On 27 February 1950, the Government of India had asked the
Portuguese government to open negotiations about the future of Portuguese
colonies in India. Portugal asserted that its territory on the Indian
subcontinent was not a colony but part of metropolitan Portugal and hence its
transfer was non-negotiable; and that India had no rights to this territory
since the Republic of India did not exist at the time when Goa came under
Portuguese rule. When the Portuguese Government refused to respond to
subsequent aide-mémoires in this regard, the Indian government, on 11 June
1953, withdrew its diplomatic mission from Lisbon. On 15 August 1955, 3000-5000
unarmed Indian activists (satyagrahis) attempted to enter Goa at six
locations and were violently repulsed by Portuguese police officers, resulting
in many deaths. The news of the firing built public opinion in India against
the presence of the Portuguese in Goa, and on the 1st of September
1955, India shut its consul office in Goa, and exercised economic blockade of
Portuguese Goa. The consequences of the economic blockade also included suspension
of steamer and railway traffic to Bombay (now Mumbai) and travel from Goa to
Bombay and vice-versa became a nightmare.
In
1956, we, high school studentsof St. Thomas High School in Aldona, had to go to
Bombay to sit for the Secondary School Certificate examination (SSC), which was
then, not administered in Goa. To go to Bombay involved travel by foot, bus, and
canoe to Polem and Majali, and ultimately a ship ride from the Indian port of
Karwar. All of this would take at least 48 hours to cover a distance of barely
300 miles. Our class consisted of about 30 students and we set out with our
metal trunks of those days at about five in the morning in a chartered Caminhão
to the frontier. We were accompanied by Father Pinto, the Principal of St.
Thomas High School. We arrived at the Indian Immigration cum Customs office in
the afternoon. It consisted of a long shed with tables on which were strewn
amidst all the clothes: jackfruits, mangoes, pickles and chutneys, and a rare
bottle of Portuguese Maciera or Jonny Walker, which was readily confiscated,
and an occasional cluster of gold ornaments hidden amidst all the clothes, or stitched
into a pocket or in the trunk itself. The anxiety and nervousness of the travelers
was palpable on their faces and body posture except perhaps on those who had a
couple of St. Pauli Girl beer in a bar at the Portuguese side of the frontier.
After a thorough examination of each and every trunk, and our identity cards
stamped, we were ready to proceed on our journey at about six in the evening. However,
we had noticed one of the officers asking Father Pinto a whole lot of
questions, after which he was escorted to a room, and the door shut. Father
Pinto had made arrangements for a man he knew in the port town of Karwar to
reserve our tickets for the steamer trip to Bombay. However, when he walked out
of the room accompanied by a military officer, his face divulged a certain anxiety,
an omen of things to come.
An
entirely unexpected event occurred: the Indian authorities refused Fr. Pinto
entry into India despite the pleadings, and the fact that he was chaperoning a
whole class of students, who otherwise would have to fend for themselves. In
this regard the inconsideration and harassment of the Indian immigration
officials towards the Goans crossing into India was a well-known fact.
Obviously, Father Pinto was persona non-gratis for unclear reasons to us. What
were the Indian authorities thinking? Was this 60-something year old priest
going to start a revolution in Bombay? When Fr. Pinto gave us the bad news, it
was devastating. There was nothing we could do but continue on our journey
without an elder, and most of us were barely 15 years old. If we turned back,
we would have to wait for another year to take the exam.
Summarily, Fr. Pinto appointed me
the leader; not unexpectedly however, since I spoke English fluently, unlike
the rest of the village boys having lived and schooled in Bombay from the age
of 9 to 13, and besides, I was the Captain of the entire student body of the
School. Nonetheless, this obviously was a tall task which placed a whole lot of
responsibility on my shoulders. He told me to seek a Mr. Fernandes, who would
be waiting in a tea shop at the ferry crossing in Karwar. After we walked to
the bus stand and took a bus, then several canoes across a river and another
bus,jolliness and a sense of adventure wiped out from our faces and replaced by
anxiety and uncertainty, we finally arrived at Karwar at about 8 PM. With so
much of responsibility on my shoulders I kept on wondering what I would do if I
couldn’t locate Mr. Fernades. I, together with a colleague, immediately went
looking for him.We didn’t find him at the tea shop but after a lot of
inquiries, I finally located him by the side of a pharmacy nearby. I was struck
dumb when he told us that all the tickets were sold out. I thought he was
joking, pulling my leg after a jolly drinkof illicit liquor? But he wasn’t! I
became angry and at the same time despondent, but said nothing. It was his
responsibility to reserve the tickets; the man was obviously not trustworthy!
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Take a chance,” he said. “I will
put you’re all in a boat, and when your board the ship that was docked several
hundred feet from the shore line, you will have to simply beg the Captain to
let your stay.”
“And what happens if he refuses to
let us stay?”
“We’ll think of something,” he said.
I didn’t ask any more questions. I didn’t want to consider the alternative. He
escorted us to a hostel with bunk beds and mattresses on the floor where we
slept that night after a meager meal of rice,dhaland ambli picklethat I couldn’t stomach. I didn’t sleep the
entire night thinking of the outcome of our ticketless adventure and the
incessant bites from the bed-bugs. The next morning hundreds of students with
their teachers and parents got into half-a-dozen or so boats, we amongst them,
and docked by the side of the colossal steamer for Bombay. We boarded the ship
at about 10 AM with no problems. I was surprised that nobody asked for our
tickets, and thought that we were scot free. But within 15 minutes or so, I saw
the ticket collector approach. I was drenched in sweat. I explained our
situation and requested that the ticket collector take me to the Captain.
When I told the Captain, a burly
sort of man with a fierce twirling moustache, all that had transpired with our
Principal etc. and that we had no tickets but would pay our fare, the Captain exploded.
“Who permitted you to board the ship
without tickets?” he yelled.
“Nobody asked for our tickets when
we boarded,” I said. “I’m sorry Sir, but we had no choice.”
“There is no place on this ship. It
is overcrowded! You and your classmates will have to disembark,” he said.
“But Sir, I beg you for mercy,” I
said, tears welling in my eyes. “We have come all the way from Goa. We are only
students travelling all by ourselves without an elder. We will sit on the lower
deck floor or just stand in one corner. Please, Sir, I beg of you, please,
reconsider.” He just walked away.
“Sir, how will we go to Bombay to
answer the exams?” I said.
“That is not my problem,” he snapped
and went into his cabin.
Obviously, it was no easy task to disembark,
since the ship was not docked on the port but remained anchored hundreds of
feet away. But there were still a couple of boats arriving with passengers, and
they could send us back in one of those. I just stood there near the Captain’s
cabin teary biting my nails, praying for a miracle. I thought I would plead
again, and knocked on the cabin door gently. There was no response. I went down
the ladder, and relayed the bad news to my colleagues. “What do we do now?” I
said. Nobody had any suggestions. I was devastated; so were the other students.
I leaned against the wall on the lower deck, hungry and thirsty, and about to
faint. I sat on the floor, held my head in the palm of my hands, and prayed to
St. Anthony.
After about 20 minutes or so, I
decided to give another try. Did I have a choice? I climbed the stairs and
knocked on the Captain’s cabin with determination. He opened the door and came
out.
“You again?” he said. “I thought you
had already left the ship.”
“Sir, please, you can’t send us
back. Please show some compassion. Think of us as your children.”
He stood there in silence, staring
at me as if he was struck by a lightning rod. I waited without demonstrating
any emotion.
“Ok,” he said, finally without making
eye contact. “You’re can stay. Not a word to anybody! Or I’ll kick you off the
ship.”
“No Sir,” I give you my word.”
“Go get the money.”
I don’t know what came over him.
Perhaps the word ‘compassion’ or ‘his children’ struck a chord or perhaps all
this was a show he was staging? Perhaps, my patron saint, St. Anthony had come
to my rescue.
“More things are
wrought by prayer than this world dreams off,” said Lord Tennyson.
I
immediately ran down in triumph and collected the money and handed it all to
the Captain. “Thank you, Sir!” I said, and left on the double. It did not
bother me in the least if he pocketed the money, which I’m sure he did. I was
still anxious and nervous until I heard the sirens of the ship blast into the
far off distance announcing our departure to Bombay. I fell on my knees and
prayed. Suddenly, I found myself hungry with a ravishing appetite, which I
satisfied with the delicious rice and fish curry with ambli pickle served on board the ship.
*Anthony
Gomes, MD, FACC, FAHA, is a Professor of Medicine (Cardiology).
Director
and Senior Consultant, Cardiac Electrophysiology Consultative Services at the
Mount Sinai Medical Center and the Icahn School of Medicine
at Mount Sinai, New York.
He
has authored more than 150 scientific articles in Cardiovascular medicine and
books including: Signal Averaged Electrocardiography: Basic Concepts, Methods and
Applications,Visions from Grymes Hill (a collection of poems),
Mirrored Reflections (a collection of poems), and The Sting of Peppercorns (a
novel) as well essays in the Humanities.
