Loved it Xavier. Savia On Tue, Jul 12, 2016 at 6:10 AM, Goanet Reader <[email protected]> wrote:
> Writing and Me > > Xavier Cota > [email protected] > > While I am mostly tagged as being a translator, and > that too of Konkani literature into English, I am > not too comfortable being slotted thus. > > I remember when I was in school, I felt challenged during > English composition classes. Once we were asked to write a > composition on 'What I Want To Be'. Frankly, I was clueless > about what I wanted to be. I looked around the class and saw > quite a few classmates sailing in my boat, who were also > looking around unhappily. But, then again, several students > were working like beavers, furiously putting pen to paper. > > My bench-mate was one such guy. Curious and perhaps looking > for inspiration, I peered into his book. This is what I > read—When I grow up I want to be a priest so that everybody > will call me Father Austin. I will be able to hear Confession > and give Holy Communion. That was a good ambition I thought, > but a bit over the top. Anyway, the idea was his, and though > the term and its creator probably weren't even born then, > copyleft didn't feel quite right. I muddled through the > period and handed in my uninspired submission. I wasn't > unhappy though that it fetched me a six upon ten against the > Father Austin stuff which garnered the writer a mere four. > > I've been a voracious reader since young. Probably, > having parents who loved to read and a couple of > well-stocked bookcases provided the initial > infrastructure. My dad's library had an eclectic > mix. Along with several Penguin paperbacks, some > hardbound classics, philosophy and history books > which were too heavy for me, many Portuguese books > and even a sprinkling of Swahili ones, there were > several dictionaries -- English, Portuguese, French > and Latin and an encyclopaedia. > > There was also, I remember, a well-thumbed *Imitation of > Christ* and a book called *Goa's Freedom Struggle* by a > Dr. Julião Menezes, which I got quite engrossed in. Once when > my mother's friend came to visit us, she picked up the book > which was lying on the sofa and asked if I was reading it. > When I nodded, she smiled. Puzzled, I asked if she had read > it. She smiled even more and said, "Julião is my brother." > Wow! My respect for her went up several notches. Imagine, my > mother's good friend being the sister of a writer! > > Basically though, I grew up on a staple of Enid Blyton and > comics. The latter was contraband. I still remember that the > school calendar of my alma mater St. Joseph's, Dar-es-Salaam, > mentioned that any student caught with comics would be fined > and have the offending material confiscated. > > The trauma of leaving East Africa was compensated > by the laissez-faire school which I was admitted > into -- no homework and a very lax regimen. My > mother could not believe that we had no homework. > She would grab my calendar and look for the > homework in each subject, only to find that I was > not lying -- there was no homework. > > As expected, it did nothing for my studies. My spoken > Konkani, though, took a quantum upward leap. You see, the > student body of Popular High School, Margao, was > predominantly Hindu, as were the teachers, and after the > obligatory introduction of the subject in English, the rest > -- explanation, interaction and pretty much everything—was in > the Konkani that is presently branded by its opponents as > Antruzi. > > This was far different from the little ganvti, Shashti (or > Saxtti) Konkani that I knew. I was completely at sea. > Mercifully, I was bailed out by some good Samaritans who > hurriedly translated some things for me. Within a year, few > would accept that I was an Afric'kar (Goan returnee from > Africa), and treated me like a Niz Goenkar (blue blooded > Goan). I could shuffle without much ado from Concani to > Konkni as spoken by Konknne. Overall, the two years I spent > in that school were fun years for me. > > Soon after my SSC exams in Goa, a friend's elder brother, who > was a renowned caçador (hunter), took me for a hunt with his > uncle. As we were going towards Sancordem in Sanguem taluka, > the uncle who was driving an Opel as ancient as himself, > began talking to me. > > I was quite fascinated to learn that he was a retired > merchant ship officer, who had served during World War II. > When I asked him if he had ever come under fire, he said, "Of > course, several times!" He told me that the worst was in > Libya. When I asked if it was Tobruk, the port city on > Libya's eastern Mediterranean coast, he said yes. We went on > for some time, with me flaunting my knowledge of the North > African theatre, Dunkirk and other places. > > The old man who was generally prone to complaining > most of the time, was enjoying himself, and beaming > as he relived the most exciting days of his life. > Suddenly he turned to me and said, "For a young > boy, you seem to have done a lot of reading on > World War II." When I nodded, he asked me for the > names of the books and the authors. When I honestly > said Fleetway Comics, I could see his face falling. > He seemed to retreat into himself and was cold to > me for the rest of the journey. > > In college too, the chapter on the Westward Expansion in > America in the Economic History class made more sense to me > because of Kit Carson, Buffalo Bill, 'Wild Bill' Hickok and > others that I'd read about in cowboy comics. For the life of > me, I still cannot fathom out why comics were taboo in my > school, and in most schools I guess. > > Two years ago, I attended a presentation on something called > graphic art at the Xavier Centre, Alto Porvorim, by the > famous artist Orijit Sen, brother of my friend, Aniruddha > Sengupta or Annie as I know him. Only then did I realize that > graphic art was a rarefied name for our humble comics, so > frowned upon by doctrinaire educationists. > > When I was in college, we had a subject called > Additional English in addition to Compulsory > English. Prof. Rao, the HoD, was a good teacher but > very stinted in his evaluation as I discovered. > Once when I'd handed in what I thought was a > masterpiece, he was like, "That's not bad," which > pretty much dampened my enthusiasm. That may have > been one of the subconscious reasons why I decided > not to major in English. But I did submit an > article or two for the college magazine and managed > to win the top prize in an all-Goa essay competition. > > After college, when I started teaching, English was one of > the subjects allotted to me. I discovered that while most of > the good, industrious students wrote mundane, insipid > compositions, a few of the so-called laggards, produced such > imaginative, effervescent stuff that often sent me into gales > of laughter. > > Mind you, this was a village school in Goa of the late > 'sixties and early 'seventies. Frankly, the standard was so > promising, that I was inspired to start a monthly school > magazine with the blessings of the headmaster. This journal, > though supervised by me, was edited and produced by students. > It was typed and cyclostyled by the obliging school clerk and > distributed at cost to the students. We even exchanged some > copies with city schools. Sadly, *The Dawn* did not survive > long after I left the school. > > My bank job in Vasco did not offer much scope for writing > skills except for the annual 'Bankers' Nite' souvenir, the > editing and proof-reading of which somehow landed with me. In > those days too, Vasco hosted an excellent tournament called > Johnny Memorial organized by the Patrong Sports Club. > > This tournament was unique in that top league-registered > players could officially participate under their village club > banner. It was well organized and drew large crowds. > > Unfortunately, the press coverage was measly and stale. > Deciding that it deserved better, I offered to cover the > tournament for a newly-launched Panjim tabloid called the > *Goa Monitor*. They agreed to pay the phone charges. > > After each match, I used to write out the report in longhand > and phone it in. Possibly in need of copy, the paper used to > publish the reports almost verbatim, the next morning. The > prompt and generous coverage created a sensation among > football fans especially in the port town. In those days the > Internet wasn't even a gleam in anyone's eye. The organizers, > too, were happy and gave me a small memento at the prize > distribution, as a token of their appreciation. > > Later, when another English-language daily called *The West > Coast Times* came up in Margao, I used the experience to > hurriedly write out reports after the matches in an all-Goa > table tennis tournament and other competitions organized by > our club, and deliver them on my Jawa mobike in time for the > next day's edition. Though all this yielded no income and > caused me inconvenience and delays in reaching home, it > certainly gave me satisfaction. > > So when I chanced upon an advertisement asking for trainee > journalists, I took a day's leave and went for the interview > in Panjim. The veteran journalist asked if I was working > anywhere. When I told him I worked for a bank he point blank > told me that I would be stupid to give that up for a > journalist's job. He sounded bitter as he said that > journalism was a lousy profession which paid very little. > > Though I wasn't quite convinced, I didn't actively try to get > in again. I satisfied my craving by shooting off letters to > the editor when any issue struck me strongly enough. Opposing > Vishal Gomantak and fighting for Konkani and Statehood were > favourites of course. But one that I recalled in the recent > wake of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster was a letter > I'd written opposing tooth and nail a proposed nuclear power > plant in Betul. > > My engineer cousin down from the US remarked that > he'd read my letter but did not agree at all. He > said, "Goa has no coal, gas or hydro > potential—don't even mention Dudhsagar which is > piddling! So instead of always being at the mercy > of other states, a nuclear plant here makes eminent > sense." > > We agreed to disagree as I felt that the cost of disposing of > the waste and the high risk of accidents was too high a price > to pay. Many other letter writers too opposed the plan. I > like to think that those letters did their bit towards the > idea being shelved. I hope the present online petition from > Greenpeace against Jaitapur and other nuclear power plants > that I've signed will also make a difference. > > I did oppose Kaiga too as it was at our doorstep, but > embroiled as I was in grihastha ashrama, the duties of home > and family that included juggling my job and shuttling the > kids to school and co- and extra-curricular activities, I > wasn't too vehement about it and equivocated—better there > than here and since the juggernaut of the armed forces was > involved, there was an inevitability about it. > > Cut to my friendship with Damodar Mauzo or Bhai as most call > him. Mauzo invited me for the release of *Ganthan*, his first > collection of Konkani short stories. I still remember > Manoharrai Sardessai, poet extraordinary and my French > teacher in college, launching the book with his mellifluous > verse and the characteristic twinkle in his eyes. > > Bhai kept persuading me to try my hand at translating some of > his stories. The major obstacle for me was the Devanagari > script in which he wrote. Having done most of my schooling > outside India, I hadn't studied the script since I was > exempted from Hindi. Besides, literary Konkani was certainly > a richer cup of tea compared to my colloquial Cristão Saxtti > dialect. > > Sure Bhai could hand-hold me for the language part initially, > but the script battle was my own to fight. I did try out my > hand desultorily at a couple of stories, but I myself wasn't > too convinced with the results. One day, he excitedly told me > that he had an offer from a producer of serials for > Doordarshan, the sole national TV channel then. They wanted > his permission to use his story, 'Angvonn'. It was an offer > he didn't want to refuse as it would catapult both him and > the Konkani language onto the national stage. 'Manauvti', as > it was christened in the Ek Kahani series, made history as > the first ever Konkani story dramatized and telecast > nationally and enough of an impact to warrant several repeat > telecasts over several years. > > Of course, the screen version, as generally happens, took a > lot of liberties with the original text. The editor of > *O Heraldo* asked for the text of the English translation and > permission to print it. Bhai readily gave it, and sent 'The > Vow', my English translation of 'Angvonn', but was > flabbergasted at the outrageous caption that the > irrepressible editor Rajan Narayan had stuck on it, > 'angvonn—the Play that Doordarshan Butchered'. The gratuitous > swipe must have not reached the ears of the producers, > because some time later they picked 'Chastity Belt', my > translation of Mauzo's 'Khilli', from *Indian Love Stories* > edited by Sudhir Kakar, in their sequel series Ek Aur Kahani. > > Over the years, I've translated many stories from Konkani -- > mainly from Mauzo but also from others like Teja Kamat, > Olivinho Gomes and Mahabaleshwar Sail. 'Humanity Drowned' > translated from Sail's 'Monisbuddi' won me the Katha Award > for translation. My translations of Konkani stories have > appeared in several national and travel magazines as also in > anthologies and collections. A couple of compilations that > come to mind were Penguin's *Ferry Crossing* edited by > Manohar Shetty and Roli Books' *Indian Love Stories* by > Sudhir Kakar, mentioned earlier. They have also appeared in > Katha Prize Stories and *Indian Literature* published by the > Sahitya Akademy. > > With the publication by Katha, New Delhi, of *These Are My > Children and Other Stories*, the first solo collection of > short stories in English translation, Mauzo (and I) have > scored another first for Konkani. The novella *Tsunami Simon* > was also well received. > > In the can, there already are enough translated stories to > warrant at least two more collections. Konkani certainly > marches from strength to strength via English. > > As for me, Bhai and Fatima (my better half) have been urging > me to tell my own story which, spanning two continents and a > couple of generations, should be interesting -- certainly to > me in the telling and hopefully to the reader, too. I am > ready to break out of the groove of translator! > > ------ > Translator, writer, lover of literature.His email: [email protected] > This is an excerpt from the Sheela Jaywant-edited book *From Mind to > Keyboard*. > -- *Savia Viegas* http://www.saviaviegas.in/ 374, Quinta De Sao Joaquim, Xetmalem, Carmona, Salcete Goa 403717 Res-School 0832 2744511
