Wednesday, June 26, 2019

They sold off Hema...

One bright morning in Bolangir District...
‘Munia, Munia where are you? Munia’s elderly husband Raj Prasad shouts out loudly.
‘Coming, coming’ echoes Munia adjusting her palu over her head.
‘What’s up?’
Raj Prasad reading the local daily ‘Munia do you remember that Dalit woman Lalita... We used to give her work, cutting firewood, carrying soil...’
‘Yes, yes, arrê baba yes. Munia is distracted, her paramour Anil is pulling faces at her, ‘she used to come with that skinny husband of hers Shyamlal... So?’
‘Arrê baba, they sold their daughter Hema for a few thousand rupees’
‘Hai Ram, Hai Ram what were they thinking, that child, terribly skinny but cute...’
At the communal well, Laxmi and Parvati discussing Munia’s latest paramour Anil, giggling and sniggering in glee... 
A sudden screaming of sirens, a convoy of white Ambassador Cars, red beacons flashing arrives at their remote hamlet of Kundaputula, moving straight to where the Tandis live.
Important personages jostling for space in that tiny one room mud house, everyone talking, tripping on their words to make themselves heard, babel of outrage, hurling vile accusations at the couple.
Shyamlal sitting on his haunches, worn-out, speechless allowing the accusations to wash all over his emaciated body much like dirty rain.
Lalita trying her best to explain but no one was listening...
‘We did it because we loved her...We sold her so that she could live...So that we could all live. She wept all the while repeating we had no choice...’
‘No choice, no choice, what do you mean, just because you are poor, does not mean you sell your child’
Lalita shouts amidst fresh tears, ‘Do you not understand? We sold her because we loved her’
But no one understood...
Life hadn’t always been as impossible.  The Tandis owned a little less than half an acre of un-irrigated upland farm where they grew a type of coarse millet, gurji. This tiny amount of grain fed the family for a few months.
But as drought would have it, even this tiny bit of land could not produce anything; it was drier than any bone.
No regular work in their village, so the Tandis migrated to Bhillai in Chhattisgarh for work in construction sites.
Piled up bricks, plastic sheet stretched over as a roof, was their shanty.
 For seven years, husband and wife worked, laboring side by side earning enough to feed their three children.
Life wasn’t so bad...
Amidst the back breaking labor were moments of Joy too, a trip to a local fair, flowers for Lalita, balloons for the boys, a rattler for Hema, and most important even a tiny bit of savings, life wasn’t so bad, or so they thought...
And then as is sometimes the case, their son Harendra’s head began swelling alarmingly.
Lalita wept, ‘what’s happening Chottu? She asked repeatedly, ‘are you in pain?’
They were so scared, ‘what to do? The hospitals in the Bhillai Steel Plant did not admit migrant workers.
Private Doctors were of course out of question. All they could do was return to their village.
Sadly and to their utter horror, the doctors at the Government Hospital in the town of Titlagarh demanded such extortionist bribes to operate on the boy that they had no choice but to settle for the Primary Health Centre in Tukla village.
Little Harendra would never hear again and they had already spent five thousand rupees of their precious savings.

With nothing to go for them, Shyamlal decided to go back to Bhillai but this time without his family. How he hated leaving them behind, he missed them terribly, their chatter, their little tantrums and most of all theirs and Lalita’s laughter.
Maybe he yearned for them too much, maybe he never ate properly but he contracted pneumonia and returned to his village.
Sadly there were secondary complications too, infections and sores in the mouth probably due to malnourishment. He had a very high fever and had turned into a bag of bones.
Lalita was terribly alarmed, this time they would go to the Government Hospital in the town of Titlagarh, of course they had experienced their demands but could not do much about it.

Every day the doctors said, ‘your husband will need a number of injections, these will cost you, one hundred rupees each’

‘Please, please wept Lalita, we cannot afford such a large amount of money, please’ she wept.

After much haggling and much reluctance, the doctors agreed to charge rupees sixty for each injection.
Although the illness and its complications ravaged Shyamlal’s health, he survived but with chronic back pain and a debilitated body. He could never work as a manual laborer. The savings gathered during the seven years had vanished...

That’s when Ram Prasad came in. He was Lalita’s relative, a Dalit, who was fortunate to hold a Government job. In desperation Lalita rushed to him for a loan to pay off the doctors. Ram Prasad did give them a loan.
Time went by in a flash, Lalita and Shyamlal try as they might, were unable to pay Ram Prasad’s loan. He never pressurized them, never threatened them, in fact he was kind to them, but a loan is a loan and somewhere down the line it has to be repaid. Discussions were going on about the repayment of the loan.
All of a sudden, Ram Prasad says,
‘I don’t have a daughter, why don’t I adopt your baby Hema?’
Lalita hesitated just for a second. ‘Yes’ she said. Yes, yes, she murmured. She as a Mother thinks of the food Hema would get, milk, fruits, good rice, dhal, foods they could not afford, foods they had not seen in a long, long time...
Ram Prasad realizes the sacrifice Lalita and Shyamal are making, the pain, the frustration of not being able to provide for your only baby daughter.
‘You can come and visit her anytime’ he says. I and my wife would be only too happy to see you.
Of course please do not pay the money you owe me, just don’t bother I know how difficult it is for you and Shyamlal.
So Hema left her home. There was a transaction recorded on stamp paper. They did not know what was written; they pressed their inked thumbs onto it.
In a village, nothing remains hidden for long...
And this is what happened in Kundaputula, a journalist interviewed the couple, that was the beginning of their troubles cascading one after another...
The authorities interviewed Lalita and Shyamal.
Although Lalita tried and tried to explain why they had sold off their daughter, although Lalita insisted tearfully, ‘she would have died if Ram Prasad had not taken her’ ‘we would have died, all of us would have died.
No one listened. Everyone was full of the spirit of rectitude, a holier-than thou attitude. How could you was all that everyone said.
They charged Ram Prasad for human trafficking.
He was jailed for fifteen days.
On his return from jail, a group of village elders forced Shyamal to go to Ram Prasad’s house and get Hema back.
Shyamal refused, they threatened him, they called them heartless parents, selling their daughter to shirk off their responsibilities...
When they collected Hema from Ram Prasad’s house, she was a plumpy, happy toddler who did not want to leave Ram Prasad’s house.
She wept and clung to Ram Prasad and his wife, who wept copiously. They cried, ‘our daughter, daughter, don’t go...’

Some months down the line, when Lalita and Shyamlal were visited and were asked where Hema was, they were informed by the couple in a listless, tired voice that Hema had died...
On her return from Ram Prasad’s house, she had contracted jaundice, no food; malnutrition had resulted in her death.

Lalita intoned listlessly, ‘we had no money, Ram Prasad had the money to feed her. If only she had been left with Ram Prasad, she would have been alive today’.

But of course nobody listened to her...

Adapted from Harsh Mander’s  'Fatal Accidents of Birth: Stories of Suffering, Oppression and Resistance' (New Delhi, Speaking Tiger)







Monday, February 16, 2015

O Delfim a novel by José Cardoso Pires

When the narrator, a writer arrives at Gafeira, he is shocked to learn of the tragedy surrounding   the Palma Bravo family. So many versions, so much innuendo, nothing fits. Some years back the Writer had been a guest of the Palma Bravo’s on a shoot. He had been the guest of Tomás Manuel da Palma Bravo, or the Delfim, the Lord of practically the entire village of Gafeira. The unusual aspect of the village of Gafeira was its centrally located mysterious lake which was most of the times shrouded in deep mist. Nobody could understand why the Lake was shrouded in mist, why was it so deep and mysterious? But there was one thing you could be sure about; there was plenty of game in the deep forests surrounding the mysterious lake.
Tomás Manuel da Palma Bravo was the undisputed Lord of Gafeira and he behaved like one.  The first time the Writer saw him or rather his powerful red Ferrari parked in the Church yard, guarded by a pair of ferocious mastiffs. When Palma Bravo emerges from the Church so elegantly dressed that all that the people surrounding him, but at a safe distance, can do is gasp in sheer delight. On his arm the beautiful Maria das Mercês so elegant, so very elegant that she seems to have stepped straight out from the pages of Vogue. But all is not well with this elegant couple, as we know appearances are sometimes very deceptive, there are no babies, no heirs to the vast Palma Bravo estate.
Maria das Mercês in her loneliness broods all the time, what went wrong? She the toast of the town marrying the most eligible Tomás Manuel da Palma Bravo. Tomás Manuel disappearing every night with ‘his Boy’ Domingos, a person who has a maimed arm, and who he has supposedly rescued from a fate worse than Death. 
But is Domingos happy in his new life? Oh no, he hates it, all he wants is to be home, basking in front of a fire when it is cold and windy outside. But it is not to be, Tomás Manuel, drags him every night to the most exquisite Night Clubs Lisbon has to offer, trying to ‘educate’ him in the arts of good living, pushing him to try new experiences, new wines, maybe new women.
As most of Palma Bravo’s life, his sexual preferences are hidden from the general public. Does he have a sexual relationship with Domingos? We do not know. Is Maria das Mercês incapable of having children? We do not know. Palma Bravo’s life is cloaked in mystery as much as his Lake is shrouded in mist. But one thing is certain Palma Brava treats his wife Maria das Mercês and Domingos as his possessions to use and abuse at will much like he uses his Ferrari, his guns or even his dogs.
And then the tragic, catastrophic finale to the life of the Palma Bravo family. Domingos, is found dead in the Master Bedroom, in Tomás Manuel and Maria das Mercês’ bed. Now what really happened? Was it a ménage à trois gone completely wrong? 
Did Domingos die of too much sex at the hands of his Mistress, Maria das Mercês, who just could not restrain herself? All those pent-up emotions coming to the fore. Whatever happened we will never know.
Strangely, Maria das Mercês clad only in a nightgown is found dead entangled in the roots of some plants at the bottom of the mysterious Lake. She was supposedly trying to drown herself in the sea but the Mystical Lake got her first. But why was she trying to commit suicide? Did she really want to die? Questions and more questions, with the very Rich prevarication is oh so common.
Look at Tomás Manuel’s behaviour, he hops into one of his Ferrari’s and flees. What was his role in the sordid occurrence? Was it a murder-murder? A suicide-murder pact? Who knows. We are left enshrouded in deep Mystery, conspiracy theories abound, innuendo moved from person to person, every person in the village with his own version. But the truth as we all would want to know, lies hidden, covered in mist.

 As ‘O Delfim’ was written during the regime of the Portuguese dictator, Antonio de Oliveira Salazar, the book could and is probably multi-layered, the main narrative of Tomás Manuel Palma Bravo’s behaviour as well as the events that followed an allegorical point of view.
The stagnant lake, Portugal where everything stands still, nothing moving, nothing entering, everything stagnant. No progress, during the regime of the dictator and to some extent even now.
Those many symbols alluding to murkier meanings. Every scene, many objects, and the animals pointing to deeper meanings, mystery laced with mystery. 
And the most pertinent question is there a deeper meaning? Or is it a straightforward story of the Palma Bravo clan? 
José Cardoso Pires
 Origins and formative influences
Born in the village of São João do Peso, municipality of Vila de Rei, Castelo Branco district. Many of the memories Cardoso Pires recounts are interesting with egard of the themes of his writing and his style as a novelist.
Although he was born in the interior, Cardoso Pires was very much a man of Lisbon, the speech patterns and urban spaces of which can be felt in both his novels and short stories. His father was in the merchant navy and his mother was a homemaker.
Some of his paternal family had immigrated to Massachusetts, and this vague American connection seems to have been one of the early reasons for Cardoso Pires' receptiveness to American literary styles at a time when Portugal looked to France, and to some extent Brazilian regionalism of the North East, for its narrative models.
In a documentary produced for Portuguese television, Cardoso Pires describes seeking refuge in cinemas as a youth, and the effect that had on his notion of story-telling. He explains how, after seeing a film, he would have to recount it to his peers at school - a common practice at the time. He also mentions the formative role of cinceclubes, or film societies. The generally left-leaning associations, in Cardoso Pires's words, "contributed to the political and social education of many people, Cardoso Pires studied mathematics at the University of Lisbon, where he published his first short narratives, but left school to join the merchant marine, from which he was discharged for disciplinary problems.
The writing years
After his short stint in the Portuguese Navy, Cardoso Pires started working as a journalist and devoted himself to writing. As an author, he has been perceived as being able to reconcile popularity with critical acclaim. This can be partly explained by his adoption of some of the narrative formulae of detective fiction and his controlled use of the Portuguese language, which Cardoso Pires described as "pared down to the bone, written with the edge of a knife". Cardoso Pires's fiction has often been described as cinematic. This is often a nebulous term, but in Cardoso Pires's case it has been justified by Luso-Brazilian critic Maria Lúcia Lepecki as an attempt to allow the reader to see and hear through words.
He taught Portuguese and Brazilian literature at King's College, London.
In 1995, he suffered a stroke, the experience of which formed the background for his final novel De Profundis, Valsa Lenta. He died of another stroke in 1998

His works include among others:
Os Caminheiros e Outros Contos 1949
O Anjo Ancorado 1958
Jogos de Azar 1963
Delfim (The Dauphin; 1968)
O Dinosauro Excelentíssimo 1972
O Burro em Pé 1979
A Balada de Praia dos Cães (1982; Ballad of Dogs’ Beach : Dossier of a Crime, translated by Mary Fitton. New York :
De Profundis, Valsa Lenta 1997
Lisboa Livro de Bordo 1997





Tuesday, December 23, 2014

A Journey from Goa to Bombay gone awry, a short story by Anthony Gomes

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.


Sunday, November 30, 2014

Ressurreição, a short story by Domingos Monteiro

At her age getting a job had been difficult, so she was proud as well as grateful to be the housekeeper of a celebrated artist. She ran his household efficiently. She planned his meals, balanced meals with the right amount of greens and proteins; she crushed his sweet tooth with enthusiasm. The house spotless, sadly she was not allowed in the Master’s atelier.
But what she really was good at was fending off those unwelcome visitors. Whenever she opened the door, she put on an icy mask of hauteur; she always peeked into the mirror before she opened the door. Yes, hair in place, white collar straight, her apron stiff with starch and in place, only then did she open the door.
Her surprise was great; there in front of her stood a man, was he a vagrant? Was he a vagabond? His hair hacked out in clumps, the scalp showing deep cuts, coagulated blood in them, his face battered and bruised, patches of bristle here and there. It was the face of someone who had been slapped around.
She sniffed carefully and delicately, was there a trace of alcohol on his breath? No, in fact for a vagrant he smelt rather clean, no smell of alcohol, no smell of piss.
Then she looked into his deep set eyes, there was something deeply unsettling there.
                ‘Yes, what is it you want? Haughtiness replaced her curiosity, ‘the entrance is on the other side, the service staircase’.
But the Man did not move he had the stubbornness of the very poor, not-moving -what are-you –going-to-do attitude.
                ‘I need to speak to the Master...He has sent for me...’
                ‘Sent for you? For you?’ There was a tone of utter dismissal in her voice, such disdain. ‘Oh the Master? He sends for people... does not entertain them... dismisses them.’ ‘You will be surprised at the number of people who come here... multitudes.’
For a moment she was silent, looking at him. Goddamit, his eyes had that strange quality, they looked down into her very being, they probed her secrets, but with such tenderness, such sweet compassion. Goddamit, for Christ’s sake this man, with his torn suit, patched under the armpits, patches on his knees, torn sandals on his calloused feet, this man shivering with cold, this man was looking at her with compassion, with pity, why?
She was shocked; it was not supposed to be this way. This was not going the way it was supposed to be. For a moment a spasm of shame shook her.
                ‘Have you come in response to the advertisement? That’s it; you have come in response to the advertisement’
                ‘Yes, an advertisement requesting me to come here...I never read it...I do not know to read or write... Somebody showed it to me...
                ‘And who should I tell you are?’
                ‘Just say it is Jesus Christ.’
The housekeeper moved away hastily, she left the door partially open, which was really strange for her; she was an extremely careful person.
The man could hear her retreating footsteps, a knock on an inner door.
                ‘Sir, there’s a man who wants to talk to you?’
                ‘Who is it?’
                ‘He says he is Jesus Christ.’
                ‘I do not know him?’
There was a moment of silence, and then a shout from somewhere inside;
‘Oh, just a minute.....wait a second....let him in’
‘This way...’
She led him up to a door at the end of the corridor.
                ‘He is here ...’
                ‘Come in ...’
The painter glanced at the man who had entered the door and burst out laughing’
                ‘That’s a good one...that’s really a good joke...So you believe that...’
The artist always dressed trendily, much like those artists of Montmartre – a velvet coat, a pipe at the corner of his mouth, a palette in one of his hands, and a brush in the other.
Light filtered in through the glass cupola of the atelier and fell directly on the model posing below. She was nude, only a delicate shawl draped her waist; her deep black hair cascaded down her front, covering the tips of her breasts. It was no doubt an artificial pose.
With a sneer, the artist introduced the two.
‘Jesus Christ....Mary Magdalene...’
‘Hey man, cut it out...For Christ’s sake shut the door, I am freezing my arse off here’
 She smiled cheekily
‘Hey can I wear some clothes now?’
‘Yes you can’
With a languid gesture, an affected one, the artist shut the door.
‘Surely you have come in response to my advertisement? The ad which said I needed a model for Jesus Christ, for my painting ‘Has Jesus Christ returned to our World?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘And you think you would suit then? With your hair hacked out in clumps? With hardly a beard? Or do you think it is just enough to be hungry, just enough to have sunken cheeks, just enough to have dreamy eyes? The artist came closer and peered at the man curiously but angrily. I guess it is hunger that drove you to this atelier? If I would have placed an ad to walk my dog you would have come too, isn’t it?
The artist’s tone softened a little.
‘Hey come on, I know how hunger drives people to do anything. In any case... Just a minute... Zulmira come here...’
The girl peered out from the behind a screen
                ‘Just a minute...’
She approached carefully; she was just a common girl from the city, a girl of no consequence. But she seemed a little ashamed.
‘Come here, he called out to her impatiently. Have you ever seen such eyes?...
He felt so impressed.
‘It is bizarre... look at those eyes... they have a life of their own...they are the eyes of the prophets... Look at that mouth, goddamit just look at his mouth... What energy, what innocence...Observe the lines of the jaw? Observe the contour...Suddenly his enthusiasm fell away, fizzled away. But look at this hacked out hair, this shaven beard. I say vehemently I will not have artificial hair, I will not have a false beard...I am a realist, you know that, got it a realist...I need to see, I need to touch... I need to feel, I only know how to paint realistic stuff, with hair, with flesh, with blood...
He was furious.
‘You imbecile, you cretin...why the hell did you decide to chop away your hair and shave off your beard?’
‘It was not me, it was they...’
‘They? Who they?
‘They the guards...’
He spoke in a clear voice, an amiable voice, a voice more suitable for speaking of biblical parables.
‘They arrested me...they said it was prohibited to just amble down the roads, prohibited to walk the streets without doing anything. They mocked me, they hacked off my hair, they shaved my beard. Then they said that I was a vagabond, a wastrel and that if they ever caught me again they would just get rid of me. It was then that you, Sir, wanted to speak to Jesus Christ. I came because you called...
‘Why would you come then especially?’
‘It is because...you know...I am He.’
‘What...You are Jesus Christ in person?
‘I am He, although you may not believe me...But I am not angry that you do not believe in me. I already knew this would happen...This has already happened once before. Nobody believed me in Judea. It was because of this that they arrested me...crucified me. But I have forgiven them. It was precisely for this reason that I requested my Father to permit me to return...’
‘As though I care...Can you believe this load of garbage Zulmira?’
The girl had approached without uttering a word. There was a strange intensity in her eyes; she had folded her hands in a respectful attitude of prayer.
The painter had contemptuous smile.
‘Oh Magdalene, don’t tell you are tempted to wash his feet with oils and unguents, then rub his feet with your luxuriant hair, hmm. I really do not recommend it.’
She glared at him with an angry glance, did not reply. Then in a voice of supplication she urged:
‘Go on...Do not listen to him. He is a soul that is lost...And then?’
‘My Father did not want me to return.
‘No, no My Son’ he said, it is of no use, it will be much as it was before...And this time, believe Me it is going to be worse. Instead of crucifying you, they will make you drag a Cross all your life. There will be misery. There will be ridicule. You will suffer unimaginable hunger. You will know the torture of being jailed. There will be beatings. You will be admitted in a Mental Asylum, they will insist you are mad.
But worst of all My Son, they will never believe you. No, no said my Father, I will not allow it.’
But I pleaded, ‘Father, Father, but the fault is not theirs, it is ours, particularly Yours...’
‘Mine?’
There is nothing I fear more than my Father’s anger, but I was determined to put my point across.
‘Yes, my Father...’
Surprisingly He spoke to me most calmly with a degree of resignation, ‘My fault, why is it my fault my Son’
‘Yes your fault Father because You saw to it that I would be born without sin... because you did not allow me to feel what it is to be a man, besides you gave me the power to do miracles. These are not the qualities that any human being has, were it not for these qualities I would be like any other man.’
‘If that is the case, if that is how you feel, he spoke to me sternly, Go’. ‘But after this, do not invoke My Name.’
‘No my Father, come what may. I will not invoke your name...’
And the girl asked anxiously
‘And Your Mother...the Blessed Mother? Did she not try to stop you?
‘My Mother wept without a stop, she could not calm, nor contain herself, as all mothers are when they see their sons go on a dangerous adventure. But she did not stop me, she did not discourage me.
‘Go my Son, it is your duty. It is a job that you should complete, complete it till its end. You had just begun it...I will always be with you.’
 Now I feel as though she speaks to me in your voice...’

The painter could not take his eyes off them, the two in deep conversation. The brush trembled in his hand, a savage emotion coursed through his body. Ah, he well understood this emotion...it was the restlessness of inspiration. Slowly and silently he moved away from the two and began painting.
The canvas below his brush slowly underwent a change; it was getting filled with people, as though emanating from deep within him. They were so human, so very human that he was afraid to touch them, afraid that he would hurt them.
His was a strange Christ, a very different Christ indeed, bending and curved under a heavy load, His hands without stigmata but covered in thick hard calluses. His eyes radiated a mysterious brightness. Sweat poured down His body in torrents, His rigid and tense muscles strained, His sweat more brilliant and vibrant than any blood could ever be.
In front of His Christ, a woman stroked His brow, wiped His sweat, all the while breathing her tenderness on Him, a promise of kisses to come, more pure than rain.
The painter lifted his eyes, saw only the girl.
‘He, where is He?’
‘He went away, He left, left us without disturbing you, His mission accomplished. He said, Your faith had been restored and more than that you had believed in Him...



Biography of Domingos Monteiro Pereira
Was born on 6 November 1903. Died on 17 August 1980
Was a poet and a writer as well as a lawyer.


http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0599198/bio

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Os Cus De Judas by António Lobo Antunes

Children stretch out their matchstick thin arms, a rusty tin can in the palms of their hands, through the barbed wire surrounding the Camp, just for a morsel, a morsel of just about anything to eat.
People sit on their haunches around the camp, starving, waiting just waiting for a scrap of food.  
Women turn prostitutes for a morsel to feed their children.
Their eyes reflect patience, endless patience.
There is nothing, absolutely nothing. No medicines. No food for anyone.
This is what Antonio Lobo Antunes sees every day in Angola, he fights a war he just does not want to fight, he has left his pregnant wife back home in Portugal for a war which has absolutely no meaning for him or for that matter for anyone else.
Antonio Lobo Antunes is brutal. And why not? The colonial war for Independence turned civil war was ferocious. Seen through the tired eyes of the doctor António Lobo Antunes this bloody Colonial War is savage. What is there about this vicious War?
Every sordid detail is placed before you. Take the terrible, terrible loneliness sapping you of your will to live, add to it the lack of camaraderie between the soldiers, compounded by the utter hopelessness of the War. They just want to go home. What are they fighting for? What is all this bloody War about?
They all wonder, there seems to be absolutely no escape, shall we commit suicide, or shall we wait for a nice coffin. There are no answers.
Who are the Victorious? Doesn’t seem to be any, in fact all of them are losers. Everyone a victim. The people of Angola are in a vacuum, what the hell is going on? There the Colonisers, the Portuguese, and then some other Outside Forces urging them to get rid of the regime, purify your country evict the Colonisers. Where are they heading?
Such a colossal waste this war is, such terrible consequences, one moment the people of Angola are fighting a war of Independence, throwing the Colonisers out of their country and the next thing they know the war for Independence has turned into a Civil war.
How could it have happened?
That is the way Colonisers operate. They are the Masters. They take what they want, they use, they abuse, and when they can use no more they leave. It really is very simple.
Good news for Portugal overnight it had turned into a Democracy. They were free without shedding a drop of blood.
Why take care of countries which now are a burden?
What can they get from a war torn Nation? Abandon the Africans to their own fate. The Colonisers owe these illiterates nothing. Take care of yourselves; you are now Independent, you are now Free, Isn’t that what you wanted anyway?
Black brother fought Black brother, aided by powerful 'Democratic countries'. Black brothers killed Black brothers. Oh yes, terrible, terrible consequences.
But who for God’s sake cares for a bunch of illiterate, black people?
The white, democratic people know these Blacks do not amount to much anyway.

                Eventually when Lobo Antunes does return to Portugal, life is never the same for him, nobody in Portugal respects these soldiers who were embroiled in a meaningless war.
Slowly and steadily he loses everything.
His marriage just meanders and falls apart.
His beloved daughters, he sees them once a week.
He begins drinking; you see he hopes that 'it will never be morning again'.
He has encounters with strange women in bars.
He is just a sad beaten man. Once upon a time, a very long time ago he had been a Doctor but now he is a sad, beaten and humiliated man. A husk of a man, he is a person who has no substance, no personality, not even character, his dreams and hopes long gone, an empty shell of a human that once was.
Oh yes, war does that to you.

Brutal though the book is, there are those moments of utter sadness permeated by a luminosity, which lifts the book out of being just a book of utter brutality and makes it a beautiful story.


António Lobo Antunes was born in Lisbon, the eldest of six sons of João Alfredo de Figueiredo Lobo Antunes.
At the age of seven he decided to be a writer, but when he was 16, his father sent him to the medical school at the University of Lisbon. He graduated as a medical doctor specializing in psychiatry. All through this time he never stopped writing.
By the end of his education, Lobo Antunes had to serve in the Portuguese Army and participate in the Portuguese Colonial War, which lasted from 1961 to 1974.
Lobo Antunes returned from Africa in 1973. The Angolan war for independence was the subject of many of his novels.
In 1979, Lobo Antunes published his first novel, Memória de Elefante – The Memory of an Elephant, which narrated the story of his separation. The success of his first novel, prompted Lobo Antunes to devote his evenings to writing.
He practices psychiatry as well, at the outpatients' unit at the Hospital Miguel Bombarda of Lisbon.
His style is considered to be very dense, heavily influenced by William Faulkner and Louis-Ferdinand Céline.
His Awards are numerous


Source: http://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ant%C3%B3nio_Lobo_Antunes