In to the heart of the educator

I was 19 when I began to study for my Hons degree at St. Xaviers College and found that I had a ‘study mate’, an external student, doing a B.Ed(Hons) degree. She was 40. As full time kindy teacher she was unable to attend lectures. I was given the job to ‘lecturer’ her in the evenings. We spent most evenings in the front verandah going through my copious hand written notes (oh, for a laptop!). Three years later we both graduated. That lady was Phyllis Pearson…my mum.

To get some idea of her tenacity and determination I will take you back to her privileged childhood. Mum was the eldest of seven girls. Well educated and possibly spoilt. She met my dad (Alfred) when she 18 and was married at 19. I was born a year later on their first wedding anniversary. Dad worked for the railways in an administration capacity whilst mum was a housewife. We lived in Dinapore.

When the war came mum worked as a cipher operator with the army in Khagaul. I was about six when I contracted typhoid and ran dangerously high fevers. The doctors said I was unlikely to survive without Penicillin (unavailable for civilians). Mum went to the highest military authority and begged for the drug. Her persistence paid off. I lived. To bring my fever down, I was placed on a waterproof rubber sheet covered in ice – also in very short supply. Mum would jump on her bike and cycle to homes to get ice from those few who had refrigerators. She would fill up her basket and pedal furiously back to the hospital before it melted. She did this many times each day until my fever was under control. It was this tenacity and determination that would later make mum a legend in her lifetime.

The war ended and dad was transferred to Calcutta. Mum was a typical housewife surrounded by servants. We witnessed the Great Calcutta Killings and found city life fraught with problems but we settled. It was just before the 1950s when mum got the bug to become a school teacher. She was allowed to have a go as an untrained teacher in the Pratt Memorial nursery in 1948. She was befriended by Basil Manuel, our local Anglican parish priest. He was secretly in love with her but nothing would come of this until some 40 years later.

Basil encouraged mum to approach the Bishop and get a scholarship to go to England and do her teacher’s training certificate. She got her scholarship (tuition only) and went to the Derby Teachers Training College for two years. And so began her career. And so also began her desire to become a university graduate finishing with a Masters. And this is how mum and I sat together and graduated with degrees.

In 1950 she sailed to England taking my sister Penny who was about seven with her. I was horrified that I was left behind. I decided then that I was unwanted and my sister was the favourite. I am ashamed to say that I carried this hatred in me far too long.

Dad took on bachelorhood. I was in St James School and very soon the ‘goondah element’ was nurtured by resentment and abandonment.  Dad worked long hours and even took in lodgers because half his salary was destined to support mum in England for the next two years. I hated my mum but missed her unendingly.

Meanwhile mum too was in for a shock. The college had organized digs for her with a family in Derby. She was greeted by her landlady with these words…’I didn’t know you were coloured!’ Rationing in England was a way of life. You spent half your shopping time in queues clutching ration coupons to exchange for miniscule amounts of butter, sugar, milk, eggs, meat (very rare) and bread. And the ‘whites’ often pushed past the ‘coloureds’ to assert their superiority. There was no turning back. Two years later she completed her training and returned leaving behind a very tearful landlady who now adored her.

On her return the new enthusiastic English trained teacher rediscovered her Anglo-Indian roots that fell well below her new ‘blighty’ standards. Dad was still the humble hardworking bloke she left behind. Mother was now a whirling dervish. High standards with a touch of arrogance was not of our liking. Penny was a pompous 9-year old pommy upstart and I was still the grubby unwashed ‘chokra’! Mother studied my school reports and concluded that I was a dunce. I had failed every subject. My father was given a lecture for his unsupervised failures and mother took charge…of everything.

There was only one course of action – boarding school. The Himalayas were ruled out and the Deccan Plateau was chosen – Bishop Cottons in Bangalore. And so began the best years of my life. I was about 15 when I bravely undertook the long train trip from Calcutta to Bangalore via Madras. Dad was a senior officer and I travelled in a first class air-conditioned coupe. My first day in school with my posh new Sherwood Forest green blazer, white shirt, matching green tie and school cap was about to be marred. I stood proudly to attention at assembly as our names were called. When my name – Beverley Pearson- was called out there was a hushed silence: almost every head turned to look in my direction. Oh my god what was a girl doing in this boys’ school. Later I learned that the captain of the girl’s school was a Beverley Wilson.

My maternal grandmother Nina (nee Griffiths) also studied at Pratt Memorial School. Neither I or my mother realized that she would become the principal of the school where her mum is listed on the Honours Board for 1913. Coincidences continued when mum discovered that the Clewer Sisters (who also ran St. Michael’s school in Darjeeling where she was educated) were listed as earlier principals of the Pratt Memorial on a marble tablet in the school hall. Later Penny was also educated in this school. Penny went on to become a graduate teacher and also taught at the Pratt for many years

Not long after mum returned from England she was approached by Austin D’Souza (Inspector of Anglo-Indian Schools) and Loreto House to set up a Teacher’s Training College in Middleton Row. She spent the best part of the next 10 years training future teachers for our Anglo-Indian Schools. Mum was then offered principal ship of St. Thomas’ Day School. Her vision, drive and vocation turned the school from primary to full high school certificate level. Her next move was almost inevitable…Pratt Memorial School. Her association with the Pratt now goes back 70 years beginning with her mother.

Mum had big shoes to fill. Miss Lawrence and Mrs Bobb preceded her. In mum’s eyes the head of a school was not the boss.  It was being a leader with a head and a heart. Indivisible. People mattered. Over the years mum’s concern with deprived girls took precedence. She would go to great lengths to track down vulnerable girls and almost ‘steal’ them away from parents who neglected them. She would admit them as boarders and educated them free of all fees. These Anglo-Indian girls found a champion in mum. She was unashamedly biased. She fought many a battle with her governing board who felt that her generosity was going too far. Mother was a formidable opponent. Charming, beguiling, flirtatious but very focused and determined.

I remember an incident when she was told of a very poor Anglo-Indian family living in a godown was negotiating the ‘sale’ of their nine-year old daughter to a local butcher. Mum was horrified and within the hour she was on their door step and the little girl was ‘removed’ from their care and admitted as boarder to the Pratt. This girl was eventually adopted out as a teenager to an Anglo-Indian family and today she lives in London with three of her own children. This I believe is one of many such stories.

Mother Teresa’s Ashram was situated directly opposite the Pratt and mum was a great friend to Mother Teresa. She could never say no to her. No deprived child was ever denied an education.

The Pratt had an excellent reputation as an educational institution – a highly desirable place to educate daughters. Many a privileged Indian family had their daughters in this school and their fathers held top positions in Customs, Police, the Courts, Banks, Universities, Transport, Hospitals and so forth. One phone call to a high ranking father from Mrs Pearson guaranteed support or funds. When the Pratt and St James School got together to run the annual Church Education League fete everything on the stalls, prizes and catering was donated. The CEL fete was legendary and it always ended on an open-air jam session where the families got to socialize and jam session the evening away. Many a romance and liaisons were forged. I know. I met my wife at one such function.

Whilst doing research on our ancestry I discovered that mum was a (nee) Haslop but mum’s dad birth certificate said he was Albert Victor von Zulesdorf (originated from Bavaria).  He met Nina Griffiths whose family came out from Liverpool, England. So where did the Haslop bit come from? During the First World war the British in India interned anyone with a German name. Grandad was interned for about six months and as soon as he was released he promptly changed his name by deed poll to Haslop.

During my mother’s time as an educator she never stopped being involved with all aspects of teaching and governing. She was the President of the Teachers Centre St James Womens’ Fellowship and the Association of All-India Anglo-Indian schools. She was the vice president of the Church Education League and the Governor of St. Thomas’ Kidderpore, St Pauls’ Mission Church and St. Thomas’ Church School. She was also a member of the governing boards of Mt Herman Training College, St Thomas’ Day School and Laeticia’s School.

If that wasn’t enough she took on the Hony Secretary role of The Bruce Institution, European Schools Improvement Association, St James’ Pastoral Committee and the Calcutta Diocesan Board of Education. Wait there’s more. She was the Convener for the Indian School Certificate and the Indian Certificate of Secondary Education. And somewhere along this line she was a managing committee member of St Josephs’ College and the Welland-Gouldsmith. And finally she was an executive committee member of the Diocese, Calcutta Trust Association, Board of Anglo-Indian Education, Synod of North India East India Charitable Trust and St Mary’s Home and Hospital.

Mum was also an accomplished piano player with a superb soprano voice. She led the choir and was chosen along with my sister Penny (mezzo soprano) to sing a duet – Ave Maria – in St Paul’s Cathedral for Queen Elizabeth 2’ visit to India in 1961. On 14 April 1982 she was presented to the Holy Father Pope John Paul, though a staunch Anglican, she was elated.

Mum worked a 12-hour day. Dad just curled up with a book and a glass of triple-x rum. He said he preferred a book to rabble rousing committees. Books were the source of all knowledge. He read everything on comparative religions. At some stage he became a Zen Buddhist. He was fascinated by the power of being able to move objects by thought. He loved philosophical discussions about god, religion and the meaning of life. I discovered why I was named Beverley. His favourite author was a Beverley Nichols. I am grateful I was already a teenager when he became besotted by the famous Third Eye series written by Lobsang Rampa!

Back to mum. When she decided to retire mum knew that my father (who had retired a lot earlier) was hankering to visit England and perhaps get back to Norwich where his forebears started. Mum did not want to leave the Pratt. It was her life. Reluctantly she resigned and moved to England where my sister Penny and I now lived. On arrival she fortuitously met up with Rev John Pothen (ex-James Church vicar and St Paul’s Cathedral) who was now looking after a large parish in north-west London. He needed a verger and offered dad the job which came with a 2-bed cottage in the grounds. Perfect. Not so. Mum had nothing to do.

Her drive and determination was in check. England meant nothing to her. Dad told her to go back and settle her affairs. So she went home. Dad was used to being on his own but we kept a close eye on him. He thrived, catching up with his sisters and a brother. But dad’s time was up. A month after his 70^th birthday he died from a massive heart attack. Mother was heartbroken and blamed herself for not being with him. She flew back and we cremated dad. His ashes are buried in the church grounds. A Christmas tree was planted over his remains. When I last saw it, some 30 years ago, it was already 10 metres tall.

Mum had to return to her roots. Calcutta was her home and heritage. She was fiercely Anglo-Indian but proud of her Indian achievements. She went straight back in to the educational system but with lesser duties helping out at other Anglican Schools. She was ecstatically happy.

Almost 10 years went by. I had now moved to Sydney leaving London behind me as an experience, not a home.

One evening the phone rang. Mother called to get my permission to marry again. “Who, I cried out. Father Basil,’ was her reply. ‘Oh my god, yes. Why do you ask, you don’t need my permission?’ ‘I just wanted to know that you did not feel that I was turning my back on your father, she replied. And so another wheel turned full circle. She was happiest surrounded by teachers, pupils, parishioners, ayahs, cooks and her Anglo-Indian heritage.

Her short married life with Basil ended a few years later when he too died from a major heart attack. As a vicar’s wife, mum was looked after by the church and was given a small 2-bed annex apartment to St James Vicarage and was asked to look after Monica House. Mum was ‘in charge’ again and loving every moment. She was never lonely. Visitors and tourists abounded.

We’d talk on the phone and I realized how frail she was getting…and how forgetful. My sister would spend weeks with her visiting from England but I was derelict in my duties. Mum often said, please come and see me before I die, not after. Her words were almost prophetic.

To my relief my aunt Cynthia (mum’s younger widowed sister) was also spending more time in Calcutta and kept a close eye on mum. In October 2004 Cynthia rang me and said that mum was dying. She was 86. I knew then that the greatest loving influence in my life was calling. I arrived in Calcutta to find mum in intensive care. She had shrunk in to a tiny skin-and-bones Auschwitz inmate. I was horrified. I could not recognize her. I turned my back and sobbed uncontrollably. In that moment I wished I had never come to see her. I wanted so much to remember her as she was in her prime. I was overtaken by the urge to unhook her from all the tubes in her body and pick her up in my arms, take her to the car and drive her to my 5-star hotel in Park Street where she could enjoy some luxury and pampering.

I sat by her side and held her hand and said “Hi, it’s Bev”.

“Hello my son. So nice to see you” she whispered. “Is Vern (my wife) with you?” Yes I replied, she is outside. Mum never heard me. She lapsed in unconsciousness.

We spent the next week with her but visiting hours were strictly 30 mins each evening. No more than five minutes per person.  The waiting room was always full. I learned that they were all teachers and ex-pupils who waited each evening to get a glimpse of mum. I got my five minutes but mum drifted in and out of consciousness. I was unable to hold a conversation. I was destined to never know if mum knew that I had been to see her. Cynthia assured me that she knew. I am still guilt ridden that I wasn’t there when she left us three months later. Mum died peacefully in her wheelchair outside in the vicarage gardens in the warm January sun.  She had just returned from church. She slumped forward, head bowed and her indomitable spirit left her.

I know she was taken directly to heaven where she truly deserved to be.

Over 1000 people attended mum’s funeral. The entire grounds and surroundings were packed. Two bishops, two MLAs, 10 priests, dozens of teachers, ex-pupils and well wishers crowded in to St James church. The entire church was surrounded by lilacs. Every flower shop in the New Market sold out that morning. The cortege brought Lower Circular Road to a halt as it wound its way to the cemetery. The police were called and motor cycle escorts led the cortege. The children from St James and Pratt Memorial lined the footpath as a guard of honour for over three kilometers. Simultaneously the Loreto House nuns and staff held a high requiem mass for mum in Middleton Row.

At a recent World Anglo-Indian Day six champions were honoured for outstanding achievement

Msgr. Eric Barber, Phyllis Pearson-Manuel, Leslie Claudius, Neil O’Brien, Sister Marisa and Mervyn Martin.

Mum would have been beaming with pride.

By Beverley Pearson

Sydney Australia

bevern2@tpg.com.au

Author: Beverley Pearson, 73 Mackenzie Bvd.,
Seven Hills NSW 2147, Australia Tel: 02 9631 9738

Beverley David Pearson was an up-country born lad who grew up in Calcutta. Schooled as a boarder in Bangalore (Bishop Cotton) and graduated with a BA Hons degree from St. Xavier’s College in Calcutta. Started life as a school teacher in St James School and moved to The Statesman as a management trainee in ‘61. Married Verna Robinson the same year and in ‘65 migrated to London. Pursued a successful career in publishing but found England cold, crowded, cramped and expensive. Migrated again… to Sydney in ‘82 where he and his family have settled very happily. Bev has now retired having after 42 years of working but occasionally continues to work part time as a Workplace Trainer and Assessor specialising in Communications and Work Safety. He’s currently an executive member (and Vice-President) of the Anglo-Indian Association of NSW Inc

Days of cakes, ale & a free spirit

Let’s raise a toast to this festive spirit. Days of cakes, ale & a free spirit Kolkata is where the Christmas spirit lasts. With no

preservatives added.

Mix a large portion of house parties, Midnight Mass at the cathedral, jiving at Rangers Club and merry making with family.

Add pieces of shopping, club hopping, meeting friends and relatives. Put dollops of Nahoums plum cakes and puddings and a wee bit of home made Port wine. Bake it in the oven of love and let the smell of Christmas waft in the air for long. It is just the perfect recipe for a merry Christmas.

It is that time of the year once again, when the kids are back and dads and moms have dug into their cupboards to take out their best clothes. Those quaint little shift stalls at New Market are there with their colourful knick knacks and Christmas trees, rows of shops along Park Street and Free School Street are festooned with colourful streamers, silver bells, mistletoes and holly, the clubs are gearing for the Xmas bash, local churches are resonating with Christmas carols and freshly baked plum cakes at Nahoums are off the shelves in a jiffy. For, if Burradin is near, the usual festivities cannot be far behind.

Christmas is a part of Kolkata that has been preserved in the original. No preservatives have been added. None are needed. The celebrations begin, as always, right from the first week of December when church services prepare the congregation, carol singing takes place in every local parish and the weekly community newspaper, The Herald, publishes articles on Christmas to build the festive spirit, says chronicler of the Anglo-Indian community and editor of the All Parish Paper, Melvyn Brown.

“It is a special occasion and reunion for the entire family as relatives, family members and friends from all over the world return home to be together,” he said.

Despite a large exodus of these community members to Australia, New Zealand and UK for better job prospects, Christmas is one time of the year when folks from far-off make it a point to return home to the city.

“I badly needed a holiday and what better way to enjoy Xmas than to be in the city where I have spent 40 years and be amidst old friends and former theatre group members to reminisce fond memories and indulge in spontaneous laughter,” said noted theatre personality Phyllis Bose. Having shifted base to Bangalore a few years back, Bose is presently in the city to spend Christmas with friends and relatives.

“In the earlier days, Christmas festivities would begin with regular house parties where musicians were invited to play all throughout the night and there was much revelry and merry making,” recalls jazz guitarist Carlton Kitto. Whether it was the Nandalal Court on Ripon Street, Bijoy mansion and Panchkothi on Elliot Road or those famous house parties thrown by the Tomkyns, Thomsons and Vivian Hanson of Elliot Road, the entire locality along with adjoining areas would be abuzz with revellers till the wee hours of dawn.

“We did not get individual invitations but were told through common friends and every one would prepare some cake, wine or food and come over to the party,” reminisces Kitto.

Old-timers remember with fondness the weeks preceding Xmas — ladies and young ones going to Pat Boone the tailor shop, to get their skirts and natty party dresses stitched, taking a bowl full of flour, raisins and eggs to the local bakery for making home-made sweet plum cakes, stocking home-made Port wine, going shopping to Hogg Market to buy turkey, the eternal favourite plum cakes, bakhlava, kalkal and marzipan from Nahoums and almond cake from Flurys. The seranaders i.e. the group of singers who went door to door singing carols and getting cakes and money in return or the poo poo bands which ushered the festival were hugely popular.

“Though the community has become smaller and several interesting events are no longer there, yet the close knit family ties and the various events at the clubs do their bit to add sparkle during Christmas,” feels Kitto.

While clubs like Rangers Club, Graille Club and Dalhousie Institute remain all time favourites during Christmas, others clubs too host Santa parties to add to the festive spirit.

Despite club parties and nightclubs gaining popularity among revellers, Xmas day still remains a homely affair with cakes, wine and family get togethers.

Endorsing the views is 21-year-old Treasure Kitto, daughter of Carlton who says, “The highpoint of Christmas is the Midnight Mass and meeting grandparents, cousins and friends.”

“The city has still retained the real meaning of Christmas and it is still a homely affair. It has not been carried away by the commercialisation of such occasions,” adds Bose’s friend Hyacinth Malkani, an old-resident of the city.

“The city is the best place to be in Christmas since it is not just a specific community celebration but one enjoyed by people from all walks of life,” says proprietor of a popular beauty parlour and an old-resident of the city, June Tomkyns. She adds, “The Xmas bonhomie in the city has increased by leaps and bounds and the family get-togethers is something I wouldn’t like to miss for anything in the world.”

According to Bose, there is a certain reality to the season and it is not just what can be bought and given but the warm smell of the Christmas cakes and goodies, the slightly out of tune jingle bells in New Market’s centre circle, the buzz to the Christmas spirit — not frantic or superficial but of people who share and experience each other’s festivals with equal enjoyment.

For, Xmas in Kolkata is all about reliving old memories and heralding the Yuletide spirit with Lord’s message of spreading Joy to the World.

As a case in point, Phyllis Bose points out, “Just the other day, I was at New Market and I suddenly saw this familiar old toothless coolie limping towards me and greeting me saying, Memsahib has come for Christmas? He actually remembered me. Tell me, where else in the world would that happen.”

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/articleshow/372544.cms

Train of thought

TRACKING TIME: Royapuram Railway Station Photo: The Hindu Archives

Announcements about railway vacancies appeared frequently in The Mail, an evening newspaper published in Madras and now defunct. If there were ten posts to be filled, seven would be reserved for Anglo-Indians. The Anglos justified the trust reposed in their ability. The Madras Presidency especially had many Anglo-Indian drivers who stayed at their posts in times of trouble, with scant regard for their own safety. In 1946, when I joined the Madras and South Mahratta (MSM) Railways as an ‘A’ Grade Apprentice, an engine driver named Carr made headlines for his selflessness.

When Carr pulled the W-class engine Ashoka out of the Basin Bridge loco shed, he was his usual cheerful self. Powering the Calcutta Mail, Ashoka took the eastern route. As the Mail was not booked to stop at Ongole, Carr had to read the signal, take the appropriate line and keep driving. But the fast-moving Mail came to an ear-splitting halt – but not before ramming a stationary goods train. The signaller had lowered the loop line (where the goods train stood) instead of the main line!

If not for Carr’s last-ditch effort to save passengers’ lives, the accident would have gone down as one of the worst in Railway history. Moments before the collision, he hollered to his first fireman Magee to jump to safety. As he did as he was told, Magee lived to tell the tale. Buried neck-deep in coal, the second fireman also survived. At the wheel till the last moment, Carr received the full weight of the engine on his stomach.

When top MSM officials, accompanied by a big entourage, reached the accident site, Carr was in the throes of death. As he could not be extricated from the mangled mess, Carr watched his wife and children tearfully kiss him goodbye.

Another fateful accident in Madras Presidency forced the authorities to script a monumental law that is still in currency. It occurred in 1901 and involved the Postal Express, a passenger train with two of its bogies carrying postal material. The Express left Madras for Poona (via Andhra) with a driver and two firemen who shared a surname – MacFarlene. Not a coincidence, the driver was the father and the other two, his sons. Heavy rains on the Cuddapah-Guntakal line made the journey highly precarious and the train was trotting at five miles an hour. At Mangapatnam, the station master gave the all clear, but advised the driver (Johnson MacFarlene) to travel dead slow and stop if he was not sure of what lay ahead. But the danger ahead was more than the driver’s prudence can handle — a bridge running over a water body had got washed away and MacFarlene and his two sons met a watery grave. Following this accident, a law was passed to prevent close kin working together on the same train.

Life on a steam loco’s engine cabin was far from rosy. Forget the life-threatening situations along the way, the daily routine alone was a great trial of body and spirit. To keep the train going, the team had to engage in hard manual labour for long hours. The firemen had to constantly shovel coal into the firebox, which, at 180 degrees Fahrenheit, was an inferno.

To alleviate the hardship, Anglo-Indian railwaymen made up jokes that were a common stress-buster for employees of all the private railways across the Madras Presidency — the MSM, headquartered at Royapuram; the South Indian Railways (SIR), headquartered at Egmore; the Mysore State Railways and the Nizam State Railways (these railways were merged to form the Southern Railways in 1951).

While the Anglo-Indian was essentially a happy-go-lucky soul, he took his role as a railwayman seriously. Being in the Railways was a matter of pride. This attitude was best reflected in the way Anglo-Indian workers spruced up the locomotives. Some bought Brasso out of their pocket to burnish the engines. These inanimate machines were treated like royalty.

I fell in love with the XB224-class Queen Mary, when I first saw her at the Basin Bridge loco shed. When I first worked the locomotive, my joy knew no bounds. The Queen Mary came in 1927 to serve India for 20 years, but was in service for 50 years. In 1978, three engineers came from Britain to take her back to her homeland. The Queen belonged here. And she was dear to our hearts. When she left, I cried like a baby.

As told to PRINCE FREDERICK

NOEL ANTHONY NETO. Born in 1927, Noel (‘Bully’ to his friends) was a Superfast Special ‘A’ Grade Driver. His career began in 1946, at the Royapuram-based Madras & South Mahratta Railways (MSM) as an ‘A’ Grade Apprentice. After MSM merged into Southern Railways, he rose to the highest position an engine driver can aspire to. He has had the honour of working the historic locomotive Queen Mary on numerous occasions.

I REMEMBER

When an Anglo-Indian official questioned a ticket collector caught taking a bribe, the latter lost the ability to frame sentences. This is all he managed to say: “Please be kind to me, sir! I am a child of many fathers!”

RECALL

For the Anglo-Indians, being in the Railways was a matter of pride. Some bought Brasso out of their pocket to burnish the engines.

Source – http://beta.thehindu.com/life-and-style/society/article8888.ece

Anglo Indians in the UK and India Today – 1999 by Blair Williams

http://home.alphalink.com.au/~agilbert/aicomm99.html

Mixed Breed – Sadiqa Peerbhoy

pace attack: Roger Binny ( here, takes a catch) played in the Indian cricket team, is one of Bangalore’s better known Anglo Indians

The sandpaper voiced female on FM who begins each strident lambast with a jarring ‘Hey’ reminds me of all the Anglo Indian teachers who guided my early expeditions into books. There was Miss Gloria who, we were sure, had a thing going with the art teacher. There was Miss Jenkins who once acted as an extra in a film. They were the ‘goris’ who came of a mixed ancestry and made endless plans to go “back home” to England. Some day.

Many entered the corporate world as secretaries with tight skirts. Some became models when no Indian girl was permitted to parade on a ramp, some were singers with husky magic in their throats and some were teachers.

They used to be the fun timers born of an uneasy relationship between rulers and ruled and then left behind in India. Their DNA throbbed with music. They loved their tipple and their parties. Often they produced striking beauties with green eyes, chiselled features and complexions like peaches with a wash of gold.

Bangalore’s story as a cantonment for battle-weary troops to recover from the indomitable Tipu, led to a large number of Anglo Indians being bred here, who gave it the reputation of a very happening city. Long before the techies were downloaded from their mother’s wombs. And the rest of India still thought of it as pensioners’ paradise! They partied, sang, danced and drank into the wee hours of the morning and slept through most days.

My friend Ruth still talks about the wild ‘50s when a certain lady was known for her dance of seven veils that were all discarded one by one. Or the lady who came dressed in a tame cobra and little else.

Perhaps that is why a reprobate uncle, who heard we were moving to Bangalore, called me aside to warn about key parties to avoid. These were supposed to be parties at the end of which the car keys of all guests were put in a bowl and each lady picked a key to go home with whomever it belonged to.

Fortunately we never heard of any such shenanigans in Bangalore, but it made me turn down some friendly invitations.

But times changed . The Anglo Indians started drifting away to lands that did not typecast them as fun timers and little else. They left behind old parents in clusters like Lingarajapuram and KGF, to reminisce over faded photographs of colonial bungalows their British ancestors had bequeathed them.

Now they are few and far between. Like the odd members of a live band trying to exist despite the moral police. A couple of models, a cricketer, a beauty contest winner and a host of them swallowed up by call centres. Almost all have given up their distinctive identity to blend in and that is a shame.

To my mind India was richer in its diversity when all creeds, races existed in their uniqueness within its generous spaces. And there was no one to proclaim Maharashtra for Marathas or Karnataka for Kannadigas. In an aviary there are birds of every shape and hue, not one is forced out because the colour is different. Or it chirps in a different set of notes.

Anglo-Indian community for last time together in Bow Barracks

Kolkata (PTI): The ever-depleting Anglo-Indian community of Kolkata, which has been living in large numbers in the famed Bow Barracks ever since the allied troops vacated the dingy quarters at the end of the World War II, is sad as well as upbeat as their abodes are to be demolished soon.

The 132 Anglo-Indian families residing in Bow Barracks in central Kolkata, on whose lives a film ‘Bow Barracks Forever’ was made by Anjan Dutt, will be celebrating the New Year together tomorrow for the last time before they are relocated to facilitate the demolition of all the seven blocks of the 90-year-old structure.

Though happy at the idea of living in new homes, most of them will miss the celebration of the New Year and Christmas together. The young members of the community though insist they will be here together in 2009 as well.

“We will asssemble here again in 2009 to celebrate New Year despite being scattered in different parts of the city, Allen Lobo, the secretary of the Bow United Organisation, said.

“They have made arrangements ready for the celebrations tomorrow with music and revelry and other programmes near the historic barracks,” Lobo said.

Melvyn Brown, a chronicler of Anglo-Indian community in Kolkata, is against tearing down the barracks which stands as a symbol of the Anglo-Indian community in Kolkata.

“The one or two-room quarters, which were built on a three-bigha graveyard to accommodate Allied troops during the World War II, should be preserved as a heritage structure,” he felt.

However, the young residents of the place feel the structures, which were declared unsafe two decades ago, should be knocked down.

Beyond the Pale – Kavita Chibber

Anglo Indians are perhaps the first and largest experiment in East-West genetics.

Thanks to Mark for the contribution

Joyce Mitchell recalls growing up in a railway colony in Ratlam, in pre-Independence India, cocooned in a seemingly idyllic and insulated world, attending a European Anglo Indian Railway school. A visit to Bombay for higher studies introduced Mitchell to her first “Indian” friend, a Hindu girl, 12, whose father, an Indian Navy commander, almost got court-martialed, because he hoisted the Indian flag a bit too soon on the day of India’s independence, which was still under the British regime – for a few more hours anyway. Lionel Lumb in his studio: “When I see an Indian sunset, whether it is on the beaches of Goa or in the mountains of Kulu valley, I know that this is my spiritual home, no matter where I live.” For Mitchell, Mrs. Kirby, a fair skinned Anglo Indian married to a British man visiting India, held the keys to the promised land. “Mrs. Kirby would say, ‘Ah, the fish mongers, the fish lying on marble slabs!’ Sitting there wide-eyed I would think, as an Indian I’m never going to get to heaven. But the closest I could get to it was if I could get to England!” Mitchell, then 18, was chosen as a companion for Mrs. Kirby’s daughter and the Kirbys, who were returning to England, encouraged her parents to send her with them. Since her parents couldn’t afford the fare, a kindly uncle chipped in to enable her to travel, as she recalls, “on the oldest ship that ever sailed the Indian sea.” England was cold and unwelcoming. “I stood there in strange tweed clothes, a hat and garters, clutching two leather suitcases waiting for someone to carry my bags, till a porter told me I had to do it myself. Mrs. Kirby, whose family was never accepted as British, but remained the inferior country cousins, was relegated to cooking the most horrible food for us, something she never did in India, and I wondered what was I thinking wanting to come here?” Newlyweds Lionel and Shirley Lumb Mitchell’s dilemma was shared by hundreds of thousands of Anglo Indians after Independence. Although the phrase Anglo Indian was initially concocted to describe Englishmen who returned from their stay in India during the British Raj, by the 20th century it had taken on a new spin. It now describes the 500,000 strong community spawned from the 17th century onwards as a result of unions between European colonists and Indian women. Prominent Indians many, even celebrities: media commentator Melville DeMellow, author Ruskin Bond, cricketer Roger Binny, actresses Vivian Leigh and Merle Oberon, hockey star Leslie Claudius, tennis ace Leander Paes, former Ms World Diana Hayden, world billiards champion Wilson Jones, quiz master Derek O’Brien, among others. Anglo Indians prided themselves as British. But the British shunned them, because they weren’t purebreds. Before Independence, the community was given some leeway for the Englishness of their bloodline through reserved government jobs in the Railways, Posts and Telegraphs, Customs and Police. The top brass was always British; the Anglo Indians managed to net most of the supervisory posts. The privileged world of Anglo Indians, however, came crashing down with Independence. Some, like Mitchell, who had the opportunity, migrated to England or other parts of the commonwealth or the United States after Indian independence. They were in for a rude shock – social outcasts in the promised land. Mitchell went on to study and work in England. When she returned, her parents were aghast at her new English accent. “They were still the same, it was I who had changed. But in a strange way I went to Britain and rediscovered my Indianness,” says Mitchell, who worked as an Air India hostess before marrying and settling in the United States. Blair Williams, who worked for the Indian Railways, before migrating to the United States, says in his first 17-18 years as an Anglo Indian he did not have the remotest idea about India, Indian culture, or other Indian communities. He attended Anglo Indian schools, an Anglo Indian college and lived in areas where he was surrounded by Anglo Indians. “I lived in a fairly isolated, almost lopsided, distorted world,” recalls Williams. Joyce Mitchelle: “In a strange way I went to Britain and rediscovered my Indianness,” After he passed the Civil Services Exam and joined the Indian Railways he was in for a rude shock. “There were no Anglo Indians in the civil services. I can’t tell you how mercilessly I was ragged. I had a terrible accent. I couldn’t speak the Indian language and made many linguistic blunders. Every one kept ribbing me. Fortunately I was good at sports, otherwise I would have had no redeeming quality in the eyes of the Indians working with me! They also thought I could handle labor. Things were very tough during the early 70s with the Naxalite movement at its height, and they even killed my foreman, but I managed to do well and win the loyalty of my men.” Four years later, Williams was a transformed man. “I was totally immersed in the Indian culture, my best friends were Indians. For the next 15 years on the railways I mixed only with Indian officers.” Blair’s wife Ellen comes from British and royal Muslim lineage, something that, she says, “was authenticated when the Queen visited us.” Her grandfather was an accomplished Urdu poet. “I can speak fluent Urdu, and never thought of myself as anything but Indian,” says Ellen Williams. Authors Sylvia Staub and Margaret Deefholts, who also grew up in the cocooned Anglo Indian world, say they have retained a deep sentimental attachment to India. Growing up in India was idyllic and they wouldn’t exchange those memories for anything in the world. Deefholts says after independence she heard occasional subdued rumbles insinuating that the British have left, so why don’t Anglo Indians go home as well. “Now when I look back, there were comments like, ‘Why don’t you get out of India? You are not Indian, You don’t speak the language, you don’t know much about Indian culture.’ But home for us was India.” Ron Forbes, president & CEO of Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation in Canada, who was born in Calcutta says Anglo Indians at the time shared the lifestyle of affluent Indians. “We spoke English, went to theater and classical music concerts. So what we shared was really an international culture and not Indian or British as such.” Joyce Mitchelle as an Air India hostess Forbes says while he does not like to label his identity as Indian or Anglo Indian, he relates more comfortably with Indians and sees himself as Indian. Forbes left for England, armed with an MBA degree, rose rapidly in banking and lived in England for 20 years before moving to Canada. He says the British in England behaved very differently from the British in India. “The British in India would go to the clubs and dance and party every evening. In England they barely managed to go out once a month.” Forbes says he always said he was Indian when asked in England. He would then be peppered with such questions as: “Why is your name Forbes? Why do you speak English in that accent, which is unlike any other Indian accent?” He says he never witnessed any nostalgia for India among Anglo Indians he met in Britain, nor any particular consideration from the British. The Anglo Indians were trying their hardest to assimilate and more concerned with making it than touting their Anglo Indianness to the British. It was the same with Anglo Indians who chose to remain in India. After independence, the British quit India and Pakistan, leaving behind their country cousins at the mercy of the local governments. Many Anglo Indians panicked and migrated to England, Australia, Canada, and United States after 1950 to seek a better life. Some chose to stay back in India and Pakistan. Lionel Lumb, who was born in Lahore, moved with his family at age 11 to Calcutta in 1949. He says while he had many Indian friends, he doesn’t recall any of them coming over to his house for dinner or a party, perhaps due to their religious beliefs, although he never sensed any bias. Some of his relatives stayed back in Pakistan, including an uncle who went on to become a brigadier general in the Pakistani Army, fighting two wars against India. “I think it was gut wrenching for him to see the very soldiers who had escorted him to safety during partition to the other side, being taken prisoners of war and he was now the enemy.” Sylvia Staub with her husband: “We have been the largest, most interesting experiment in genetics between the East and the West.” Life in Calcutta was idyllic for the large Anglo Indian community, and Indians from the upper crust of society attended school and college with Lumb and socialized with him regularly. Marriages outside the community were frowned upon, says Lumb, who became a journalist and married an Anglo Indian in 1963. At the time several Anglo Indians were doing well in mercantile houses, customs and other areas and Anglo Indian women were always in great demand for nursing, teaching, secretarial and executive assistant posts. The men, he says, had a harder time after independence, because reserved positions no longer existed and many of them had not pursued higher studies, even though they graduated from St. Xavier’s, which is still ranked among the leading high schools in India. The top jobs went to well educated, well connected Indians, while Anglo Indian men often ended up with clerical or junior management assignments. “Several Anglo Indian men started migrating to Canada and later to Australia, although color played a part in how the Anglo Indians were treated both in India and abroad,” says Lumb. “My fair skinned cousins were allowed to swim in the Calcutta swimming club that had a ‘Whites Only’ policy. I could not go in, because I’m brown skinned. Australia opened its doors to immigrants from all over the world, waiving its ‘Whites Only’ policy in 1967. Before that quite a few Anglo Indians, including my aunt and her family, went to Australia, at a time when only white skinned Anglo Indians were allowed to immigrate.” Lumb says although he was doing well in Calcutta, he began to have concerns for his son’s future in India. “I knew the Anglo Indians had started doing well abroad. In Australia, for instance, the Anglo Indians spoke better English than many other immigrants and had western habits, so they didn’t find it hard getting work.” Lumb migrated to England because of his journalistic background and dreams of working on Fleet Street. He joined Reuters and later the BBC. But at a personal level, he says, the migration to England was a terrible disappointment. Sylvia Staub as a young girl “We just loved the warmth and hospitality and the sweetness of India. To end up in this cold damp country where you never got past talking to people over a garden fence or the front door was tough to get used to. Our neighbor once told my wife we had more friends and relatives visit us in the one year we had been there than she had in the 15 years that she had been living there. I called the front parlor of most English homes the mausoleum or the funeral parlor. It was well furnished and immaculately kept, but there were never any visitors to enjoy it. It was a hard transition from the joyous and cheery, social interactions in India to becoming part of a community that was in the habit of turning inward socially and living within its own self imposed walls.”Lumb and his family moved to Canada in 1973 after racism reared its ugly head. The Tory MP Enoch Powell’s anti immigrant speech blaming immigrants for the ills of British society was the last straw, and soon after Lumb moved, race riots rocked Britain. “I know of several Anglo Indian families who moved to Britain first and shared my disappointment with it. We felt, who wants to be in an old country with old ways that still doesn’t understand that the days of the empire and white supremacy have ended.” Canada, by contrast, was a charm. “For all its cold weather Canada is an exceedingly warm hearted country. Our three children blossomed and had a much better social life here. They also learnt to be confident and proud of their brown skins. They had been heckled in England.” Sylvia Staub says she regrets that the Anglo Indians were caught in the crosshairs between the British and India. “I am very sentimental about India. The British were snobs who looked down upon us and because we as a community were dependent on the Brits for our daily living we ended up having very little to do with the Indians. I blame the British for the great divisions they created between the Indians and the Anglo Indians, something I have always regretted.” Brian Williams with his wife Ellen: ” I lived in a fairly isolated, almost lopsided, distorted world After moving to England, Sylvia first worked for the Indian High Commission in London before moving to the United States. She retained her Indian passport and says she has always been proud of her Indian heritage. Margaret Deefholts says her extended family moved to Canada to be together and because she felt her kids had a better chance of eking out a living abroad. They didn’t migrate to England, because she never felt England was home. “I speak only for myself, but I think the British in India were insufferable and I had no respect for them.” Their early fears notwithstanding, life has not been entirely disastrous for the Anglo Indian community in India after Independence, even though an estimated 25 percent of them are struggling financially. The younger generation has assimilated into the mainstream, although many of them continue to nurture their Anglo Indian roots. In the 1940s and 50s almost 90 percent of Anglo Indians married within their community. Today almost half marry outside the community. Many Anglo Indians, now in their 50s and 60s are trying to return to their roots, to shatter myths and negative stereotypes about the community that have taken root in history and to coax the younger generation into preserving their heritage. Blair Williams has founded CTR, a non profit organization that supports needy Anglo Indians in India. He says that post independence history is littered with biased writings by Europeans and Indian authors about Anglo Indians. Academic literature has also failed to record the contribution and sense of community among Anglo Indians and there is no literature on the community by Anglo Indians themselves. “I realized that if we did not do anything to rectify this, then history will continue to remember the Anglo Indians in a lop-sided way,” says Williams. “The women would be perceived as less ethnic and more sexually promiscuous than Indian women, and the men as alcoholic wastrels who did nothing except party.” Newly weds Brian and Ellen Williams Sylvia Staub says most Anglo Indian women lived a very protected life. When she went to England to work for the Indian High Commission, a Bengali woman had to take her under her wing because of her naiveté and show her the ropes. Margaret Deefholts and Joyce Mitchell, who were brought up to be self confident, say there were widespread false presumptions about the promiscuity of Anglo Indian women. “There are promiscuous women in every culture,” says Staub. “Just because Anglo Indian women were more outgoing and fun loving, and worked, unlike many of their Indian counterparts, didn’t mean they were of loose character.” Adds Deefholts, “But that kind of gossipy look at the Anglo Indians was what made for a juicy story! On a serious note I think Anglo Indian girls were very beautiful and dated and went out. In that particular era that was regarded as not genteel by Indians. Today the Indian women have changed so much and become even more liberal and no one bats an eye.” Anglo Indian men also had to overcome the false rap of being alcoholic party animals. The community has understood the importance of education and many Anglo Indian men are now thriving, assimilating into the Indian mainstream and excelling in diverse fields. “Even in those days my little town of 80,000 had international hockey players, an Anglo Indian woman had been to Wimbledon, among other things,” says Sylvia. There is renewed interest among Anglo Indians, especially those living abroad, in its heritage. Williams recently published an anthology of Anglo Indian writing titled, Voices on the Verandah. Several websites on the community have mushroomed. “These days when people ask about the community, I don’t waste my breath,” says Lionel Lumb. “I just say go the internet and read up.” Margaret Deefholts with famous Anglo Indian author Ruskin Bond:”I speak only for myself, but I think the British in India were insufferable and I had no respect for them.” Within the United States, Anglo Indians hold reunions, where they revel in eating Indian curries and reminiscing on the linguistic jargon they had grown up speaking. There is even an annual international Anglo Indian Reunion held in different parts of the world. The generation of Anglo Indians now in its 50s, which lived on the cusp of the end of the British Raj, is alarmed at the new generation’s rapidly assimilation and fears that their generation may well be the last of the Anglo Indians. Megan Mills, a Canadian, who wrote her PhD dissertation on “Ethnic Myth and Ethnic Survival: The Case of India’s Anglo-Indians (Eurasian) Minority,” says while interviewing a broad cross section of Anglo Indians worldwide, she frequently heard fears about the extinction of community. But the community has survived for over 400 years. Younger Anglo Indians, she says, often tire of their parents’ nostalgic memories. But most youngsters do. “Yes, the young are different. What else is new? But most communities do not tend to adhere as closely to the way of life brought from India through generations!” Mills feels younger Anglo Indians abroad will take interest in the Anglo Indian community in India if it’s presented to them differently. They need to know the specific problems faced today and how they could aid the efforts already in place. “If the same young people abroad are told ‘Here’s a deserving family in your family’s old town that could use a few bucks and someone to write to the kiddies, or whatever else you can think of,’ it will be a different,” says Mills. She also emphasizes that the reality is that everyone is marginal to everyone else in South Asia. “If one speaks to Indians old enough to remember 1971, or the border wars, one finds they know an awful lot about Anglo Indians from every walk of life who contributed, in various ways.” Margaret Deefholts with her parents and grandmother in Asansol Mills adds that she has come across cliques even within Anglo Indians, a fact confirmed by several Anglo Indians, but it seems the value system is remarkably similar across backgrounds and classes. Anglo Indians have very strong family ties, they are usually liked by others around them, and again, seen as part of the social wallpaper, says Mills, and not as the “freaks” or romantic castaways, or dinosaurs projected by journalists or writers. Mills says she often finds that some of the very people who fret about the future loss of Anglo Indian identity, in the same breath, go on to report that their daughter is off to nursing school, their son is involved in two Roman Catholic charities, working for Air Canada, and playing cricket on the weekend. Others, branded as being in “danger of assimilation” show typical hospitality, attention to their work, strong Christian values, love of Indian cuisine, fondness for friends from India, and love Anglo Indian get togethers. Mills says she does not buy into the gloomy stories of a dying breed of human “leftovers” from the British empire. Lumb says he wants history to remember the Anglo Indian legacy as that of a people who contributed in large measure to the success of the British empire, but did not, at the same time lose their close attachment to India. “We were born there and love to go back. As little children we were told some English tales at bedtime by our parents, but then came our ayah, who told us lovely Indian stories and somewhere the lines blurred. There isn’t a single Anglo Indian who grew up in that era who doesn’t get confused at some time or the other and wonder, ‘Was that the English story or was that the Indian story?’ When I see an Indian sunset, whether it is on the beaches of Goa or in the mountains of Kulu valley, I know that this is my spiritual home, no matter where I live.” Staub muses, “Our history is important because we have been the largest, most interesting experiment in genetics between the east and the west and have represented the finest of both hemispheres in many ways. We even learnt values like loyalty from the British, who preached, but never practiced it. From our Indian brethren we learnt kindness, hospitality and a wide open attitude towards religion, because Hinduism is a philosophy, a way of life and open to any one who cares to be a part of it. We are also the only truly global community and there is a lot the current generations can learn from us.”

Brodick’s Janice will take her bike to Bengal to help Dr. Graham’s Homes

Brodick postmistress Janice Small is preparing for a 415-mile bike ride in the Himalayas.

Janice said: ‘In February, I am heading to West Bengal, with a cycling group led by the Reverend John Webster from Kings Cross.

‘Our aim is to cycle, over 7 days, from Kolkata, in the south, to Kalimpong 415 miles to the North and 4500 feet up in the foothills of the Himalaya. We will spend 5 nights under canvas.’

All the sponsorship money that is raised will go towards the Dr Graham’s homes for destitute Indian children.

After reading an article in The Arran Banner in April 2006 about John Webster’s cycle through India Janice knew she had to get involved.

Janice explained: ‘When I read this article, at the time, it made a huge impression on me so when I saw John’s advert looking for cyclists for 2008 I was immediately hooked.

‘I think it will be a marvelous experience, some good, some bad, extremely arduous, unforgettable but very rewarding as the end result will be helping, through donors, the children of the home.’

She will be expected to meet all personal costs herself but has to raise a minimum of £1000 in aid of Dr Graham’s Homes in Kalimpong.

This home was founded in 1900 for destitute Anglo-Indian children to help them to a fuller life of love, security and education.

‘To help meet my target I am doing a bag pack in the Co-op on Saturday December 1’, Janice said, ‘Please come along and support me.’

In order to prepare for the hard journey Janice has been cycling as much as possible.

She told The Arran Banner: ‘I have been cycling for a number of years now, around Arran and a few runs on the mainland.

In September, with my friend Linda Murchie, I took part in Pedal for Scotland, a charity run between Glasgow and Edinburgh. I raised over £300 for Diabetes Scotland.

‘I can cycle the distance required every day, between 45miles and 80miles, but it is doing it every day that will be hard.

‘To keep fit I am out on my bike every weekend and during the week when possible.

‘I have also started going up to Auchrannie gym where Lynn Boal is advising me.’

The trip will mark the beginning of Janice’s retirement from the Brodick post office.

She added: ‘I have sold the lease on Brodick Post Office and this trip leaves a week after I retire.

A bit tight but what a challenge to the start my retirement.’

The Mixed Bloods of Goa written by Sylvester da Cunha

The mixed-bloods of Goa
They were fair-skinned and light-eyed, fluent in both Portuguese and Konkani. Were they European? “No”. Goan? “No.” they would vehemently assert. “We are of Portuguese origin.” They were the mistiços – part Goan, part Iberian. Much like the Anglo-Indians, Anglo-Burmese and burghers of Ceylon, they considered themselves separate and superior to the locals, while the latter held them in contempt. “The mistiços liked to be called “descendente” or “descending from the Portuguese”. The Goans remained unimpressed, though a few were genuinely so, like the ‘domiciled’ English of India.
Origin of the species
Says scholar Mariano Dias: “A paucity of ladies to service the gentry of Old Goa prompted 16th century Portuguese kings to ship out parentless girls, dubbed ‘Orfãs de Rei’ (King´s orphans). That’s how the early mixed-bloods came about. But, they were hardly enough girl-orphans to meet the demand of the teeming Portuguese. A lot of miscegenation occurred between Portuguese troops and European adventureres with Indian women of easy virtue (nautch girls of yore). Even in those times, mistiços were discriminated against by the official structures. The early Church is believed to have refused then admission into priesthood.”
Mistiços may have had their origins on the wrong side of the bed, but later they solemnized wedlock among themselves, taking on distinctive surnames like Pegado, Possolo and Vidigal.
Never more than a few thousand, they were largely employed in the colonial administration-police, customs, public works, navigation etc. Jobs assured, most of them didn’t take education seriously and lived merrily for the day.
Mixed bag
But it would be unfair to label the entire community as being “spoilt and irresponsible”. Many were well-educated and cultured. Dr. Germano Correia was the celebrated professor of the Goa Medical College, an intellectual giant with an impressive literary output. Vasco Ferreira Martins was the all-powerful Director of the Goa Fazenda (Revenue Department) whose administrative efficiency is remembered even today. Dr. Adolfo Costa was a leading medical doctor. And there were very many others.
Nasty
At the end of the spectrum was the notorious Casmiro Monteiro, boss of Police headquarters in the 50’s. Those were the years when a repressive Salazar sensed the breeze of independence blowing over Goa. An iron fist would descend at the merest whiff of Indian nationalism. Monteiro planted his spies in almost every town and village. They eavesdropped on conversations in buses, ferries, shops and bazaars. Innocent mentions of ‘Gandhi’, ‘Nehru’ or ‘India’ would instantly de reported and the speaker detained for questioning. Even a ‘namaste’ in jest could land the folded hands into scalding water.
Ilidio Costa (now President of the Clube de Tennis, Gaspar Dias), together with Ernesto Costa Frias, were arrested by Monteiro’s thugs in connection with bombings in several parts of Goa in 1956. Mr Costa was a member of the pro-independence Azad Gomantak Party. Monteiro fabricated a case on the grounds of young Mr. Costa’s family managing mines that used explosives. He was tortured for 4 months in the Panjim Quartel. “It was hell”, recalls Mr. Costa wryly. Beatings, 24-hours forced standing and other horrors. I’d rather not talk about it now.
“We were transferred and tried in the military Aguada Fort. The Portuguese judge hearing our case didn’t share Salazar’s colonial attitudes. But during the proceedings, he received a parcel bomb which blew off some of his fingers. He was flown to Portugal for repair and recuperation. meanwhile the trial was kept pending. On his return 2 years later he acquitted the accused for lack of eveidence.
One up for the Portuguese judge. Two down for Monteiro.
At Goa’s independence, almost all the descendentes followed the departing Portuguese to colonial jobs in Africa and the Asia. Today, some return as tourists, curious to visit their roots. They are welcomed.
The above article was contributed by Mark Pinto

Outing an Indian

http://www.littleindia.com/news/128/ARTICLE/1930/2007-11-02.html

The renowned British comedian and theater actor Alistair McGowan has outed himself as an Indian in a BBC documentary “Who Do You Think You Are.”

Alistair McGowan as Dot Cotton in East Enders

McGowan, who stars as Dot Cotton in the acclaimed BBC series the “East Enders,” said his Indian heritage was hidden from him by his father all his life. McGowan, 43, discovered his identity accidentally only after his death in 2003, when he searched for his father’s birth certificate to secure a certification of his death. The actor wrote in the Sunday Times: “On the 74-year-old slip of paper, under the word ‘caste,’ was the term ‘Anglo-Indian.”

Alistair McGowan undertaking a journey to his roots in India

McGowan had never known his grandparents who died before he was born. His father was the product of an alliance between his grandfather John McGowan and Maria de la Cruz, an Indian woman from Kolkata, which was not uncommon in the colonial era. However, given Britain’s colonial legacy, many Anglo Indians hid their racial identity, McGowan’s father among them.