To London...To London...
This extract is from the blog of Sonia
Gomes, ZorotMorotGoesMyVillage
She writes: "Over the years my
friends and acquaintances have
been very supportive, they have
read my posts, shared these,
criticized sometimes
vehemently. It has helped me
immensely.... This time I have
a new blog with thoughts about
my village, after all I have
lived here most of my life."
Sonia Gomes
rgso...@gmail.com
The Priest, fresh off the boat from the United States of
America, climbs an elevated perch to give us the full benefit
of his homily. In a voice that drips scorn he says, 'If you
think that when you go to London you will get a job, you are
mistaken.' And then he pauses, so that his contempt can
slowly permeate into our body, trickle down our blood and
invade every cell. He then adds his awful punch line, 'unless
of course you want to clean toilets,' quoting Mr. Rane's
awfully vulgar line.
We glance down at our clothes. Suddenly everything seems so
tawdry, the new blue striped T-shirt that looked so good and
smelt divine feels cheap, that marvelous pair of red high
heeled shoes seem well sleazy and flashy and those lovely
moccasins carried all the way from London are not the
cynosure of every eye anymore.
In one stroke, just one sentence full of venom the Priest has
managed to kill everyone's joy in their work, their life in
London, their meetings with friends on a Sunday, he destroyed
the anticipation of those parcels sent through relatives and
friends filled with nostalgia from home.
The damage was truly done. A couple of days later, Reynold,
down from London, to my query 'What’s life like in London?'
looks at me and says in a bewildered and forceful tone.
'Those toilets are different, people wear a mask, don a pair
of gloves. Toilets are never handled manually.'
I am saddened, terribly saddened. Why does a person have to
explain to anyone that his job is a respectful one and that
what he does is perfectly clean, that his money is not
tainted because, his is a menial task. In another recent post
from a Blog, Father Rocha writes and I quote:
Dos livros que então lia recordo-me de um que teria
por título Cazuza. Embora não fosse esse o título,
chamava-se assim de certeza , a personagem central
da história. O livro era de um autor brasileiro.
Quem ? – pergunto agora eu. De capa dura, e
ilustrado com grande beleza, a simples traço de
tinta-da-china, o livro narrava a história de um
menino pobre mas que muito esperto e inteligente
dando disso provas na sua escola primária. O livro
metia também como companheira do Cazuza uma
rapariguinha sensualmente desenhada que muito
apelava à imaginação de um miúdo como eu que
despontava para a adolescência. Como entrara este
livro naquele internato, severo e castrador, onde a
única leitura permitida eram as publicações
missionárias editadas pelo Seminário de Cocujães de
Portugal ? Quem o teria trazido ? Chego à
conclusão, pondo de parte outras hipóteses, de que
o livro brasileiro entrara lá na bagagem de um
colega meu, oriundo duma remota freguesia de
Salsete cuja população era emigrante. Como a muitos
embarcadiços a perspectiva dum filho padre em casa
importava já elevação a nível do estado social
desta casa, é provável que um destes embarcadiços
tivesse encontrado aquele livro no camarote de um
paquete onde viajava uma família brasileira. O
empregado goês que faria lá limpeza como criado,
teria trazido aquele livro para o seu filho
julgando que lhe seria útil.
Briefly, Father Rocha narrates an incident from his days at
the Seminary somewhere in the 40's, he talks about a book
that tells the story of a young boy, around ten years of age,
financially strained but intelligent and diligent. This young
boy had as a companion a 'sensual' girl his own age. Father
Rocha tries his best to remember the author, who incidentally
is Machado de Assis and the book his Classic, Dom Casmurro.
The protagonist Bento/Bentinho falls in love with Capitu. The
book deals with the question still debated in Brazilian
universities: Did Capitu betray her Bentinho? Or was
everything in Bento/Bentinho's mind?
But I am not here to discuss Capitu's dilemma, I leave that
to the Brazilians. What confounds me is Father Rocha's
attitude. Having read the book, Father Rocha, was terribly
perplexed, how could such a book, a book that dealt with the
theme of adultery have crept into a Seminary? How did such a
book make its presence felt in the 'severe and castrating
influence' of the Seminary where the only literature
permitted were the Missionary Publications edited by the
Seminário de Cocujães from Portugal? Who had brought it? How
did it get into the Seminary? These thoughts irritated Father
Rocha clinging insidiously like a nagging burr.
And then, an idea dawns, and I quote: 'I arrive at the
conclusion, after discarding all other hypotheses, that the
Brazilian novel entered the Seminary in the luggage of a
fellow seminarian, who hailed from a remote village of
Salsete, the population of the said village consisted mainly
of seafarers.'
Now we come to the malicious part, those barbs directed by
priests from their high pulpits 'To many of the seafarers the
prospect of having a son as a priest elevated their social
status, it elevated the entire family.' Father Rocha has now
distanced himself from the seafarers family, put a gulf
between him and the 'boy from the remote village of Salsete,
whose father was a seafarer' because no one in his family has
been elevated by Father Rocha joining the priesthood.
Now he continues with malice and spite, 'It is probable that
one of the seafarers had found the book, Dom Casmurro (my
words) in the cabin of a passenger liner, the cabin of a
Brazilian family. The Goan seafarer must have picked it up,
when he as a servant cleaned the room of the Brazilian
family. He picked it up thinking it might be of use to his
son.'
Having read the book, I can say it is an exciting read the
question of adultery always perks us up. But the pertinent
question here is, Why did Father Rocha assume that the
seafarer could not read Dom Casmurro himself? The seafarer
could have and must have read books; Portuguese after all was
the language even of remote villages in Salcete. But Father
Rocha has already in his malicious manner pointed it out to
us clearly; the seafarer was a servant and therefore
illiterate.
Why is it that people in high places, be it priests and
politicians, pour their venom, their scorn on people who
leave their villages, their families and all that is precious
to them in search of a better living? Why aren't we excited
and happy that people everywhere are doing better. Why aren't
we joyous at the prospect that there is a scope to learn
something new, something different? What stops us from
realizing that everybody benefits, most of all children, that
kids experience new ways and cultures and are thus enriched
forever?
I wait at a bank and a pretty, young woman sits next to be
me, a trendy black and a white dress, a pair of red shoes,
hair up in a top knot with streaks in it, a bag which smacks
of London. We smile. I think maybe she is the granddaughter
of the seafarer from a remote village of Salsete, who decided
that bringing books for his son was worth the while instead
of the ubiquitous ball of yellow Edam cheese wrapped in red
wax paper.
https://zorotmorotgoesmyvillage.blogspot.com/2018/12/to-londonto-london.html
Goanet Reader is compiled and edited by Frederick Noronha (FN).
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