Yarns!
Believe it or not
This, I hope is the start of many similar stories I have gathered from friends and will include some of my own experiences. --
Marcelin Gonsalves arrived in Bombay
(later to be known as Mumbai) from Nairobi as part of an official Kenya
delegation heading to Japan. This is his story: We had a couple of days at a pretty upmarket hotel
before heading off our safari eastwards. Being a seasoned traveller, I took my
time getting out of bed from my morning siesta and even more time getting out
of my shower. Suitably relaxed, I headed for the cocktail bar.
It was one of that easy kind of
mornings, as the Goans say, “sussegade” (relaxed, laid back). Outside the
hotel, I knew, was anything but sussegade. Bombay’s human, motor, handcarts,
scooters, animals, and every other type
was legion. I was always amazed at how easily human beings cut in and out of traffic.
People had also got used to the eternal honking … a language only they understood
and humans and traffic it seemed were at peace.
There was also a kind of peace at
the cocktail bar. The barman, dressed in an impeccable white long robe kind of outfit,
made even more stylish by a short starting red kind of a skinny miniature coat
made famous originally by the waiters of Cairo and other parts of North Africa
and late familiar with waiters and stewards in colonial Africa … colonial anywhere.
He was chatting with a group of Europeans and I was rude enough to interrupt
him: Ahem, ahem!
“Yes Sir? What can I get for you?
And sir, I am sorry you had to interrupt our conversation. No hurry, I would have
come to you as soon as I had finished.”
Well, I was a little dumbfound
and I had learned from experience that folks in different countries to things
differently, and I sort of mouthed an inaudible apology, given with a smile, a false
I will confess.
For a moment or two we continued
to exchange, I thought, cordial smiles and momentarily he said the magic words
again: “What can I get you?”
“A large Johnny Walker Black
Label, a double, in a tall glass with a side bottle of soda water and no ice,”
I explained and with a broad, broad smile, he said, as if in victory: “In a
moment sir.”
The “in a moment” turned out to
be more than three cigarettes smoked old. My second attempt to get is attention
was replied with the deepest apology: “Sorry, sorry sir, I will be with you in
a moment.”
Three more cigarettes later, I
was hammering the polished bar top (you could see your face in it) with my knuckles
and the cigarette lighter also got a pretty good workout. The Europeans were
throwing me dirty looks. How do I know, I know dirty looks when I see them.
A very contrite and saddening
barman stood in on the other side of the bar, his hands seemingly joined in
prayer. His voice was also prayerful. Having gathered himself at his most sorryest
presentable self, he said: “I am sorry sir, very, very, very sorry sir. We are
not in the habit of keeping our guests waiting but sir, I cannot give you soda
with your JW. The boy I sent to get it has come back because our suppliers don’t
have any. I can send me to another shop to get it …”
Before he finished the sentence,
I cut in like a razor blade doing its thing on a thickened mustache and said: “Coke,
will do.”
Suddenly he was Jumping Jack
Flash. The vapors from both the Coke and JW were wafting their way up my nose.
Just as that was happening, the Europeans wave the barman goodbye.
So, there he was, right in front
of me. Glazed eyes somewhat teared up or were that his natural state, I
wondered. Having given my inner spirits a filip with the first drink, I
ventured for a second and it seemed to arrive faster than a rocket heading
skywards. Actually, he had a second scotch already poured and resting on the
top shelf of the bar which was not visible to me. I thought he must have pulled
of a card trick of sorts.
“So, I said, where are you from?”
“Nepal, sir.”
“Long way from home.”
“Yes sir.”
“How is life for you in Bombay?
“Can’t complain, sir, what
happens, happens, that is the life sir.”
“Yes, I guess it is the same everywhere.”
“No, no sir. What I mean is that
if something is going to happen, it will happen. Take today for example. I woke
up this morning and as I got out of bed, I gave the dear one a push and shake
and I got a grunt of some sorts.
“Anyway, I went to the water and
brushed my teeth and washed my face. It felt good. I went to light the fire and
found only one matchstick in the box. Tried to wake my loved one but she seemed
in a deep slumber from which heaven could not rouse her. Anyway, I took a
chance on the one match and promptly broke it, the head fall to its death in a
tiny puddle of water which I must have accidentally created. Never mind sir,
cold water from the beautiful clay pot is just as satisfying.
“I collected my cloth back, my
umbrella, my little hat and as I walked towards the bus stop, just outside my
little home, I picked up my usual paper. The bus was, as usual, many minutes late
but I had catered for that emergency. Suddenly, I thought this was going to be
a great day. Well, it is not every day you get to sit on the seat at the back of
the bus. We, the five of us, sat pretty jollily each of us, each minding his
own business. It was not long before the bus was getting filled beyond capacity.
That did not bother me because buses filled beyond capacity with people hanging
out of them is just a very normal thing.
“What was not normal was the rather
large woman wearing stiletto (by the way, Marc said they were sharp knife
heels) who stood in front of me along with a lot of other people who were already
pressing themselves against us, as if we were chappati dough and they were kneading
us. My problem was even bigger. The large lady decided that she would place one
of her feet, or rather one of her knife heels on my foot, her right on my left.
I tried my hardest (he said something like “damnedness”) to get her attention.
My “excuse me madams” in every language I could conjure up fell upon the
deftest ears created by any god. Well, I survived for a minute or two and the pain
became unbearable. I imagined being permanently joined to her at the foot. I nudged her several times, but she would not budge. Well,
now I tell, in just a few moments, sir, I said a million prayers to all the
gods I could think of and to my wife and my unborn children. Well then, the devil
in me gave me the courage … My God, knows this to be true …gave me the courage
to give her a pinprick of a pinch on the underside of her large bottom. No
sooner I had “pinned”, she was flying to the other end of the bus, bringing down
all the passengers in her wake screaming: “Rape, rape, he put his hands on my
thing. He raped me.” It is not the way of Indian men to take any notice of the
ravings of a madwoman but she was further driven to fury, genuine or otherwise when many of my fellow bus passengers burst into laughter. She turned around
showered everyone, men, women and children, with expletives in any language
that came to mind. “You, Mother Fuckers, rot in hell,” or words to that effect.
I, of course, knew nothing about
what she was talking about. The bus driver came into the bus and tried to make
some sense of the drama that played in technicolor before our eyes. Again, it
is not common for a bus driver, or a male of any sort, to pay attention to the
ravings of a madwoman.
In the first instance of its
kind, the five of us who had once celebrated seating on that much desired back
seat were escorted from the bus by the driver. When we asked him why he said
one of must-have done something sexual to her. “Sitting down? We asked, how is
that possible? “I don’t know whose hands did what. Anyway, if I am delayed I
will lose my job so better catch another bus or taxi.” And with that, he got back
into his bus and roared away. The large lady sat in “our” back seat and stuck
her tongue at us in bravado of sorts. We five in turn could only shake our
heads.
“That is pretty rough. You have
had a tough start …” I said in sympathy… couple more Scotches later.
“Oh No! That is not all. I got to the hotel and on my way to our changing rooms, there was a very angry food and
beverages manager scowling at me. “Get changed quickly and I will have to deduct
your wages for being late. I hope that will teach you about being late. I tried
to say something, but shouted so everyone could hear: “I don’t care what your
reasons are if you can’t be here on time, there are millions of others who are
just waiting for the chance.”
Well, thought that pretty harsh. “But
sir, I got changed and for a moment admired myself in the mirror if only to
bring a happy smile to my face which so has seen much sunshine in my life
that day. Just as I put my foot out of the door, a waiter caring orange,
pineapple, grapefruit juices gave me a juicy shower … and the manager was watching
all this happening. I will not be getting any pay for two months. So there,
sir, if things are going to happen, they are going to happen.”
I gave him a hefty tip … but I
will never be sure if he was pulling my leg!
Life on the high seas
Marriage by
application
FRANCISCUS (Franky) Antao was a civil servant in the British
Colonial Civil Service. He was actually one of the hundreds of clerks in the
Secretariat. Many, many years ago he had been seconded to the Permanent
Secretary for Recruitment, Local and Overseas, Johnson William. Franky was William’s
clerk with a key responsibility. JW, as he liked to be called, was a typical
British foreign colonial from the old country. Most of all he did not like to
spend too much time in the office.
He was skilled enough to gather around him a team of mainly
Goans and other Indians who made sure that the department was run as a pretty
tight ship. He on the other hand was happiest at the Muthaiga Golf Club, on the
course, naturally or lunching in one of the finest dining rooms in the country.
The MGC also had a much-loved bar. With that came a reputation that no decent
Catholic would have found sinful. However, meeting the sex-hunger needs of the wives
of farmers and civil servants who were forced to endure life in the bush meant
that the colonial government provided regular short-term local leave which the
women loved spending in Nairobi and GMC was a haven for finding willing
partners. These short leave sexual
encounters often took a regular turn and again there were regular incidents of
angry husbands wanting their pounding flesh.
Nonetheless, the British stiff upper lip ensured that any newspaper-worthy
sensational stories were spiked in-house. Thus, the ugly side of the MGC was
usually swept aside and dressed by a kind of virtual whitewash.
To this day, the MGC remains the pillar of the upper echelons
of society. I don’t think you will find any sexual shenanigans today. The sex-hungry
farmer’s wives are now just a memory of the colonial past.
JW had a full complement of civil servants, from undersecretaries
down to the humble junior clerk. Our Franky told everyone that he was the official
“recruitment clerk” to JW and the department as a whole. He always forgot to
mention that his “recruiting duties” were only one of his many chores as a
clerk. He also forgot to mention that “recruiting duties” were restricted to
sending “recruitment analysis forms” (a job application really) to applicants.
Although his task was minuscule in this process, he did take the trouble to
find out the mysteries embedded in the form and after a while, he was competent
enough to understand who were the likely successful candidate/s for the advertised
job. In the senior job section, the approvals team usually reserved the
vacancies for English men and women from Briton. The other vacancies were
filled by people marked as “others” of any colour except black …. except in the
rare extreme.
As a result of his newly gained knowledge as “the” recruitment
clerk, he became endeared to many Goans whom he helped with filling in the recruitment
form to the best of his newfound knowledge which was eventually successful more
often than not. Thus, Franky Antao gained for himself the respect and
admiration of the Goan community. In the eyes of the many members of the Nairobi
Goan Institute he was known for his astuteness and analytical skills but not
for his skills at the card table.
At home too, his doting wife Mariela came to rely on his
analytical skills and sought his help in solving many household problems and
future plans. Mariela trusted her teacher-husband implicitly and enjoyed that
her husband was such a clever chap.
Hence one Saturday night, after the children had gone to bed,
she sat knitting while her husband enjoyed a cigarette and a Scotch while
reading something of assumed high importance.
“Franky,” she said. “Can we talk, please?”
“Yes, sure. What about?”
“One of these days, Gildo’s parents will come to ask for
Juanita’s hand in marriage with their son. How should we go about it? After
they ask, we should have them around, dinner and drinks before we sit down to
discuss everything,” she said somewhat sheepishly.
“Yes, yes, of course. I have been giving it some thought and
I have come up with a plan. When he comes to ask a name a date when his parents
could come to our house, I will have a chat with him. I have adapted my work recruitment
form for him to fill out. That should give us all the answers we need. For
example, we will know if likes and dislikes generally. His earning potential,
savings, health, and everything else his potential in-laws would like to know
before giving their consent and engaging the parents in setting a date,” he
said with triumph.
Mariela’s eye’s lit up too. She knew her Franky would have a
simple solution.
All spick and span, just like in the British Civil Service.
Well, the day came when Gildo followed Juanita into the Antao
home. Waiting with open arms to greet them were Mariela and Franky (who was
wafting a cigarette high above everyone and smiling to high heaven). When all had
settled with a drink, Gildo asked the question. You know the one when can his
parent come to visit the Antaos about finalising Gildo’s and Juanita’s wedding
plans.
Frankie put his arm around Gildo and took him into the kitchen.
“Gildo,” he said, “you know I am a bit of analytical nut. I have created a form
that I ask you to kindly fill out. The answers you provide will give us a very
clear idea about what we do not know about you. It’s nothing too serious, please
oblige me.”
As Gildo picked up the form, Franky said: “I hope you will
find it useful too.”
Beaming with delight, there were hugs all around before the “good
nights”.
A couple of weeks later, Juanita asked her dad to come home early
from his daily card table at the GI. “Gildo is coming back with the form you
ask him to fill.”
When Gildo did arrive that night, he was fuming like a raging
bull.
With tear-filled reddened eyes, he said: “My father told me to
tell you that you should have a good idea what to do with your marriage
proposal form. He asked me to inform you that no son of his would apply for the
job of being married to anyone.” With that, he walked out and slammed the door as
he left. That was the last they saw of Gildo. Much unhappiness, tears and
sadness followed in the Antao household. Franky was a lesser man; his feathers
as an analyst had been well and truly plucked. He never set foot in the GI
again. His fall from grace was too much to bear.
You know what they say about little knowledge.
Juanita eventually married, a popular motor mechanic call
Manuel. I suspect they lived happily ever after. Frankie kept his distance and
relied on Mariela to do the needful. She had his full support.
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