Joan DoRosario Omnibus

When the newspaper boy on my street corner waved the morning daily under my nose, yelling the much-anticipated headlines, I quickly grabbed a copy.  Yes! It was true! An end to COVID19 was declared! And oh, how we ran through the streets, twirling masks and shouting Alleluia!  

And much like the famed feminist, Gloria Steinem on the Emancipation of Women’s Day, where bras were burned in town squares, there were bonfires set up in towns and villages across the country, but instead of bras we tossed our masks onto the fires. N94s and 95s, in all their variations: flat-folds, duckbills and cup-styles, those with exhalation valves and those without, were all going up in flames, fueled by the no-longer-needed hand sanitizers and disinfections.  It was a day of much jubilation and celebration.  Finally, we didn’t have to fight the grocery aisles for the last bag of baking flour.  Nor did we have to wrestle our fellow shoppers for the last pack of toilet paper rolls – although truth be told, we’d learned the use of water, hadn’t we, during the shortage when townsfolk were insanely stocking up on these bodily function supplies?  

Oh yes! The time had finally come to resurrect our sadly diminished social existence.  At GOA headquarters, our dedicated and visionary leader extraordinaire, Selwyn Colaco, threw open the doors of the GCC for fellowship and merriment. Friday nights at the Casa became the place to be!  The bar was stocked, and the band’s instruments finely tuned. We celebrated with hugs, kisses and touching, skin-on-skin, no gloves, no masks! We recognized our friends and acquaintances once more, sans the face knickers (masks)! The good times had returned! Alleluia!

And as for the retirees who had been holed up in their homes during the raging infection, our beloved Retirees Social Director, the ever creative and innovative Greta Dias, to the rescue!  She resurrected an old favorite, Forever Young, under its new moniker – Silver Linings.  I suppose our “youngness” had passed its best-before date during the incarceration, and now the sanguinity of happiness, or perhaps more apropos the petting of Providence, had come to life.  Whatever the reason for the change, the new and improved Silver Linings took off with gleeful seniors happily abandoning restrictions and flooding the premises every Wednesday afternoon to Zumba, line dance and/or simply meet and greet, and have a good time.

And the revelry continues at 20 Strathearn Avenue in Brampton, with lots of new and varying forms of entertainment being showcased.  Much revelry and bonhomie to be enjoyed, but most of all, a commune where face-to-face encounters are the norm, and we can feel and enjoy the essence of humanity once again.

So, come on down, folks! Enjoy the good times and lend your support to the management that endeavors to ensure that our community grows and survives regardless of whatever setbacks assail us. Together we have and will continue to overcome and thrive!

Tommy’s face, hovering over me, blocking out a beautiful blue summer sky, disrupts the serenity of the morning. Tommy is the newspaper delivery boy from across the street.

“Mrs. Ferns! Mrs. Ferns!” he repeats frantically. “Are you alright?”

He leans over me; a deep frown furrows his young brow.

“Yes, Tommy, of course I’m alright. I’m just resting,” I reply.

“Um, you’re resting out here on the ground?” he asks, in a perplexed voice.

I clutch a handful of dirt from underneath me and realize I am lying on the soft, muddy ground of my garden amid my colorful dahlias. I experience the vague feeling of disorientation that had been dogging me recently, and I am overcome by an inexplicable sense of panic.

Tommy’s eyes cloud as he gazes at me. “Oh, Tommy, I’m fine,” I assure him again, somewhat unsure now. Why am I on the ground? I wonder in confusion.

“Well, you probably fell when you tripped on that hose,” announces Tommy, nodding knowingly, obviously satisfied with his deduction.

Had I fallen? Oh, goodness! “Well, I guess I must have tripped on the hose,” I agree, not really remembering having tripped or having fallen. It sounds like a plausible explanation, however, or why else would I be lying in the dirt?

“Can I help you up?” asks Tommy kindly.

“Thank you, Tommy, but I believe I can get up just fine.”

Somehow, I stand, dust myself off, and go back into the house.

After a quick shower, I dress and decide to head out to the market, suffering no ill effects from the supposed fall. I seem to have blanked out on the events of the morning. Oh well, perhaps it wasn’t a big deal, after all.   Hardly worth worrying over, I assure myself. If only I could remember, was the thought that niggled my brain, however.

It is a beautiful day, so I decide to walk to the market. The exercise will certainly do me good. The store is almost empty when I get there, which allows me the ability to browse and pick up the few items I need without being hurried. I have a friendly chat with Mary-Lou, the cashier, before heading back home.

I suddenly realize that I’ve been walking a lot longer than I should have been. It should have taken me a mere ten minutes to get from the market to my house. I become concerned when the street I am on looks unfamiliar, and the houses are all unrecognizable. I have a strange sense of being in a mental vacuum.

This is not my street, I think worriedly. I gaze at the freshly painted white bungalow facing me, and my confusion mounts. Where is my house with its green shutters in the front bay window? Where am I? I retrace my steps to the top of the street and look at the sign. I don’t recognize this name. What I know for certain is this is not my street. I retrace my steps to the market. I am impatient and frightened at the same time. Relief for a familiar place, I enter the store and seek Mary-Lou. I explain I am having a slight problem, probably because of a fall I’d taken earlier. I seem to have become disoriented; I tell her I can’t find my street. Mary-Lou kindly sends one of her helpers to drive me home.

A few days later, when my daughter, Lizzie, calls as she always does after supper, we chat for a while when she suddenly says, “Mom, Mary-Lou at the market tells me she had her store help drive you home the other day. Did you not feel well?”

“She certainly didn’t,” I protest heatedly. “Why would I need to be driven home?”

“She mentioned something about a fall. Did you have a fall?”

“Nonsense!” I exclaim. “Why would she say such a thing?”

“Did you not have a fall, then?” Lizzie asks me in her mother-to-child voice.

“No, I didn’t! Wouldn’t I have remembered if I’d had a fall?”

“Okay,” Lizzie says, sounding skeptical. After a momentary pause, she adds, “Mom, you’ve repeated the same question about my work three times in the last five minutes. Are you sure you are alright?”

I grunt my displeasure at her tone and replace the receiver. When did she become the boss of me? I wonder irritably.

Sitting by the window for a while, I notice that dusk is setting in. The drapes need to be closed. I move forward, but my legs feel like rubber, and my knees buckle. I reach for the phone and dial Lizzie’s number. Then everything goes blank.

When I open my eyes, Lizzie is leaning over me, shaking my shoulder.

“Mom, what happened to you? Are you hurt?”

“What time is it? I must have fallen asleep.” I stretch uncomfortably.

“On the floor?”

“The floor?” I repeat. “Why am I on the floor?”

“I don’t know, Mom, but that’s where you are.” Now Lizzie sounds impatient.

“Ha! I wondered why my bed felt so hard.” I try to laugh, although I feel a sense of helplessness.

“Right,” responds Lizzie. “Let’s get you up.”

I try to raise myself, but my legs feel like rubber. I dig my heels into the carpeted floor, but can’t seem to gain any traction. “I guess I need help.”

With one hand under my shoulders and the other around my waist, she tries to help me up. She fails.

“What’s wrong with you, Lizzie?” I demand in frustration. “I’m not so heavy that you cannot raise me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” snaps Lizzie. “I just don’t think it’s safe to move you. I’m calling an ambulance.”

Resistance seems useless; Lizzie isn’t listening. Why is it that daughters grow up and suddenly have a role reversal epiphany? She is my daughter, not my mother!

When the door opens a little while later, my heart flutters in my chest. I smile and hold out my hands in welcome.

“Donny!” I cry joyously. “I knew you’d be back. Where have you been?”

They said he was gone, but I knew my young, handsome husband would return. I don’t understand why he is wearing those strange clothes, however, but I don’t care. I am just happy that my beloved Donny is back.

“Mom,” Lizzie is whispering urgently. “This gentleman is not Dad. He’s a paramedic.”

“Don’t be silly, Lizzie,” I respond dismissively. “Come, Donny, help me up.”

It irritates me to hear Lizzie mumbling to Donny as if I wasn’t there. “I’m so sorry,” she is saying. “My mother seems to think you are her husband, probably because of your dark skin.”

“No worries,” Donny assures her. “Let’s have a look.”

He bends over me, and I raise my palm to touch his face. It is such a beautiful face. “I knew you’d be back,” I whisper.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he applies a blood pressure cuff to my upper arm and places the end of a stethoscope against my chest.

“What are you doing?” I ask in consternation.

He shakes his head as he removes the cuff and the stethoscope. When he lifts me up into his arms, I smile happily. He is so strong. He places me on a soft surface while Lizzie opens the front door. I notice an ambulance parked on the street. It’s probably there for old Mrs. Morgan from next door, the neighborhood busybody, I think uncharitably. I am taken aback when I realize they are wheeling me into the ambulance instead. “Why am I in this ambulance? There’s nothing wrong with me,” I protest in extreme agitation.

Neither of them responds. Donny secures the gurney while Lizzie sits by my side. I tense when I hear the siren and feel the roll of the ambulance as it races away from my home. I have a sinking feeling but cannot put my finger on its cause. Are they taking me away because I fell asleep on the floor? I wasn’t hurt, although I felt disoriented.

The ambulance finally comes to a screeching halt.

“Why am I here?” I ask when they roll me out, and I see the neon Emergency sign, blinking its blue light. A shaft of fear goes through me.

“How do you feel, Maam?” Donny is wheeling me down a long hallway.

“I feel fine,” I respond sharply. I wish he would stop calling me Maam.

“Why am I here?” I repeat.

No one answers. Even the ever-vociferous Lizzie has suddenly turned mute.

I hate the hospital. My Donny is gone again, and I miss him terribly.  Doctors and nurses keep waltzing in and out, poking, prodding, and turning me over like I am a sausage on the grill. I wish the thin, white-coated woman would stop shaking her head as she makes entries on her clipboard. She looks like Cruella with her surly, puckered lips.

“She has no symptoms nor prognosis of stroke or any cardiac episode,” she is saying to Lizzie, who stands by mutely, nodding her head and listening as if she were in the throes of hypnosis. “I recommend calling in our geriatrician for an assessment.”

“Why does she need a geriatrician?” Lizzie finally seems to have found her voice.

“I don’t need to see a Patrician!” I exclaim in irritation. Either they were both deaf, or they were deliberately ignoring me. And what was a patrician, anyway? “I don’t need to see anyone,” I repeat more forcefully. They pay me no heed.

Later, I realize they were keeping me in the hospital when a nurse comes to transfer me to a room. When I question him, he tells me they need to run more tests. Although I am relieved to be out of the Emergency room, I am fearful of what they might find on their tests. I wonder aloud what tests they needed to run, but the nurse won’t say. Lizzie has left, and I feel abandoned and afraid.

The following day Lizzie returns with another doctor who keeps smiling at me like I am the village idiot, needing to be patronized.

“Mrs. Ferns,” the woman greets, through a pseudo smile. “How are you?”

I shrug, deigning not to answer. I am angry and nervous about what was happening to me. I know something is amiss, but no one will tell me anything.

“Your daughter tells me you’ve been experiencing some cognitive setbacks.”

What? Cognitive setbacks? Of course, I’m not suffering any setbacks of any kind! I remain silent, continuing to stare out the window. The woman persists.

Now she is talking to Lizzie once again, like I wasn’t even there. What was it with these white coats who acted like they were God?

“Has she been having frequent falls?” she asks.

“Well,” responds Lizzie hesitantly. “A few days ago, she was weeding in the garden. According to a neighbor, she appeared to have tripped and fallen. We didn’t think anything of it, imagining she had just got her foot caught on something.”

Of course, I did. How else would I have fallen? If indeed I fell!

The interrogation continues. “What about cognitive issues? Disorientation? Comprehension, memory distortion, mood changes? Anything different?”

Lizzie will castigate the woman for sure. What sort of questions are those?

But Lizzie doesn’t push back on the questioning. Rather, she is now relating incidents she has supposedly noticed. Why is Lizzie lying so?

“Mrs. Ferns,” the woman turns to me. “I’m going to have you do a few simple tests, okay?”

Since Lizzie seems to have lost the will to object on my behalf, I shrug. Best to do what the woman asks and get rid of her. The doctor lady pulls the over-bed table to where I am sitting up and adjusts it across my lap. She places a pen and paper in front of me on which she draws a large circle.

“Now,” she instructs, like she is talking to a child. “Can you fill this in with the numbers on an analog clock?”

Of course, I can! I’m not senile! My annoyance is clear as I pick up the pen and look at the drawing. I insert a 12 and a 6 on the blank page, and then I stop, unable to fathom the rest. My mind is as blank as the paper. What is wrong with me?

“Okay,” the Doctor lady says presently, turning the paper over. “I’m going to ask you a couple of simple math questions. Please write the answers on the paper.”

I cannot concentrate anymore, and I know I have failed the test when she removes the paper and leads Lizzie out of the room.

A few days later, Lizzie walks into my room. I can detect the tears through the brightness of her smile. “It’s time to go, Mom,” she announces.

“Where are we going?”

“Um, home,” she mumbles incoherently, busying herself with my belongings.

My home seemed to have changed, and my confusion mounts. There are so many people around. There is a lady behind a desk, but I’m not in a hospital. They tell me this is my new home, and my bedroom is the last one down the hall. I look around the small space that is supposedly my bedroom. Where is my dresser? My closet with our clothes? Donny’s and mine? This is not my home.

“Lizzie, what is this place? I want to go home,” I cry, panic-stricken.

“This is your home now, Mom,” Lizzie says, with tears in her eyes. “They will look after you here.”

“Why do ‘they’ need to look after me? Who are ‘they’?” I ask. “And why are you crying?’

Fresh tears slip down her face. “Mom, you’ve been placed in a lovely nursing home.” Lizzie seems to struggle with the tears that have now morphed into a deluge.

My heart drops. A nursing home? “You mean I’m not going to my house?”

“You can’t live on your own anymore, Mom.”

“Why not, Lizzie? I don’t want to be here.”

But Lizzie remains adamant. She doesn’t take me home.

I try to be patient, thinking I would get better, but it appears I wasn’t making any progress as the days passed. I couldn’t remember things. I would walk out into the hallway and not know where I was going or how to find my way back to my room. Someone needs to tell me what to do or where I am supposed to go.

Mealtimes are the worst. I hate the restaurant they take me to. It is full of elderly people, many looking half dead. The old man seated across from me drools over his plate and grosses me out. It makes me lose my appetite.

The only thing I enjoy about this place is the garden, so beautiful and peaceful, and full of fragrantly colorful flowers. I sit there dozing off or watching Lizzie playing in the yard. She is such a lovely child, so petite and gentle with her head of dark curls framing her face and an irresistible pixie smile curling her lips. I try to call out to her to sit in my lap, but she is so elusive, waving at me and laughing as she runs away until I cannot see her anymore. I love these days when it is just my beautiful little girl and me.

Today I am sitting under a shady trellis, enjoying the sunny day, when I see a lovely woman step out of a car and wave at me. She looks familiar, but I don’t know her. She enters the garden and comes towards me, smiling warmly. She leans down and kisses my cheek. Her lips are warm, and I like the feel of them against my skin.

“Hello, Mom,” the lady says brightly.

Oh, she thinks I’m her mother. “Your mother’s not here, dear,” I tell her gently. “She was here, but she’s probably gone inside now to do her wash.”

“Mom, it’s me, Lizzie,” she announces through a flow of tears.

“Ah, Lizzie, yes,” I say in faint recognition. This is the Church lady, probably come for donations. Why is she always crying, though? Perhaps because I don’t give enough, I think with a wicked smile. Serve her right, for always wanting to gouge poor seniors like me. She probably uses my money to purchase all the fancy clothes she wears!

She sits by me for a while and then leaves, wiping away tears on a wet tissue.

As I watch her leave, her high heels tapping against the paved path of the yard, I am suddenly overcome by a stabbing loneliness. I wish my Donny were here. I keep looking for him, but I can’t find him. It’s all so perplexing.

Everywhere I look, all I see is empty, billowing white clouds. Donny is somewhere in that white vacuum, and I’ll just have to keep looking until I find him. I know he’ll be home soon, and we’ll be together again. Often, I don’t even remember who I am. I feel helpless. I am in an inexplicable state to total oblivion, and I can’t seem to do anything about it. It frightens me.

The house that Pai built is where my earliest, most wondrous, and lasting memories were made. Safe to say, I am who I am, mainly because of the time of my youth that was spent in this house.

The house, built by my grandfather, Rosario Joanes, in the late '30s, was located in Pangani, a predominantly Goan residential area in a suburb of Nairobi. It was a rambling structure in the center of a long street of Goan residences. At its rear boundary was The Mathari River, where we, as kids, learned the rudiments of dog paddling, which we proudly considered being swimming. That we always got a flogging for indulging in a taboo was of little consequence to us. The restriction stemmed mainly from the fact that on the other side of the river lay the White residential area, where coloreds were not allowed. From the edge of the river to the compound was a fruit and vegetable shamba. Guava and zumlum trees abounded, which we would often climb to pick the luscious fruits.

The structure of the house itself was U-shaped, with a small circular veranda separated the two sections. There were bedrooms, kitchens, bathrooms, and toilets on each arm of the U. These housed the siblings' living quarters. Later, after the older siblings left home, the left-wing of the house was rented out. Each section also had an upper level and a lower level. In later years, the lower rooms got converted into my aunt's private flat, which contained her living quarters and her sewing workshop.

As children, we spent many idyllic school holidays and after-school hours in this house that Pai built. Oh, the memories! Sadly, after the death of our beloved grandfather and the rigors of post-colonization, our grandmother sold the house

to join her son in Canada.

Never will the house that Pai built ever be a discarded or forgotten memory.

When my daughter declared that being technologically inept was neither cute nor endearing, I decided that this lockdown would afford me the opportunity to work on my new-age disability. I turned to my husband, who professes to be an expert in this medium. And therein started the war.

My first endeavor was to master the intricacies of my new cell phone devise.  Yep, I have an iPhone. But iPhone or any other gizmo means squat to me. All I want is to turn the thing on, make a call and turn it off again. I can, honestly, do without the emails/apps/and what-have-you. Now, in the middle of a call, the monster will ding, and the readout reads, “incoming video call”. WTH?

“Clement! Something’s happening on this phone!” I yell.

“Good Heavens,” he calls back impatiently. “It’s probably a video call!”

“Well!” I’m flummoxed, as I am on a call already. “I can’t take a video call because I’m not wearing any clothes! What should I do? Can everyone that’s on this line see me?”

“Put on some clothes, is what you should do,” he mutters.

I can hear his exasperation two rooms down.

Moving along to the TV. Hubby’s deep frustration is directed at my pathetic attempt to maneuver through the insurmountable complexities of a new converter that requires two hands and two thumbs (and probably feet too), all moving simultaneously. I’m not that dexterous! All I want is to turn on the box to watch the gore and misery on the 6 o’clock news.

“First, make sure the box is on,” he tells me, like I was an idiot child.

“Yes,” I responded in my snarkiest tone, “that’s what I’m trying to do, aren’t I?” Of course, he didn’t tell me he was referring to a box underneath the TV, to the side, atop several other pieces of electronics!

Unfortunately for me, all the members of my family, including my 4-year-old grandson, fall under the ‘media geek’ category. They find it incomprehensible that I could be thus challenged and yet function, albeit ineptly, in this era of all things automated, digital and high-tech. I am not ashamed to face what my family considers being an embarrassing dysfunction in what is, to me, the bewildering world of high tech.

To compound matters, I joined Zoom writing and line dance classes. Well, go figure that one! How in heaven’s name does this work? Download the App.  Sign in. Enter ID, Enter Password. Too many IDs and Passwords for my limited gray cells to process!

“Well, husband, where do I find those?” I begged him.

I’ve been married for 51 years, and he’s been patient for the most part. But, when I implored his help to get online with these innovative programs, it was the final straw for him.

Last I heard was the door slamming. I’m still out looking for him!

45 Days into lockdown with no apparent relief in sight! Navigating the intricacies of technology had left me frustrated. So, what should I do? Ah! I remembered the trauma of my flour saga and decided now was a good time to make use of that precious flour. But first, how I got that scarce commodity. Early March, and post folks-hoarding-toilet-paper (come on, really?), I arrived in the baking aisle at my local grocery store. Imagine my shock to see one lone bag of flour sitting forlornly on the bare shelves. Panicked, I rushed forward and reached for the bag. A lady, who had approached from the other end of the aisle, obviously having the same idea, reached out at that same moment. Our hands collided. I held on, tightening my grip. As did she. We glared at each other. From nowhere came a third woman, who proceeded to try to grab the bag from the two combatants already holding tight. Not one of us would concede defeat. We held on, each trying to shake off the other’s grip. I visualized the bag breaking open and flour scattering over us. Undaunted, I held on, now in full battle mode. My struggle paid off and victory was finally mine! I fled down the aisle with my bag of flour clutched tightly against my breast. I cashed out and ran.

So, I now had flour. I researched recipes, of which there were a myriad to be had. Mrs. Google kindly advised on all manner of baking. Recipes galore! I decided to try my hand at bread. And I was successful. I baked, and I baked. But what to do with all that bread? I started to distribute around the ‘hood. And I continued to bake and distribute until I noticed folk were turning off their lights and drawing their curtains when I appeared on their driveways with my bags of bread. I swear, even the food bank people locked their doors when they saw my car pull up! And so, my husband and I were left with dozens of loaves of bread. It is a sin to waste, so we ate. And we ate. And I had flour, so I baked some more. And we ate some more. And here’s how that turned out for us!

The dictionary defines faith as "a system of religious belief."  But how does one get such a belief?  I mean, truly get it in every facet of its meaning? My revelation was a simple one, and it came to me in my later years.  Thanks to my Mother, I discovered a faith that has helped me through all the trials of my life.

When I was a child, the Rosary's recitation was an obligation that I could not avoid under any circumstance.  Fear of the stick administered by our mother was the forced impetus that dragged us to daily prayer. I must mention here that Mom's Rosary, blessed by every man-of-the-cloth our Mother ever came across, was her weapon of choice against the snares and evils of the world.  The problem with nightly Rosary-according-to-Mom was that her prayers involved not only the customary five decades and closing Hail Holy Queen.  Rather, it included litany upon litany dedicated to every relative, dead, or yet to die, every saint, anointed, or yet to be anointed!   Ours was not merely Rosary "hour"; ours was Rosary "hours-upon-end." Kneeling was mandatory.  But, as the tediousness of litanies progressed, our rear ends would gradually droop. Soon we would be on our haunches, incoherently mumbling incoherent responses, subsequently inviting the application of the aforementioned stick. as time passed, Mom's faith in her Rosary grew rather than diminished.  She prayed with a fervor and belief that was beyond my understanding and my patience.  

Then, at 87 years came the onset of dementia.  I was duly tasked with finding a nursing home where Mom would be suitably cared for.   The process was an onerous one, and Mom added to the problem by insisting that she would only contemplate acceptance of residency at the specific facility where she had engaged in years of voluntary work.  Her dementia knew that much.  I explained that this was an uphill undertaking, waitlists for preferred homes being lengthy, and one must accept that which comes first. Mom would always push back with her immortal words,  "Try. Blessed Mother will provide."   And, right enough, a miracle occurred. Barely two weeks into my search, we were granted a room at the nursing home of my Mom's choice.  Whatever happened to "unavailability due to long waitlists"?  I muttered aloud.  And Mom's response with blissful acceptance was, "I told you, Blessed Mother would provide."

I watched Mother's health deteriorate in the ensuing years and wondered if "Blessed Mother" was on a hiatus.  It never occurred to me that, through the merciful grace of Our Blessed Mother, my Mom was at peace and suffered no pain nor the anxieties of everyday life.  I did always ensure, however, that she was afforded an opportunity for her daily Rosary recitation. Of course, as her dementia worsened, the prayers were considerably shortened.  Left up to me, I unashamedly whipped through the minimal Rosary prayers. There were no litanies, nor her interminable exhortation to the Saints.  Then, one fateful night, I, with no coherent forethought, spent the night with Mom at the nursing home. The staff placed a cot in her room so I could lie next to her.  At 3'o'clock in the morning, I felt her eyes on me. I looked over and saw her laser gaze boring into me. A sixth sense told me what she needed.  

"You want to recite the Rosary?" I asked, while inwardly groaning that it was 3 a.m., and hardly the time!

Mom nodded. I acquiesced. I took her hand, and we started to pray.  By the time we reached the third decade, I began to feel the coldness in her hands. I glanced at her feet and noted the bluish tinge of death spreading upward.

I gripped her hands tightly, and my last words to her were, "Mom,  God is opening the door for you to take you home now.  Go in peace. I will always love you."

Mom smiled her beautiful smile for the last time as she closed her eyes in a peaceful escape from the pitiful stronghold of dementia.  At that moment, I realized that my mother was awarding me her final gift.  She was unraveling for me the mystery and power of her immense faith.  Blessed Mother did provide, after all!  As my mother lived by the Rosary, so had she died.  In hindsight, I would always wonder at the happenstance that led me to spend the night with her in that fateful time.

Perhaps, so that the bewildering path of faith could be unraveled for me? I now hold firmly to that truth.

Years later, as I bumped along own difficult journey with cancer, I felt strengthened and empowered as I embraced my mom's steadfast belief in the Rosary, finally understanding the true measure of her shakable faith. Like my mother, the Rosary has become my weapon of choice against all ills and misfortunes of life.  I hold the mystical power of Our Blessed Mother close.  She is the Supreme Being that is our Beloved Mother.

To my own Mom, Happy Mother's Day.  Rest in Peace.  I love you.

Outside my window, the wind is howling. People go about their business huddled under coats and hats; their faces ravaged by the frosty bite of an early Canadian winter. And, as I contemplate and dread the onslaught of bone-chilling temperatures and snow-laden roads that make driving a nightmare and life generally disagreeable, I slip into my favorite daydream. Goa … where the sun is always shining. Where people move at a snail’s pace and yet get things done. Where the food is mouth-watering, and the drink is fiery and local, warming the cockles of the coldest heart. My spirits lift as I envision the sun’s rays upon my back, and the strong odor of ripened caju fruit, hanging from sagging branches, plump and juicy, just waiting to be picked. I close my eyes and hear the background noises of exotic birds, chirping as they wing across open fields under cloudless blue skies, mingling with the sounds of barking dogs, of grunting pigs in search of slop, and of an assortment of honking vehicular traffic.  

My daydream takes me to a small, off-the-beaten track village, population 75 on a good day, sandwiched between Varca Beach and Cavelossim Beach, and nestling along the shores of the Arabian Sea in Salcete, South Goa. Here I have an ancestral home that has been rebuilt with all the modern conveniences, albeit maintaining the intrinsic architectural styles of a Goan abode, wraparound veranda, and all. The paved main road does not quite reach our front gate as we are tucked away further inside the enclave of houses that make up the village. The minor matter of convincing the Panchyat’s office that, according to the law, every home must be accessible by a paved road, has become a bone of contention between my family and the next-door neighbors, who are, coincidentally, our relatives. One must understand that property disputes between feuding families are the norm in Goa. Logic, common sense, and deeds of ownership play no part in settling any quarrels, which often run into the lifetimes of all concerned and are, subsequently, passed down to inheriting children, who end up years later still feuding, but not knowing what they are feuding over. Property in Goa takes second place to nothing. Folk have been known to dispatch spouses and even first born in the name of property! The circumstance of our battling families is not unique by any means. The relatives believe that our piece of property should rightly be theirs for no more substantive reason than that’s what they believe, and my family knows that our property is ours for the legal reason that we have ownership deeds that say it’s ours. So, this feud is ongoing and will probably never be resolved until every member of both our families have been laid to rest. As it stands, getting to the main road whenever I need to take the bus into Margao, which is almost every day, is a matter of great adventure. First, I peer through the curtains to ensure that the coast is clear. Then I sprint across the neighbor’s field in blatant trespass. I could, of course, use the long way around the village to the road, but why bother? It’s more fun this way.  

Rice fields border my house in the back, some belonging to our family, and some not. In the early seventies, the Indian Navy came calling and annexed land belonging to the villagers, my family’s included. The now fully operational base runs from the village boundary, covers a large expanse of coconut fields, and gradually slopes down onto one of the most breathtakingly beautiful beaches in the world. A pristine white sandy shoreline stretches as far as the eye can see, edging the tranquil azure waters of the Arabian Sea. On the south end of this sandy haven lies the fabled Leila Palace Hotel and, on the north end, the five-star Renaissance Hotel. The presence of the naval base has discouraged tourism in this area, making this one of the most tranquil and undiscovered beaches in Goa.   

My daydream continues as I re-live my daily jaunts to the beach at the crack of dawn to watch the fishermen bringing in their fish-laden nets. The local village fishermen set out at the dead of night and return at daybreak in their sturdy, non-mechanized, home built trawlers–‘voddems’ - hewn from solid wood. The introduction of more modern motorized vessels has cut into business for the poorer fishermen, making it difficult for them to maintain a livelihood from their dying craft. Nevertheless, it is a picturesque scene to behold these fishermen coming to shore and hauling in their nets. Armed with a mug of hot coffee, and a torch, local vernacular for ‘flashlight’, I slip through a large hole in the wire mesh that surrounds the naval base, taking a shortcut to the beach. Stealthily, like a thief dodging detection, I pick my way across the coconut fields. The sentinel, supposedly on guard duty to sound the alarm should there be an unexpected attack, is fast asleep. A stick, his pitiful excuse for a baton, probably used to beat off those would-be unexpected attackers, dangles from his slack fingers. God forbid, there be an unexpected invasion on our shores, the Indians would be caught, as the saying goes, with their pants down, fast asleep! Undetected, I crest a hill and immediately hear the swish of the waves as they crash against the sandy shore, leaving cascading frills of foamy white surf like the lacy edges of a petticoat, against the inky darkness of night. A thick fog envelops the sea, making the bulky hull of a ‘voddem’ approaching the shore appear eerie, its massive wooden oars dipping and rising, propelling the crude trawler forward. As I approach the water’s edge, a faint sliver of orange appears on the horizon along the sea line, signaling the gentle rise of an emerging sun. Pale rays of light start to streak across the dark sky and gradually morph into deeper hues of brilliant orange, red, and mauve.  The glow of orange on the sea line takes shape, forming into a perfect globe as it climbs upward. The sun has begun its assent into the sky, heralding the dawn of a new day. As darkness dissipates into daylight, the fishing boat nears land. Its crew, some garbed in the traditional Goan cashti, leap into the shallow water’s edge to haul in a wide net that stretches several miles across the water’s surface. They heave and tug, working the net vigorously, yet carefully, so as not to dislodge any of the precious catch within. Onlookers gather to watch as the men haul the net to safety on the beach. Once the net is ashore and disengaged from the hooks securing it to the boat, the backbreaking chore of hauling the heavy wooden boat onto the sandy beach begins. Without doubt, the task of manually hoisting a 200-pound wooden structure up a sandbank, high enough to be safe from any unexpected tidal movement, is an onerous one. However, with fine-tuned precision and teamwork from the crew, the job is completed with seemingly minimum effort and time wasted. The men return to their net and the job of sorting and divvying up the catch into equal portions begins. As the sun climbs high into the sky, spreading its welcome warmth over the land, a group of women converge on the beach, dressed in colorful cunbi saris, balancing wide straw baskets upon their heads, arms raised to anchor their loads as they walk. They have brought their men-folk flasks of coffee and breakfasts of chapati and curry. The men eat quickly and return to the work at hand. They empty their share of the day’s catch into their individual creels to be taken to market. The women in turn heft the heavy baskets onto their heads and make their way back along the beach. As they walk, their saris make a striking picture. The women are headed to the market where they will sell their fish. The men stay behind, cleaning, repairing, and storing their net safely in preparation for the next day, before retiring for a well-earned rest. 

It is barely 7:30 a.m. but the sun is already high in the sky, and the sand feels hot underfoot as I walk along the now almost deserted beach. Only the swish of the waves crashing against the shore breaks the silence, leaving me to take an early morning stroll, and meditate in peaceful bliss on this awesome gift from God, that is Goa. The shimmering blue water of the sea is deceptively calm, concealing the powerful undertow that could be disastrous if one ventured in unsuspectingly. I keep to the water’s edge, dipping my feet into the white frothy waves that dance gently upon the beach. The feel of wet sand sifting between my toes is pleasurable and soothing. After a lengthy walk, I hurry home in anticipation of a delicious breakfast of Goan sausage, chapati, and sullodeo – a delicious, thin pancake made from ground rice and freshly tapped coconut toddy.    

Sated with a hearty meal and a feeling of absolute ‘susegaad’, I prepare for a day at the market with my mother-in-law. An experience I strongly recommend for everyone… with or without my mother-in-law!  

“Yo, yo, Bai. Bus atha,” she yells when we hear a bus chugging down the road.  

She picks up her pace; expertly dodging snorting pigs and dexterously dancing around clumps of freshly excreted cow manure. I can hear the conductor’s guttural chant of “Modgaum, Modgaum, Modgaum” as the bus chokes to a rolling stop, spewing black fumes of exhaust in its wake. My spry, wiry 83-year-old mother-in-law, who is neither gasping for breath nor rasping up a lung as I am, reaches the bus and takes a leap onto the bottom step which already has a pile of people hanging on. Undaunted that the over-packed bus is spilling its occupants out the door, she manages to shove her way through the crush of humanity while reaching out to grab my hand and pulling me in behind her. Amazingly, she invokes no anger from the people whose toes she treads on or whom she elbows in the ribs as she pushes further into the packed aisle. Rather, most of the folk seem to know her by name and greet her cordially. Quite unperturbed by the overpowering odors of curry and undeodorized bodies, she carries on a lively conversation with everyone, while I try to remove my face from the bosom of the big-breasted woman that I am pressed up against. Not a pleasant task, as the man behind me is so close I am not sure where he ends and where I start. Worse, we still have six more stops to our destination.

Finally, we reach the bus station in the center of Margao. Chaos reigns as the bus stops and people try to get on at the same time as others are trying to get off. The ever-present fear of not being able to get off the bus in time propels me forward, pushing oncoming bodies out of the way, using elbows and arms as lethal weapons. With a huge sigh of relief, I join my mother-in-law, who is impatient to start her shopping ritual. First stop, the bank, a mausoleum of a building that’s stood like a beacon in the center of the town ever since I can remember. The line-ups are long… actually, to be precise, there aren’t any organized ‘line-ups’. The queue system has not yet arrived in India. Rather, groups of people huddle against the teller’s wickets, all vying for service. The rule of gaining attention is that whoever can shout the loudest or press the closest to the glass is the first to be attended to. The timid or faint-of-heart does not fare well in this environment. My mother-in-law, who is neither timid nor faint-hearted, concludes her business promptly and we’re soon on our way to the fish market. 

It is an undisputed fact that buying fish in Goa is akin to a religious rite. It is a ritual deeply entrenched in the Goan psyche, for some a chore, for others an adventure. The marketplace, as always, is crowded, wet, and reeks of fish, some fresh and some not so fresh. The noise level is at a crescendo.

“Yo, Go Bai, Yo! Niste borem! Poi! Inga poi. Kitem zai?” The vender women call from their stalls as we approach.  

My mother-in-law pokes at the fish. She sniffs at it. Then she turns and walks away, disdain evident by the curl of her lip. Nothing she sees impresses her. Nevertheless, she asks pointing to the mackerels, “Kitlen poise?”

“Sogllen, panch rupee,” the eager seller responds expectantly, holding up five succulent mackerels by their tails.              

“Che!”  My mother-in-law hisses as she stalks off to the next stall where she re-enacts the same routine. It is expected. She keeps this up until she comes full circle and arrives back at the first vendor. Groaning inwardly, I brace myself for a repeat performance. She continues to bargain and haggle until she gets the fish of her choice for next to nothing. Well pleased but making no effort to convey her pleasure to the harassed vendor, she then marches off towards the vegetable market to inflict further torture upon myself and the vegetable sellers with a fresh round of robust haggling.  

Finally, we’re done shopping, and we head towards the ever-popular Longhino’s Restaurant. My mother-in-law has an ‘in’ with the constabulary and is accorded her favorite table in the middle of the restaurant, from where she holds court and observes everyone who comes in, giving me a running commentary on their lives. While she is thus occupied, I feast on beef croquets, the likes of which one cannot taste anywhere else in the world. I follow this up with delectable pork gravy, crisp butter naan, bhindi-bhaji, chicken shakuti, prawn pilau and a tray of assorted pickles. My mother-in-law sticks to the more traditional fish-curry-rice, and her discourse on the local gossip. For dessert, I order a serving of delectable bebinca. Anywhere else, such a feast would be gluttonous. In Goa, however, it is considered doing justice, and is expected of one. Barely able to move, I follow my mother-in-law outside, where she hails a waiting yellow and black ‘tuk-tuk’ for the homeward journey.

These are just some of the simple pleasures that make me yearn for Goa. I slog through long, grueling hours of air travel just to experience the feeling of susegaad that I miss in the fast-paced, high stress lifestyle I’ve become accustomed to in my adopted homeland. Whatever the reason, be it the weather, the people or the lifestyle, there is no denying that Goa is where my roots are. Therefore, I keep coming back every year. 

“So, when you go back, will you be having a marriage arrangement done for you? You people still do those, right?” Candy asked, taking a long drag from the mug of beer in front of her.

Anna Lobo sighed. Of course, ‘you people’ referenced her, as it generally did here, in the West. The university watering hole was packed with the end-of-school crowd letting loose.  Anna was squeezed into a booth with the friends she’d made during the past six years of her studies as an overseas student. Tyler Black, whom she’d been romantically involved with for the last two of those years, sat next to her. Anna was leaving for Goa in less than two weeks. She really hated the thought of leaving and going back. Yes, she did want to see her family again, but living in Goa with all its archaic traditions and folklore would, in her estimation, be akin to living with aliens.  

“Some probably do,” Anna responded, disinterestedly.   

“Personally, I’d say India’s arranged marriages aren’t any different from your own on-line dating services.” Kiran Patel interjected. “Same difference if you ask me. In our culture, the parents pick, in yours a computer picks.” Kiran was the only other Indian in their group.  

“Excuse me?” Tyler piped in. “There’s no comparison at all. The very idea of your parents picking someone for you to marry is quite repugnant. I read somewhere that some of these marriages are prearranged when kids are five or six years old.”

Anna bristled. “Yes, among royalty in the middle-ages, perhaps. In your culture as much as in ours,” she shot back. “Nowadays it’s all civilized. Boy introduced to girl and if they like each other, the deal’s on.”

“Exactly,” Tyler cried triumphantly. “It’s a deal. A business deal between families.” He put his arm around Anna’s shoulders. “Would you agree to something like that?”

Anna shrugged. How could she say, “Not now that I’m hoping you’ll pop the question”? She refrained from any response and the conversation veered to other topics.

**********

Going home should have been a joyous time in anticipation of reuniting with family, friends, and all things familiar. Instead, Anna’s feelings of despair became heightened with every mile that brought the jetliner closer to the landing strip at Dabolim Airport. If Tyler had asked her to stay, she’d have found the nerve to tell her parents by phone that she wasn’t coming back. 

   Giving herself a mental shake, Anna resignedly collected her belongings and stepped onto the sun-drenched tarmac, heading towards the terminal building. She had done what any well-raised Goan girl would do and come home to tell her parents, in person, that she’d been seeing Tyler for the past two years and that she was going back to America to be with him. Anna groaned. She could just imagine her father’s wrath. 

“Help zai, bai?” An elderly porter asked hopefully as she hefted her large, overweight bags from the carousel. 

“Oi!” Anna was surprised at how quickly and automatically she responded in her native Konkani.        

“Yo.” The porter placed her bags on a rickety trolley and wound his way out of the baggage hall.

The entire family, grandparents, parents, siblings, cousins, and most of the village were mixed into the throng of people swarming the pavement. Despite her despondency, Anna’s features relaxed into a happy smile. Deep down, she was elated to see them all. It had been six years since she’d left to attend University in on an academic scholarship, and although she had changed immensely during those six years, had become completely assimilated into western culture, she had missed her family.

“Bai!” Her mother enveloped her in a tight embrace, tears of happiness flowing freely down her face. Anna laughed from the sheer joy of the moment, her problems momentarily forgotten in the excitement of her homecoming.

**********

It had been three days since her arrival in Goa and she had still not told her family about Tyler. She’d been waiting for the right moment, which hadn’t yet materialized. She just hated scenes, and she knew one would ensue as soon as she told them she had a ‘white’ boyfriend. Anna felt trapped and alone.   

That night, as she prepared for Aunt Mila’s birthday party, she suppressed the urge to be perverse and wear something low-cut and revealing, just for the hell of it. But she knew it wouldn’t help her cause to rock the boat at this point. Time enough to invoke her parent’s disappointment and anger later. So, she chose instead, a black, knee-length skirt, which she topped with a sequined blouse. While the bodice of the blouse hugged and enhanced her shapely curves, the garment was neither revealing nor immodest. It was just right for a family gathering. She clasped a gold chain around her ankle before slipping her feet into strappy, black high-heeled sandals. Despite all her efforts, however, she still did not look like any of the local girls.    

Surprisingly, her parents thought nothing of her ‘foreign’ attire. Rather, they smiled with unconcealed pride as they marched her towards Grandma’s house. Anna had no illusions what the party was all about. She knew this was a ‘showing’ for a prospective husband. A proposal was being sought. She wanted to yell at them that she was going back to Tyler just as soon as she could. That she had become westernized and there was no way on earth that she would ever countenance spending the rest of her life in this God-forsaken village with their stupid marriage proposals! But she remained silent. Being Anna and ever mindful of her parent’s feelings, she fixed a smile on her face and meekly followed them along the sandy path.  

Grandma’s house was all lit up when they arrived. Garlands of colored lights were strung along the overhang. People were crowded in the ‘sitting-room’ and the dining room, and some spilled out onto the verandah. The younger folk were up on the terrace where music was blaring from a CD player.

Anna’s internal radar went on immediate alert when she spotted several families arriving with their sons in tow. It was a beautiful, balmy night with a million stars in the sky. She was bathed in the smells and sounds of earth and sea… and the throes of indecision. She wanted to be there, yet she hated being there. Tyler! It was really all about Tyler. How could she expect him to ever understand her people? They were simple village folk. She was proud of them, and yet she was embarrassed by them. She was being torn apart by unsettling contradictions.  

 “Anna, Bai, hui ha?” Auntie Mila’s voice broke into her reverie.

“I’m here, Auntie.” Anna bit her lip, knowing exactly why she was being sought. She could see the lineup of young men hovering around the hall inside. No doubt her father had already posted ‘dowry’, which had been vigilantly circulated by the greedy Goan Yentls now salivating over whose match would come to fruition.      

“Come, Mummy wants to see you.”

“Why?” Anna asked.  

“You’ll see.” Mila smiled happily. “This is a good day for the family.”

Dragging her feet, Anna followed her aunt’s rotund figure into the vast hall, feeling like a lamb being led to slaughter. Mothers were seated in antique chairs lined against the walls, while fathers stood by a makeshift bar in the corner. All eyes were trained on her as she entered, and she wished desperately for the ground to open up and swallow her.  

Red-faced, Anna approached her mother. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, Bai. Come, meet my friends.”

The women inspected her minutely. She could feel their eyes on her as she moved around the room. She ground her teeth in anger, resisting the urge to run screaming from the room. Fortunately, the fathers were so well into the Feni that was flowing freely, they gave her only a cursory inspection. Then Anna was introduced to the lineup of younger men in the hall, from which group would materialize a bridegroom for her, or so everyone expected. She gave the men a hasty glance and promptly left the room.

Her sister was waiting for her on the verandah. “So, which one do you fancy?” she asked gleefully. “The one with the missing tooth? Or maybe the fat one?”

“Shut up, Rosie,” Anna fumed. “This isn’t funny.”

**********

“So, you’re Anna.”  

His voice was deep, his accent vaguely foreign. Anna felt an immediate tug of awareness run through her. She turned slowly. The man she had noticed in the lineup, dressed in casual slacks and open shirt, flagrantly flaunting the Goan convention of dressing in suit and tie when being presented to a prospective bride, stood in front of her, amusement glinting from his deep brown eyes. And Anna couldn’t find her tongue. Mortified, she just nodded and hoped desperately that she didn’t appear dim-witted.  

“And you’re looking for a husband?” His laugh was sexy and very masculine.

“I’m not,” she declared heatedly, finally finding her voice. “Are you looking for a wife?”

“Maybe.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his slacks and leaned against a pillar. His eyes slid over her in slow assessment. “Maybe,” he repeated boldly.

Anna’s heart pounded. She couldn’t believe she was reacting to him this way. Her mouth was dry, and her hands trembled. “Well, don’t look at me. I’m not interested.”

“That’s not what your parents think.”

“I really don’t care what anyone thinks. I’m just not interested in anyone arranging my marriage.”

“So why did you come here, then?”

“To celebrate my aunt’s birthday.” Anna looked at him miserably. “And it suddenly turned into this marriage farce.”

He laughed. “You should have seen your face in there. You looked like you were going to a hanging. Yours.”

Anna couldn’t help herself. She laughed. He was, really, kind of nice. “So, what’s your story?”

“I don’t have a story. I just came to see what all the fuss was about.” Again, he let his eyes take a visual inventory of her. “Now I know.”

Anna blushed. She changed the subject. “You speak like an American. Maybe not exactly like an American, but certainly not like a Goan.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I’m just saying, because you, too, speak like a foreigner.”

“Oh, so you consider yourself a foreigner?” He raised an eyebrow.

Anna bristled. “I didn’t say I was a foreigner,” she responded heatedly. “I’ve just returned from overseas after six years, so naturally I’d feel a little different. I don’t know what’s wrong with you people.”

“You people?” He laughed mockingly. “You are not one of us, huh? You are better just because you’ve just come back from overseas after six years?”

Anna blushed, mollified. “No!” She hadn’t meant to sound arrogant. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just that I don’t agree with the idea of arranged marriages. At least, not for me. And I’ve just been subjected to a degrading inspection, so I’m a little on edge.”

He grinned. “That’s okay. I was only teasing you, anyway.”

Anna studied him closely. He was taller than most of the other men. He was very handsome, with deep craggy features, a hard, square chin and eyes that twinkled attractively. He obviously worked out, as his body was well-honed, broad shouldered and lean hipped, his forearms muscular under the short-sleeved sports shirt he wore so well.

He suddenly pushed himself off the pillar and took a closer step to where she stood. “So, you like what you see?”

“What?” she stuttered, embarrassed at having been caught staring.

“You were looking.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You really are very arrogant.”     

He laughed and took another step closer. “When I finished college, I took a job at a call center in Pune. We had to learn to speak like foreigners. Two years later, I got into an IIT-Bangalore college.”

“Oh,” Anna said, impressed. “So, you work in Bangalore?”

“Mostly. I travel to the United States for jobs, as well.”

After a momentary pause, he asked, “Would you like to go out to dinner tomorrow? We can talk some more.”

Anna hesitated. She really wanted to. She found him very attractive. “I don’t even know your name,” she said presently, stalling.  

“My name is Daniel. I was brought here to meet you.”

How could it be possible that she was attracted to a boy her parents were considering as a marital prospect? That should have turned her off immediately. Instead, she felt herself being drawn to him. This shouldn’t be happening.  

“So why do you want to take me to dinner?” she asked, for want of something scintillating to say.

“To talk about being foreigners, of course. Why else?” He seemed to enjoy teasing her.  

“Okay.” Anna decided right then to go with her gut. What harm could there be in going out with him? She wasn’t going to marry him. She was just going to have dinner with him.

“Okay!” he said, smiling at her. “I’ll pick you up at 8. I have a motorbike; your parents will mind?”

“No,” Anna said quickly, not really caring if they did or didn’t.

**********

Six months later, Daniel and Anna, who’d been dating regularly, had fallen in love with each other. Daniel had taken up an IT consultant job in Goa, and although he traveled a lot, they spent a lot of time together, getting to know each other.    

Then came the night when Daniel and his parents came calling. There was much excitement in the Lobo household. A proposal was being brought for their eldest daughter. That she had been educated overseas and was still trying to find gainful employment in Goa was a matter of little consequence to them. She was going to be given away to a good family. The Lewis’ were bhatkars in Lutholim. That was really all that mattered in the big scheme of family alliances. Their daughter didn’t need a job. She was getting a husband. The dowry was good, and Mr. Lobo was proud of his offer. The Lewis’ should be very impressed.  

As for Anna, she gave no further thought to Tyler, nor did she harbor any desire to go back to the West. Goa was where she had found her destiny, among the suitors that lined up for her. Laughing at the sheer joy of life, she finally came to the realization that for all the western ideology she had assumed during her six years of study, she had not strayed far from her culture. She believed in the merit of arranged marriages, after all!