Coming Home

A reconditioned fuel pump breathes life into Ronnie’s grandfather’s old Beetle as he discovers the Goa of his childhood has remained the same even though it has changed beyond recognition. Or has it?

A warm, humid blast overwhelmed Ronald Ibrahim when he stepped out of Dabolim airport. It engulfed his air-conditioned skin and seeped into his bones. It leached away all the tension he did not even know about. His muscles relaxed, his body settled into an easygoing mass of contentment. It was home. He was home.

“Ronnie! You’re back!” Flora Braganza hugged her grandson with delight. “How was your flight? Did they give you anything to eat?”

“Hi grandma,” Ronnie grinned from under the big, comforting hug. “I missed you too. Have you been waiting long?”

The drive to his grandma’s house was chaotic, the streets, the buildings, the traffic, everything had changed. On the way, he even missed the sign for the Naval colony. If the taxi hadn’t stopped, he would not have recognized the warm, comfortable indigo, ochre, and red house with its bright signs where his grandparents lived. 

Goa stopped being home when he moved to Mumbai to live in the immaculate Malabar Hill home of his Khurshid dadi-jaan and study German at the Max Mueller Bhavan. After that, Stuttgart with its museums, fountains, and the laid-back tranquility of Palace Square became home where he and Anna Krauss started a new life with her Teutonic family, away from his hodgepodge clan.

“What kind of a name is Ronald Ibrahim?” Ronnie remembered overhearing grandma ask his mother. “You should have married that nice D’Silva boy. Ronald D’Silva would have been a much better name for the poor child.” Ronnie could not imagine his mother marrying anyone other than the dashing navy submarine commander Hanif Ibrahim.

“Here we are,” grandma Flora announced brightly, “why didn’t you bring Anna?” Before he could open his mouth to reply, she had moved on to talk excitedly about how the crowds still filled the bar every night, how so many tourists now came to the antiques and handicrafts shop, and how, she mentioned proudly, the casino was more crowded every day than the church hall on Housie nights.

Ronnie took the cover off Grandpa John’s old beetle in the garage at the back. Anna’s voice kept ringing in his ears as he stared at the car and the duffel bag with all the parts he had brought. “You have to pick us up in that car,” she had told him before he left. “Remember, there will be two of us.” Leaving Anna behind to have their baby had been hard but it was a small price to pay to make sure little Heidi would never have to worry about a German visa like her father.

“Hi Ronnie!” Gerry Lobo cried out effusively when Ronnie walked in. Old tires, empty oil cans, decaying batteries, spanners, and other tools in all imaginable sizes littered the entire workshop. Gerry stretched out his hand blackened with grease. “Welcome back,” he said.

Ronnie wheeled the heavy duffel bag forward. “Hey Gerry, here are the parts you asked for. When can you start working on my grandpa’s beetle?”

Ronnie helped Gerry lift out the engine, remove the wheels, and extract the transmission. He came back every morning to watch Gerry working steadily all day for the next few weeks taking apart and putting back the beetle piece by piece in the quiet, cool, solitude of the garage.

“It’s working!” grandma Flora exclaimed when Ronnie and Gerry drove up in the revived beetle. Then the beetle coughed, wheezed, sputtered, and after a few valiant, heart-stopping minutes, it sighed and went quiet.

“You boys wash up and come inside. Have a nice cup of coffee and a slice of cake,” she suggested brightly, smothering the disappointment with her excellent food.

“Do you remember Raju?” Gerry asked one morning after a frustrating week of trying to get the beetle to run. “His grandfather was a mechanic at the River Navigation Department marine workshop. They used to repair their own beetles.”

“My grandfather is resting now,” Raju said, without looking up from the fishing net he was fixing, “I can ask him in the evening. Do you want me to bring him to your garage?”

Old man Ganesh’s face broke into a toothless smile when he saw the beetle. His hands caressed the engine as he removed the air filter and told Gerry to start the car. The beetle coughed, wheezed, sputtered, and after a few valiant, heart-stopping minutes, it sighed and went quiet.

Muttering to himself under his breath, old man Ganesh poked around the plastic bags and leftover gasket trimmings littering Gerry’s garage. Then he went back to the engine, took out the fuel pump, and walked away without a word.

“You want fish?” the fisherwoman asked Ronnie, holding up her day’s catch.

“No, thank you. Not today.” Ronnie replied.

“I am Kuli, Raju’s wife. My grandfather-in-law gave this for you,” said the woman, pulling out a fuel pump wrapped up in cloth.

Ronnie held his breath as Gerry started the beetle with its reconditioned fuel pump. The beetle coughed, wheezed, sputtered, and after a few valiant, heart-stopping minutes, it sighed and struggled. Inside the fuel pump, the diaphragm old man Ganesh had made from discarded leftover gasket trimmings held together by nylon strings from Raju’s fishing net started pumping petrol steadily to fuel the engine’s signature rhythmic beat. The beetle began to purr.

“Hurry up, grandma!” Ronnie called. He smiled as he caught sight of Kuli. “Leave the fish in the restaurant kitchen. We are going to pick up my wife and daughter,” he said, “tonight’s special is grandma’s Xitt Codi.”

Soon they were cruising along in Grandpa John’s rejuvenated beetle on the streets past buildings through traffic and around people that looked so familiar now, so much a part of the chaos that was home. Ronnie even spotted the sign for the Naval colony. He could almost hear himself laughing hysterically with his parents as they passed it on their way home. It still read SNOBs, Senior Naval Officer’s Bungalows.