T
Tâque-xarríu – (B.) Expressão comum do léxico Braguítico e que denota a satisfação de uma tarefa bem concluída ou de uma ideia bem delineada. As origens desta expressão são bastante confusas mas há quem argumente que derive do minhoto “Traque e shíu”, que é como quem diz “Inspira este ar ruidosamente expelido pelo meu ânus e cala-te”.
Taveirançudo – (B., V.) Grande Satã, Belzebu, Coxo, Cabrão-mor, etc. O génio do mal comum às religiões Braguítica e Vianesa. A sua influência era considerável nas terras filisteias e, durante um certo período, chegou mesmo a ser venerado na sinagoga de Lisboa. Nesse mesmo período, a sodomia, a violação, o sadismo e a perversão generalizada eram a regra de conduta por parte dos adoradores de Belzebu.
Távorensis – (B.) Sábio maior do panteão Coimbrão. Líder incontestável do grupo que se aproximava da sinagoga do Porto em termos teológicos e propedêuticos. Os seus enigmáticos sermões eram ditos em sussurros, alegando o sábio que a transmissão do saber era um acto intuitivo e telepático. Não confundir este bom sábio com o maléfico Grande Satã Taveirançudo.
Toutsse – (B.) Expressão empregue pelo Rei quando cometia uma falta grave perante os discípulos ou quando sentia uma dor na virilha.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Dicionário Enciclopédico de Braguítico / Vianês - Português
Nota: Para aligeirar a onda desta cena, proponho excertos de um dicionário que circula entre certos alfarrabistas desencantados com a sociedade contemporânea. Começemo então por uma letra, como no jogo, que pode ser, pode ser... a letra "R", logo a seguir à introdução.
Dicionário Enciclopédico de Braguítico / Vianês – Português. Compilado pelo Apóstata Jacó Mingoila e baseado nas Histórias Daqueles Tempos.
Introdução
Embora o Viana e o Braga, conhecidos na história respectivamente por Imperador-Voóc e Rei-da-Macacada, tenham feito aparições na praça pública em alturas diferentes do famigerado campeonato, ambos deixaram suas hostes de conversos e discípulos, alguns dos quais foram eleitos apóstolos. Desses dias messiânicos – primeiro com o Imperador, e, mais tarde com o Rei (quando este retornou em apoteose do Brazil) – sobraram diversos mitos e memórias que hoje-em-dia fazem parte do subconsciente colectivo do grupo etnológico identificado vagamente como o Pessoal.
Ambos se concentraram na criação de uma linguagem e ritos iniciáticos para sustentar um sistema de crenças e superstições. É sobre isto que trata este dicionário.
R
Raiosmucôzam – (V.) Expressão de espanto polivalente, como o vulgo “xalones”. Note-se porém a origem popular da expressão, obviamente derivada do “raios-te-partam”. Através de uma inversão do sujeito, a expressão adquire um sentido de autocomiseração, podendo-se supor uma dissociação no ser epistemológico entre o consciente e inconsciente (ou involuntário) do sujeito. Contudo, quando articulada numa frase a imprecação tanto pode recair sobre o sujeito (ex.: “Raiosmucôzam a mioleira”) como sobre outros (ex.: “Raiomucôzam a velha”).
No léxico Vianês, esta é uma das expressões predilectas e empregue constantemente, sem dúvida por estar intimamente associada às míticas investidas culinárias do próprio Imperador-Voóc. É sem dúvida inesquecível a passagem 2:14 do livro da Cumieira, que reza: “[...] e o Imperador invectivou: ‘Raiosmucôzam este bife’ e acto contínuo soou grande trovoada pelos montes e vinhas daquele lugar transmontano que entrou pelas frestas entre as telhas da cozinha onde estávamos e então todos sentimos um arrepio na espinha e o Imperador voltou-se para nós com os olhos muitos abertos e um sorriso nervoso e soltou um “iiiiih quié isto?” pousando a amassadora na tabuazinha sobre a banca de xisto e dando um gole sorrateiro no copo de vinho próximo [...]”
Rei-da-Macacada – (B.) Nome comum do Braga após a sua mistificação pelos discípulos. As origens deste nome perdem-se no nevoeiro das memórias da sinagoga de Coimbra, onde o Rei começou a sua corajosa pregação. Mas talvez estejam relacionadas com as características daquele espaço, que se assemelhava bastante a um jardim zoológico. Inclusive, todos estão de acordo que havia muitas aves raras a pavonearem-se pela sinagoga e que o Rei parecia o único que realmente dominava este meta-território, sempre no limiar das emoções humanas e da demência animal. Ninguém esquece o modo como o Braga andava pelos corredores da sinagoga, ou pela alta de Coimbra, completamente confiante de que era o Rei de algo impalpável embora absolutamente irresistível e o modo como, se alguém lhe tivesse de facto colocado uma coroa na cabeça (Braga Braguiticus Rex Departamenticus), lhe teria assentado como uma luva. Mas a história quis que essa coroa fosse um halo invisível para todos excepto aqueles que se converteram ao Proto-Braguismo.
Renúncia à Sinagoga de Coimbra – (B.) Episódio histórico da vida do Rei eternizado em diversas obras de arte e histórias mitológicas, constante no Livro do Alto Deboche (3:17) . Brevemente, centra-se numa fase de confusão espiritual por parte dos Proto-Braguistas, devido ao facto do seu messias estar a atravessar um grave conflito interior entre a sua vocação Coimbrã e o apelo e magnetismo que alumiava da Sinagoga do Porto (que entretanto tinha chamado a si grande número de seitas messiânicas, entre as quais a mais influente era, sem dúvida, a do Imperador). O Apóstolo Ricardo, braço direito do Rei e por ele mais querido entre todos os discípulos, tinha já debandado para a Sinagoga nortenha e havia rumores de que pregava um evangelho algo diferente daquele estabelecido pela ortodoxia Proto-Braguista. Falava-se até de heresia embora todos esses rumores vieram mais tarde a esvanecer (e o Apóstolo confirmou depois várias vezes o seu amor incondicional ao Rei). Os acontecimentos decorrentes da renúncia coimbrã são amplamente conhecidos: numa célebre noite, o Rei reuniu todos os discípulos perto da praça republicana, proferiu as míticas palavras “Bute Pró Siza”, e entre eufóricas aclamações rumaram todos para a Sinagoga, num último ímpeto de fúria vingativa (qual Cristo Nosso Senhor a expulsar os vendilhões do templo), e foram passando pelas tascas habituais. Como era final de época, a sinagoga estava semi-deserta. Na sala das maquetas sagradas, o Rei denunciou todo o sistema teológico Coimbrão e, por entre a emoção e transe colectivo dos discípulos (também já um pouco ateados pelo vinho), ordenou a destruição das maquetas. E então houve uma verdadeira razia e calamidade naquela parte da Sinagoga e há quem argumente que o auge da Renúncia tenha sido o momento em que o Rei defecou sobre uma maqueta de um noviço qualquer e disse “Este já tem dezasseis!”.
Nesse mesmo verão, o Rei rumou para a Sinagoga do Norte, acompanhado pelos Apóstolos Miguel, Hipólito e Jacó e assistiu-se a uma verdadeira refundação da crença Braguista.
Dicionário Enciclopédico de Braguítico / Vianês – Português. Compilado pelo Apóstata Jacó Mingoila e baseado nas Histórias Daqueles Tempos.
Introdução
Embora o Viana e o Braga, conhecidos na história respectivamente por Imperador-Voóc e Rei-da-Macacada, tenham feito aparições na praça pública em alturas diferentes do famigerado campeonato, ambos deixaram suas hostes de conversos e discípulos, alguns dos quais foram eleitos apóstolos. Desses dias messiânicos – primeiro com o Imperador, e, mais tarde com o Rei (quando este retornou em apoteose do Brazil) – sobraram diversos mitos e memórias que hoje-em-dia fazem parte do subconsciente colectivo do grupo etnológico identificado vagamente como o Pessoal.
Ambos se concentraram na criação de uma linguagem e ritos iniciáticos para sustentar um sistema de crenças e superstições. É sobre isto que trata este dicionário.
R
Raiosmucôzam – (V.) Expressão de espanto polivalente, como o vulgo “xalones”. Note-se porém a origem popular da expressão, obviamente derivada do “raios-te-partam”. Através de uma inversão do sujeito, a expressão adquire um sentido de autocomiseração, podendo-se supor uma dissociação no ser epistemológico entre o consciente e inconsciente (ou involuntário) do sujeito. Contudo, quando articulada numa frase a imprecação tanto pode recair sobre o sujeito (ex.: “Raiosmucôzam a mioleira”) como sobre outros (ex.: “Raiomucôzam a velha”).
No léxico Vianês, esta é uma das expressões predilectas e empregue constantemente, sem dúvida por estar intimamente associada às míticas investidas culinárias do próprio Imperador-Voóc. É sem dúvida inesquecível a passagem 2:14 do livro da Cumieira, que reza: “[...] e o Imperador invectivou: ‘Raiosmucôzam este bife’ e acto contínuo soou grande trovoada pelos montes e vinhas daquele lugar transmontano que entrou pelas frestas entre as telhas da cozinha onde estávamos e então todos sentimos um arrepio na espinha e o Imperador voltou-se para nós com os olhos muitos abertos e um sorriso nervoso e soltou um “iiiiih quié isto?” pousando a amassadora na tabuazinha sobre a banca de xisto e dando um gole sorrateiro no copo de vinho próximo [...]”
Rei-da-Macacada – (B.) Nome comum do Braga após a sua mistificação pelos discípulos. As origens deste nome perdem-se no nevoeiro das memórias da sinagoga de Coimbra, onde o Rei começou a sua corajosa pregação. Mas talvez estejam relacionadas com as características daquele espaço, que se assemelhava bastante a um jardim zoológico. Inclusive, todos estão de acordo que havia muitas aves raras a pavonearem-se pela sinagoga e que o Rei parecia o único que realmente dominava este meta-território, sempre no limiar das emoções humanas e da demência animal. Ninguém esquece o modo como o Braga andava pelos corredores da sinagoga, ou pela alta de Coimbra, completamente confiante de que era o Rei de algo impalpável embora absolutamente irresistível e o modo como, se alguém lhe tivesse de facto colocado uma coroa na cabeça (Braga Braguiticus Rex Departamenticus), lhe teria assentado como uma luva. Mas a história quis que essa coroa fosse um halo invisível para todos excepto aqueles que se converteram ao Proto-Braguismo.
Renúncia à Sinagoga de Coimbra – (B.) Episódio histórico da vida do Rei eternizado em diversas obras de arte e histórias mitológicas, constante no Livro do Alto Deboche (3:17) . Brevemente, centra-se numa fase de confusão espiritual por parte dos Proto-Braguistas, devido ao facto do seu messias estar a atravessar um grave conflito interior entre a sua vocação Coimbrã e o apelo e magnetismo que alumiava da Sinagoga do Porto (que entretanto tinha chamado a si grande número de seitas messiânicas, entre as quais a mais influente era, sem dúvida, a do Imperador). O Apóstolo Ricardo, braço direito do Rei e por ele mais querido entre todos os discípulos, tinha já debandado para a Sinagoga nortenha e havia rumores de que pregava um evangelho algo diferente daquele estabelecido pela ortodoxia Proto-Braguista. Falava-se até de heresia embora todos esses rumores vieram mais tarde a esvanecer (e o Apóstolo confirmou depois várias vezes o seu amor incondicional ao Rei). Os acontecimentos decorrentes da renúncia coimbrã são amplamente conhecidos: numa célebre noite, o Rei reuniu todos os discípulos perto da praça republicana, proferiu as míticas palavras “Bute Pró Siza”, e entre eufóricas aclamações rumaram todos para a Sinagoga, num último ímpeto de fúria vingativa (qual Cristo Nosso Senhor a expulsar os vendilhões do templo), e foram passando pelas tascas habituais. Como era final de época, a sinagoga estava semi-deserta. Na sala das maquetas sagradas, o Rei denunciou todo o sistema teológico Coimbrão e, por entre a emoção e transe colectivo dos discípulos (também já um pouco ateados pelo vinho), ordenou a destruição das maquetas. E então houve uma verdadeira razia e calamidade naquela parte da Sinagoga e há quem argumente que o auge da Renúncia tenha sido o momento em que o Rei defecou sobre uma maqueta de um noviço qualquer e disse “Este já tem dezasseis!”.
Nesse mesmo verão, o Rei rumou para a Sinagoga do Norte, acompanhado pelos Apóstolos Miguel, Hipólito e Jacó e assistiu-se a uma verdadeira refundação da crença Braguista.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Letter to Salman Rushdie (Part 4)
Me: Sidh Daniel Losa Mendiratta
And yet, my mother died six years ago, in January 1999. So, I’ve come to the conclusion that the finding of this box (some of my mother’s colleagues had “warned” me about it…about the novel started in the sixties, then interrupted, and later concluded – or not) is a symbol of the end of a cycle of mourning. And, more important than that, it’s her most important legacy to this world.
When my mother became ill, naturally I tried to be a better son and to dedicate as much of my time and affection to her as a twenty year-old boy studying architecture in Coimbra could. So, in September 1998, I changed schools and came to Porto to be by her side.
Countless times I tried to recall the last time I saw her, two days before she died. She was heavily medicated with morphine and didn’t open her eyes. I held her hand for some time…and thought: “I want to remember always how she looks right now, so thin, without hair, and I want to take a photograph of her just like this”. But her last agonizing days were not photographically recorded and I think she might have preferred it that way. Nor was I by her side when she took her last breath…
In between August 1998 and January 1999, my mother went to live in my grandmother’s house, where it would be easier for the maid and nurse to assist her. By then, my grandmother was already showing signs of Alzheimer and also she didn’t take it too well that she was not the centre of attentions in her own house anymore. There were a lot of misunderstandings between the two and the last opportunity to heal the old wounds was lost. This chance was also missed by my sister, who had had some fierce fights with my mother in her own rebellious student days. Why was forgiveness between the three generations not achieved?
(…the grave settles no quarrels.)
I remember my mother telling me, on one of those last days, how the happiest day in her life was when I was born. We both cried then. Tears that were binding.
By now, I have finished my architecture course. What took nine and a half years and dragged from 1995 until 2005 ended with a merit distinction and flying colours that would have made my mother proud. I also stopped having the recurrent dream in which my mother appears miraculously cured from her illness and our daily family life resumes once again, as if the illness itself had been nothing but a bad dream. So often I woke from this dream overfilled with joy…and it took me a couple of dilacerating minutes each morning to crash back into reality…
In August 2001, I arrived in Goa to get away from all this and to start “coming home” to my Indian self. I studied there for one year and travelled through India (I had been twice to India before, but never to Goa). In September 2003 again I took flight to the tropical east and again I stayed in Goa just under a year. Now, I’m naturally trying to go back. I hope to be there in October 2005.
In travelling this way, I feel a bit more Indo-Portuguese…
Mr. Rushdie, I hope you have found at least one passage of one of these characters interesting. They are my family and I have to come to terms with them. Only in doing so, I can start to put them somehow behind me in order to make space to create my own “family story” and to start creating my own traditions.
Thanking you kindly for your time,
O Jaipuriano
(End)
And yet, my mother died six years ago, in January 1999. So, I’ve come to the conclusion that the finding of this box (some of my mother’s colleagues had “warned” me about it…about the novel started in the sixties, then interrupted, and later concluded – or not) is a symbol of the end of a cycle of mourning. And, more important than that, it’s her most important legacy to this world.
When my mother became ill, naturally I tried to be a better son and to dedicate as much of my time and affection to her as a twenty year-old boy studying architecture in Coimbra could. So, in September 1998, I changed schools and came to Porto to be by her side.
Countless times I tried to recall the last time I saw her, two days before she died. She was heavily medicated with morphine and didn’t open her eyes. I held her hand for some time…and thought: “I want to remember always how she looks right now, so thin, without hair, and I want to take a photograph of her just like this”. But her last agonizing days were not photographically recorded and I think she might have preferred it that way. Nor was I by her side when she took her last breath…
In between August 1998 and January 1999, my mother went to live in my grandmother’s house, where it would be easier for the maid and nurse to assist her. By then, my grandmother was already showing signs of Alzheimer and also she didn’t take it too well that she was not the centre of attentions in her own house anymore. There were a lot of misunderstandings between the two and the last opportunity to heal the old wounds was lost. This chance was also missed by my sister, who had had some fierce fights with my mother in her own rebellious student days. Why was forgiveness between the three generations not achieved?
(…the grave settles no quarrels.)
I remember my mother telling me, on one of those last days, how the happiest day in her life was when I was born. We both cried then. Tears that were binding.
By now, I have finished my architecture course. What took nine and a half years and dragged from 1995 until 2005 ended with a merit distinction and flying colours that would have made my mother proud. I also stopped having the recurrent dream in which my mother appears miraculously cured from her illness and our daily family life resumes once again, as if the illness itself had been nothing but a bad dream. So often I woke from this dream overfilled with joy…and it took me a couple of dilacerating minutes each morning to crash back into reality…
In August 2001, I arrived in Goa to get away from all this and to start “coming home” to my Indian self. I studied there for one year and travelled through India (I had been twice to India before, but never to Goa). In September 2003 again I took flight to the tropical east and again I stayed in Goa just under a year. Now, I’m naturally trying to go back. I hope to be there in October 2005.
In travelling this way, I feel a bit more Indo-Portuguese…
Mr. Rushdie, I hope you have found at least one passage of one of these characters interesting. They are my family and I have to come to terms with them. Only in doing so, I can start to put them somehow behind me in order to make space to create my own “family story” and to start creating my own traditions.
Thanking you kindly for your time,
O Jaipuriano
(End)
Letter to Salman Rushdie (Part 3)
My Mother: Margarida Lieblich Losa,
Was born in 1943 into a very liberal family in a very conservative country. She was five years younger to her sister Alexandra and developed an early interest in literature. In between high-school and University, she travelled to (West) Germany and Italy. She studied Germanics in Coimbra and Lisbon, where she took a very active stand in student protests against the regime.
Around 1964, a student friend of hers tried to persuade my mother to join the Communist Party but she was very hesitant. So he took an unusual step and invited her to “observe” an underground meeting of a student cell in Coimbra. Unfortunately, one of the persons attending this meeting was soon arrested and a list of names duly materialised with the notorious secret police (PIDE).
A couple of agents came to get her, and she was four months in the prison-fort of Caxias. There, she faked insanity when she was interrogated, screaming madly, climbing the walls and trying to overall exaggerate the effects of the sleep torture to which she was briefly submitted. When they stopped the interrogations, she conducted English lessons for her five cell inmates, who naturally became her unwavering friends for life (she never became affiliated with any political party).
After imprisonment, she tried hard to win the lost time in the university schedule and also to win the heart of a young and attractive man. On the verge of the last exam for the term, her hesitant boyfriend dumped her never caring to say why and my mother had a serious nervous breakdown. Sometime during this phase, she also had a clash with her mother and the two never healed completely.
Around 1965 or 66, she travelled West to the new world on a scholarship. She worked on her masters and in a Pizza restaurant. By now, her field of interest (the Neo realist novel and comparative literature) was already established and she started to work on her own novel about student politics in Portugal and the U.S.
One or two days after marrying my father (in a small office near Poughkipsie, NY), she wrote a letter to her parents, telling them of the fait accomplis. The reactions varied from suspicion and coldness on the part of my grandfather and, I suspect, some racism and disgust on the part of my grandmother.
Her doctorate thesis “From the Working Class Romance to the Realist Novel” was written on a grant in midst of travels back to the U.S. and was concluded in 1988. However, it took time for her career to become established in the University at Porto. By the early nineties it did and my mother was travelling constantly over the world, especially to international comparative literature conferences. Her responsibilities and achievements in her field soared and in 1996 she prepared to take another sabbatical and travel to the U.S.
By now, the visa requirements included a full medical check-up.
She fought hard but cancer is unforgiving. She would not waste time, she tried to finish some things, start others. She tried to finish her novel. I don’t know if she did – it’s all in box alongside with notebooks about the characters and the method and so on. I’ve just found and opened that box yesterday.
(End of Part 3)
Was born in 1943 into a very liberal family in a very conservative country. She was five years younger to her sister Alexandra and developed an early interest in literature. In between high-school and University, she travelled to (West) Germany and Italy. She studied Germanics in Coimbra and Lisbon, where she took a very active stand in student protests against the regime.
Around 1964, a student friend of hers tried to persuade my mother to join the Communist Party but she was very hesitant. So he took an unusual step and invited her to “observe” an underground meeting of a student cell in Coimbra. Unfortunately, one of the persons attending this meeting was soon arrested and a list of names duly materialised with the notorious secret police (PIDE).
A couple of agents came to get her, and she was four months in the prison-fort of Caxias. There, she faked insanity when she was interrogated, screaming madly, climbing the walls and trying to overall exaggerate the effects of the sleep torture to which she was briefly submitted. When they stopped the interrogations, she conducted English lessons for her five cell inmates, who naturally became her unwavering friends for life (she never became affiliated with any political party).
After imprisonment, she tried hard to win the lost time in the university schedule and also to win the heart of a young and attractive man. On the verge of the last exam for the term, her hesitant boyfriend dumped her never caring to say why and my mother had a serious nervous breakdown. Sometime during this phase, she also had a clash with her mother and the two never healed completely.
Around 1965 or 66, she travelled West to the new world on a scholarship. She worked on her masters and in a Pizza restaurant. By now, her field of interest (the Neo realist novel and comparative literature) was already established and she started to work on her own novel about student politics in Portugal and the U.S.
One or two days after marrying my father (in a small office near Poughkipsie, NY), she wrote a letter to her parents, telling them of the fait accomplis. The reactions varied from suspicion and coldness on the part of my grandfather and, I suspect, some racism and disgust on the part of my grandmother.
Her doctorate thesis “From the Working Class Romance to the Realist Novel” was written on a grant in midst of travels back to the U.S. and was concluded in 1988. However, it took time for her career to become established in the University at Porto. By the early nineties it did and my mother was travelling constantly over the world, especially to international comparative literature conferences. Her responsibilities and achievements in her field soared and in 1996 she prepared to take another sabbatical and travel to the U.S.
By now, the visa requirements included a full medical check-up.
She fought hard but cancer is unforgiving. She would not waste time, she tried to finish some things, start others. She tried to finish her novel. I don’t know if she did – it’s all in box alongside with notebooks about the characters and the method and so on. I’ve just found and opened that box yesterday.
(End of Part 3)
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Letter to Salman Rushdie (Part 2)
My Maternal Grandmother: Ilse Lieblich Losa,
Was born in 1913 into a liberal German Jewish family living near Osnabruck. Her father traded in horses and served with the German army in France during the First World War. She studied to become a nurse and was for a brief time in London. The rise of Hitler found her in Berlin, I think, where she had a non-Jewish boyfriend. This character became a Nazi and, naturally, broke my grandmother’s heart (something that scarred her for life, I suspect). At the end of 1933 she managed to escape from Germany, thanks to her blonde hair and greyish blue eyes. Due to a series of whimsical connections, she ended up in Porto, where she met many of the students of the Fine Arts School. She married my grandfather and settled back to a life of writing and socializing, focusing on children’s stories and psychology. Unlike my grandfather, she abhorred all totalitarian regimes and, even after the revolution in 1974, she never joined the anti-American wave that then swept the country.
She was not a religious person and I can almost be sure that she would eat pork occasionally.
I was never very close to her…she always kept a safety perimeter around herself. Maybe a slight superiority, maybe just an emotional defence mechanism. Most of her relatives died in the concentration camps.
Unlike my grandfather, she seems to have left more bitter memories amongst her descendants.
She has been in a state of deep Alzheimer for the last four years.
My Father: Sushil Kumar Mendiratta,
Was born into a Hindu family from north Punjab in 1942. After the partition, the family fled to Jaipur…my father must have been five years old and this event can’t have left him with fond memories. My paternal grandfather was a doctor and my paternal grandmother had a secondary education and eventually became the mother of eight.
Besides studying hard, my father took the burden of looking over his brothers and sisters, since he was the oldest (of the brothers). At sixteen, he could already support himself and even send some money to the family. He studied at Pillani and, obviously, was brilliant in his field (telecommunications engineering).
This allowed him to fly over to the States. However, just before leaving, he married (I know almost nothing of his first marriage).
According to legend, my father arrived in 1963 or 64 in the U.S. with a small suitcase and 100 dollars (or was it 10?). Anyways, he continued to work hard and joined IBM, where his future looked bright indeed. When he met my mother (somewhere in up-state New York), his wife and life in India must have seemed to him to be light years away.
He dated my mom for a few (blissful, I suspect) years, wrapped up his doctorate, started teaching, climbed up the ladder in IBM, was at Woodstock, and risked deportment by attending anti-Vietnam demonstrations.
They got married in 1972 but not before a complicated divorce between my father and his first wife…who got a cosy settlement, I suspect.
In August 1974, my sister Maya was born. My parents had been considering moving to India since my father, an Indian citizen, couldn’t possibly enter Portugal. However, with the revolution of April 1974 (in Portugal) and all the excitement in the air, the three came over, early in 1975.
This second “culture shock” must have been much harder on my father. Portugal was (and still is in many ways) a backward and chauvinistic country, in spite of the political atmosphere after the revolution. He had a tough time getting a job although he had high qualifications.
At any rate, by mid 1975, both my parents were university teachers. But I suspect that my father must have had second feelings about his “family” move.
I was born in 1977 (in Porto) into a still happy marriage.
Things started getting worse around 1984, when accumulated stress and so many other things and nature itself led my parents’ marriage downhill. They tried hard to save it (too hard, that’s my opinion) but divorce came in 1990. My sister and I moved with my mom to a new house.
My father stayed in a near-by town where he eventually re-married. My little brother Raúl was born in 1996. My father has only few years until retirement, but I worry that his health will not allow him to enjoy his hard earned garden with its roses and its Queen of the Night.
Besides, he also carries the burden of the recent family misfortunes in India, where his brother and sisters struggle for a living with various degrees of success.
(End of part 2)
Was born in 1913 into a liberal German Jewish family living near Osnabruck. Her father traded in horses and served with the German army in France during the First World War. She studied to become a nurse and was for a brief time in London. The rise of Hitler found her in Berlin, I think, where she had a non-Jewish boyfriend. This character became a Nazi and, naturally, broke my grandmother’s heart (something that scarred her for life, I suspect). At the end of 1933 she managed to escape from Germany, thanks to her blonde hair and greyish blue eyes. Due to a series of whimsical connections, she ended up in Porto, where she met many of the students of the Fine Arts School. She married my grandfather and settled back to a life of writing and socializing, focusing on children’s stories and psychology. Unlike my grandfather, she abhorred all totalitarian regimes and, even after the revolution in 1974, she never joined the anti-American wave that then swept the country.
She was not a religious person and I can almost be sure that she would eat pork occasionally.
I was never very close to her…she always kept a safety perimeter around herself. Maybe a slight superiority, maybe just an emotional defence mechanism. Most of her relatives died in the concentration camps.
Unlike my grandfather, she seems to have left more bitter memories amongst her descendants.
She has been in a state of deep Alzheimer for the last four years.
My Father: Sushil Kumar Mendiratta,
Was born into a Hindu family from north Punjab in 1942. After the partition, the family fled to Jaipur…my father must have been five years old and this event can’t have left him with fond memories. My paternal grandfather was a doctor and my paternal grandmother had a secondary education and eventually became the mother of eight.
Besides studying hard, my father took the burden of looking over his brothers and sisters, since he was the oldest (of the brothers). At sixteen, he could already support himself and even send some money to the family. He studied at Pillani and, obviously, was brilliant in his field (telecommunications engineering).
This allowed him to fly over to the States. However, just before leaving, he married (I know almost nothing of his first marriage).
According to legend, my father arrived in 1963 or 64 in the U.S. with a small suitcase and 100 dollars (or was it 10?). Anyways, he continued to work hard and joined IBM, where his future looked bright indeed. When he met my mother (somewhere in up-state New York), his wife and life in India must have seemed to him to be light years away.
He dated my mom for a few (blissful, I suspect) years, wrapped up his doctorate, started teaching, climbed up the ladder in IBM, was at Woodstock, and risked deportment by attending anti-Vietnam demonstrations.
They got married in 1972 but not before a complicated divorce between my father and his first wife…who got a cosy settlement, I suspect.
In August 1974, my sister Maya was born. My parents had been considering moving to India since my father, an Indian citizen, couldn’t possibly enter Portugal. However, with the revolution of April 1974 (in Portugal) and all the excitement in the air, the three came over, early in 1975.
This second “culture shock” must have been much harder on my father. Portugal was (and still is in many ways) a backward and chauvinistic country, in spite of the political atmosphere after the revolution. He had a tough time getting a job although he had high qualifications.
At any rate, by mid 1975, both my parents were university teachers. But I suspect that my father must have had second feelings about his “family” move.
I was born in 1977 (in Porto) into a still happy marriage.
Things started getting worse around 1984, when accumulated stress and so many other things and nature itself led my parents’ marriage downhill. They tried hard to save it (too hard, that’s my opinion) but divorce came in 1990. My sister and I moved with my mom to a new house.
My father stayed in a near-by town where he eventually re-married. My little brother Raúl was born in 1996. My father has only few years until retirement, but I worry that his health will not allow him to enjoy his hard earned garden with its roses and its Queen of the Night.
Besides, he also carries the burden of the recent family misfortunes in India, where his brother and sisters struggle for a living with various degrees of success.
(End of part 2)
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Letter to Salman Rushdie (Part 1)
Porto, 12th May, 2005
To: Mr. Salman Rushdie
From: Sidh Daniel Losa Mendiratta
Dear Sir,
Recently, I’ve become somewhat obsessed with the mixed blessing of having a thoroughly “mixed breed” family background. I consider myself to be “Indo-Portuguese”, although I haven’t been able to decipher this adjective (a task in which I feel a bit lonely). I’m not Goan although I consider Goa to be one of the most wonderful and interesting places on Earth and I have the good luck of being a frequent visitor.
Basically, my father is a Hindu Punjabi and my mother was Portuguese. And my maternal grandmother is a German Jew. And…
Well, besides the natural feelings of “homelessness”, “uprooted”, “culturally divided”, etc, I feel very fortunate. But I also feel ill at ease with all my ghosts, deceased or not.
Somehow, I feel that if I could put everything in writing, I would be able to see a pattern, find the crucial and romantic moments, discover the bonds, and make sense of my family’s history. This would probably help to balance my inner self.
As crazy as this might seem, I boldly (and humbly) ask you for the briefest words of advice on how to start this task.
Please allow me to introduce to you the main characters of this almost bursting to come out story.
The Paternal Grandfather of my Mother: José Gonçalves Losa,
Was born into a family of small landowners in the northwest of Portugal. He was drifted into a military career and eventually became a captain. Around 1910 he was sent to Angola. There, I suspect he had a near-death experience, since he was extremely sick. His cure probably owed much to traditional African medicine. He developed a keen interest in all affairs of natural medicine and, during his rough times of campaign against the occasional native revolt, his sole source of happiness was his garden and medicinal plants. Later, he was called to fight the Germans in North Moçambique (fortunately, he wrote a diary, parts of which I have with me).
When he came back to Portugal, he was a classical misfit. His interest in African traditional culture was not understood and he quickly passed on to the army reserve. He was also one of the first people in Portugal to warn and preach against the damaging effects on health of smoking. He was still alive when the colonial wars erupted in 1961 and would never back down from the “Angola é nossa!” conviction.
The name “Losa” is very rare in Portugal and it seems that the clan originated from an Italian or Spanish migration sometime in the 14th century.
My Maternal Grandfather: Arménio Taveira Losa,
Was born in 1908 and, unlike his father, was a heavy smoker. He was able to join the Painting course at the Fine Arts school in Porto. He then changed to Architecture as a compromise to the family wishes. At an early date, he developed strong left wing ideas, as opposed to most of the clan, which had a solid conservative stand. In 1934, when he met my grandmother, he was beginning his successful practice and became one of the leading modernist architects in Portugal, absorbing with open heart the lessons of the masters Guisseppe Terragni and Le Corbusier. His association with the Communist party (although I don’t think he was a member) debarred him from teaching.
In the late sixties, his office started to specialize in Urbanism. On the aftermath of the “Spring of Prague”, he rejected the Communist Party and was eventually one of the founding members of the Socialist Revolutionary Party (Trotskyst).
When the revolution erupted in Portugal in 1974, my grandfather was invited to be the interim mayor of Porto, a post he refused because of his unwillingness to “purge” the city council of its conservative cadre.
However, his office did elaborate most of the urban developing plans for the cities of the north of Portugal.
He died in 1988 after prolonged illness. He was methodical in everything and had the admiration of positively everyone who was close to him, except, in the later days, of my grandmother.
(End of Part 1)
To: Mr. Salman Rushdie
From: Sidh Daniel Losa Mendiratta
Dear Sir,
Recently, I’ve become somewhat obsessed with the mixed blessing of having a thoroughly “mixed breed” family background. I consider myself to be “Indo-Portuguese”, although I haven’t been able to decipher this adjective (a task in which I feel a bit lonely). I’m not Goan although I consider Goa to be one of the most wonderful and interesting places on Earth and I have the good luck of being a frequent visitor.
Basically, my father is a Hindu Punjabi and my mother was Portuguese. And my maternal grandmother is a German Jew. And…
Well, besides the natural feelings of “homelessness”, “uprooted”, “culturally divided”, etc, I feel very fortunate. But I also feel ill at ease with all my ghosts, deceased or not.
Somehow, I feel that if I could put everything in writing, I would be able to see a pattern, find the crucial and romantic moments, discover the bonds, and make sense of my family’s history. This would probably help to balance my inner self.
As crazy as this might seem, I boldly (and humbly) ask you for the briefest words of advice on how to start this task.
Please allow me to introduce to you the main characters of this almost bursting to come out story.
The Paternal Grandfather of my Mother: José Gonçalves Losa,
Was born into a family of small landowners in the northwest of Portugal. He was drifted into a military career and eventually became a captain. Around 1910 he was sent to Angola. There, I suspect he had a near-death experience, since he was extremely sick. His cure probably owed much to traditional African medicine. He developed a keen interest in all affairs of natural medicine and, during his rough times of campaign against the occasional native revolt, his sole source of happiness was his garden and medicinal plants. Later, he was called to fight the Germans in North Moçambique (fortunately, he wrote a diary, parts of which I have with me).
When he came back to Portugal, he was a classical misfit. His interest in African traditional culture was not understood and he quickly passed on to the army reserve. He was also one of the first people in Portugal to warn and preach against the damaging effects on health of smoking. He was still alive when the colonial wars erupted in 1961 and would never back down from the “Angola é nossa!” conviction.
The name “Losa” is very rare in Portugal and it seems that the clan originated from an Italian or Spanish migration sometime in the 14th century.
My Maternal Grandfather: Arménio Taveira Losa,
Was born in 1908 and, unlike his father, was a heavy smoker. He was able to join the Painting course at the Fine Arts school in Porto. He then changed to Architecture as a compromise to the family wishes. At an early date, he developed strong left wing ideas, as opposed to most of the clan, which had a solid conservative stand. In 1934, when he met my grandmother, he was beginning his successful practice and became one of the leading modernist architects in Portugal, absorbing with open heart the lessons of the masters Guisseppe Terragni and Le Corbusier. His association with the Communist party (although I don’t think he was a member) debarred him from teaching.
In the late sixties, his office started to specialize in Urbanism. On the aftermath of the “Spring of Prague”, he rejected the Communist Party and was eventually one of the founding members of the Socialist Revolutionary Party (Trotskyst).
When the revolution erupted in Portugal in 1974, my grandfather was invited to be the interim mayor of Porto, a post he refused because of his unwillingness to “purge” the city council of its conservative cadre.
However, his office did elaborate most of the urban developing plans for the cities of the north of Portugal.
He died in 1988 after prolonged illness. He was methodical in everything and had the admiration of positively everyone who was close to him, except, in the later days, of my grandmother.
(End of Part 1)
Friday, November 04, 2005
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