Bhangreagher ou Tarleagher oitai rê? A tribute of gratitude to my neighbour Dr. Jose Francisco Pereira

I get down in a hurry from the bus. It is hot and I am terribly sweaty. I am in search of the Miranda house and I barely know this place.

‘Mirandachem ghór khuim? I ask in general to a bunch of motorcycle pilots and other men.

‘Mirand?, Mirand? Mirand mhunlo khonn rhê? Arrê Bondea kapp, Mirand  konn rhê?

A great deal of head scratching and earnest conversation. Mirand?

Annnnnh, Tem ghór  rhê, ekhli bhail rabta. Bag khandar marun sogleak bonvta, tambrem lipstick ghalun. 

Tikhore motranchi ghari nam, sogleak chomkun bonvta...

Motranchi ghari nam? Avôi, sogleam kodde ghadi assa mure...

Het, oghi rab, tem Kotekachem ghór...Pisso mure tum.

An animated conversation envelops me...
Whilst they discuss this Kotek Woman.  I am anxious, how do I get to this elusive Miranda House. My blouse sticks to my back, it’s stifling and my shoulder bag weighs a ton, digging into my shoulder horribly. I am dreadfully thirsty and at the back of my mind a question,
‘How the hell will I get back? ’And the eternal question, when will I find this d@#$ Miranda house?’
 And then in a flash, something perks up in a tiny corner of my mind, my Father once mentioning,

Tumim, Tarleachem ghór  zanann?

Kitem,? Tum Tarleagher ossunk sodtai? Saiba, poilench kiteak mhunok nam?

Arrê, Kodig, tik Tarleagher hór mure...

Avôi ghe, Tarleachem ghór pois murre, tea Khursa Kodde. Mughe tyre boro nam...

Padd poddun, tum hinga zok kiteak martai rhê? Tugelo tyre keddnam borro nam... Khurbani, tika Tarleagher hor mhurê...

And I am zipping past to Tarleagher...

Cognomens are the life blood of my village. What would we do without them? Most of the times, their origins lost in olden days, sometimes their meaning vanished with hardly a trace. Of course when coined, they must have meant something, indicated some quirk about the family.

 ‘Móddso’, a large fish, what were my neighbours doing with a Móddso?
Did they deal in Fish? As far as I know...never.
Did they eat large quantities of Moddso? Perhaps...
But why only Moddso, why not Visôn, a large fish too.
Lost forever. A tiny nugget of my village.

‘Kuddkurro’ much easier to figure out. A large mango tree grew in their yard, if a ripe mango was picked and shaken, but tell me why would anyone shake a ripe mango?
But we did... Because if you did, there was a kutt, kutt sound when the stone hit the flesh.
The priest in the house, Padre Almeida, was generous, allowed us to pick the mangoes, laughed aloud when we told him the reason.  

Then Kotek from Côteto. The great grandfather having said Côteto instead of cathetus / catete, the hypotenuse of a right angled triangle.
The crazy great grandfather, Remedios, liked it so much, that he adopted it as a part of his surname, loved the fact that people actually knew him because of an inaccuracy.
Crazy blood runs everywhere...

Sometimes however, there is a great deal of malice in the choice of the cognomen.
We have Landdó , which has a much deeper and a more malicious meaning than maybe the other cognomens.
Landdó, actually means someone who has had his tail chopped off. Maybe belittling the caste origins?
You little upstart, you actually thought you could swim with the big fish?
You really believe you can cohabitate with the big animals?
Sadly, you are just an imitator; just think of yourself as a Landdó, don’t forget your origins, you are a cut tail...(Do we know these family?)

But what really befuddled us was Bhôt... 

To us Bhôt should have been a Hindu, but they went for Mass, dressed like our Parents. Wore trousers, wore shirts, suits for funerals even in broiling heat. 

Bhôt, to us were those gentlemen, who like my friend, Prabha Dhume’s Grandfather, wore an immaculate dhoti, a black coat and a black cap on his greying head and went for his walk in the garden to meet his cronies, sometimes a walking stick completed the ensemble.

But my neighbours were faultlessly Catholic. Where did this Bhôt come from then?

 It has been hammered into our heads that the best aspect of colonization is the Uniform Civil Code. 
Of course it has been debated long and hard. 
Some say that the best of the Portuguese Legacy are the ‘azulejos forgetting their Moorish roots, others that it is the Blue and White china affectionately called ‘Macau but... 

The Jurists look down their noses at us; give us a hard stare, as only they know how. There is nothing more beautiful and wholesome as the Uniform Civil Code. 
It shouts out loud, ‘We Are One’ and where else do we have such a lovely thought, no distinction between Hindus, Muslims or Christians. 

Marriages in Goa work on this premise, so anybody who marries, will have a two-part marriage, the sacred and the profane.
The Church absolutely takes care of the sacred.
The profane however is left to the laymen.
As in everything modalities have to be worked out.
Unlike the sacred part, the profane part of the Marriage involves a Public Office, the Registrars, which always is in the nearest town.
Now, how will the tribals, the goatherds, reach the nearest Town when it involves people of limited financial means?
Should they give up an entire day’s work just to get married?
Who knows the whims and concerns of people who work long hard hours?
All of a sudden they may just say, ‘Padd porum, goroz nam khuim ospak, ingach kazar zauia, mugo?
Those concerned may just give up and say what the f@#$%^, we do not need someone writing our names in a Register, do we really know what they are writing about us?
So they may start living together without a marriage...

Of course that sends a collective shiver down the spine of the Church.
Sin.

So this is where the Bhôt comes in, our very own neighbour, Dr. Francisco Jose Pereira.
A tired Doctor practicing medicine, worn-out from those midnight calls,

‘Dotor Bab, bail bori nam’

‘Kitem zalam rhê?’

‘Pottan dukota, bab zaupap eilla...’
 
Every day of every year...  House calls, rain or heavy rain, never a break from this rigorous routine.

‘ Anton, cycle ha mhure?'

'Nam Dotor Bab.'

'Tughem Ghor?'

'Divula khore...' (Around five miles, up a steep hill)

Hardly ever any transport. Sometimes not even a rickety cycle.

Medicine at its most raw, no unnecessary tests, just an intrinsic feeling born out of long years of practice, plain diagnosis without the aid of a million different tests, the bane of modern medicine.
But despite all these constraints, Doctor Bab never gives up.
He the Man used to intense suffering; he knows what makes the people of his village tick. 
Their financial constraints...
Their utter tiredness...
Their ignorance of how Rules and Regulations work.

So when approached to take up the job of Chief Registrar, he takes it up in addition to his arduous duties as a Medical Doctor.
So Dotor Bab/ Bhôt, Dr. Francisco Jose Pereira, is in charge of the profane part of the marriage of his own village and that of around seven surrounding villages.
Of course it goes without saying, that if people marry, they will beget and multiply and as all of us, will someday die.
Dr. Francisco Jose Pereira, has his hands full, his duties as a Medical Doctor and all those additional tasks of registering the Marriages, Births and Deaths as well as the innumerable Certificates.
In fact Dr. Francisco Jose Pereira, knows each and every secret of every person in his village and every village surrounding his.
A powerful person but an intensely humble human being. 

As in anything in life, there were little perks, which may not seem great to us steeped as we are in an abysmally materialistic society we live in.
His little grandsons, Francisco affectionately called 'Buchulo' by us all and Celio,  wait in glee for a Civil Ceremony to happen, lots of little gifts coming their way.
Goatherds from remote areas bringing fresh cheeses in small woven receptacles, so fresh and as we would like to say ‘so very organic’.
Sweets of freshest ghee, laddoos, peddas.

Tia Juanita says,
‘What would you like with your tea?’
There is an argument, a minor one, peddas or laddoos.
They settle for a pedda and a laddoo apiece.
Tia Juanita heaves a sigh; she is patient, her task is to take care of two little boys Buchulo and Celio...

Legend has it however, that the crabs did not go down well with an elderly lady of the family.
Was it the quality of the crabs? Or was it the quantity of the crabs? 

The residents of the Neighboring town would have said, 

‘Do not eat crabs at night...’ Is it for health reasons? Or...?

But then I am not here to dwell on the denizens of the nearest town. Am I?

I however salute and thank this brave Doctor, Dr. Francisco Jose Pereira, this beautiful unsung human being as well as his Successor, Dr. Kusha Kuchadkar.

We owe them everything...

Glossary

‘Mirandachem ghor khuim? (Where is the Miranda House?)

‘Mirand?, Mirand? Mirand mhunlo konn rê? Arrê Bondea kapp, Mirand  konn rê? (Miranda? Miranda? Who is this Miranda, Bondea kapp who is Miranda?)

Annnnnh, Tem ghor  rê, ekli bhail ravta. Bag khandar marun sogleak bonvta, tambrem lipstick galun.
(That house man, a lone woman lives there. She always walks around the village, with a bag slung over her shoulder, red lipstick.)

Tikore motrachi ghari nam, sogleak chomkun bonvta...
(She does not have a car, she walks everywhere)

Motrachi ghari nam? Avoi, soglean kodde gadi assa mure...
(Doesn’t have a car, God, everybody has a car)

Het, oghi rav, tem Kotekachem ghor...Pisso mure tum.
(Just shut up, that’s the Côteto residence...You are mad)

Tumim, Tarleachem ghor  zanai?
(Do you know the Tarlo house, (cognomen)?)

Kitem,? Tum Tarleagher ossunk sodtai? Saiba, poilench kiteak mhunok nai?
(What? You want to go to the Tarlo house, God, why didn’t you say so?)

Arrê, Kodig, tika Tarleagher ôr mure...
(Hey Kodig, take her to the Tarlo House)

Avôi ghe, Tarleachem ghor pois murre, tea Khursa Kodde. Mughe tyre boro nam...
(Boy, Tarlo’s house is far, near that Cross, My tyre is not so good...)

Padd poddun, tum hinga zok kiteak maddai rê, tugelo tyre keddnam borro nam... Khurbani, tika Tarleagher hor rê...
(Go to hell, why do you keep your bike here, your tyre is never ok. Khurbani take her to Tarlo’s house)

Padd porum, goroz nam khuim ospak, inga kazar zauia, mugo?
(Go to hell, there is no need to go anywhere, we shall get married here itself, isn’t it)

‘Dotor Bab, bail bori nam’
(Doctor my wife isn’t feeling well)

‘Kitem zalam rê?’
(What’s happened?)

‘Potan dukota, bab zaupap oita...’
(Pain in the stomach, she is getting a baby...)

‘Anton, cycle ha mure?
(Anton, do you have a cycle?)

Nam Dotor Bab.
(No, Doctor)

Tughe Ghor?
(Where is your house?)

Divula khore...
(Next to the temple)