Alexyz 2009 Daily Cartoons

FOOTLOOSE: The wrong idea

The wrong idea
By Derek Almeida


Why is it that when a man gets caught with three naked women in his room most people get the silly idea that he wants to have sex? Perhaps this has much to do with stereotyping – men want sex, women want children.

The other day the 86-year-old Governor of Andhra Pradesh N D Tiwari was literally caught with his pants down along with three women who were quite naked. My question is why did no one look at it as installation art? Why did we all jump to the conclusion that Tiwari wanted sex? Did we get his side of the story?

While most reporters took the holier-than-thou attitude, I opted to probe the matter deeper to get to the truth. To my good luck I happened to get in touch with a bureaucrat at the Raj Bhavan and he agreed to do an interview.

Sir, how did Tiwari manage to get three women to take off their clothes?
That is something that all the men in the Raj Bhavan are eager to know, because Tiwariji succeeded were everyone else failed. (laughs)

Was Tiwari on Viagra, because most Goans are surprised at what he was attempting to do at his age?
No he was not on Viagra. You must remember if a man is fit enough to be Governor, he can do anything and everything. Secondly, the media has misconstrued the scene capture on camera by a television channel to be that of Tiwari having an orgy. I wish to state that just because you seen three women in the company of a man does not mean he wants to have sex with them. I wish to clarify that Tiwariji was merely going through a stress test and the whole episode was purely medical in nature. We will be releasing a pressnote shortly clarifying Tiwariji’s position.

Any photos?
I am afraid we cannot release any photos because of the sensitive nature of the medical tests undertaken.

Why were three women needed for the stress test when one would do?
You must not forget that Tiwari is the Governor and as Governor he is entitled to the best medical treatment money can buy. There is no question of compromising on the health of the Governor. We are aware that one woman would have been sufficient for the test but had to include another two on the recommendation of a local numerologist who said, “Two is company, three is fun.”

There is an allegation that the Governor was exploiting women members of his staff ….
This is totally untrue. The three women you are referring to were from Uttarkhand. They had volunteered for the job and were amply compensated for services rendered.

Are you saying the Raj Bhavan has been turned into a den for prostitution?
This is entirely untrue. As I already mentioned the women in question were from poorer regions of Uttarkhand and Tiwariji was doing all he could to pull them out of poverty by offering them the opportunity to help him undergo a stress test.

Isn’t there an alternate way of conducting a stress test?
You are right, there are alternate ways, but most of them are pretty boring. Tiwariji is 86 years old and we thought the best way of kick starting the test was by getting three maidens to strip. Believe me, this old trick still works.

Yes, it also kick started an agitation.
I know…we though people would understand…

Are you saying what Tiwari did was right?
I am not saying that his actions were either right or wrong. Though, in hindsight we should have switched off the lights.

Have the women made a statement to the police?
I don’t think you are aware of the immunity enjoyed by a Governor against prosecution. He cannot be tried for any action undertaken in the line of duty. So we conducted an internal enquiry.

What did the women have to say?
They bared all. They told us the truth and nothing but the naked truth. Not once did they accuse Tiwariji of any wrongdoing although, they did mention that he dropped off to sleep in the middle of the stress test.

Do you believe their story?
Let me put it this way: Their hips don’t lie.

(ENDS)

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First published in the Gomantak Times (Weekender), Goa - December 27, 2009

Goanet Highlights (Dec 22, 2009)

Goanet Highlights (Dec 22, 2009)
By Selma Carvalho


Does the name Delagoa Bay, an inlet off the coast of Mozambique have any connection to Goa? Frederick Noronha provides a link with possible explanations. Read more...

The issue of migrants into Goa is gathering momentum. Soter asks a number of pertinent questions relating to migratory workers into Goa. Read more...

In a related post, Jorge Dsouza writes about rural migration straining the infrastructural capacity of Mumbai. Read more...

Is there a sense of betrayal in Goa following liberation? That the dream never materialized but infact diminished with each passing year. Arwin Mesquita has compiled some letters to the editor which appeared in Goa papers on the anniversary of Goa’s Liberation. Read more...

Enjoy the poster drawings of young children participating in a competition, the theme being “Dialogue with nature” held on Liberation Day. Sent in by Shrikant Brave. Read more...

An excellent link to Tarun Tejpal’s article, The Naked Years, was sent in by Venantius Pinto. Has India wasted away possibility and potential in the last sixty odd years after its independence? Did the hope and aspirations that lay in Nehru’s heart for India die at the stroke of midnight? As we close on the first decade of the millennium, it is time to introspect. Read more...

Lino Dourado gives us his Aitaracheo Katkutleo: Yeo-yeo Nari, Jev Goychi Fish-Curry. Read more...

JoeGoaUK provides us with a typical Goan cantar on video. Read more...

Domnic Fernandes tells us JIVEXIM MARUM NAIE. Read more...

Much ado has been made about tax payers’ money being wasted on sponsoring young Goans from the Diaspora to come and experience Goa. In an incisive article by Jason Keith Fernandes, he re-examines this relationship and points out that it might not be just a wasted effort after all. Read more...

One of the first things a girl is taught is that she shouldn’t make too much noise, says Accidental Activist Venita Coelho. In her column, she meets up with a number of women doing just that, making a lot of noise about the state of affairs. Read more...

Vidyadhar Gadgil, journalist and activist against communalism, warns us that the Goa CM’s soft stance on right-wing groups is an ominous sign. Read more...

Are the Goa police like envelops without addresses on them? Freddy Fernandes wonders why? Read more...

Frederick Noronha’s dwells on the implications of India’s wealthiest 100 having some connection or the other to Goa. Read more...

Selma Carvalho takes a look at Goans who build churches around the world. Read more...

Hartman D’Souza says “Goa has been raped not just once and not just by one man.” A whole younger generation of Goans is growing up disillusioned and disenfranchised. Read more...

And finally in this festive season do enjoy this delightful video sent in by JoeGoaUK of the senior citizens of Porvorim and Velim singing mandos. Read more...


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Rosary School, Miramar & Mother of God Choir, Majorda Tops at All-Goa Carol Contest, Betalbatim

By  Xavier Cota

From Xmas

 Joyful exuberance and musical prowess of a high order propelled Rosary School from Miramar, Panjim to the top spot in the Schools Category, while the harmonious blending of Mother of God Choir, Majorda, won them the 1st Place in the Open Category at the grand All-Goa Carol Singing Contest organised by Betalbatim Cricket Club on Goa Liberation Day. Besides the beautiful trophies, the winners in each category walked away with Rs. 7000/- and Rs. 5000/- respectively.

Competition was tough and it was a difficult job for the experienced judges - eminent musicians and connoisseurs of good music Fr. Alexandre Pereira, Winston Collaco, Delphine Alvares, and Siddharth Cota to come to a decision as most of the 15 groups from North and South Goa that participated, were of a very high calibre. Eventually, Kings School, S. Jose de Areal in second place pipped Presentation Convent, Margao on the winners podium in the Schools category, while Divine Voices, Quepem and Carmel College, Nuvem bagged the 2nd and 3rd places respectively in the Open Category.

The event being held after several years by Betalbatim Cricket Club and principally sponsored by Tourism Minister Mickky Pacheco and Ms. Martin's Corner & Martin's Comfort, was witnessed by an enthusiastic audience of over 700 people who thronged the beautifully laid out Betalbatim Parish Park, with the tastefully illuminated facade of Our Lady of Remedios Church, Betalbatim as the backdrop. Chief Guest, Mr. Mickky Pacheco & Mrs. Viola Pacheco gave away the prizes to the winners while Guest of Honour Mrs. Carafina Pereira, owner of Martin's Corner and Rev. Fr. Ubaldo D'Cunha. Parish Priest, who presided, gave away the prizes to the First and Second Runners-up.

Besides Schools, Senior and Junior Colleges, Choirs from Parishes also took part in the event which was a fitting opening to Christmas festivities.

BETALBATIM CRICKET CLUB
207, Pockvaddo, Betalbatim, Salcete,
Goa  403 713
Tel. (832) 28-801

The Dreaming House by Tanya Mendonsa
Reviewed by V M

There are many reasons to celebrate this week’s release of Tanya Mendonsa’s debut book of poems, ‘The Dreaming House’ at Literati Bookshop in Calangute (7pm on Thursday, December 17, 2277740).

It is a personal triumph for the poet, who calls herself a “late bloomer,” and says that her life changed forever when she moved to the ancient riverside village of Moira three years ago, after a lifetime on the move from Calcutta to Paris and back to Bangalore. Mendonsa has ancestral roots in Moira, and writes movingly that “I felt for the first time in my life that I had come home.” And there was an unexpected bonus – “from the first night in my old-new house, like a water source being unblocked, the words flowed onto paper as effortlessly as the sweet air that I breathed.”

The poems produced in that “unlocked” torrent have lasted,  and have earned Tanya Mendonsa a book deal with Harper Collins,  one of the leading publishing houses in India. And they have already begun to earn a buzz of appreciation from the critical establishment. The award-winning writer, Amitav Ghosh, who now spends part of the year living quite close to Mendonsa in the picturesque village of Aldona, is quoted on this well-produced book’s cover saying “Tanya Mendonsa’s work is cosmopolitan in reference, yet deeply rooted in the red earth of Goa: her Moira poems are a fitting elegy to a magical corner of a storied land.”

In a note about her work that accompanied the announcement of the release, the poet is quick to add that she hopes her poems will be a “renascence – and not an elegy as Mr. Ghosh fears.” And this is another reason to celebrate. Because Mendonsa has not simply returned to her ancestral heartland to write poetry, she has joined others to become a ferocious and determined defender of Goa’s natural and cultural heritage, and has helped to spearhead a splendid campaign that advocated carefully planned development in Moira which would ensure a sustainable future for the village’s future generations.

Mendonsa is clear that she wants “any publicity I might get for my book to make as many people as possible aware of our battle to preserve the village.” To her mind, her poetry is inextricably linked to her activism on behalf of her village’s natural and cultural heritage. She feels “a burning need to preserve the beauty around me” as it is the wellspring of her creativity, “the source of my wellbeing.” And it is true that ‘The Dreaming House’ is run through with a theme Mendonsa describes as “the poignancy of intense pleasure on the edge of loss” as in the first lines of the elegiac ‘Divorced From Green’.


One has no forewarning.

In the days of the fish and the dragonfly,

That this will not be forever.


In returning to her homeland to find serenity, meaning, and then this rush of marvellous artistry,  Mendonsa confirms all of our most cherished beliefs about the singularly bewitching character of the Goan landscape. Many years ago, our great laureate Bakibab Borkar wrote a knowing essay on this very topic. “If I were to be born again, and am allowed to choose my future birth place, I shall undoubtedly opt for Goa,” declared Bakibab, “I say this not because of any blind love, but because its scenic beauty has a supernatural quality of refining the human mind, and of turning it inward into the depths of creativity and spirituality.”

Like Mendonsa, the great Bakibab was certain about the significance and impact of the sinuous beauty of our terrain on the poet’s imagination and creativity. Of  “the eternal moulder of our spirit and builder of our dreams”, he warned prophetically that we must  “ensure that the scenic beauty of Goa – the very foundation of our culture – is duly respected and not allowed to be marred or maimed, whatever the cost.” It is deeply moving to read and experience Tanya Mendonsa’s revival and updating of this poetic sentiment. ‘The Dreaming House’ is a significant book, and its release is an important event in Goa’s cultural history.

(ENDS)



First published in Herald, Goa (Dec 13, 2009)

The Accidental Activist - To Die For

By Venita Coelho


What would you be willing to give your life for? That might seem like an odd question, but it has been on my mind the last few weeks. The Naxals and Maoists have been in the news as the war between them and the government has escalated. The people who the police have been arresting seem a world removed from Maoist rhetoric. Instead, they seem to be people like us.

First there was Kobad Gandhi. He was brought up in a rich Parsee family, lived on Malabar hill, and had the best of education. Still he chose to throw it all up and go fight on the other side of the fence. His wife was a professor of sociology in Nagpur University. Neither of them fall remotely near the stereotype of a naxal as the government projects it - dangerous lawless anarchists.

A year ago there excitement over the alleged naxalite with a Goan connection. Arun Fereira was arrested from Bandra and held by the police. Arun was educated at St. Xaviers college and again, a world removed from what you would imagine a naxal to be. There are more goan connections. Vernon Gonsalves is being held as a suspected leader of the CPI (ML). Arrested along with him was  K D Rao - a practising lawyer and office bearer of the Indian Association of Peoples Lawyers.

More recent is the arrest of Agriculture scientist Ravi Sharma and his wife B Anuradha. Ravi Sharma was working on a PhD. His wife was employed by syndicate bank.

Of course the most celebrated is the arrest of Dr. Binayak Sen. He is a paediatrician, a public health specialist and a winner of a string of national and international awards for the outstanding work he has done bringing medical aid to the people of Chattisgarh. His arrest was declared in breach of international law by no less an authority than Amnesty international. The police chose to brand him a naxal so that they could then use special laws that allowed them to hold him with no reprieve.

One person's activist seems to be another person's naxal. Our own Seby found himself slapped with the 'naxal' brand by the authorities so that they could better deal with him. Naxal or not - these are all highly educated people who had the option to live comfortable lives. Yet they have chosen to leave the mainstream and struggle on the side of the poorest of the poor. They have faced arrest, detention and torture. Why are they willing to put their lives on the line? What are they willing to die for?

This is a question that each of us needs to answer for ourselves. For a very real reason. I have been watching for a long time now as activists struggle in Goa against the combined might of the mining lobby, the building lobby, and the corrupt state. Where we manage to blow the whistle on one small issue, a host of other things are being sneaked in from other back doors. The GBA tried it's best to get villages to respond to the Regional Plan in a manner that would protect the villager and the village in the years to come. Now comes news that building laws are being passed, loopholes are being exploited and all that we fought in the RP is coming back in other avatars.

Over the last few months I have slowly realized that we are not just examining the projections of worst case scenarios. The foundation of the worst case scenarios is being laid even as we look on.  The mining industry and the building lobby are already laying the basis for a devastated Goa. It is time to ask you what you are willing to fight for. As an intelligent, educated person, what is it that you hold so dear that you would be willing to stake your life for it?

Would you fight if someone poured poison into your drinking water? Would you fight if someone choked the river that ran through your village? Would you fight if the raw sewage from a mega project leaked into your well? Would you fight if all the fields in your village were marked for destruction? Would you fight if the crop your family depended on for a whole years food was deliberately destroyed? All of this is happening in villages across Goa. It is time the fight stopped being restricted to a few 'activists'.

No one is asking you to be a naxal. But, frighteningly, if you don't stand up to fight now - it may be too late in the next few years. Your rivers will be choked, your water poisoned, your trees cut down, your fields filled in, your village reduced to concrete. Don't decide to join the fight when there is nothing left to fight for. Decide what you are willing to lay your life down for now.  (ENDS)

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As appeared in The Herald, Goa - October 26, 2009

Ma Ma Ma Ma Baker

Sing along again with Boney M

By Cecil Pinto

Musically speaking, for my generation in Goa, the period from the mid 1970’s right through the mid 1980’s was the Boney M era. Every Goan household of that time had to have a Boney M cassette prominently visible near the two- in-one player, or in the Formica covered hall showcase.

How Boney M came into being is as very curious story.

In December of 1974 a German pop singer named Frank Farian recorded a single, ‘Baby Do You Wanna Bump’, using a studio enhanced deep male voice and performing the high female chorus vocals in his falsetto voice. The song record came out credited to ‘Boney M’ after a character in an Australian detective serial Farian was watching at the time. When this song slowly became a hit in North Europe Farian decided to hire a team to ‘front’ the group for TV performances. Many changes in the team over the next few months led to the final Boney M line-up of three women Maizie Williams, Marcia Barrett, Liz Mitchell and an exotic dancer from Aruba - Bobby Farrell. All this happened in Germany.

Their debut album, Take The Heat Off Me, had nothing to do with a certain minister nor does the hit song ‘Daddy Cool’ have anything to do with the Margao bomb blasts. But let’s revisit the lyrics anyway.

She’s crazy like a fool.

What ‘bout Narkasur?

I’m crazy like a fool.

What ‘bout Narkasur?

Nakka? Narkasur?

Nakka? Narkasur?

Boney M’s ‘Daddy Cool’ became #1 in Germany in September of 1976 after a live TV performance with their trademark daring costumes. In fact right through their heyday Boney M caused controversy with their rather risqué album covers and sexy live performances. The Boney M ‘sound’ came into being - consisting of gimmick percussion, alternating answer-back vocals, a spoken part and a deep male voice contrasted with falsetto female voices.

Their next album in 1977, Love for Sale, had nothing to do with escort, exotic and erotic services regularly advertised in Goan newspapers. But the original 1930 Cole Porter lyrics, written from the point of view of a prostitute, are worth reading.

Love for sale

Appetizing young love for sale

Love that’s fresh and still unspoiled

Love that’s only slightly soiled

Love for sale.

If you want the thrill of love

I have been through the mill of love

Old love

New love

Every love but true love

This same album featured the hit song ‘Ma Baker’ which featured a popular Tunisian folk tune. The lyrics spoke about the legendary female American gangster Ma Barker whose husband and four sons were all criminals. Sounds like some of our criminal politician families in Goa. They have no conscience or heart as they plunder enough for many generations to come.

Freeze, I'm Ma Baker. Put your hands in the air. Gimme all your money!

This is the story of Ma Baker - the meanest cat from ol' Chicago town.

She was the meanest cat in old Chicago town

She was the meanest cat she really mowed them down

She had no heart at all no no no heart at all

Ma Ma Ma Ma Ma Baker, she taught her four sons

Ma Ma Ma Ma Ma Baker, to handle their guns

Ma Ma Ma Ma Ma Baker, she never could cry

Ma Ma Ma Ma Ma Baker, but she knew how to die

Unfortunately in Goa criminal politician sons and daughters and mothers and fathers are all still living.

Don't anybody move

The money or your lives!

Soon after in 1978 Boney M released a cover version of ‘Rivers of Babylon’. The song is based on the Biblical hymn Psalm 137, a hymn expressing the yearnings of the Jewish people in exile following the Babylonian conquest of Jerusalem in 586 BC. Goan expats all over the world cry crocodile tears on Internet forums and Letters to the Editor for the loss of their beloved Goa.

By the rivers of Toronto, there we sat down

Ye-eah we wept, when we remembered our Goa.

By the rivers of Swindon, there we sat down

Ye-eah we wept, when we remembered our Goa.

When our greed carried us away, permanently,

We thought we could do no wrong

Now how shall we sing our Mandos in a strange land

Boney M’s next album the same year was Nightflight to Venus containing the hit ‘Brown Girl in The Ring’, a traditional West Indian song. It speaks of a white girl who has been playing in the mud and is dirty.

Brown girl in the ring

Tra la la la la

There's a brown girl in the ring

Tra la la la la la la

Brown girl in the ring

Tra la la la la

She looks like a sugar in a plum

When she finally washes herself the restaurant and shack owners now welcome her in. She’s no longer brown – she’s white! The prophetic, for coastal Goans, album also had the song ‘Rasputin’.

Ra-Ra-Ramponkar

Lover of the Russian skin

Sold your land for a few roubles

Ra-Ra-Ramponkar

Prostrate yourself on the silver sands

Sell your souls in one generation

…

Oh, those Russians

This was followed in the spring of 1979 by ‘Hooray! Hooray! It's A Holi-Holiday’, based on an American folksong Polly Wolly Doodle. It is the theme song for Goan Government servants.

Digge ding ding ding digge digge ding ding

Hey - di - hey - di - hoh (2)

There's a place I know, where we should go - heydiheydihoh

Casual leave on Friday, sick leave on Monday - heydiheydihoh

It’s a long weekend, right round the bend - heydiheydihoh

It’s not very comic, but screw the public - heydiheydihoh

Hooray! Hooray! Aiz holiday murre!

What a world of fun for Go-vern-ment, holi-holiday

In 1980, Boney M. released a greatest hits album, which had “I See a Boat on the River”.

I see some boats on the river

They’re blocking my view.

Cant’ they anchor in the ocean

Where they’re supposed to?

Casinos on the river

Wish they would sail away

So I can see from Panjim

To the Betim Jetty

(ENDS)

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As appeared in the Gomantak Times, Goa - October 22, 2009

Little Red Riding Hood
Revisiting classic children's fables

By Cecil Pinto


The story of Little Red Riding Hood, her grandmother and the wolf has its origins in 17th century French folklore. The earliest known printed version is by Charles Perrault, entitled 'Le Petit Chaperon Rouge', where the wolf kills and eats them both - the girl and her grandmother. The Brothers Grimm 1857 version is rather tamed down and has them being saved by a huntsman passing by. This though is the most popular version but the fable has been interpreted and revised variously in different cultures and media - from animated children's cartoons to very adult oriented movies..

Why not then a Modern Goan Version?

Little Rose was just sixteen but rather well proportioned for her age, and quite the flirt. Rose lived in the quaint village of Assnora named after Dona Nora Conceissao, a noblewoman who once owned almost the entire village and according to legend had an enormous backside.

The motorcycle pilots used to call Rose 'Tambdem Rosa' because her favourite outfit was a man's shirt worn over a tiny tight red micro-mini e-skirt. The word e-skirt has nothing to do with the Internet. E-skirt is the Konkani pronunciation of skirt.

One fine day Rosa's mother, Carmelina, decided to pack some cutlet-bread sandwiches and send to her once mother-in-law, Perpet, in the neighbouring village of Aldona. But Carmelina was in a depressed mood as she listened to Remo crying for India and Goa on Facebook. Rosa was impatient and while wriggling into her micro-mini skirt shouted to her mother, "Hey Mom! You better pack that snack and come alive again!"

Ever since her second husband had died a year back Carmelina spent hours and hours on Facebook aimlessly following other peoples lives and commenting on their Updates and Photos. Rosa was her third and youngest daughter. Rosa's father had died when Rose was just four years old. Carmelina's other daughters worked on floating casinos in Panjim. Rosa could be dealing in drugs for all Carmelina cared.

Rose would take her elder sister's Activa scooter for the ride. Rosa's tight skirt meant that getting on and off the scooter, or even keeping the scooter in a still position, required quite a lot of body maneuvering. She couldn't have both legs on the road simultaneously so the scooter had to be inclined to one side while she hopped on and took off in one smooth motion.

It was the twilight hour. Carmelina had read about the burnt body of a young woman found in Corjuem the previous day but was too engrossed in Facebook to warn Rosa.

Rosa crossed the Poriem bridge and then on a lonely stretch after the Corjuem Fort saw a handsome young man asking for a lift. She stopped near him using her awkward stopping technique with her thigh on the scooter and her bum off it. On closer inspection she realised that the man was not as young or as handsome as she thought. In fact he looked positively middle aged and was very hairy and wore a sleeveless T-shirt, brand new jeans, Addidas shoes, thick gold jewellery and sunglasses - despite it being late evening. "He looks like a wolf in Shipees clothing ", she thought to herself. "But then he could also be a Gulfee!"

"I'm going to my Granny's place in Aldona", she said.

"Where in Aldona?", he asked.

"Coimavaddo", she replied.

"Grande or Pequin Coimavaddo?" he asked.

"The one at the top of the hill?", she replied

By the time she explained to him exactly where she was going Rosa's bum was starting to get a muscle catch in her awkward position. Many people zoomed past in their vehicles and cast appreciative glances at Rosa but didn't warn her about talking with Alfie who preyed on all sorts of women.

Feeling another catch forming in her strained thigh Rosy exclaimed, "Sorry I have to rush", and shot off without a further word.

Little did she know that Alfie the predator had a car parked nearby and using a shortcut reached the grandmother's house before she could. Perpet saw Alfie approach through the window and did not open the door. "I'm not selling!", she screamed.

For the last two years Perpet, who loved alone, had been harassed by brokers and buyers all wanting to purchase her aristocratic ancestral house. She would have sold out if she wasn't just one of twenty six claimants to the family property.

"I will huff and I will puff and I will blow your house down!", shouted Alfie.

"Wrong fable dear!", screamed Perpet.

"When I find you I will eat you!", Alfie shouted.

Not quite sure how to react Perpet slid open the door latch before hiding in a bedroom almirah.

Alfie rushed into the bedroom, threw open the almirah, stripped Perpet of her clothes, wore them himself, and slipped under the bedcovers. Perpet remained dumbstruck and naked in the almirah.

The unwitting Rose walked straight into the dark bedroom where Alfie told her to get under the sheets with him.

"But Grandma your voice sounds so gruff".

"I'm taking Aloe Vera products for that. Want to join my network?"

'But Grandma your eyes and ears look so big."

"All the better to hear and see you dear."

"And Grandma your teeth look so big."

"All the better to eat you my dear!"

Thus saying Alfie grabbed Rosa who put up a fierce struggle. A passing motorcycle pilot, named Bappa, on hearing the commotion rushed in to see the stark naked Perpet jump out of the almirah shouting, "I've finally come out of the closet!" Bappa turned to see Alfie and Rosa sprawled and struggling on the floor. Rosa's cheeks were flushed. Bappa burst into tears singing, "Tambdem Rosa tuje polle. Dukhanim bhollyat mhoje dolle. Bappachem license."    (ENDS)

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As appeared in the Gomantak Times, Goa - October 15, 2009

The Male Goan Lover
Perils of rural sex research

By Cecil Pinto


A recent newspaper report highlighted the findings of a poll of 15,000 women that rated the world's best and worst lovers. The worst list was headed by the Germans (too smelly) followed closely by the English (too lazy) and the Swedes (too quick to finish). On the other end of the spectrum Latin countries topped the 'best lover' list, with Spain at number one, followed by Brazil, Italy and France.

What if we had a pan-India survey? Let women from all over the country vote on who are the best lovers among all the states of India.

Do the Bongs give a better bang for the buck? Does the wily Gujju's expertise extend from the cash counter to the bed? Is the Keralite superior sexually too or just literally? Is the Marathi manos man enough? Does the Punjabi's enthusiasm translate into orgasm for his partner? Is Bihar about inter-caste tension or intense intercourse? Do we Goan men, with our Iberian attitude in such matters, score like our Latin counterparts? Is the ultimate Indian love machine concealed by a lungi or a mundu, a veshti or a humble kashti?

In the grand tradition of Masters & Johnson and Kinsey and Hite I decided to conduct such a poll among Indian women and research how they rated men from different states as lovers. But then I found I was biting of more than I could chew. Let's concentrate on what I know about. I don't mean sex, I mean Goa.

How do women rate Goan lovers? Is the stud from Candolim better in bed than his bud from Sanquelim? Are the big Moira bananas a myth or are the potent Aldona chillies overrated? Can the Romeo from Ribandar compete with the Cassanova from Carmona?

At first I decided to do an anonymous type of question-answer thing over the phone by dialing random numbers. If what sounded like an adult female answered...

"Hello ma'am, I'm calling from the Goa Research Institute. We are doing an intra-Goa survey on Male Sexuality. Would you be willing to answer a few questions?"

"Questionuuuu?"

"Yes ma'am, questions regarding sex."

"Sexuuuuu?"

"Ma'am I understand you are from Salcete. If you wish I can speak in Konkani?  Hanv Konkani ulonv?"

"Uloiuuuu?"

"Aaaaarrrggghhhh!!"

Next I tried random numbers in North Goa till I got what sounded like an adult English speaking woman on the phone and gave her my spiel about research etc. She seemed quite open minded.

"So let me get this clear. You want to ask me some questions about sex for some research?"

"Yes ma'am. You will be completely anonymous and we will not phone you again."

"Ok. Ask your questions."

"Ma'am, the men from which village do you consider to be the worst lovers in Goa?"

"Cortalim! Definitely Cortalim!"

"You seem very confident. How come?"

"My husband is from Cortalim!"

"Oh! Ok. And which village do the best lovers come from?"

"How on earth would I know? I've only ever had sex with my husband."

Many phone calls later my survey was not making any advance. I had the phone slammed down by most women. Some threatened to complain to the cops that I was harassing them. Among the few close female friends who agreed to answer most were not sexually experienced enough to make a comparison. Few were virgins, others had been either largely monogamous or their amorous lives did not extend beyond a couple of talukas.

Our Goan women were not experienced enough to honestly answer such a survey that needed comparisons over multiple lovers. The few self confessed 'sluts' I knew were veterans in these matters but their responses were heavily weighted in terms of what their lover brought to the table than to the bed. To their minds foreplay didn't count for as much as diamond rings did.

Then I had a brainwave. From a friend of a friend I got the phone number of this female who gave massages of the erotic kind - if you know what I mean. Who better than her to rate Goan men on their sexual capabilities. Of course I had not factored that her English language capabilities may not match her bedroom techniques. She was a Thai or a Phillipino - I don't know accents very well.

"Hello is this Jenny? I got your number from John Fernandes who gave..."

"You wanting massage at your doorstep?"

"Actually I just wanted to ask you a few questions."

"I come at your doorstep. No question asked."

I thought to myself that if ever I had to avail of Jenny's services I would insist that she come inside the house and not at the doorstep. What would the neighbours say? Anyway after a lot of to and fro on the phone I managed to explain to her what the survey was about. Jenny explained that she had very few Goan men as clients but considering the sure volume of business she managed, single handedly, even that small percentage encompassed most villages.

"What about the men from Assolna?"

"Why dis man not having Number Two hole?"

"Whaaaat? Oh! No! Forget Assolna. Mapusa. Where do men from Mapusa stand?"

"Standing very fine. But bargaining too much. They thinks like market."

"Ok. I get it. What about the guys from Divar?"

"Very hurry. Very hurry. Wanting to finish fast to catch next ferry."

"Aha! And Caranzalem?"

"Yes, sometimes it happen in the car. I understanding little Konkani."

"No I mean. Ok how do the boys from Anjuna compare?"

"They don't want to use me. They want to hire me out to foreigners and make a commission."

"Saligao?"

"They talking too much. Doing very little."

"Curtorim?"

"Fighting like bull"

"Agacaim?"

"Using colourful language."

"Is there a major difference between North Goan men and South Goan men?"

"That difficult question. What better? North or South Goan sausage? What better - Caju Feni or Palm Feni? What important? I no can say."    (ENDS)

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As appeared in the Gomantak Times, Goa - October 8, 2009

Ministry of Feni
Drinking to create awareness

By Cecil Pinto


"Good evening folks. This is your host Cecil Pinto reporting almost-live for Goa-World.Com from Campal Parade Grounds. I'm covering the second General Body Meeting of the newly convened Ministry of Feni. There's lots of action around. Distillers and bottlers have put up stalls where drinkers can sample their products. On stage is a presentation on Feni Cocktails. Later today a debate will be held on Glass and Ceramic v/s Wooden Barrels for storing Caju Feni."

"Caju aficionados of varied vintages and at different levels of intoxication are all over the place engaged in animated discussions. I spot the editor of a local English daily, an architecture professor, an expert on urban anthropology, a graphic artist, a fashion designer, a pop star. Everyone seems to have latched on to the Joy of Feni."

"Excuse me Sir. What is this magazine some of you are carrying?"

"This is not a magazine. It is a report - Geographical Indications and Localisation: A Case Study of Feni by Dr. Dwijen Rangnekar of the University of Warwick. It is an exhaustive and path breaking document that brings together knowledge of Feni from various resources in a comprehensive way that has never been done before. This is the defining work on Feni."

"In fact the Ministry of Feni, MoF as it will shortly be called, is a semi-official club of Caju Feni aficionados who will act as a pressure group on distillers, bottlers and retailers to ensure that we get quality Feni at competitive prices."

"MoFs as we call ourselves, no you cannot drop the 'o', are hardened adventurers who have spent most of our adult years in search of the Elixir of the Gods - the perfect Caju Feni. During urrack season we scour the countryside, with jerry cans and hydrometers, investigating the product of different distillers to sniff out the one with the perfect taste, bouquet and 'grau'. We hope that this translates into good Feni and if it doesn't we move on to the next 'bhatti'. The rest of the year we follow up leads to check out bars over the length and breadth of North Goa to find someone who stocks the perfect Feni."

"Why don't you do South Goa?"

"South Goa knows jack squat about making good Caju Feni!"

"When we find a perfect batch of Feni we drink it in copious amounts and buy as much as we can afford and store. We keep our findings and our suppliers secret from non-MoFs. When we hear about or discuss a unique batch of Feni that someone has discovered we actually froth at the mouth. The Konkani word for froth is 'feno'. That's how Feni gets its name."

"What about the organizational structure?"

"At our very first meeting we used the 'lots' system for election. We had lots and lots of Feni and unanimously elected Dr. Rangnekar as the President in honour of his pioneering work. His tenure lasted exactly seven minutes. In his opening address he mentioned that certain bottlers blend Feni from different distilleries. For even uttering such a sacrilegious thought he was immediately thrown out if his post and now is an ordinary member but can use the title Immediate Past and Founding President on his visiting card."

"But even Scotch Whiskey is mostly blended."

"We don't care for Scotch. Feni is never mixed with another Feni. Period. We boycott all people who attempt such nonsense!"

"What's this about MILF?"

"Not MILF, it's IMFL - Indian Made Foreign Liquor. Feni has to be deemed on par with IMFL and not treated as a 'country liquor' so that not only tavernas, but all bars can then sell it legally. We also demand that all bars keep a minimum of five different Caju Fenis - two branded and three local with different strengths and prices. If a MoF finds any establishment stocking more varieties of whiskey than of Feni the establishment will be boycotted."

"What about Palm Feni?"

"That the South Goans can figure out how to improve. Maybe they could ask for Geographical Indicator status for Palm Feni and Belligerent Taxi Drivers."

"The Ministry of Feni is not only concerned about getting the industry to give us better products but also informative labeling. Ideally the bottle packaging should have details like alcohol v/v, village-year-method of distillation, storage etc. MoF want the consumer not only to have a wide variety but also to be able to make an informed choice. Right now many manufacturers think better packaging just involves making fancy bottles."

"Can you inform our viewers about Feni drinking traditions, like for example salt-lime and tequila?"

"Ha! You should attend our Workshop on Feni Drinking. But since you mentioned it, in Mexico itself tequila is drunk straight or alternating with a type of orange juice called sangrita. This salt-lime back-of-hand licking routine is a recent and totally made-up American custom that has helped in the marketing of tequila. We don't need to invent such myths around Caju, we just need to discover them."

"One of the wonderful practices we have at bars in Goa is that when they stock a local unbranded variety of Feni they always allow you a small measure to try before you order. If you like it you drink it. Or take the custom of the barman putting a drop of Feni on his finger and setting it on fire. Such quaint cultural practices surrounding the consumption of Caju Feni have to be recorded, encouraged and embellished if necessary. That's one of MoF's main thrusts."

"Can just anyone join the Ministry of Feni?"

"Certainly not! Membership to the MoF is currently closed but we will be conducting Feni Appreciation Workshops and Caju Feni Tours where we will educate people about the different methods of distilling, storage, consumption etc. Once we have enough of a populace educated on the nuances of Caju Feni then we will open up our membership again."

"I've just been informed that the current MoF President has committed sacrilege by having Caju Feni in a beer mug. There's a group asking for his dismissal. See you later!"    (ENDS)

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As appeared in The Herald, Goa - October 1, 2009

The Accidental Activist - Water water everywhere!

By Venita Coelho


The Monsoon is finally over. It went out in spectacular style. I stood in the fields as thunder resounded and lightning fell with hair raising crackles. The rain was cold and wet, and I revelled in it, knowing that it was the last of our monsoon outbursts. Standing in that downpour, it was impossible to imagine that Goa could have a water problem. But indeed we do.

There are areas in Moira that get water for just one hour a day. The PWD supply has always been erratic. Everyone relies on their wells. But there's two kinds of bad news. First - the water table has been dropping steadily. As more and more constructions come up in the area, the builders pull up huge amounts through bore wells. The question is - who does the water belong to? Surely a community has first right over the water, and not commercial interests who don't care a damn if they cause long term damage as long as they make their buck. If a community has rights over its water, then it has the right to deny commercial usage of that water.

The Panchayat in Moira has wisely decided there will be no bore wells - but the water supply department hands out permissions for bore wells without bothering to check with the village. Builders and Panchayats find themselves in a stalemate. While builders assure the Panchayat that they will not touch the well, they secretly lower in pumps and help themselves to the water. And so a community resource dwindles until the community itself suffers.

The second really bad news - is that the wells in the ward of Povacao are polluted. In Goan villages we tend to have common ground water tables. That means all of our wells in Moira tap into the same water. If one well pollutes the water - not a single person can use that water any more. We've already seen that happen in Calangute and in Panjim and across Goa the same disaster is slowly unfolding. In this case this was a problem that had been forseen. Concerned citizens had repeatedly warned the Panchayat that the building project coming up in Povacao had sewage too close to the well. Neither did it have adequate sewage disposal for the number of people who would be residents. For the last three years, several residents have fought a frustrating battle trying to get officialdom to take them seriously. And now comes confirmation from well tests that the wells have indeed been polluted. The Health department has warned all those in the ward not to rely on the wells for drinking water.

Sadly, the culprits are not just builders putting together shoddy sewage infrastructure, it is the villagers as well. Sewage tanks are dug overnight, anywhere at all. A sewage chamber is built just mere feet from a public well. When neighbours protest, the culprits brother-in-law, who is a panch member, assures the Panchayat that the offending toilet will never be used. Of course it immediately is, with disastrous consequences. It is the petty cheating - the adding of a bathroom, the skimping on the size of a sewage chamber, that cost us so heavily in the long run. Yes, that new sewage chamber that you are having dug without bothering to check the distance from your well will one day lead to serious illness for your family. Worse still - you could actually be responsible for poisoning the water of your entire village.

The trouble with water is that they aren't making more if it. It is a finite resource. Moreover, we don't have access to all of it. 97.5% of it is saltwater. Of the fresh water resources, almost 70% are locked in glaciers. We have access mainly to the groundwater. And if that is polluted we are left with only the PWD water. And as Goa's water woes grow - that unreliable source is quite likely to dry up completely. No less than ten lakh children die a year because of bad quality and polluted water. 80% of all illnesses are due to bad water. That problem now sits on our doorstep in Moira. With one ward already polluted it will not be long before wells across Moira are unusable. As PWD water gets more unreliable, as water tables drop, as the only accessible water becomes polluted - we are heading for disaster.

It is the same old culprits every single time. Commercial interests that come into a village and proceed to build without any regard for village resources. Panchayats who don't take the problem seriously until it is too late, or, as in most cases, take their happy money to keep quiet. And villagers who don't think for the village but only for themselves.

The village community is an organic whole. We breathe the same air and we drink the same water. Clean air and water is our first right. No one person or commercial enterprise has the right to ruin our water and put all of us at risk. Unless individuals and Panchayats sit up to protect that right, we will be in bad shape in a few years, with water water everywhere - but not a drop to drink!     (ENDS)

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As appeared in The Herald, Goa - September 29, 2009

FOOTLOOSE: In protest mode

In protest mode
By Derek Almeida


Some time back former GCCI president Nitin Konkolienkar said that “protests” had become an industry in Goa. I never took him seriously until I bumped into my friend Ram Vilas. He was on his way to the Majestic Hotel with a placard which read, “Say no to casinos.”

“Arre bhai, when did you join the protest brigade?” I asked him.

“Derekji, good to see you,” he gushed, “I am now pucca Goan. I learning to protest just like you. You know, long time I am thinking to start new business …..”

“What happened to your tandoori chicken restaurant?” I asked.

“Wife is looking after restaurant, so, I thought I will start new business,” he explained. “First I am giving lots of thought. Then after having some pegs of feni, I am giving more though, but not like first time. Then I am getting some inspiration like tiny drops and suddenly my tube light is working, and I get idea to start NGO and launch protest. Hopefully, in two years I will get office in Panjim if I can make big nuisance for government.” Ram Vilas grinned while I stood there stunned over how this little man had progressed.

“If you are here and your wife is in the restaurant who looks after the children?” I asked with concern.

“Children growing by self Derekji, no tension,” he replied.

Ten day later I found Ram Vilas sipping a cup of tea in a hotel in Panjim along with few of his friends.

“Derekji, welcome we are planning to stage dharna in Old Goa against Baiguinim garbage site,” he said with enthusiasm.

“Arre Ram bhai, you live in Porvorim what is your objection to the Baiguinim site?”

Ram Vilas quickly introduced me to a ragged looking fellow with an overgrown beard and six rings on his fingers. “Derekji meet Pratap from Lucknow. He is top fellow in ideology.” Of course Ram pronounced it as ‘i-doll-g’ but I got the drift.

Pratap slurped tea from a saucer, gave me suspicious glance and then let loose a barrage in pure Hindi, which I could scarcely understand. The only word I took in was ‘Bainguinim’ which he threw in several times for effect. After he had finished he sat down and continued slurping tea as if nothing had happened.

“What did he say?” I asked Ram Vilas.
Ram Vilas did a left-right with his head and said, “Too fast for me, Derekji, but we are going Old Goa to click good photo for Press.”

About a month later I spotted Ram Vilas in a morcha, which was working its way towards the Secretariat. He was panting and gasping as the protestors struggled up the slope after the Mandovi bridge. Ram Vilas looked like he was going to have a heart attack.

“What now?” I asked pulling him aside. It took quite a few minutes for him to catch his breath.

“We …..we …….we want protection for fishermen on beaches,” he said.

“Why are you taking up the cause of fishermen. There are others to do it,” I shouted at him. “You could get a heart attack climbing this slope.”

“This is my new profession, Derekji,” he explained. “If I don’t protest and get picture in newspaper people who give money will ask many questions. Important point is to be there when Press people click photo. Later I make nice book of all photos and newspaper cutting and claim ‘social worker’ status.”

It did not take me long to realize that Ram Vilas was ahead of me in the protest business. He had spotted an opportunity and worked on it. This small chap from Bihar was an entrepreneur in his own right.

Anyway, a month later I spotted Ram Vilas all alone at Miramar beach. He looked sad and forlorn.

“Arre bhai what is your problem? Why the long face?” I asked and squatted next to him.

“Derekji, all issues exhausted,” he explained. “I am thinking of new plan, but tube light fused yaar.”

“What about River Princess?” I said.

“We did protest march on Candolim beach Derekji, he said, “but all protesters took off clothes and went for swim. General secretary Jagdish drowned.”

“It might be worthwhile to protest against mega projects,” I said.

“That also done,” he said sadly.

What about pay parking?” His eyes lit up.

“This is big idea,” exclaimed, “We can start new NGO with new name …….Pay Parking Hatao Munch.” He though for a while and said, “No ‘Munch’ is not nice word. Everybody thinking we are chocolatewallas.”

“What about Samiti or Abhiyan?” I asked. This went on for a while until Ram Vilas settled on Abhiyan. Then with the air of a creative artist he said, “We will demand that government sack commissioner and Mayor …..”

“That’s impossible. The government will not do that,” I explained.

“Derekji,” he said in a hushed tone, “secret of success in protest industry is, make impossible demand because if government accepts demand protest get finished in two days and Ram Vilas become ‘bekhar’ again…….”

With that he stood up and walked away, perhaps to discuss the matter with his tea slurping ‘i-doll-g’ guide.

(ENDS)

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First published in the Gomantak Times (Weekender), Goa - September 6, 2009

The Ninja’s apprentice
What good is a Goan male who can’t clean a fish?
A local super-chef tries instilling some manhood into a squeamish son of the soil

Written by Vivek Menezes
Photographed by Tom Parker

Bawmra Jap moves like a blur through Calangute market. Two steps ahead, and then he’s gone, plain disappeared into a scrum of fruit vendors. This is the second time I’ve lost him, the second time I’m forced to wait in the sun, scanning the crowd anxiously while sweat pours down my back. A minute ticks by, and he materialises out of thin air like a Burmese ninja, toting a trophy of a dozen limes and a sturdy stalk of sugarcane that is quickly demolished between his teeth. “You’re too slow!” he laughs at me over his shoulder as we tear back to his jeep at full sprint.

A few minutes later, at the Betim jetty on the Mandovi riverfront, there are wider sight lines. It’s easier to keep track of Bawmra as he surges back and forth among the iceboxes, sorting through piles of tiger prawns and baby squid, hoisting huge silvery chonak aside to find the freshest possible item. Nothing qualifies, and he’s off at breakneck speed again, with me huffing behind, making a beeline for the boat that is just pulling into its berth. Before the startled captain can even cut his engine, the master chef clambers on board. With a disarming grin on his broad face, and a request in Konkani to check out the catch up close, we’ve got what we’ve been looking for.

Bawmra hands me a gleaming snapper that’s as long as my arm and as plump as a piglet, and the young chef stops moving for the first time all morning. Exactly 20 seconds later, the purposeful look reappears in his eyes and my stomach muscles clench in anticipation of the next dash. I allow myself to eye the prize that’s dripping brine steadily on to my leather sandals. The day of reckoning has arrived, I think to myself. I will be master of this fish, even if every sinew in my body screams at me to run away. I’m determined. This fish will shortly be on a plate, and Bawmra Jap is going to show me how to make a meal of it.

Don’t get me wrong – I am a committed piscivore, like every other Goan. Along with my countrymen, I lustily partake of the bounty of the oceans all year round; and in the monsoon months of the coastal fishing ban, I happily yield alongside them to the singular pleasures of the buttery muddoshi. Park in front of me some modso grilled with garlic and lime, or a cloud of tiny crisp-fried velle netted in the vicinity of my native Divar, and you will witness a man entirely satisfied with his lot in life. Be it crisp-fried or silken sashimi, or piquant ceviche, it all suits me just fine. I love this stuff and would be happy to eat it every single day.

But then there’s the dark secret that has rankled in my bosom these many years. It is the reason why I do not eat fish every day. The shameful truth is that I can’t stand to touch fish when it’s not already garnished and sitting ready to be devoured on my plate. The untreated item on a market slab makes me queasy. I feel sick even thinking of the guts. To this day, the mere sight of the Betim fish market, even from the outside, makes me want to vigorously wash my hands with strong soap.

Even after becoming an enthusiastic cook, and after achieving hard-won comfort in the family kitchen, seafood still never makes an appearance on my cutting boards unless it comes precleaned, supermarket-style, which, of course, it never does in Goa. And so the embarrassment deepens, because adroit fish-wrangling is a central tenet of Konkani manhood. It must not have gone unnoticed that I never ever stride amongst the fishmongers like I’m meant to, like it is my birthright. I imagine them whispering as I scoot ashamedly in the opposite direction, “What good is a Goenkar male who can’t clean a fish? See that big fellow, he screamed when I showed him this prawn.” This is what’s been on my mind all this past year. This is why I am jogging furiously back through the Betim fish market, ankle-deep in fish guts and blood, my eyes trained unblinkingly on the rapidly accelerating Burmese man just ahead.

The first time I ate at Bomra’s, the deceptively dim and quiet restaurant on the main North Goa tourism belt, the meal came as a series of explosive surprises to the palate. There was lush tofu made out of chana dal, quickfried in bite-sized portions that were chewy, crispy and molten at the same time. Another marvel was an addictive (and subtly caffeinated) pickled tea leaf salad, a symphony of complementary textures in each bite. Even at that first meal, the fish stood out – an eye-wateringly succulent seared tuna, and a wedge of snapper exquisitely poached in a sauce with notes of lemongrass and Thai ginger. This was inspired modern cooking of the highest international standard. Here, clearly, was a master chef attuned to the world, turning the produce of the Goan marketplace into spectacular and unique haute cuisine. How did he do it? And then the next, thrilling question: if he can do it, could I possibly do it? Could I learn from him to do it, too?

Bawmra Jap’s Kachin people have their roots among ancient Tibetan highlanders, who migrated southwards through what is now China to settle in territories that are divided between India’s Arunachal Pradesh, the Kachin State in modern Burma and China’s Yunnan Province. They are known for fierce independence and formidable jungle survival skills, which made them valued fighters during WWII. The Americans and the British raised Kachin units to oppose the Japanese. These “Gurkhas of South-East Asia” waged a highly successful guerilla campaign (along with the Chindits) against Japanese supply lines, and are credited with wrecking the enemy advance into India. Like the Gurkhas, the Kachins carry a traditional short sword, the “dah”, which is considered “the most unique and indispensable tool of life”. The Kachins have battled for self-rule for more than 100 years, first against the British, and now (calmed somewhat by a treaty) with the oligarchic leaders of Myanmar, where the Kachin state is de facto autonomous. Th ey seem an indomitable people, and that charged ebullience runs through Bawmra Jap’s veins.

When this young Kachin arrived in England along with Maryam Shahmanesh, a Cambridge-trained doctor and former aid worker whom he later married, he had no idea that you could make a decent career from being a chef. “From being a rudimentary speaker, Bawmra picked up accentless English in less than a year, knowing all the idioms and expressions,” says Maryam. “He had never left Burma before, but in a few months, he established himself in the UK, started working and made friends. The learning of such a new culture was amazingly effortless, as if by magic. He seems to pick things up by osmosis.” This is what Bawmra is like as a chef – he masters advanced techniques in days and reproduces complex dishes after a single taste. He says, “I was already happy not to be in computing or something like that, to have a respectable career. But once I had the experience of working in some of the UK’s bestknown restaurants, I realized that this is exactly what I want to do for the rest of my life.”

Bawmra Jap arrived in India when Maryam Shahmanesh received a grant from the Wellcome Trust to conduct research in Goa. Bomra’s came into being as a little restaurant serving stylish, modern European food. And then, an epiphany: he decided he would showcase the food of Burma, using all the up-to-date skills he had developed. The move was a success – Bomra’s was soon hailed as the best restaurant in Goa’s crowded, ultra-competitive scene. Eventually, the novelist Amitav Ghosh, whose best-seller The Glass Palace surveys a century of Burmese history, offered an endorsement, which has had a lasting impact. Ghosh, who has a house in Goa, declared, “Bomra’s is the best Burmese restaurant I’ve ever eaten in, anywhere (including Burma). I would go beyond that and say it’s one of the finest South-East Asian restaurants in the world. I’m always astonished that there aren’t long lines at his gates. There certainly would be if his restaurant was situated in London or New York.”

I’ve felt the same way ever since my first taste of Bawmra’s amazing food – but the warm and fuzzies are far away now, as the chef glowers at my beloved Sabatier knife before dismissing it. “Not sharp enough.” The customforged German sharpener I’ve brought earns another sniff, and a whetstone from Mapusa is handed to me: “Use this.” Tut-tut, and tut-tut again, and the knife is taken away from me. It gleams with menace when returned, far sharper than I have ever seen it before, and then, with a solemn nod from Bawmra, the kitchen clicks into gear for the first customers of the day. I’m supposed to be helping with prep work, but it’s all I can do to keep on my feet as the kitchen erupts into a controlled frenzy. Bawmra shouts instructions, steam billows, plates appear at just the right time, become loaded with orders in the blink of an eye, pass the chef’s inspection and disappear out the door. I’m gently nudged this way and that in the assembly line, the only slow-moving turtle in this full-speed ballet of porpoises. Then the inevitable retreat; I back into an open space near the sink and simply watch. This kitchen swings like a great jazz orchestra, its expertise twined together with tremendous flair. The thought comes: this is Brazilian football, the full-on jogo bonito, but I’ve still got to learn to dribble. My heart leaps again with the insight – if I am going to learn from the best, the way to do it is mano-a-mano.

Which brings us to the waterline of Coco Beach, just a quick scooter ride from Bawmra’s restaurant, just us on a quiet patch of sand under the coconuts. Now this is what I’m talking about. Surely this is the right setting for the breakthrough. Out in the open, hungry, with sharp knives and a big fish, it is just us men and the elements. I’m sure this is going to be the moment I’ve been waiting for, this fateful day in my 40th year when I truly become a man among men. Giddy with emotion, I seize the fish and weigh my trusty knife in my palm. A deep breath, and here I go: I’m cutting the head off, and look, there’s the blood and gristle, and I’m not afraid this time. It is a triumph, it is a great shining victory of man over beast. Free at last, free at last – and then I look up to see Bawmra quivering with horror.

“Not that way,” he says, quite gently, but with a note of uncharacteristic anxiety in his voice, something I’ve never heard from him before. “You’ve wasted that nice piece,” he points to what must be a microscopic sliver because I can’t actually see it. Now quite aware that something is going wrong, very wrong, I turn back to the snapper with my confidence in tatters. Fish scales fly. “Not up to standard,” I hear Bawmra whisper almost involuntarily, and I find myself sweating again and becoming aware of a migraine gathering like a black cloud in my frontal lobe. “Not up to standard,” he says once more, with emotion enough to stop me cold. The words sound like a prayer, a plea.

I lift my eyes from the snapper, and there can be no doubt that this man in front of me is in real pain. Why deny it? My glorious breakthrough is causing distress to Bawmra. We’re both trying very hard, but there is obviously something terribly disordered about the exercise. The world feels upsidedown. The mind races with questions in this moment of pure clarity. Should my liberation be the cause of such distress for this genius of a chef? Should I not care about the feelings of this fine man who is veritably my brother, especially since he is in a position to feed us both almost instantly? Would I doodle with a pencil on the canvases of a great painter, or burble nursery rhymes in the ear of an ustad? All besides, can a man be truly free on a stomach as empty as mine? I look at Bawmra, and he looks at me. I lay down the knife and go to get a plate, and the natural order of the universe is restored, harmony once again reigns on this enchanted coastline. Like magic, it appears before me – snapper ceviche fresh from the ocean, translucent with lime, loaded with tang and heat, like an indescribably alluring dream, like a turquoise oasis in the bone-dry desert.

“Now eat,” says Bawmra.


Bomra’s is located on Fort Aguada Road in Candolim, Goa. GQ unreservedly recommends everything on the menu, but you should order at least two of the seared tuna. For reservations, call 098221 06236.

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First published in GQ Indian Edition, February 2009