[Goanet-News] Recipe: Try this Goan curry for a great palate-pleasing experience

[Iris Gomes]

https://www.gomantaktimes.com/my-goa/art-culture/recipe-try-this-goan-curry-for-a-great-palate-pleasing-experience
One of my favourite dishes was lady finger and prawn curry soured with
*bimbli*. A recipe
 that
I have shared below. But first, let us explore the medicinal benefits of
this wonderful fruit.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Join a discussion on Goa-related
issues by posting your comments
on this or other issues via email
to goa...@goanet.org
See archives at
http://lists.goanet.org/pipermail/goanet-goanet.org/
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

[Goanet] Recipe: Try this Goan curry for a great palate-pleasing experience

[Iris Gomes]

https://www.gomantaktimes.com/my-goa/art-culture/recipe-try-this-goan-curry-for-a-great-palate-pleasing-experience
One of my favourite dishes was lady finger and prawn curry soured with
*bimbli*. A recipe
 that
I have shared below. But first, let us explore the medicinal benefits of
this wonderful fruit.

[Goanet] BESIDES EXTORTION GOA IS A HAVEN FOR SEXTORTION

[Aires Rodrigues]

 ‘Extortion’ is one aspect of the evil practice of Corruption, as
is‘Sextortion’but all forms of Corruption is evil and demeaning to human
decency and fairness. And those wielding positions of Power can use this
evil to abuse and control others, of having their cake and eating it,
through the mental and physical enslavement of the weak and vulnerable.

Many of us will recollect several bad experiences or incidents where we
have witnessed acts that have been shocking and unbecoming of officials
even those in key positions. Those people involved, due to political
patronage or powerful connections receive a boost to their careers rather
than being judged, scrutinized and dealt with accordingly.

It is quite common for our political leaders and those in positions of
power to ordain such individuals with influential roles, even if it means
creating posts to cement an existing relationship or friendship in key
government departments, law enforcement and other important areas.

Politicians look for strange bedfellows and in Goa it cannot get any
worse.Wonder whether with the limited Intelligence Quotient of our
government, it knows to draw the line between an extortionist and
sextortionist? Between honesty, integrity, and corruption? Between good
governance and blatant abuse of power?  Between merit and imperfection?

When will those entrusted by the people to make laws and those who have a
duty to uphold the law, act with integrity and honesty and always with zero
tolerance to corruption, criminal behavior and abuse of power of any sort?
Even the Gods watching over Goa must be perplexed and in a dilemma of how
good governance and respect for the rule of law continues to be destroyed
and where our once peace loving, law abiding State is heading.
Adv. Aires Rodrigues

C/G-2, Shopping Complex

Ribandar Retreat

Ribandar – Goa – 403006

Mobile No: 9822684372

Office Tel  No: (0832) 2444012

Email: airesrodrigu...@gmail.com



You can also reach me on

Facebook.com/ AiresRodrigues

Twitter@rodrigues_aires

www.airesrodrigues.in

airesrodrigues1@instagram

[Goanet-News] EXTRACT: Dark night (from Yvonne Vaz's new book This is My Song, 2023)

[Goanet Reader]

Dark night

[From Yvonne Vaz's book This is My Song, a memoir set in diverse lands.]

Which yesterday do I write about first?

The answer comes loud and clear from my inner self. Tell about the dark
night.

It is October 1956.

I am living with my dad, Lucio Alexander Vaz, my mum Lucy and three
brothers Patrick, Lloyd and Gordon in Kutkai, a small town in the Northern
Shan States of Burma, just a few miles from the China border. Our home is a
prominent concrete house standing alone on a hill which overlooks the quiet
wooden homes of mostly businessmen and their families. On another nearby
hill which can be seen from our house is the PWD (Public Works Department)
office building where my engineer dad works as the SDO (Sub-Divisional
Officer). He's in charge of administration as well as looking after the
roads and bridges that connect to other nearby towns. He takes us on trips
sometimes.

Kutkai is a peaceful little town. Nothing much happens here. Maybe that's
my impression of what I saw on the surface. Traffic passed in and out going
between towns on the China border on one side and Lashio, the capital of
the Northern Shan State on the other. People could openly buy and sell all
kinds of Chinese goods in Lashio and other cities.

I am nine years old and in deep sleep on a rainy October night when I hear
disturbing sounds, muffled voices, from my mother's bedroom. I am woken up.
Hardly able to keep my eyes open, I get up to check, then what I see
banishes sleep. Fully alert now, I see some men with black masks on their
faces, opening cupboards, pulling out things and throwing them on the
floor, while my mother is standing next to the bed and saying something.

I recognise one of the men. He does odd jobs at our house, and now he is in
the same clothes he wore every day, the same beret on his head. The black
piece of cloth over his mouth does nothing to disguise him. I call his
name, ask him what he wants. Silence! They know their identities are
revealed. They have no way out, except to get rid of us. They must have
already been angry because they could not find any money.

The next few hours are a blur. I vaguely recall being beaten savagely. I
try to protect my face with my arms. Next, I remember being on my bed,
crying because my hands are a bloody mass of flesh, flayed to the bone. The
bones too look strange, broken up. I remember my wrists falling over on the
sides, just the skin keeping the bits together. That was the last time I
saw my left arm. Strangely, I don't remember the pain. I call out for help
when I gain a little consciousness, then drift off again. I don't know how
long this goes on.

My father is away on a work trip inspecting roads.  He told us later that
he had a strong desire to return home and even though it was night, he made
his way home.  As luck would have it, his jeep broke down a few miles out
of town, and he spent the night in his vehicle.

Later, I reconstruct what happened to the rest of my family.  The only one
left unharmed is my youngest brother, Gordon.  He is nearly two years old
and safe in his cot.  My brave six-year-old brother Lloyd picks up his
slipper to hit the robbers and ends up with three fingers being chopped
off.  My 13-year-old brother Patrick gets hit from behind as he is trying
to run out the back door.  The back of his skull opens up but he manages to
run out to the back, where the driver and maid are staying.  They shelter
him, but don't come out as they are petrified.  My mother is the one with
the most injuries to her face and arms.

We don't know when the robbers leave.  The mali (gardener) who lives in the
servant's quarters comes out his door to see what's going on and gets badly
beaten on his face.  (I meet him later and the scars are bad.) He runs out
to the neighbour's house and collapses at their door.  They do not dare to
enter our house, so someone runs to the concert hall where a function is
going on, and reports that dacoits have entered our house and are attacking
us.  A group of people come and surround our house.  I hear a man asking if
the dacoits are still in the house.  We yell out “No”.  They enter, carry
us out to an empty bus, and rush us to the hospital.  My mouth is so dry.
I keep asking for water.  I don't understand why they ignore my request.
Later, I learn that it was because we are bleeding so much.  I remember
opening my mouth to catch a few drops of rain to quench my thirst.

They can't find my elder brother because he's still holed up in the maid's
quarters.  He is found next morning by my dad's friend, the SawbwaChieftan
of a small state within the Shan States and brought to the same hospital
we're already in.  Someone pushed the piece of loose skull onto the back of
his head and tied it there with a piece of cloth.  It is a miracle that he
survived.

At the small local hospital, there's only one doctor.  He is so drunk that
he comes out of his house, and collapses when he sees us.  I recall his
wife and children who are 

[Goanet] EXTRACT: Dark night (from Yvonne Vaz's new book This is My Song, 2023)

[Goanet Reader]

Dark night

[From Yvonne Vaz's book This is My Song, a memoir set in diverse lands.]

Which yesterday do I write about first?

The answer comes loud and clear from my inner self. Tell about the dark
night.

It is October 1956.

I am living with my dad, Lucio Alexander Vaz, my mum Lucy and three
brothers Patrick, Lloyd and Gordon in Kutkai, a small town in the Northern
Shan States of Burma, just a few miles from the China border. Our home is a
prominent concrete house standing alone on a hill which overlooks the quiet
wooden homes of mostly businessmen and their families. On another nearby
hill which can be seen from our house is the PWD (Public Works Department)
office building where my engineer dad works as the SDO (Sub-Divisional
Officer). He's in charge of administration as well as looking after the
roads and bridges that connect to other nearby towns. He takes us on trips
sometimes.

Kutkai is a peaceful little town. Nothing much happens here. Maybe that's
my impression of what I saw on the surface. Traffic passed in and out going
between towns on the China border on one side and Lashio, the capital of
the Northern Shan State on the other. People could openly buy and sell all
kinds of Chinese goods in Lashio and other cities.

I am nine years old and in deep sleep on a rainy October night when I hear
disturbing sounds, muffled voices, from my mother's bedroom. I am woken up.
Hardly able to keep my eyes open, I get up to check, then what I see
banishes sleep. Fully alert now, I see some men with black masks on their
faces, opening cupboards, pulling out things and throwing them on the
floor, while my mother is standing next to the bed and saying something.

I recognise one of the men. He does odd jobs at our house, and now he is in
the same clothes he wore every day, the same beret on his head. The black
piece of cloth over his mouth does nothing to disguise him. I call his
name, ask him what he wants. Silence! They know their identities are
revealed. They have no way out, except to get rid of us. They must have
already been angry because they could not find any money.

The next few hours are a blur. I vaguely recall being beaten savagely. I
try to protect my face with my arms. Next, I remember being on my bed,
crying because my hands are a bloody mass of flesh, flayed to the bone. The
bones too look strange, broken up. I remember my wrists falling over on the
sides, just the skin keeping the bits together. That was the last time I
saw my left arm. Strangely, I don't remember the pain. I call out for help
when I gain a little consciousness, then drift off again. I don't know how
long this goes on.

My father is away on a work trip inspecting roads.  He told us later that
he had a strong desire to return home and even though it was night, he made
his way home.  As luck would have it, his jeep broke down a few miles out
of town, and he spent the night in his vehicle.

Later, I reconstruct what happened to the rest of my family.  The only one
left unharmed is my youngest brother, Gordon.  He is nearly two years old
and safe in his cot.  My brave six-year-old brother Lloyd picks up his
slipper to hit the robbers and ends up with three fingers being chopped
off.  My 13-year-old brother Patrick gets hit from behind as he is trying
to run out the back door.  The back of his skull opens up but he manages to
run out to the back, where the driver and maid are staying.  They shelter
him, but don't come out as they are petrified.  My mother is the one with
the most injuries to her face and arms.

We don't know when the robbers leave.  The mali (gardener) who lives in the
servant's quarters comes out his door to see what's going on and gets badly
beaten on his face.  (I meet him later and the scars are bad.) He runs out
to the neighbour's house and collapses at their door.  They do not dare to
enter our house, so someone runs to the concert hall where a function is
going on, and reports that dacoits have entered our house and are attacking
us.  A group of people come and surround our house.  I hear a man asking if
the dacoits are still in the house.  We yell out “No”.  They enter, carry
us out to an empty bus, and rush us to the hospital.  My mouth is so dry.
I keep asking for water.  I don't understand why they ignore my request.
Later, I learn that it was because we are bleeding so much.  I remember
opening my mouth to catch a few drops of rain to quench my thirst.

They can't find my elder brother because he's still holed up in the maid's
quarters.  He is found next morning by my dad's friend, the SawbwaChieftan
of a small state within the Shan States and brought to the same hospital
we're already in.  Someone pushed the piece of loose skull onto the back of
his head and tied it there with a piece of cloth.  It is a miracle that he
survived.

At the small local hospital, there's only one doctor.  He is so drunk that
he comes out of his house, and collapses when he sees us.  I recall his
wife and children who are 

[Goanet] Goan owned, Mombasa's oldest bar set to be demolished.

[Gabe Menezes]

https://whownskenya.com/a-c-de-souza-and-company-kilindini-bar-the-oldest-bar-in-mombasa-and-its-ownership/

-- 
DEV BOREM KORUM

Gabe Menezes.