Please note that the beginning and end of this short story is fictional.
The middle isn't!
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Fr. Basilio Monteiro paced restlessly at the bus-stop near Hotel Mandovi,
cursing that he had not hired a car for the duration of his short holiday
in Goa. Although he loved coming home he missed the fast paced life at his
parish in New York. Not forgetting this stifling humidity, made worse by
the high noon heat. Fr. Basilio wished he could abandon his cleric's collar
for a few days, but many years back he had made a conscious decision that,
to balance his rather un-Biblical views on Science and Religion, he would
compromise by always making it very clear where his allegiance was. The
collar served that purpose.
"Basil! Basilo! Baz! Bazullea!". Fr. Basilio looked back to see Cecil Pinto
approaching on his rickety motorcyle. "Oh No!", he thought, "This is all I
need". Cecil braked to a shuddering stop exactly one inch from Fr.
Basilio's toes. Grinning aggressively Cecil never seemed to understand when
he was not wanted. Even on GoaNet when a chorus of protest was raised
against his brazenness he took it as approval rather than dislike. There
was no defeating his indomitable spirit - unfortunately. "So Bazzy? Collar
choking you dude? Ha!", said Cecil laughing to himself at his great wit.
His faded white T-Shirt had a vulgar upraised finger gesture printed in
red. His denim jeans had obviously seen a lot of abrasive surfaces. The
stubble on his chin was at least three days old. Bloodshot eyes, unkempt
hair, rain chappals - all providing a stark contrast to Fr. Basilio formal
demeanor and attire. "What maaan? I have to call you Father or what? I
can't call you Basilio? Huh? Why should I call you Father?". Fr. Basilio
groaned. Cecil's juvenile wit was matched only by his gloating
belligerence. Fr. Basilio wanted to tell him that he didn't mind not being
addressed as 'Father' but did mind all the tacky versions of 'Basilio' that
Cecil managed to come up with. "Basilio will do just fine", is all that he
muttered. Saying anything else would probably start Cecil off on one of his
nitpicking pedantic monologues about English proper nouns and etymology -
half of which Fr. Basilio was pretty sure were totally without basis in fact.
Suddenly, mid-grin, Cecil's face became very sober and pious. "Father, I
have a matter of great importance to relate to you". Fr. Basilio wondered
if he had heard right. Cecil had just referred to him as 'Father'? Ever
since he had first encountered Cecil at the Goenchem Prize ceremony a few
days back he had never heard his address him as 'Father'. All Cecil seemed
to be interested in doing, whenever they met, was trapping him into some
stupid debate on religion - or revelling in telling him risque jokes
involving either nuns or altar boys. "Something like a confession, Cecil?",
asked Basil. "Something like that. Will you please spare me some time?".
Fr. Basilio hesitated, torn between curiosity and duty on one hand and a
natural distrust of Cecil's motives in the other. Finally his priestly
nature won. "Ok, Cecil. Where can we sit down comfortably? Azad Maidan
maybe?". Fr. Basilio was not the orthodox type and held that a park bench
was as good as a confessional in an emergency. "This is not Central Park,
Father. There are no park benches in Azad Maidan. Lets got to Xetio's".
Cecil kicked started his bike and indicated to Fr. Basilio to sit pillion.
Fr. Basilio clambered on rather clumsily. He was not a bike-type person.
"Thank God you're not wearing a cassock. Or else you would have to sit like
an Aunty!", said Cecil chuckling at some imagery only he could see. Fr.
Basilio said nothing as Cecil shifted into gear and the bike spluttered to
a shaky start. As they went towards Xetio's, wherever that was, Fr. Basilio
pondered on what he was doing. If Cecil indeed wanted to confess that might
mean a sign of reconciliation with the Lord. What a catch that would be for
the Goan Catholic Church. A vociferous agonistic like Cecil coming back to
the Church would be nothing short of a miracle. Rome would be pleased.
"They might make Bishop", thought Fr. Basilio as his mind raced through the
possibilities. "Fr. Basilio Monteiro, Cardinal of New York", now that had a
nice ring to it. His wandering mind was interrupted. "This is the famous
Cafe Prakash that Fred always refers to", said Cecil pointing to a decrepit
looking vegetarian restaurant they were passing. Fr. Basilio at that moment
was more concerned about his life, rather than Fred or Cafe Prakash,
considering that Cecil was at that moment looking left, handling the bike
with one hand while he pointed with another and seeming unconcerned about
the Tourist Maruti van that was approaching in front. Fortunately the van
driver was more vigilant and swerved and braked, narrowly missing a
collision. The taxi driver hurled a series of strong sounding Konkani
abuses on Cecil who just ignored them as he looked right past the driver at
the two blonde middle aged women sitting in the back seat of the van.
"Guten morgen mein frauleins. Haven nice timen in Goa. Say nein to drugs.
Usen suntan lotionen. Eaten and drinken wellen and don't givenen this pig
driver any tips. He getten commissionen from the Kashmiri handicraften and
carpeten dealers!". The women started giggling and before the startled and
red-faced taxi driver could react Cecil's bike had shot off with Basilio
hanging on for dear life and wondering what that was all about.
"CASA XETIO Wholesale and Retail Liquor". Fr. Basilio entered the dark bar
and was already having second thoughts. In New York he had sometimes heard
confessions in restaurants but this was a bit too unconventional for his
liking. Anyway there was no turning back now. Huddled on a uncomfortably
small table in the dark smelly bar Fr. Basilio heard, more than saw, Cecil
ordering, "One quarter Johnny Walker and cold soda". "Uhh Cecil, I don't
drink.". "Don't make a fuss Father. You have to be celibate not sober. Ok!
Ok! One Limca.". By the time Cecil lit his first cigarette the waiter had
returned with a small quarter bottle of Caju Feni, a soda, two glasses and
a Limca. "I thought you ordered a Johnny Walker?", said Fr. Basilio. "Oh!
We just say that to impress the newcomers sitting in that section. The
waiter knows what I always drink. In one swift action Cecil poured exactly
half the quarter bottle in his glass and topped it off with soda. "Ok
Father. Let's see. Where do I begin?"
"Wherever you like Cecil"
----------------
"See there's this guy named Eric Pinto, no relative of mine. He's based in
New York. I think he's a doctor, probably in his mid-fifties. I knew
precious little about him. I still don't. One day on GoaNet he jokingly
offered to send me a bottle of Vodka. I wrote to him privately that I
prefer Tequila. He wrote back that would be sending a bottle by next week.
What's he going to do? Parcel it and send it by Air Mail? Ha! I told him to
go ahead and sent him my address. Lets call his bluff, I thought. Ten days
later the postman delivers me a cheque for Rs. 5,000/- from Eric Pinto. I
e-mailed Eric and asked him what that was about? 'Do you need flowers
delivered somewhere in Goa?'. Eric says that his brother was supposed to
come to Goa but changed his travel plans and so he could not send the
Tequila. So he sent me some cash instead! Not one to count the teeth of a
gift horse I took the family on a extended shopping and dining spree. We
spent the cash in three days flat. And thanked Eric for the treat and
thanked God for making such generous people."
"Two weeks later there's some argument between Mervyn and Mario on GoaNet.
Mervyn offers to pay for Mario's vacation to Cuba. I chided my e-friend
Mervyn that he should instead offer to pay my for a vacation for my family
in Kashmir. That was just in jest. Eric Pinto butts in and says he will
pay. I could not believe that I could be twice lucky with the same guy and
wrote to Eric asking if he was serious about the offer. He said he was and
asked me to get him a figure. "Think high class", he indicated. I went to
my tour operator friend, Sucheta Potnis, and asked her to chalk out an
itinerary for us. Since we were passing through Delhi to get to Kashmir I
included a stay and tours there and at Agra too. And of course a deluxe
houseboat on the Dal Lake in Srinagar. Top class hotels in Delhi and Agra.
First class AC train Goa-Delhi-Goa. Plane from Delhi to Srinagar and back.
Tours in AC cars. The works! For four 'pax', as they say in the travel
trade. Fabian, Desmond, Beatrice and myself. We have not been out of Goa on
a family vacation before and probably never will again. "Let's dare to
dream", I told Beatrice. The figure that Sucheta put together, despite
using her clout to get us massive discounts everywhere, was a staggering
Rs. 1,20,000/-. That's more money than I net in a year! I sent off the
estimate to Eric Pinto with a rider that we could re-plan the tour with
cheaper hotels and stuff so it could fit within his budget - whatever that
was. We thought to ourselves, well it as good to have lived in style for a
while, even though it was only in our minds. Eric Pinto would probably tell
us he wasn't willing to spend more than Rs. 30,000/-, and that too because
he had given his word. We would take the Rs. 30,000/- and go to Mumbai for
a few days and have a nice enough time. Everyone would be happy. Two days
later Sucheta phones to tell me that some Eric Pinto has transferred
$2850/- into her tour agency account. Whaaaaaaaaa?!!"
"We leave on the 27th of July and return on the 8th of August. We are going
to have one fantastic luxury family vacation and are going to be the envy
of our lower-middle class associates when we return. We're going to see the
Taj Mahal and the Red Fort. Be served by liveried butlers on a Houseboat on
Dal Lake. First Class service on the Rajdhani Express. Snow capped peaks.
Polite receptionists. Bathtubs. Thick hotel towels. Room service. All meals
paid. Boneless butter chicken. Chauffeurs. Doormen. Guided custom
tours. Nobody knows us out there. They're going to think we're rich
people. Ha! "
"I asked the enigmatic Eric why he did this. He wrote back, "I like your
writing. You make me laugh sometimes". Mmmmmm. And they told me I was
wasting my time writing in cyber space. It don't pay nothing they told me.
Bah! Yesterday I asked a Goan novelist friend of mine how much money he
actually made from his one and only much hyped novel. "Some forty thousand
rupees", he said with great pride. "You remember telling me that the weird
humour stuff I write in Goan cyberspace would not get me anywhere?".
"Yes", he replied. Well I just got about three times the amount you made
from your novel from just one guy who liked what I write. My novelist
friend is still in shock and his blood pressure has reached dangerous levels."
--------------
Seeing that his second half-quarter of Caju Feni and soda was over, and the
tavern was about to close for the afternoon break, Cecil turned abruptly to
Fr. Basilio and said. "That's it Bazzy Baby. That's it!" In the process of
telling his story Cecil's attitude had changed from pious to proud. Whether
it was the Feni or the narrative was debatable.
Fr. Basilio, who by now had given up hope of any Cardinalship or even a
Bishopship, was totally tuned off. But as usual his priestly training and
natural diplomacy kicked in. "See Cecil, there are two things I don't quite
understand. There's nothing wrong with accepting a gift. It's not a sin.
You don't have to confess."
"Who said I'm confessing? I'm boasting!"
"Oh I see. Secondly Cecil. I'm a Roman Catholic Priest. You are a self
confessed Non-Practicing Cafeteria Catholic. Why are you telling me all this?
"You? I'm telling anyone who will listen. That's my way of thanking Eric
Pinto. Cheers!"
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