The Aam Goan

(21 Sep ’08)

            We were waiting in a queue at an SBI branch one misty, moisty, monsoon morning in Panaji. Alongside came a perky old woman to ask for an account opening form for the PPF.  I wondered, at her age, what more did she need to provide for…it was a bit late in years for earning and putting away cash to save on tax. The clerk handed her the paper and mentioned that she needed to enter a nominee’s name. Don’t want to, she said firmly. Ma’am, you can nominate anyone, could be a family member, could be a cousin, friend. No, she said, raising her voice. She was the last of her siblings, she had no children, she wasn’t going to nominate cousins or nephews or nieces, NO. But, counseled the clerk, after you, the money must go to someone. You take it, said the lady. Can’t, said the clerk. Let the Bank take it, she said. Can’t, said another clerk. Now I got involved. Why not nominate a favourite charity? No way, she said, no nominee, that’s it. No charity, no human being, no nobody. It’s my money, I’m going to put it in the PPF, and no one’s getting it. She was sent to talk to the Manager and we could hear no more of her opinions. About an hour later, I returned to the branch to collect my passbook and saw through the glass wall that she was still with the Manager, waving her hands about. The man was visibly tired, and obviously could do nothing about her being there. Wonder what happened eventually.

            Next incident happened at the old GMC building near Kala Academy. We were amongst the last visitors one evening, at Mario’s cartoon-book-biography exhibition. I realized I’d left my specs/case/pen behind only after we reached home. We debated, would I get them back? My specs, sure, I thought. The pen? It’s an expensive one with my name engraved on it, gifted by someone for a job well done (when there is no payment, sometimes the gifts are good, sometimes not, ah well). The thief wouldn’t care about the name, and I would’ve lost something I valued. First thing next morning, at the ‘opening time’, we went there. It wasn’t early, closer to 1100 hrs, but to some Goans that’s dawn. The cleaners were doing their job. I walked in, took a look around, didn’t see any of my things and was about to go when one of them suggested I see the office table. There were my specs and the case. No pen. Felt bad, but not disappointed, and went away. Later in the day, I returned to the hall, to try my luck again. And guess what, a skinny boy with the long hair sweetly told me that it was kept carefully because it looked precious. Had I looked in the drawer, I would’ve found it, he said. I could’ve taken it and spared myself this trip. He encourages a stark stranger who has been silly enough to not look after her belongings, to rummage through the unlocked drawer where he kept ‘valuables’. More: in front of me, leaving that same drawer still unlocked, he walked across out of the room. Trusting or stupid? I dunno, but at least he cared.

            The third example was narrated to me by a Mumbaikar who’s made Goa his home for a couple of decades now. In his colony, there are several erstwhile middle-Easterners or those who’ve sold off their family property to buy a flat. Many of them don’t own vehicles, or if they do, they aren’t four-wheelers anyway. A decision had to be taken about who will pay how much for parking. The logical thing would be to charge for each space, right? Here, though, a reverse fight took place. Someone turned on the Mumbaikar, said, “you have three cars, that’s why you’re suggesting you’ll pay more? Who do you think you are? You think just because you have more money you can pay more rent? You think we are fools?....” uh, duh, you can’t win all arguments, certainly not with an aam Goan who’s in the mood for debate.

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