(A Dirge for the GOA of 1940)
Through the dark of the night
The first glimmers of light
Awakened cocks proudly crowing
To a fresh day's labour enjoining
Through the still of the dawn
The diurnal Angelus yawn
Sparrows now steadily tweeting
Far distant, the ocean roaring
Goats bleating: it's the maids milking
Cows mooing en route to pasturing
All these sounds I fondly recall
At the crest of Life's fading Fall.
The gentle lapping of water
On the craggy river shore
In the early morning quiet
'Ere the village's astir
Tawny fishermen in loin cloth
Readying for the catch to be sought
Bearing nets to the boats aloft
On peerless sands 'ready hot
Women in spotless 'oll' scurrying
To commence the day at Mass praying
All these images I now recall
Of when my Land kept me in thrall
The honking of the spluttering bus
Carrying folks to town in a crush
The constant phut-phut of the ferry-boat
With starched officials going to work
Stately mansions lining church squares
Lowly huts lost 'long thoroughfare
Their welcoming doors wide open
There's no dread of theft to reckon
Wiry women rushing to the market
Dextrous heads balancing the baskets
Sights and sounds I can't help recall
Seeing my Land under a heavy pall
White bubbly froth drifting to the seas
As nubile lasses, water up to the knees
Slap clothes on smooth stone pieces
By the limpid, susurrus stream trees
Early rain drops pit-patting on the tiles
Heralding the onset of the monsoon
Screeching lads splashing in the wells
Filled to the brim by mid-June
Green ears of rice undulating in the breeze
Bowing to the aspersions of the priest
All these memories I endlessly recall
At the sight of my beloved Land's fall
Milling crowds in Sunday best
Perspiring profusely in the mid-day heat
At High Mass, at the annual village 'fest'
Anticipating the imminent Bacchanalian treat
Moonlight revellers their limbs toss
To the lilting strains of mandolins
Festive evensongs at the wayside Cross
To the accompaniment of 'feni' and violins
Sweet old world, my childhood world,
Relics of a happy past, cherished and stored
Surfacing in anguish at the pourried mould
Set in after my Land was sored
Deep-etched pictures that linger
Of hills and town and village
Of a people simple, gay and sober
So hard now to salvage
Gone the peace and quiet of yesteryear
Replaced by lurking sense of fear
Untold folks have sorrowfully fled
Giving place to strangers in their stead
Foul, bedraggled intruders in penury
Dragging their unlimited progeny
Disfiguring scenic town and countryside
To pollute the once clean wayside
Monstrous birds disgorging multitudes
Purveyors of undesirable alien attitudes
Harbingers of moral decrepitude
Experts in bending the path of rectitude
The evening bell that still tolls
For the dead, at eight, as of old
Should it not now ring instead
For the beloved Land that's dead?
Sweet old world, my childhood world
So sad and hard now to behold
Sights and sounds I can't gladly recall
At the sight of my dear Land's fall
- Marcos Gomes-Catao
cataojm@yahoo.com
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Born at his maternal home in Candolim, seat of the 1787
“Pinto Conspiracy”, Marcos Gomes-Catao led something of a wanderer’s
life. Four childhood years in Tanganyika were followed by seven years in Mapuca,
Goa and eight years in school and College at Belgaum. Marcos Gomes-Catao worked
in the Human Health industry in Bombay, with spells in Delhi and Singapore.
Transferred to Brazil, he lived there for 27 years. He currently resides in
the U.S.A