https://epaper.timesgroup.com/Olive/ODN/TimesOfIndia/shared/ShowArticle.aspx?doc=TOIGO%2F2018%2F11%2F12&entity=Ar00413&sk=12CE7FB8&mode=text
When the toweringly great Goan modernist painter Francis Newton Souza died in 2002, the eminent writer and critic John Berger summed up the man he had known many decades earlier in London, “After 40 years, I still have a vivid memory of Souza’s presence, as embodied in both his paintings and his person. If I had to sum up that presence, I would say it was that of a martyr. The confrontation within him between pain and voluptuousness, fury and calm, are comparable, I believe, to those often discovered in martyrdom.” It was a piercingly accurate appraisal, that rings true even many years later. Souza was an improbable martyr, but Bismarque Dias is the most unlikely saint. Yet, there is no denying the purity of the aura and atmosphere wreathing this irrepressible priest-turned-activist in the months before his end. Here was an evidently flawed man with innumerable limitations, who seemed to become full of grace, without a shred of fear. His message was both deceptively simple and utterly transformative. It centered on that least fashionable sentiment: kindness. Even those who knew Dias best and longest now found him almost unrecognizable. He no longer belonged to the rules that bind normal humans. We do not choose our saints. But throughout history, they emerge nonetheless to guide us. In his third apostolic exhortation, Gaudete et Exsultate (Rejoice and be glad), Pope Francis makes clear, “We are frequently tempted to think that holiness is only for those who can withdraw from ordinary affairs to spend much time in prayer. That is not the case.” In a section entitled “The saints who encourage and accompany us,” he invites us to “realize that “a great cloud of witnesses” impels us to advance constantly towards the goal. These witnesses may include our own mothers, grandmothers or other loved ones Their lives may not always have been perfect, yet even amid their faults and failings they kept moving forward.” That was Bismarque. He faced huge setbacks, including the crushing blow of losing his formal priestly identity. His main causes were comprehensively lost, generally even before he began to fight on their behalf. He never had any money, or power, or significant influence or even very many supporters and followers. So what explained the permanent smile? What fuelled the sheer energy in the step, and relentlessly sunny optimism that the right thing to do was always worth it? How dared he try to win the Cumbharjua constituency by trying to elicit “10,000 Acts of Kindness”? Didn’t he know how a priest and politician is supposed to behave? In fact, this priest and politician knew very well what was expected of him, and the crucial step in his life was to liberate himself from those expectations. It was a logical step. Goa and Goans have become used to being polite to each other, and relatively respectful to office-holders, and have therefore politely and respectfully accepted monstrous criminality in every aspect of public life, resulting in widespread destruction of their environment, society and culture. In this land of the wilfully blind and mute, one man chose to sing the clear-eyed blues, with gathering strength in his voice. It couldn’t have possibly lasted. These are sombre days in subdued Goa, with uncertainty hanging low on the horizon, but at least the Dias family and their extended kindred in luscious Santo Estevao island know their son and brother is finally in the village graveyard alongside his ancestors. What the rest of us know is that he is sorely missed. Not just the music and madcap antics, but the steady reminder of the little things that we must do to sustain big challenges, starting with simply being kind to one another. In the end, there can be no doubt that Bismarque’s life was a wonderful gift to Goa. May his memory be a blessing.