Title: Who the bleep cares about Water-cooler boy? By: Selma Carvalho Source: Goan Voice UK Daily Newsletter 25 July 2010 at www.goanvoice.org.uk
As a child I was rather scrawny. Having inherited the "thin gene" from my mother's side of the family, I was a sad collection of bones loosely knit together by skin. I was the punch-line of every thin joke in school and often the victim of cruel and unusual punishment. In the 1970s, Goans in the Arabian Gulf were not rich. They were first generation guest workers in a land that was mostly inhospitable. A dry arid desert, a few decrepit buildings and cantankerous bosses were what they had sold their bodies and souls to. Neither were the schools in the Arabian Gulf particularly well established. They were usually small flat structures either attached to a religious institution such as a Church, or a social organisation. Some classes were held in makeshift sheds of asbestos. Not the sort of thing parents would tolerate today but in those days schools were not subject to rigorous codes of maintenance, health, safety or sanitation. My school had just one water-cooler catering to the needs of almost 500 overheated children. I was somewhat fearful of this blue and white monstrous tank that could make guttural noises and pour forth water from rusted taps. On most days I would will myself to survive the thirst but on one particular day, the sun had been out with a vengeance and so had the Physical Education Trainer. The school had chained plastic-cups to the cooler and we were strictly prohibited from putting our mouths to the taps as children often do. If making one's way to the cooler was difficult, securing a cup to drink from was an even more Herculean task. Children have little understanding of fairness or the formation of queues. They crowd around the things they want and will fight like alley-cats to get them. Being the scrawniest kid in school I was easily jostled and elbowed out of the way. My chances of getting a cup of water to drink were quickly ebbing, as the last minutes of recess ticked away. Just as desperation gave way to despair, a tall dark boy bellowed from the crowd around the cooler, pointed to me and said, "My cup goes to her". He handed me his cup and then he vanished. As an adult I often think of this boy, whose name I certainly didn't know and who I affectionately refer to now as water-cooler boy. With the passing of years his heroism has been elevated to mythological proportions. In certain scenarios, water-cooler boy is endowed with great physical strength enabling him to fight school bullies and play volley-ball simultaneously. At other times, he is remembered as helping the handicapped school kids, winning relay races for his team, becoming a bi-partisan class monitor, running the school newspaper, exposing salmonella poisoning in the school canteen and saving elementary schools from the effects of global warming by recycling his text books. Since then I've always been on the lookout for water-cooler people. Seemingly ordinary people who engage in extraordinary acts of kindness and heroism. I'd like to believe there's a little bit of a water-cooler person in all of us struggling to get out. The one that extends his hand across the din of humanity because it's the right thing to do. The one that chips away at the malaise that engulfs and embitters communities, with unseen and unsung acts of courage. In doing so he becomes part of the social consciousness, the superhero of our collective psyche. He becomes us. I never met water-cooler boy again. Perhaps our paths crossed but I was too young a child to have inscribed his face to memory and wouldn't have recognised him. I like to believe he lives somewhere, still handing out cups of kindness to the weak, the needy and those that least expect them. Visit my website, http://selmacarvalho.squarespace.com/ to view excerpts from my recently released book, Into the Diaspora Wilderness. Do leave your feedback at [email protected] * * * IS YOURS one of the stories of Goans on board the S.S. Dwarka, or at the Strait of Hormuz, Basra or Bahrain, Dubai, Swindon, Mombasa, Poona or Rangoon? Selma Carvalho's new book *Into the Diaspora Wilderness* docks at many other ports. Get your copy from Broadways, Panjim [9822488564] Rs 295. P&p extra. http://selmacarvalho.squarespace.com/
