To London...To London...

The Priest fresh off the boat from the United States of America, climbs an elevated perch to give us the full benefit of his homily. In a voice that drips scorn he says, ‘If you think that when you go to London you will get a job, you are mistaken.’ And then he pauses, so that his contempt can slowly permeate into our body, trickle down our blood and invade every cell. He then adds his awful punch line, ‘unless of course you want to clean toilets,’ quoting Mr. Rane’s awfully vulgar line.

We glance down at our clothes. Suddenly everything seems so tawdry, the new blue striped T-shirt that looked so good and smelt divine feels cheap, that marvelous pair of red high heeled shoes seem well sleazy and flashy and those lovely moccasins carried all the way from London are not the cynosure of every eye anymore.

In one stroke, just one sentence full of venom the Priest has managed to kill everyone’s joy in their work, their life in London, their meetings with friends on a Sunday, he destroyed the anticipation of those parcels sent through relatives and friends filled with nostalgia from home.

The damage was truly done. A couple of days later, Reynold down from London,  to my query ‘What’s life like in London?’ Reynold, looks at me and says in a bewildered and forceful tone. ‘Those toilets are different, people wear a mask, don a pair of gloves. Toilets are never handled manually.’ I am saddened, terribly saddened. Why does a person have to explain to anyone that his job is a respectful one and that what he does is perfectly clean, that his money is not tainted because, his is a menial task.

In another recent post from a Blog, Father Rocha writes and I quote:

Dos livros que então lia recordo-me de um que teria por título  Cazuza. Embora não fosse esse o título, chamava-se assim de certeza , a personagem central da história. O livro era de um autor brasileiro. Quem ? – pergunto agora eu. De capa dura , e ilustrado com grande beleza, a simples traço de tinta-da-china, o livro narrava a história de um menino pobre mas que muito esperto e inteligente dando disso provas   na sua escola primária. O livro  metia também como companheira  do Cazuza uma rapariguinha sensualmente desenhada que muito apelava  à imaginação de um miúdo como eu  que despontava para a adolescência. Como entrara este livro naquele internato, severo e castrador,  onde a única leitura permitida eram as publicações missionárias editadas pelo Seminário  de Cocujães de Portugal ? Quem o teria trazido ? Chego à conclusão , pondo  de parte outras hipóteses, de que o livro brasileiro entrara lá  na bagagem de  um  colega meu, oriundo  duma remota  freguesia  de Salsete cuja população era emigrante. Como a muitos embarcadiços a perspectiva dum  filho padre em casa importava já elevação a nível do  estado social desta casa,  é provável que um destes embarcadiços tivesse encontrado aquele livro  no camarote de um paquete onde viajava uma família  brasileira. O empregado goês  que  faria lá  limpeza  como criado , teria  trazido aquele livro   para o seu filho julgando que  lhe seria útil.’

Briefly Father Rocha narrates an incident from his days at the Seminary somewhere in the 40’s, he talks about a book that tells the story of a young boy, around ten years of age, financially strained but intelligent and diligent. This young boy had as a companion a ‘sensual’ girl his own age. Father Rocha tries his best to remember the author, who incidentally is Machado de Assis and the book his Classic, Dom Casmurro. The protagonist Bento/ Bentinho falls in love with Capitu. The book deals with the question still debated in Brazilian Universities, Did Capitu betray her Bentinho? Or was everything in Bento/Bentinho’s mind?

But I am not here to discuss Capitu’s dilemma, I leave that to the Brazilians. What confounds me is Father Rocha’s attitude. Having read the book, Father Rocha, was terribly perplexed, how could such a book, a book that dealt with the theme of adultery have crept into a Seminary? How did such a book make its presence felt in the ‘severe and castrating influence’ of the Seminary where the only literature permitted were the Missionary Publications edited by the Seminário  de Cocujães from Portugal ?

Who had brought it? How did it get into the Seminary? These thoughts irritated Father Rocha clinging insidiously like a nagging burr. And then, an idea dawns, and I quote:

‘I arrive at the conclusion, after discarding all other hypotheses, that the Brazilian Novel entered the Seminary in the luggage of a fellow seminarian, who hailed from a remote village of Salsete, the population of the said village consisted mainly of seafarers.’ Now we come to the malicious part, those  barbs directed by priests from their high pulpits ‘To many of the seafarers the prospect of having a son as a Priest elevated their social status, it elevated the entire Family.’

Father Rocha has now distanced himself from the seafarers family, put a gulf between him and the ‘boy from the remote village of Salsete, whose father was a seafarer’ because no one in his family has been elevated by Father Rocha joining the Priesthood. 

Now he continues with malice and spite, ‘It is probable that one of the seafarers had found the book, Dom Casmurro (my words) in the cabin of a passenger liner, the cabin of a Brazilian family. The Goan seafarer must have picked it up, when he as a servant cleaned the room of the Brazilian family. He picked it up thinking it might be of use to his son.

Having read the book, I can say it is an exciting read the question of adultery always perks us up. But the pertinent question here is, ‘Why did Father Rocha assume that the seafarer could not read Dom Casmurro himself? The seafarer could have and must have read books; Portuguese after all was the language even of remote villages in Salcete. But Father Rocha has already in his malicious manner pointed it out to us clearly; the seafarer was a servant and therefore illiterate.

Why is it that people in high places, be it Priests and Politicians, pour their venom, their scorn on people  who leave their villages, their families and all that is precious to them in search of a better living? Why aren’t we excited and happy that People everywhere are doing better. Why aren’t we joyous at the prospect that there is a scope to learn something new, something different? What stops us from realizing that everybody benefits, most of all children, that kids experience new ways and cultures and are thus enriched forever?

I wait at a Bank and a pretty, young woman sits next to be me, a trendy black and a white dress, a pair of red shoes, hair up in a top knot with streaks in it , a bag which smacks of London. We smile. I think maybe she is the granddaughter of the Seafarer from a remote village of Salsete, who decided that bringing books for his son was worth the while instead of the ubiquitous ball of yellow Edam cheese wrapped in red wax paper.