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.
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!
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!
Impeccable description of all the details...
ReplyDeleteNice dark humor.