goa.
Funeral service at Our Lady of Immaculate Conception Church, Moira, Goa,
India on Monday, March 14, 2022 at 1030 am (IST).
Please keep the family in your prayers. Condolences via Louella
(WhatsApp: +1 (647) 546-4351)
Goanet pays tribute to its contributor, a man who deeply cared for Goa!
* * *
Bridges and barriers: a village eye view
Nazar da Silva
nazardasilva at gmail.com
In the tidal waters that embrace the beautiful village of
Moira, a number of little islands dot the stunning panorama.
Like the banks of the rivers, the little isles too have been
manually shored up with hunks of laterite rock. Truly, that
was a marvellous feat of engineering undertaken by our
ancestors not very long after the wheel was invented!
In this idyllic serenity, marine life, even now,
continues to abound peacefully. The plop of a
playful prawn vaulting joyously on the surface of
the water, the plaintive cry of a bird in the
mangroves, the ever-present screech of crickets in
the background and the sound of distant traffic,
all are singing: "It is well with my soul".
Perhaps, with a little bit of imagination, you can
hear the deep velvet voice of Whitney Phipps as it
rises to a heart-rending crescendo when he sings in
Carnegie Hall: "It is well. It is well, - - - with
my soul".
Flipping through the many photographs taken of Theen Manos,
(the popular triple sluice-gate), one can see an island in
the background. At one time, our family cultivated rice in
those paddy-fields of happy memories.
The process, after the harvest, was to par-boil the paddy in
great copper vessels, sun-dry and store the un-husked paddy
in a very large 'khondoh' (a bottomless basket) made of woven
bamboo matting. Both ends of this huge container -- that was
erected in our 'dark' room -- were sealed with dry straw.
Usually that 'khondoh' was used to store a year's supply of
un-husked rice: rice was a staple for breakfast, lunch and
dinner. Small portions of the grain were periodically husked
in a shallow punning hole carved out of a solid rock that was
buried in the kitchen floor.
The husking tools ('musar') were simple shafts of smooth,
highly polished wood, about 4 ft. long and 2 inch diameter,
each tipped with a sharp metal ring at one end. The 'musar'
was effectively used with a pounding action. Usually two
women with 'a ear for music' were employed to do the husking
together. Like a two-stroke engine, each of the women
equipped with her own 'musar', had to strike alternately at
the same target in split-second succession and with a sure
aim. It was fascinating to watch them work: once they got
into their rhythm, they sang like canaries, and work
progressed in perfect unison and harmony with an occasional
verbal prod from 'avo' (our Grandma)!
I would not be digressing if at this point I injected my own
story as the accredited captain of a ship: Well-l-l-l: My
'ship' was nothing to write home about. It had neither keel
nor outrigger. It was a simple canoe made from the hollowed
out trunk of a tree. The wood was treated with the resin
exuded from roasting raw cashew-nuts.
The boat was hired out by the day for little or nothing. We
used it to ferry the field workers to the island fields and
back. I won my laurels to man the boat almost a century ago
when I was still just pushing my teens.
The trick was to keep everyone calmly seated on the
deck -- without deck chairs! If anyone moved, it
shifted the centre of gravity and the result could
be hilarious. I witnessed such a scene and still
get a laugh out of it. Passengers and crew, all
dripping wet, not with sweat, but with salt water.
It was a scene that Mario Miranda (God bless his
soul) would have revelled in, had he been there.
My stint 'on the boat' was short-lived but memorable: in my
youth, an old salt taught me how to manoeuvre a dug-out
canoe. His instructions for keeping course were simple: use
the paddle on both sides of the boat. According to him, if
you use the paddle only on one side, you'd be going round in
circles. So everyone I knew paddled three strokes on one side
and then switched sides to paddle three strokes on the other
side to maintain course.
Like a true Moidecar, I discovered there was a better way of
paddling. Seated on the stern, I used the oar, both as paddle
and rudder. Simple! Three or four strokes to move forward,
then one 'stroke' on the same side, but as a rudder, to
maintain course.
Guess what? At the time, I did not think too much of my
'discovery' and failed to share the knowledge until one day
when I was ferrying an old man across. As we approached the
banks at a good lick, he got quite agitated. He threw his
hands up: "What are you doing?" he loudly exclaimed in
exasperation. I guess he was expecting the canoe to crash
into the bank. But to his utter surprise the canoe veered
gently to accomplish a perfect docking in port. No 'Seven
Short One Long; alarm! No panic buttons to abandon ship. At
the crucial moment, I had used the oar as a rudder. He
couldn't believe it. That was my Dad!
I guess I am older now; and I am seen as 'old-fashioned'; but
the truth is apparent in what we do and how we do it. We move
with the times, but we don't let the times rule us! The motto
seems to be quite innocent: 'Build bridges, not barriers'.
But the intent is ominous. Conversion, (for the fanatics),
means nothing less, or nothing more, than conversion of
land-use. The 'manos' (sluice gates) are our bridges. The
'baans' (bunds) are our barriers.
The cultivation of paddy was once our livelihood.
Systematically, our way of life has been undermined
and destroyed to make way for a frantic frenzy of
extreme construction: Two international airports
within hollering distance of each other and
consequent crazy infrastructure! Superfast Highways
(presumably with sound barriers on either side),
over-passes, underpasses, a second track for the
railways, golf courses, casinos, top-heavy
hospitality industry. All for the tiny State of
Goa!
This is legalised rape. Nothing less. And it is called
development? Not a thought in the world for the common
citizen. We are displaced, discredited, demeaned, and
marginalised. Our livelihood, our way of life destroyed,
ecological constraints totally ignored and our ethical
values, severely under threat. What on earth has happened to
Freedom? Is 'licentiousness' the only description of Freedom
in this age of horrific violence? Has that become 'a way of
life' for simple souls?
Too tiring: too depressing: to describe the havoc wreaked on
this hapless land. I am tired; I am weak; and I am worn. But
I have hope. I always have hope. I count on the new
generation. Surely they will pick up the gauntlet. They never
will give up the struggle. They will help us 'overcome'. They
will restore sanity. They will restore tranquillity.
God bless us all.
--
Moira-based Nazar 'Naz' da Silva is a senior citizen who has
spoken his mind on many issues of much relevance to Goa.
Goanet Reader is compiled and edited by Frederick Noronha,
who invites insightful, descriptive and well-argued articles
related to Goa, its people (including its diaspora) which can
be sent in for consideration via fredericknoronha2 at gmail.com.
Goanet, founded by Herman Carneiro in 1994, completes
25 years later this year, in 2019.
http://lists.goanet.org/pipermail/goanet-news-goanet.org/2019-February/018926.html
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