There he is! Tall and thin, a licensed advocate, lord of countless fields, palm orchards … With his aquiline nose and pale, aristocratic hands …
There he is, dashing from window to window of the ghor-bhat, now one, now the next, following the advance of the coconut pluckers.
From one window to another he scuttled, shouting all the while, gesticulating, even squealing! Apre! So slight but a bundle of nerves, a human dynamo…. The workers out in the orchard muffled their laughter. The boldest amongst them, who remembered him playing with a little silver trinket in his cot, shot straight back, hands on hips, ‘Enough now, bhatcar, ahn? We’ve only got one pair of hands!’
In reply to which came a squeal from the window, ‘I’m not talking to you, Zuan. But look at Rita. Those two coconuts she dropped from her basket on purpose. Her son snatched them up and ran off with them…’
‘Saiba,’ said Rita unfazed, as she strode disdainfully on. Her hips rolled like the waves of the nearby ocean, whose breeze knew every secret of her svelte body. Was she coveted by the young bhatcar? Who could say?
After overseeing that wearisome task – the coconuts now safely plucked and stored in the lojas, the annexes of the house – Dom Teotónio sat down to reread a letter from his married sister Eulália in Arjuna. He was the only male scion of his noble family.
His thoughts lingered pleasurably over the lines informing him that Eulália planned to return home to receive the Viscount’s proposal in person. That the Viscount wished to negotiate Dom Teotónio’s union to his eldest daughter, the finely educated, fourteen-year-old Emília, accompanied by two members of his entourage. Toninho shouldn’t worry about a thing! His sister would bring all they needed: prawn rissóis, pork empadinhas and a sweet rosca. She had been told the Viscount was a teetotaller and so resolved to serve hot chocolate in the Satsuma cups Ti-Padre had got in Shanghai. Dom Teotónio marvelled at his sister’s precision and efficiency. What could the little Viscountess be like?
By the time negotiations had concluded, the wedding was almost upon them. His parents long deceased, the callow, nineteen-year-old groom got jittery and vented spleen on his hapless servants. He fretted that everything was going awry and laid the blame on Calpá, his mukadem of Damanese origin. And so he would lambast the wretch, ‘Now you tell me the tiara isn’t done? There’s only a week to go before the ceremony. Where the hell is that bloody goldsmith? Oh the swine, living off my coconuts from Poriat! Ahn? What’s that mountebank playing at? He was supposed to bring me that tiara yesterday. Now he probably won’t even get it to me today. Damn crook! Swine, like all the rest of you! I’m surrounded by swine!
‘What’s that goldsmith up to? Playing me for a fool? Thinks he can get away with it, ahn? Look, tell him he has till tomorrow to bring me that tiara! This is my final warning! Tomorrow … do you hear me? I must have it tomorrow, or I’ll put his eyes out! The swine! Go on. Hop to it!’
Calpá scarpered from the high-voltage force field radiating from Dom Teotónio! Early the next morning he dashed, nay flew over to the goldsmith Raiu’s house, only coming to a gasping halt before his door. There Raiu stood, bare-chested and with a red kukum on his forehead, performing his daily rituals before the sacred tulas, as he did each day at sunrise. Crouching at the threshold, Calpá pitied the goldsmith, whom he considered an honest, pious man who enjoyed direct communion with the gods!
His observances complete, Raiu walked over to Calpá. An aura of sanctity, it seemed to the Damanese, encircled his face. For this reason the mukadam addressed him humbly, not with the haughtiness his bhatcar had ordered.
‘Arey, Raiu, will you bring the tiara today? The bhatcar is spitting tacks. Making my life hell … Bapia, bring it quickly, man. It’ll take you no time to do it. Get cracking now and bring it over this afternoon…’
‘Hold your tongue!’ Raiu roared. ‘When I say I’ll bring something, I bring it. But my work needs inspiration. It’s Art! First I must consult Parvati at the temple in Camurlim, my and the fiancée’s native village. What are you thinking, Calpá? We’re not talking about Damanese casuarinas or coconut saddles, you ignoramus. But Art!’
Humiliated, lower than the dust on the road, Calpá scratched his balding pate and still tried to haggle, ‘But bring it within the next two days at the latest. There’s only a week to go until the wedding.’
‘I will,’ Raiu answered laconically.
Two days? Five empty mornings came and went with no sign of that tiara! Dom Teotónio bucked about like a jumpy colt. Amid shouts and complaints, he called poor Calpá every name under the sun…
Giving up on the tiara, Dom Teotónio climbed into the loft to look for a substitute among his family heirlooms. The jewel chest contained a huge velvet finger the colour of dry peppers, threaded with rings of different sizes; a belt of gold coins, necklaces, bracelets, gold and silver ornaments for the flanks of male babies, called muses, and decorative belts for the loins of girls, known as thogords. But nothing suitable for a bride!
Exasperated, Dom Teotónio slammed the chest shut, closed the trapdoor and made his way down the steps, grumbling to himself, ‘Let Eulália sort it out … The swine! That rotten goldsmith! I’ll teach that bloody crook a lesson!’
Only two days were left before the wedding and the tiara still hadn’t been delivered. The goldsmith was nowhere to be found. Poor Calpá did his best to keep out of Dom Teotónio’s way…
But, as if under a spell, Dom Teotónio displayed absolute calm, bantering with the charwomen polishing his mosaic floor, whose traditional garb revealed alluring swells and soft round thighs. Dom Teotónio inquired perkily: ‘Where’s that good-for-nothing got to?’
The women laughed and asked: ‘Who, bhatcar?’
‘That fool Damanese. Who else?’
‘Ahn, Calpá? I think he’s in Anjuna,’ said one. ‘I’ll send him over as soon as he gets back.’
‘Listen, Morgorit, have him come up to my room,’ said Dom Teótonio with a smirk as he sauntered away.
It was late afternoon when Calpá received his summons to the bhatcar’s chamber.
‘What? In his chamber? But why? The goldsmith hasn’t been, has he?’
‘No,’ the charwomen replied.
‘But … up to his chamber. What does he want? To punish me no doubt. A thrashing in store all because of that goldsmith! Thwack me, bash me and crunch my bones…’ Calpá whispered as he edged open the door to Dom Teotónio’s room.
Bap, ré! What was this he saw? Atop the bedside table, a wicker tray literally crammed with bones: femurs, cartilage, tibias and even the muzzle of a fully furred animal with gaping, glassy eyes and snarling teeth…. Ram, Ram, what a macabre sight! Calpá felt faint and crouched down on the floor right there and then. Deva! They weren’t human bones, no! But still! Ram, Ram, what a stench! Was the bhatcar out of his mind? It often happened! Perhaps they hadn’t performed their devotions to the dead, to the souls of the house! Deva, what could he want? The bones weren’t human, no! But…
‘Look, Calpá, do you see these bones?’ asked Dom Teotónio, pointing to the tray.
Calpá nodded, averting his gaze from those foul scraps. Suddenly he had trouble breathing. Hum! It was the souls of the house come to take away his voice…
‘Calpá, listen,’ continued Dom Teotónio. ‘This is the plan: go over to that crook Raiu’s in the dead of night and spread these bones quietly over his patio, do you hear? Put the muzzle at the foot of his tulas and the rest by his door. The swine! I never thought he would play such a dirty trick on me! Insult me like this! Me, Dom Teotónio! A lowlife goldsmith who doesn’t keep his word! A mountebank! I want to profane what he holds sacred. You, Calpá, will follow my instructions to the letter!’
Unable even to look at the bones, Calpá felt a surge of nausea well up inside him, filling his cheeks. He struggled to his feet and, with one hand clutching his belly and the other covering his mouth, staggered over to the window and spewed up the canjee he’d eaten. Apre!
His stomach was turned inside out! He heard Dom Teotónio comment, ‘Ahn, it’s you vomiting now, Calpá. Later Raiu will do the same. Let him die retching his guts out. Now, go and rest. I’ll come with you!’
Calpá reeled along the lengthy passage leading to the kitchen. He stopped at the far end and, from a niche, extracted his bottle of feni, the only balm that soothed after the bhatcar’s attacks. He downed the contents and rested his puny body on the kitchen bench. A death-like weariness came over him. Late that night, a hideous reek assaulted his nostrils. He woke with a start! He peered into the gloom only to make out the slim figure of Dom Teotónio, cane in one hand, the other carrying that load of fetid bones! Ram, Ram, he was dead set on his plan! He heard the bhatcar’s voice whisper, ‘Psst! Wake up. Let’s go. Time to carry out your instructions!’
The two men plunged into the inky blackness. Along the path to Raiu’s house the darkened palms seemed like monstrous bhutas lying in wait for prey. He kept his distance from them, but all the same the moringa tree before him filled with black cats. Ram, Ram, how that bundle stank of death! He turned and spat several times, using the opportunity to check whether the bhatcar was really still following behind. He was! He was insane! Oh God, those black cats wouldn’t stop their yowling. Oh yes! All this area belonged to Kali. Poriat had always been haunted. Just as well he had numbed himself with that feni! Where had the bhatcar got to?
A new day broke, as radiant a morning as Goa ever saw! All was calm; all was clean. The baker’s staff with its little bells woke Calpá. Ram, Ram, what an awful nightmare! Could it really have happened? Or was it just a dream? Please let it be a dream…
By midday, the house was full: carriages, old jalopies, palanquins, victorias and coupés discharged guests arriving from afar. In the kitchen, the drivers wet their whistles with gusto. And Calpá too was drawn into the whirl of revelry and merriment. The invitations, after all, had read ‘the days before and after the wedding’.
There were cottages in the ghor-bhat where the relatives were lodged, though only to sleep, as meals were in the main house. A great hubbub now broke the monotony of Dom Teotónio’s mansion. Happily, everything was in hand. The Peniche lace finishes now proudly displayed the groom’s family crest picked out in gold.
Dom Teotónio frowned and perused the note Eulália had placed in his hands: ‘Don’t forget: bowler hat, spats, wing collar, gloves (for groom), caller, Froilano (send word)…’
Somebody shouted:
‘Bhatcar, bhatcar, Raiu’s here!’
Dom Teotónio hurried out to the balcão. What was this he saw? Encircled by Dom Teotónio’s relatives stood Raiu, like Cerberus with a jewel case in one hand. He strode up to Dom Teotónio and, after the usual greetings, requested gemstones to set in the tiara he had brought!
Dom Teotónio was left speechless, at a loss for what to say or do. He ordered Raiu to wait in the dining room and summoned his steward, who fetched the gems selected to decorate the bride’s tiara: emeralds, amethysts and two rubies.
Raiu opened his case. Oh! Upon jambul-coloured velvet lay a bare tiara in the form of a peacock, its dashing train outspread. What a marvel!
The womenfolk fell silent in awe. Dom Teotónio, insensible to Art, thought the ornament very intricate, a work of Eastern craftsmanship, yes, but certainly a finely executed piece. They would appreciate it in Camurlim…
Raiu, the womenfolk crowding round, set to work. He heated his blade over a flame and began to set the gems into the tiara. Once the rubies were in place, the peacock’s eyes glinted blood red, two suns plunging into the sea!
Amid the hubbub, Dom Teotónio sat slumped in his armchair. He swore to himself that the tiara would never have materialised were it not for the bones.
‘All done,’ said Raiu with a smile, after applying the final touches.
The peacock’s enamelled plumage set with emeralds was a wonder to behold and its ruby eyes flashed erotically, like Parvati tantalising Vishnu. Beaming at the women all around him, Raiu handed the box to Dom Teotónio. With a regal bow, he addressed the bhatcar in the vernacular, quietly wishing him a happy future. Rattled, Dom Teotónio couldn’t thank Raiu enough. The goldsmith just stood there, tall in stature, a far-off look in his eyes, his bearing that of a Rajput prince.
‘Look, take as many coconuts as you wish, from all the harvests of my orchard at Poriat. Take them all.’
Raiu smiled enigmatically, before making his stately way down the vast stairway of the balcão and heading off towards the beach.
Dom Teotónio was left oddly dissatisfied. He wandered sullenly through his mansion, ostensibly inspecting the arrangements for the wedding but seeing nothing.
The cooks were due to arrive that afternoon. Stones had been left for them in the outhouses, for the fires upon which, in enormous bronze vessels, they would prepare the delicacies for Dom Teotónio’s fabulous wedding. Everywhere food was being made ready. Gigantic legs of ham hung above the hearths in the kitchens. A rhapsodic cacophony of ducks, hens and turkeys filled the yard. Huge fish would be brought in from Baga, shellfish from Siolim, blocks of ice for the champagne would arrive by cart. A soda machine had been set up on the patio, a primitive-looking contraption, like something from the age of James Watt! A regiment of sorbet churns formed a line along the walls of the corridor. Pankas mounted in strategic locations would provide ventilation and waiters in immaculate livery would mingle with the guests, proffering trays.
At long last the great day arrived. The wedding ball was a triumph! The two Miranda brothers played on dual grand pianos. A band with fourteen musicians on stage in the hall. Fireworks till daybreak!
The party was a real blowout! The governors of Damão and Diu, council members, the Governor General with his military and civil staff, deputies, judges of the court! The crème de la crème of yesteryear were in attendance at Dom Teotónio’s wedding: the Rane of Maulinguem with his Himalayan turban, the King of Sundem, his slippers edged in pure gold, striking a rich note of oriental colour amidst the solemn black-and-white of those dress jackets, frock coats and blazers! The gold of the epaulettes and the golden purple of the pano-bajus with zardozi mingled with the heavy brocade dresses of the European and Goan ladies. What splendour! But nothing was more splendid than the bride’s tiara, which looked as if it were snatched from some temple goddess, making the petite bride seem taller and more statuesque.
The ball drew to a close, giving way to preparations for the second day of the wedding. As was de rigueur, the family and a few friends of the Viscount were coming to supper. Eulália was exhausted, hardly having recovered from the exertions of the ball, and still needing to oversee that day’s meal. The vast dining table had already been laid. The bride was wearing a pink toilette brought straight from Paris, with bustle, corset and train. The eyes of the peacock on her tiara seemed to drink in the blush of her toilette. It was all like a second marriage service…
The master of ceremonies announced in a loud voice:
‘Ladies and gentlemen: the contredanse of honour … Will the gentlemen please ask the ladies for their carnets…’
There was a crush around Celeste Souto Maior. But only Dr Froilano de Melo managed to get his name pencilled into her dance card…
Once the dance had finished, Celeste returned giggling and red-faced to her Mama’s side.
‘What is it, daughter?’
‘Oh, Mama, Dr Melo went on and on in that impeccable French he speaks and his goatee brushed my chest. Irra! How scratchy! When the call came for the balancé avec sa dame I felt my legs tremble!’
‘Listen here, daughter, a man’s height doesn’t matter, what counts is his intellect!’
‘Yes, yes. I know. He’s a petit savant.’
Brandishing her lorgnette, Madame Souto Maior commented, ‘Oh my, daughter, this second-day party is simply sumptuous!’
Now the master of ceremonies announced, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen: the Meireles sisters in honour of the happy couple, playing Schubert’s Ave Maria.’
Everyone fell silent.
There was applause, shouts of ‘bravo’ and ‘encore’.
‘What a superb rendition‘, said Dona Mitó in wonderment.
Once again the master of ceremonies, ‘Will the ladies please take their places by the windows. Dancers will now perform in honour of the happy couple.’
In the distance but growing nearer, the sound of drums could be heard. The dancers appeared. A whole horde of them, mounted on white horses, wearing colourful turbans, swords in hands. They trotted up to the house, riders swaying from side to side and waving their weapons in the air. They resembled an Indian cavalry regiment on parade. On a white pony rode their leader. He alone wore a sort of mask half-covering his face. Strings of pearls decorated his cobalt-blue turban and, in his hand, he held a peacock-feather fan. The group arrived at the balcão and from there strode up into the waiting room. As they didn’t all fit there they spilled over into the hall.
Dom Teotónio glanced apprehensively up at the chandeliers and glass shades, all at risk from wayward swords. But he was powerless. According to the protocols of those times, this spectacle, or khell, was a gift from his subjects to honour the bride. But Dom Teotónio couldn’t see a single known face among the newcomers!
‘Santo Deus! Why on earth have they entered the hall?’
The master of ceremonies was dumbfounded! The ladies, particularly the Europeans, quickly made themselves scarce. The clangour of the drums was unbearable! Clutching train holders with trembling hands, they all fell back to the dining room.
Now, in India, anything is possible. What if the masked horseman snatched one of them? But where was the papa of Mademoiselle Souto Maior? Ahn, he was in the museum room blithely playing poker with the Viscount and other gentlemen. Oh God! Mademoiselle Souto Maior was standing with the bride, who didn’t seem in the least bit scared. Oh my! She was so young! Lord above! Anything is possible in India...
Suddenly the masked horseman loomed up in the doorway connecting the hall to the dining room. With his fan he signalled to his men, who marched forward in immaculate formation without so much as brushing the chandeliers and shades. They took position around the long buffet table, which was chock full of crockery and glassware, the pride of that era.
Dom Teotónio began to panic as the men advanced. He scanned the room for his wife with startled eyes … Ahn, there she was with her maids of honour. Dom Teotónio thought he should be by her side, child that she was! He threaded his way to her through the dancers. But, embarrassed at having her husband close, she bowed her head a little and the tiara slid askew. In a daze, Dom Teotónio waited for one of the maids to straighten it. What maids? Nobody was there; they had slipped away in fear of the armed men…
That’s when the masked horseman strode up. With a bow to Dom Teotónio as if asking permission, he straightened the tiara on the bride’s head and, in one smooth movement, turned to make a mysterious gesture with his fan to the dancers. Without a moment’s hesitation they swished through the crockery and glassware on the long table with their swords. Four of them broke away from the formation, grasped the damask tablecloth by its four corners and tipped it over onto the floor. Shards flew, the crash of splintering vessels mixing with the drumbeat left Dom Teotónio petrified! Chaos, squealing, uproar … Mademoiselle Souto Maior all atremble at the approach of the masked horseman began to wail hysterically, clutched the little hand of the bride and sought refuge in the doorway to the room where her papa was…
Who were they? Who was that masked man? Where was the master of ceremonies? Nobody knew! Pandemonium ... Muffled wailing in the alcoves and corridors … Heavens above! Even in his state of shock Dom Teotónio found reserves of courage, perhaps in his noble ancestry, and faced the dacoit, who stood there calmly, his posture that of a Rajput prince. Standing ramrod stiff, with a thunderous voice that didn’t seem to issue from his scrawny frame, Dom Teotónio bellowed, ‘Arey, filho da puta! Who the hell are you?’
There in the huge dining room, glinting fragments littering the floor, the vast bare table like a strange battlefield between them, Dom Teotónio stood like a shell-shocked penguin and faced the masked intruder. The man began to walk towards Dom Teotónio as if intent on ‘settling the score’. Now he was right before the impassive, but resolute bhatcar. With a martial flourish he unmasked himself and regarded Dom Teotónio, Eyes gleaming with sated vengeance he declared, ‘It is I … bhatcar!’
And then he calmly made his way down the vast stairway of the balcão to join his companions, who had taken up position at the bottom.
What of Dom Teotónio?
Well now! As if struck by lightning and reduced to a heap of ash, he collapsed on his chair, which was known in the family as ‘The Inquisition Chair’…
And as my readers will know, in that house, to this day, there isn’t much in the way of fine china…
*
Maria Elsa da Rocha (1924-2005) was one of the last Portuguese-language Goan writers. A primary school teacher by profession, her short stories appeared in what survived of the Portuguese-language print and broadcast media after the integration of Goa into India in 1961. In 2006, from the 25 or so short stories she produced, a selection was published in Goa under the title Vivências Partilhadas [Shared Lives].
‘Dom Teotónio’ is one of the few historical stories in this collection. Drawing on family lore, it conjures up with affection the past of Goa’s Catholic gentry – with all the pageantry that surrounds the marriage of the native Brahmin Christian Dom Teotónio – but also with sly intent. We not only glimpse the labour upon which this wealth and privilege depended but also the fragile nature of the prepotency it rendered possible, and which has been largely swept away by history.
*
Paul Melo e Castro lectures in Portuguese and Comparative Literature at the University of Glasgow. He has a long-standing interest in the Portuguese-language literature of Goa and is an occasional translator. His translations of Goan literature have appeared in Indian Literature, Muse India and Govapuri, amongst others. His most recent book-length translation is Vimala Devi’s Monsoon, Seagull, 2019.