The Bakaar’s Funeral

Dom Remedios Silva is dead. May God grant him rest!

He lay in a coffin, a look of merry amusement on his face.

Dressed in his wedding suit, now 54 years too old and two sizes too small, he lay looking rather stuffed and stiff in his satin lined coffin. Those who had dressed him for his final journey had done a good job. He lay well groomed and clean - a contrast to the merry drunkard that he had been in life! A rosary in his gloved hands, and wearing the mantle of the Confraria, he looked prepared and ready to give the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost a true count of the 'little pegs' that had kept him company in life. He lay in state in his ‘salle grande’ with all his venerable ancestors keeping an uncomfortable vigil from their frames on the walls.

The house had been washed and cleaned for the occasion. The finest crochet on display, fresh flowers, and the perpetual cobwebs over the family portraits temporarily removed. His mundkar women had descended on the house on hearing of his death and lovingly cleaned that dismal rotting grand mansion and its environs. In life Dom Silva had been the principal ‘Bakaar’ and had to be sent to Happy Hunting Grounds as such.


Those venerable nonagenarians, incapacitated by age and cataract, had suitably perched themselves in front of the family altar storming heaven for his soul’s salvation with their Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s. The men, of course, played a role of far vital role; they perched themselves on the Balcao and around the compound repeating the tale of Dom Silva and his life, suddenly so illustrious and fictitious, so that even the odd stranger who strayed into the yard would be forced to pay homage to that ‘Pillar of Society’ who, till yesterday, was the village Bebdo.

The family was in shock and deep mourning. Dom Silva died childless, preceded by his wife Anna Maria, and was the last of his siblings. His two nieces and their husbands had rushed home on hearing the news, after making suitable stops to buy the latest in funeral dresses. Donna Aura and her husband, the henpecked Dom Peregrino, and the sultry widowed Donna Fausta were both deeply shaken. They wailed for suitable periods of time and then rested; the strain of having to resume lamentations for their Tio Remmie, whom they had not visited for years, every time a relative came to pay respects was beginning to show on them. The devastated Dom Peregrino steeled his nerves by suitable and periodic draughts from his rum bottle. This devoted family of three seated themselves on the heavily carved furniture alongside the open coffin with a look of perpetual grief captured on their faces, specially designed for the occasion, as people poured in.

The funeral was the following morning. Meanwhile, the village cook had been summoned and was suitably cooking sumptuous food to reward the visitors for their acts of homage. The rooster and two his concubines had lost their lives to share in the enthusiasm of Dom Remmie’s death. Sufficient food and drink lay stocked in the larder to accommodate the string of visitors, none of whom could be sent away hungry. Goan hospitality in the face of death itself!

At nightfall the family retired, after taking suitable possession of family jewels and valuables. Some stoic villagers and two long candles kept vigil by his coffin, and the chant of holy rosaries died away as the pious lips dozed. The bells of the nearby church, which had been pealing regularly for the Bakaar at Rs 10 a set, were now quiet. All through the evening Jack Rosario, the village simpleton, had ridden hard on his bicycle, ringing the hand held bell he carried, to announce the sad tidings and inform those who asked him of the funeral details so that they could plan their shopping and other activities accordingly. Stillness crept into the house as the night advanced. Far away in the news press the 5 names and 3 surnames of the deceased were published, along with a 30 year old photograph of him and his connections to all his 59 relatives through blood and marriage, deceased and alive, interested and disinterested.

Morning dawned and, as the newspapers were delivered, people in mourning - men in black suits and women in mourning dresses with shades chosen commensurate with the level of closeness to the dearly departed ranging from deep black to light blue - started arriving for the funeral. Quick checks were done on whether the Don had, in his life, sent wreaths to their own family funerals and other eligibility criteria for granting him one. Every family made sure they were suitably represented. The death of the Bakaar was, after all, no light matter.

Half an hour before the scheduled time for the cortege to make it’s way to the church, the brass band assembled outside to play their doleful marches. The unattended little children danced with glee. The house was jam packed; women watched their husband’s roving eyes; unmarried spinsters looked hopefully at the smartly dressed men who cast fleeting glances and winks in their direction. A few scandals of the family were whispered back and forth. Finally the priest arrived and blessed the deceased in his coffin. The coffin was carried out. The funeral procession, led by the children, the women, the men, the confreres, the priest, the hearse, the family, the brass band, and the late arrivals in the same order, wound their way to the church, and then to his final resting place.

In death perhaps, the lonely man enjoyed affection, glory, honor, company, and society that was denied to him in life! Here at least must the living envy the dead!

Credits: The images used above are copies of the awesome work by Mario Miranda. They capture the essence of Goa beautifully! Every Goan should at least get prints of his work!

Ode to Curd Rice

An anniversary brings nostalgia, be it one to commemorate birth, death, marriage, or any other ‘need to forget’, or ‘want to remember’ event. Today marks the completion of one year in Bangalore for me, and that little bug that scratches at a writer’s brain, till he has expressed himself with as much creativity as ‘Times New Roman’ or ‘Arial’ will allow, is at work again.

The first thing that strikes you about the City is its scenery. You will find astonishingly ‘chaste’ pockets of old world Bangalore such as Cubbon Park and Lalbagh, and a sprinkling of modern landscaping wonders, such as the Jayprakash Park. A lot of private properties also hide little patches of green, well protected by those high granite walls with ‘Do not Urine Here’ posters pasted at two metre intervals. I am not sure how effective this is, but a walk along any footpath will tell you that some taps, of a certain masculine variety, never run dry, and effectively keep the pavements moist even if ‘Kaveri’ water taps and bore wells fail to do so. These granite pavements are further designed such that every other slab is placed at an odd angle to the next so that you may enjoy something akin to a ‘lunar’ jog in your zealous exploration of the
city.

One year and my Kannada vocabulary is still shamefully inadequate, but I enjoy fair success in my daily dealings. I have discovered that 70% of daily Kannada can be derived by the clever usage of the word ‘maadi’, which translates to ‘to do’. Take an example. You need to take an Auto rickshaw to Brigade road. Get into auto and shout loudly ‘Brigade Road’. As you travel, generously exclaim ‘left maadi’, ‘right maadi’, ‘turn maadi’, and ‘stop maadi’, as required to reach your destination. Similarly, to instruct your maid, keep interjecting, at suitable intervals, with ‘clean maadi’, ‘wait maadi’, and ‘wash maadi’, to get your chores done with superlative degrees of success. One word of caution, though - never use ‘maadi’ without a suitable prefix, especially with the ladies. They tend to interpret your clarion call of ‘maadi’, or ‘to do’, in a
very different and more sexual flavor, as I have learnt from sour personal experience!

People here are very cautious about newcomers and renting premises to them, and the levels of caution differ. Some landlords are extremely cautious that they should not admit that terrible species called the ‘Non Veg’ tenant. It is futile to explain that the few extra pounds you carry are not from eating your own grandmother and cousins! Cannibals and ‘Non Veggies’ garner the same amount of affection, even if your carnivorous exploits are limited to that occasional binge at the KFC. A far more dangerous variety however, is the ‘Bachelor’. I always assumed that my being a bachelor and being unmarried are pretty much the same thing till I was ousted from a prospective apartment by a hysterical ‘nightie’ clad landlady informing me that she prefers only ‘married’ bachelors as the building is full of families. I have written to the Webster, the Oxford and the Britannica scribes for an explanation, but in vain. You must also remember that: a studio apartment, with or without a kitchen, is a ‘room’, a fully furnished’ apartment means it has a wardrobe/cupboard and nothing else, unless specified, ‘Vaastu’ compliance is charged extra, and if you have a ‘Kaaveri as well as borewell’ option, your residence could be an annex to the Carlton! Beware of another strange experience: You will find every driver, cleaner, retired government servant, loafer, student, etc, more than dying to show you a suitable place to rent. The moment you have done so however, he will promptly declare that he is now your broker and that you should pay him a month’s rent as commission!

Now that you have shelter, you must attend to food. Contrary to a lot of cultures, rice is staple - maybe super staple. You eat rice for all meals, and snacks too! It comes in various ‘avatars’ such as Bisi bele baath, Vaangi baath and Chitrana. To start your day, ask for ‘tiffin’(which is never packed or packaged in a tiffin). More educated restaurant owners will be happy to serve you ‘break-past’. If you have any Brahmin lineage, you can forget about any credits on that count unless you frequently consume curd rice. People here seldom believe in sitting restaurants. Most restaurants will provide you with a one square foot allocation on tall tables where people nourish themselves standing up. I am not sure if this helps to digest the astonishing amounts of rice and its derivatives, but I will bring it to the attention of eminent gastroenterologists. Lunch can be pretty much the same thing that you had for ‘break-past’, or a plain rice serving with ‘rasam’ and ‘sambar’. Now ‘rasam’ and ‘sambar’ are essential for the correct phonetics of all South Indian languages, I suspect. No matter what you eat, you have to drown all the food in an inch of ‘sambar’ (no extra veggies required) during the first half of the meal, and with ‘rasam’ when your sambar has run out. Even if you tried, a spoon and fork are quite useless; a spoon and drinking straw would be far more useful! There are a lot more culinary delights, such as ‘raagi’ balls that you must swallow and not chew (no, they are not homeopathic medication), dosa ( masala/Playan(plain)/paper/onion), wada (n factorial varieties), and some others of similar rice/dal based origins. Non veg is found in ‘Mallu’ districts in exactly and precisely 6 dishes, namely fish ‘pry’, fish curry, chicken ‘pry’, chicken curry, beef ‘pry’, and beef curry; no other preparations are known. These are eaten either with rice or with two Kerala specialties: the Kerala paratha and the ‘Appam’ - both of which are favorites of mine! There is also the third option of Andhra food. Feel free to try the ‘Guntur’ chicken (‘Naati’ or Playan(plain)) or their delectable seafood preparations. The only catch is that that exactly 34 seconds after you have let the food slide into food pipe, it is in your own interests to hose it down with at least 2.5 buckets of sugar and water. When I recommend Andhra food, I am legally required to give this Statutory Warning: Andhra food side effects seen on visit to bathroom next morning. Please note that while I relish Andhra food too, a year is yet to steel my guts to stop complaining about the spice! Not sure what ‘Naati’ chicken is, but I suspect it is used to describe the country chicken, who has opportunity to be far more ‘naati’ (naughty) in it’s conjugal visitations to sexual partners than its caged farm broiler counterpart.

Clothing yourself in Bangalore is easy if you are a male. You can pick up the latest and the best at the perpetual sales that run across the factory outlets that dot every neighborhood. Colour co-ordination is unimportant. If the local film fashion sense is any indication, then you are a stud/hunk if you have:

a) A paunch, pronounced flabby love handles and a hairy body with ‘never been shaved’ armpits

b) An irregularly emerging beard; just a sprinkling of hair will do as long as you are playing the ‘son’

c) A luxurious moustache that curls into your mouth, and which is quite handy to strain your tea d) You wear gaudy clothes that are a ‘sausage’ fit, and nicely accentuate your fatty areas as you ‘dence’ Women generally opt for single and double strap sandals that are sold by the hundreds in the city markets, unlike their male counterparts in Reebok and Nike. Most women will grace state occasions wearing multiple gold bangles and necklaces (in multiples of the dozen), with lavish silk saris, and wonderfully unkempt, cracked, and dry feet. The only explanation is that either cracked feet are of erotic interest, or that the state levies a special service tax on pedicure services that make them prohibitively expensive. There are of course those Bangalore nymphs and gods who make my above testimony appear a raving lie, but these are more the exception than the rule.

Social life in Bangalore is intense. You would generally sleep till 11.30 a.m. on weekends before heading off to the commercial districts, or malls, where one can get so vigorously ‘social’ by rubbing hands, legs, butt, etc, with thousands of other strangers who descend on these hotspots to do the precisely the same thing. If you wish to hit the pubs feel free to enjoy yourself, provided you sit and drink, do not dance, and go home by 10 p.m. Any attempts to ‘shake a leg’ or stay out later than this are seen as highly promiscuous activitied by the local authorities. One is also not expected to uncover those highly ‘additional private’ parts called the calves and the ankles for both men and women. This is only permitted if you are wearing a periodically ‘fold up’ lungi or local aboriginal dress. The local ‘IT’ and ‘student’ crowd who are sinful enough to consider breaking these guidelines can be suitably beaten up by anyone who cares to. This rule is relaxed only in the case of newly married couples on honeymoon to Goa. The standard regulatory costume for honeymoon on the beaches and party zones of Goa only is as follows:

> Male: Banyan with ‘It’s better in Goa’ printed on it, Bermuda shorts with tightening cord hanging in front of crotch for a minimum length of 2 feet , white socks, black leather shoes, sunglasses, tattoo (optional)

> Female: Spaghetti strap blouse with mangalasutra conspicuously displayed, long flowing skirt to cover ankles and cheap sandals. Gold and glass bangles to be worn for at least half the forearm, with red vermillion in the hair and jasmine flowers. Large handbag (Louli Vouitan), sunglasses, tattoo (banned)

Once you eventually fit into the Bangalore described above and get accustomed to the traffic, take time off to enjoy the climate and the wonderful lakes that are found all over. These serve as excellent ground water replenishment and are fed by the rains. They also serve the noble function of receiving and storing the outflow of the many sewers, thus solving two problems at the same time.

But the City has a charm of its own too. I will spare you the torture of listing these as they are lauded in any guide to Bangalore. Once you get to know this place with all its attributes however, there is on thing which will surprise you yourself. You will get so attached that all the satirical jokes from a naughty old fool like me will not budge you from your resolve to make this city your home. Mysteriously, and in spite of all that I complain of, I have too!

Three cheers to Bangalore/Bengalaroo!