LIFE’S LIKE THAT By: Bennet Paes “Never judge a book by its cover” say wise men out of experience. However, that piece of advice may be right for a bookshop browser, but my concept was a kind of departure from that wisdom. “Pride and Prejudice”, acclaimed the world over as a fictional masterpiece by one of the most celebrated British novelists, Jane Austen, was a literary prescription for freshmen in most Indian Universities in the 1950’s. So I was left with no choice but to lump it, whether I liked it or not. First of all, the book’s cover did not impress me, and what followed was even worse. The story revolved around a mind-boggling web of inter-relationships among the18th century English gentry, which seemed so distant both in colour and custom from an age I grew up in. Moreover, Ms Austen’s romantic comedy, heavily punctuated by ‘indirect speech’ did not exactly jell with my own notion of humour, or the manner to be expressed it in. The only saving grace though, was the plot’s central player, Elizabeth Bennet whose last name the author chose to spell the same way as my first. Strange enough for an English family to have that name ending with a single ‘t’. However, despite this silver lining, so as to speak, an eerie feeling said I was indeed heading for a ‘Waterloo’. So a change became necessary, just as it was for Jane Austen herself. She had earlier suggested to title her work as “My First Impressions” . She changed it, and it worked. It got her the world’s applause, except mine. It took me six years and three Universities to reach to the last page of that novel, and finally I never even got there. In fact, this ‘Bennet’ deserved to be on the pages of another book – The Guinness Book of World Records. Later on, having wandered about aimlessly in the company of the so-called (Goan) freedom fighters in Bombay, someone else happened to come into my life. Freedom, to this middle-aged Goan meant relief from the Bombay grind that fetched him little in return. But luckily, a visa was in hand which was to lift him soon to a greener pasture out of India. He was kind by nature and promised he would love to have me for company after he got there. I was in raptures, not even knowing where he would take me. But deep inside, I felt that even Timbuktu would do, so long as I got out of sight of a fuming father. My father had dug deep into his pockets, only to find his son squander it all away, college- hopping. Eventually I found myself on board s.s.Dara. The ship was set to sail from Bombay to the Iraqi port of Basra, calling at six others en route. It was in mid-December, 1958. The visa stamped on my Portuguese passport was for Kuwait – then, a small desert sheikdom under British protection, and with an equally small native population of Bedouins and their ruling families. But in contrast, it had huge deposits of crude oil, literally oozing out of their ‘ghutrahs’ . In Arabic these stand for a headgear that is more prominently worn by Gulf Arabs to protect their tops from the blistering desert conditions. The black gold, however, had not yet trickled down to make Kuwait a sea-worthy port. Like some others in the Gulf, it did not have a harbour. So ships offloaded cargo and passengers in mid-stream, and were transported to shore precariously huddled in dhows built in Malabar.
I spent nine memorable days on the ‘Dara’. The chief steward of the ship was a friend from a neighbouring village. He was in his fifties, but quite fit to face the fury of the seas. He said he had been on the job for the better half of his adult life. He was also gracious enough to upgrade me from deck-class accommodation, and host me right in his cabin all the way to Kuwait. A quick drink each day before early dinners and a cursory glance at his pretty daughter’s photograph, were added for my comfort. The barber came in to shave the chief early mornings, and insisted that he run the razor on me as well. I obliged out of courtesy, although the few strands of hair on my chin hardly justified the barber’s attention. Some of the deck hands below were also well known to me. The barman, in particular, happened to be from my own village, so naturally I was in for a swig on the side, secretly though, so as to be out of his boss’ reach. Apart from this slight digression, discipline was seen to be an exemplary feature among the entire crew. The British officers in command saw that it was observed to the hilt. Their ‘raj’ might have closed shop on the mainland, but their shipping line, “B.I” in short, hadn’t yet snapped its umbilical cord to the sub-continent. It’s ships plied all round India’s waterways, leading up to all of the four compass points on earth. Finally, the time came for my journey’s end, and to say goodbye to all those who had so kindly entertained me while on board. A dhow was seen tossing about, down below on the port side of the ’Dara’. I asked the Chief what it was for, and was rather startled by a sudden change in his countenance. “Young man”, he said. “All good things in life must come to an end, and it’s now time to climb down into that dhow and head for the shore”. “Gosh!”, I said in utter awe. “ I have never before descended so close to the sea as I would have to, attempting to float in such a contrivance”. The Chief, who had all along pampered me into believing that after good times only come better times, went on further to set the tone straight: “ You have been so bold to leave the shores of your country, now have the courage to explore one more”. For a moment I thought he was referring to Vaco da Gama – and imagine that I get into his shoes, rather than into that dhow below. But reasoning was quick to pick. If da Gama, on orders from ‘King Manuel I’ of Portugal, could weather the oceans to touch the shores of Goa, it would be quite a feat for a ‘Paes’ to be pioneering a dhow-ride to Kuwait. How else could an errant son mend a father’s broken heart? . ------------------------------------------------------------- * * * Encounter hints (and more) of the Goan life in Zanzibar, Poona, Mombasa, Basra, Dubai, and even Nuvem and Colva, Sanvordem and colonial Goa. Learn of experiences that shaped Goans worldwide. Selma Carvalho's *Into the Diaspora Wilderness* now available at Broadways Book Centre, Panjim [Ph +91-9822488564] Ask a friend to buy it, before it gets sold out. Price (in Goa only) Rs 295. http://selmacarvalho.squarespace.com/ * * *
