Source: Goan Voice Daily Newsletter, 21 Jul. 2013 at www.goanvoice.org.uk Full Text: It was around ten that humid morning and much of the perspiring Goan population of Byculla was streaming into the wide gates of the magnificent Gloria Church for the Sunday high mass. Ladies were in their Sunday best, some of them with hats, gloves and stockings but all of them in gloves covering their delicate and often masala-grinding hands. The men in their starched shirts and cotton light summer jackets lagged behind, for the purpose of an exit route should the priest repeat his tendency to a long and boring sermon.
Around the corner of the church outside a small bookstore selling rosaries, medals, Konkani literature, song books and of course tiatr tickets, was Peter Fernandes the owner. Although this was his peak business time he was more interested in chatting with his favorite actor Robin Vaz. A six footer and handsome to boot, Robin was lounging near the church not so much to watch the fine Goan ladies and men but to shadow the more plebeian crowd that followed - the domestics, the nearby Mazagon Dock and Port Trust workers families and the simple people who resided in the nearby warrens of the massive BIT Blocks, locally called 'cement chawls'. For it was these folks who would populate his 'Agente Monteiro' play that was to debut in the St. Mary's school hall only a few bus stops away. He was not afraid of a lack of patrons. He was confident of his popularity and the crowds that he could draw ever since he came onto the Konkani stage popularizing the mandos through a dance form. He popularized the role of a kunbi dancer more than an actor. If there was any doubt about the crowds, it would be dispelled by a star cast of Bombay's best tiatrists. Robin Vaz was every tiatrist's friend and they were keen on supporting him. The community was closed knit and prey to two big flaws. They drank to excess and then some. The other was a complete lack of interest in the revenue their plays generated. They could have been rich men but merely eked out a living one month to another, mostly because they let the organizers, and agents hit them in the pockets. They were happy with one for the love, and none for the money. The church crowds were exiting and Robin's purpose was for this very moment. They were going to talk about the evening's play and he wanted to know what they wanted for the intermission fillers - the skits, the songs, the music of the live bands, the jokes on Bandodkar and the recent liberation. That was what would make or break the play, not the play itself. Everybody had an opinion, but one thing came out clearly; with such a star cast they wanted the songs and jokes repeated and they wanted to see Robin Vaz dance. That was unanimous. Robin was happy, having heard what he came for and he would do as they wished. The talent and versatility of the tiatrists in Bombay was a thing of beauty. So were the bands that accompanied them. They barely had any rehearsals, the actor hardly learned the script, the musicians never got to practice the notes. But no matter what, these men were maestros in their own calling. Some players of the band were known to even international musicians passing through Bombay. The tiatr organizers were lucky to book them from their hang-out near Alfred Restaurant in Dhobitalao, often for a pittance. It was sunset now and Robin Vaz along with a few of the performers were exiting their watering place at Monteiro's just outside the venue where they were downing drinks the past hour. It was already ten minutes past starting time and they were primed for the stage and eager to give their best. Robin was going to be Agente Monteiro himself, the big bad Paclo in whose unkind hands would rest the fate of any Indian trouble makers within Goa and at the end of whose revolver barrel would lie the lives of many 'satyagrahis' (freedom fighters) entering Goa for nefarious purposes from the Portuguese point of view. He was meant to be a villain to the pro-Indians in the crowd and a hero to the pro-Portuguese. Robin had to fill in both roles and he outdid himself. So did the rest of the cast, every last man and woman of them. At the end, they clapped, stomped, yelled and whistled. The auditorium shook and old Fr Bonifacio Dias, the kindly Jesuit tiatr-loving priest under whose favor the hall was given out, muttered under his breath about talking to the tiatrists not to drink and excel as much the next time, it was not good for the building. He knew that kindness and mercy, forgiveness and excellence, for a Goan, all emanated from a bottle. ===================================
