Greeting, 'after long time'; my dear Germana sat at your Grandfather Armando's table. Your 'geographic focus' brings to mind my favorite writer/guru, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin (d. 1955). Dr. Edelweiss De Sa's father had his vision well in focus; if you see Dr. Edelweiss you might make mention of this; she may have one of those beautifully hand-crafted volumes on her shelf still.
Very interested to read of your grown sons progress; I recall seeing them as toddlers, from vantage point of sitting on that exquisitely designed reclining chair. Of course I am 'an Islander' as well---little Prince Edward Island (Canada) 'home' of Anne of Green Gables. On Fri, Nov 10, 2017 at 2:07 PM, V M <[email protected]> wrote: > My desire was not to pass any island without taking possession, so > that, one having been taken, the same may be said of all. > > —Christopher Columbus > > Before anything else, my family is defined by islands. As far back > through the many centuries that we know our roots, they have been sunk > deep in the blessed soil of Divar island, once known as “Kashi of the > Konkan”, which undulates verdant in the Mandovi river next to Old Goa. > Endless generations were born to flourish there, until my grandfather, > the late poet, translator and academic Armando Menezes, uprooted to > study and teach in Bombay (which was itself founded on seven islands). > I was born in view of the Arabian Sea at Malabar Hill, but my two > elder sons emerged into the world in Manhattan. In 2007, bringing it > all back home, their younger brother was born in Panaji, on the > ancient island of Tiswadi, very close to where our story originally > began. > > Napoleon famously said, “Geography is destiny.” He was referring to > geopolitical strategy, but the maxim holds just as much for identity > and belonging. In a snippet of autobiography that is included in The > Cradle Of My Dreams: Selected Writings Of Armando Menezes, 1902-1983, > my grandfather wrote about the riparian landscape of India’s smallest > state being “a law of life for the Goan”, then elaborated: “To have > been born on an island is an ambivalent fate: the river that confines > you also makes you dream beyond itself, draws you gently outward, > towards some far incalculable sea. Every ferry is a challenge; every > bend of the river an invitation…. These things are, often, not > consciously held; they are in our blood, in our very chromosomes. The > umbilical cord is never quite cut; the kite in the air is still held > by the string below.” > > For my own life, those words have been imbued with prophetic > inevitability as the allure of islands has persisted, immensely > powerful. I am drawn to them irresistibly. While decades of incessant > to-ing and fro-ing have otherwise rather comprehensively squashed the > travel bug in me, an exception is always made for atolls, cays, > archipelagos. I find immense comfort in crossing the water to leave > the rest of the world behind. There’s really nothing quite like > disembarking on a self-contained shore, and pulling up the > metaphorical ladder. No man is an island, according to John Donne, so > there is considerable irony in the fact that we seek out islands > precisely to feel like original Man, at least symbolically marooned > and left with limited options. > > So many crucial moments in my life have occurred within the ambit of > islands. A year after we met, the most serious girlfriend I ever had > spent a month with me in a little apartment in sight of the shimmering > translucent sea in Tobago. We spent liquid days cosying up in the > Caribbean sun. She learnt to snorkel by my side, and I began to cook > proper meals for the first time under her guidance. > > Together, slowly, thousands of miles away from family and friends, we > shed our masks and inhibitions, and all kinds of emotional baggage, > and then began to communicate directly with each other. That is when > we learnt who we could allow ourselves to be in each other’s company, > and the architecture of a potential joint future began to take shape. > > Twenty-five years later, the story of our partnership still bristles > with talismanic island journeys, even as our travelling party has > expanded to embrace three sons. When the oldest was tiny, we took a > long trip to Caye Caulker off the coast of Belize, very close to the > world’s second-longest barrier reef. Instead of booking a hotel, we > settled into a tiny fisherman’s house, bright pink like the interior > of a conch shell, and cocooned tropical style. We ate mangoes plucked > over the garden fence, along with incredibly fresh fish we caught > ourselves on hand lines. Every day, I rode a bicycle down sandy roads, > luxuriating amidst bougainvillea, under a canopy of soaring palms. > With days stripped bare of extraneous frippery, and our minds focused > serenely without meaningless distractions, there came a life-changing > bolt of island logic. Why are we doing this here in Central America, > at great expense, instead of claiming my original birthright back on > the Mandovi? Just like that, a ferry was set in motion in the > direction of home. > > Even after we headed to India to rekindle family bonds to our glorious > green ancestral islands (it had been almost a century since my > grandfather had migrated), there lingered considerable uncertainty > about whether the “homelanding” would work. A considerable proportion > of that anxiety and ambivalence dissipated during an intense, > epiphanic stay on colossal Majuli in the Brahmaputra river in > Assam—the world’s largest river island. Here, every moment played out > a potent distillation of déjà vu as I was transported straight back to > the most cherished days of childhood, with the nicest people you can > ever meet (islanders really are the best), and endlessly languid days > immersed in nature. I again realized what I wanted most for my > children—the comfort of growing up immersed in a community; a profound > environmental consciousness; and most of all, a recognizable childhood > with time and space to grow into their individual selves. > > That kind of experience of discovery is exactly what islands are made > for. They function as crucibles. With no place to hide, you have to > turn and reckon with your circumstances, your thoughts and desires, as > well as whoever you are with. When my wife’s youngest sister, the baby > of her family, decided to marry her Oxford University college mate > from Venezuela, and visit his country for the first time, her father > solemnly entrusted me with the job of checking him out on home turf. > And so we disembarked on the creole, easy-going Isla de Margarita to > meet his parents and grandmother, where we ate, drank and caroused > constantly from morning till past midnight. As formalities and > pretence fell away, true character was revealed. After repeatedly > observing the young man dance merengue with his deeply flushed > intended, it was clear another ferry had already been set in motion. > My island telegram to the paterfamilias: Relax, he’s just like us, > they belong together. > > However far you delve into my family’s collective psyche, the idea of > the island as launch pad will surface repeatedly. It is perhaps our > most cherished concept. Armando Menezes wrote perceptively about this > aspect in an essay titled Rivers: “If you happen to have been born > within sight of a river—and how many of us have been!—or born and bred > on an island, as I was, the river runs in your veins as if it were > your very heart’s blood. Then it is not something you see and go on to > drink in its beauty. It is something you have to cross, an element > which protects as well as inhibits, a limitation but also a > challenge…. It is a mistake to think that being born and bred on an > island makes you insular. The very opposite is the truth. If it is > true the river hems you in, it is equally true that it opens up > horizons for your mind. Like all true things, it is a window beyond > itself.” > > Thus, like the feathered nest itself, and starting right from beloved > Divar, our water-ringed homes always nurtured and nourished, but also > sparked notions of escape, flaring most dramatically because there is > always promise of the infinite unknown just beyond the allegorical > “bend in the river”. From the perspective of an island shore, there is > no limit to your aspirations. My grandfather wrote, “A mere rowboat, > swaying gently in the lapping wash, appears to be a vehicle of > infinite adventure; a tattered sail vanishing around a river bend > becomes a carrier of your wildest dreams.” > > Recently, my wife and I faced an inescapable but not wholly unwelcome > transition. After two decades of fiercely circling arms to shield, > support and raise our boys, the time came to lower drawbridge and > allow the oldest passage out to boarding school, and thereafter to > college, with his brothers to follow in turn. This is not one but > three ferries chugging away from safe haven, and our only choice is to > adapt gracefully. In order to trigger that process, we retreated, > probably instinctively, to yet another island, magical Minicoy, at the > very far-flung southern end of Lakshadweep’s Union territory, where > there’s effectively no internet or cellphone connectivity, and we > spent all day and night as a family on the shore of its magnificent > lagoon. This turned out to be what we needed most of all, an emotional > and meaningfully cathartic time ensemble, as all those complicated > feelings of loss metamorphosed to butterfly wings, then jubilation. > > > The best part about making an island home is coming back from wherever > you have ventured. For reasons of practicality, my wife and I chose > Panaji, at the tip of the triangular island of Tiswadi, which is > linked to the mainland by bridges across the Mandovi and Zuari rivers. > Every time we cross either of these, my soul somersaults with pure > gladness and joy. If it is from the south, there is Vasco da Gama’s > grand harbour sweeping to the left, where traders have sailed from > around the world to do business for at least 2,000 years. From the > opposite direction, there is the heart-warming sight of lovely, > Latinate Panaji curving low-rise under the Altinho hill towards our > apartment just off the sands of Miramar beach. > > But either way, once the river is behind us, there is an > all-encompassing comfort zone, where everything is comprehensible and > everyone is a friend. That is the island blanket, an overarching sense > of security and unbreakable connection, as aptly described by the > lyrics of Harry Belafonte’s classic calypso—which I have sung on > literally every ferry ride taken to Divar with my sons—“This is my > island in the sun/Where my people have toiled since time begun/ I may > sail on many a sea/ Her shores will always be home to me/ Oh, island > in the sun/ Willed to me by my father’s hand/ All my days I will sing > in praise/ Of your forests, waters, your shining sand.” >
