Margaret Mascarenhas

The Prophet, 2002 (Outlook)

 

The Prophet of Undemocracy had waited 50 years in the city of Aryan for his proverbial ship to come in.  Finally, it arrived.  And the prophet said to himself:  “Shall the day of rejoicing be the day of equivocation?”

 

And the people of Aryan hailed him and said, “Ere you buzz off on your ship, speak to us the truth of Undemocracy, and we will give it to our children, and they to their children, and so forth and so on.”

 

And the Prophet answered:  “People of Aryan, what can I tell you except that which is already in your corrupt little hearts and beady little eyes?”

 

And the people of Aryan said, “Speak to us of tax breaks.”

 

And the Prophet gave a gigantic belch and said:  “My people, the business of religion is the best business to be in precisely because of all the tax breaks.  Besides which, you never have to worry about anyone asking for a refund on the product.  When, for example, have you ever heard a dead Christian crib about not getting to heaven or hell because the warranty was bogus? When has a Muslim martyr gone to consumer court about not getting his 72 virgins? When have you heard a Hindu complain that he would have preferred to come back as Bill Gates the Third, rather than Laloo’s publicity handler? Also, I’d like to point out that if anyone does criticize your product, you can always counter by accusing him of being a Foreign Hand, a terrorist, a false-propagandist, a bimbo-brain, or anything else that sounds bad.”

 

And the people of Aryan said:  “Speak to us of marketing.”

 

And the Prophet answered:  “ Preferably you should target a populace with some IQ (so they will have enough to contribute to your coffers), but not too much (so that they will readily imbibe your dogmas).  The ideal consumer is someone not too good with logical thinking, who is frustrated, who has never read the Indian Constitution or the words of the Mahatma, and who has disposable income.  And, you should always take pains to convince everyone that your interpretation of the religion you are peddling is the only true one.”

 

And the people of Aryan said:  “Speak to us of recruitment.”

 

And the Prophet answered, saying, “Do not forget to instill a code of conduct in your consumers that stigmatizes healthy human concepts such as Freedom of Thought, Freedom of Religion, and Freedom of the Press.  At the same time, you should subtly endorse Intolerance, Communalism, and the Pursuit of Absolute Power.  Once you have enough of a critical mass of consumers, you can reach out to the public at large by repairing thousands of potholes, signing MOUs with like-minded conglomerates, and hiring an extra 2000 cops to protect you and your interests.  Also, take the example of the Prophet Hitler, may he rest in peace, and recruit cadres of the young. Organize morchas and send them on Cox and Kings spirituality tours as incentive. If you get them when they’re young, they are yours for life.  This is true not only of successful religions, but also of tobacco companies.”

 

And the people said :  “Speak to us of consolidating power and wealth.”

 

And the Prophet replied:  “For that you need an ideology.  Any ideology will do. But I like to say that a good ideology is like a well-prepared pudding: light, palatable, and capable of holding the shape of any mold in which it is placed. Therefore, your ideology must be all things to all people. And for this, you need a body of myths with an authoritarian flavour that offers to explain away all of life's trials and tribulations. Of course, you could make up your own myths as you go along like that Benny Hinn cult guy, but it is both preferable and easier to draw from sources already embedded into our psyche: such as Genesis or the Mahabharata. I realize that creating one's own myths might at first seem advisable from a perspective of total control, not to mention that you would gain the opportunity to reap enormous profits in book retailing. However, I believe that view fails to take into account the advantages of using the large and already established body of mythology in the world over the past several thousand years. For example, over the past two thousand years, the Bible has been used to rationalize both sides of every human conflict. It has been used to support such divergent views as democracy, monarchy, science, superstition, fascism, slavery, freedom, and Slobadov Milosevic. And imagine just how much more weight and credibility you will have with the Vedas, which are even older. Ay, it is like an ocean, which is to say: the possibilities are endless. Whatever religion you choose, it should be replete with an ample supply of previously accepted myths that can be twisted in a manner that will benefit you the most and consolidate your power base.”

 

And the people said:  “Any last words?”

 

And the Prophet said:  “If you follow my marketing plan, you shall control the hidden purposes in all things. And you will prefer darkness to light. And we shall build our temple of Undemocracy.” 

 

Something to think about (Gomantak Times)

 

I have been following the escalation of violence between Israel and the Palestinians with foreboding. Everyday, I watch Israeli tanks and helicopters crush the infrastructure of the Palestinian Authority. Then I watch the coverage of the carnage from a suicide bombing. Then I watch Ariel Sharon, who increasingly appears to me like a Jewish Hitler, turn around and say Arafat is not doing enough to arrest Palestinian guerillas and dissuade young Palestinians from killing themselves and busloads of Israelis. And George Bush agrees. And Tim Sebastian, whose IQ is possibly even lower than George’s but who, unlike George, can usually express himself in grammatical sentences, acts like he’s George’s personal spokesperson and grills the European Union guy on why the EU wants to impose sanctions on Israel.

 

I change the channel, only to get a dose of Vajpayee saying he can’t face the world because of Gujarat.

 

Out-of-control violence based on fundamentalist belief systems seems to be on the rise everywhere. My mind clicks on the fact that Gujarat is a lot closer to home than the West Bank. And I get a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. I try to convince myself that nothing like that could happen here, in our little tropical enclave. Come on, I say to myself, Goans are so laid back, they don’t even have the energy for that sort thing. And I look around. Under the current caretaking government, some of our most corrupt politicians have been neutralized under what is coming to be known as the “dossier system”. The availability of basic amenities and services seems to have improved, the roads are being taken care of, the city is cleaner, things work, traffic is better controlled, and every time I cross the Mandovi Bridge after 12 pm, the cops are out there doing their job and protecting civilians.

 

Okay, I think, sure, some degree of fundamentalism exists among Goans, like that time my friend of many years, Ashok Chowgule, got mad at me because he thought I was the author of a Reuters piece criticizing the VHP (it wasn’t me, although I am clearly not a cheering fan of the VHP). But he’s a still a staunch VHP man and we’re still friends, so how serious can the communal issue really be here in Goa?

 

I look at the palm trees swaying and the gentle beating of waves against the shore, and it is so easy to feel that nothing is really too out of whack in my little world (except for the looming vision of the River Princess). Oh, but then I remember the mosque that got wiped out, which somehow became a non-issue. And there was the church that allegedly burnt down because of some candles. And there was that business during the bandh which was declared after the Godhra incident, when thugs were running around Goa threatening shop keepers and burning tires on the road, and we were afraid to go out—that’s definitely a new thing. And, wait a minute, wasn’t our man one of the kar sevaks who went rushing off to Ayodhya to help tear down the Babri Masjid? Hmmm. Something for people to think about during the upcoming elections.

 

Something else to think about: April 18^th is World Heritage Day. To commemorate it, Heritage and Conservation groups plan to have a public celebration at the Panjim Municipal Garden, starting at 5 pm. The objective is to revive the public use of the garden, which has a noteworthy architectural heritage history. Accordingly, musicians, artists, theatre groups are being invited to attend and perform for the public. They have agreed to do this free of cost. The Police Band, which in earlier times used to play regularly at the garden bandstand, is being invited to kick off the event. Press releases will be out this week encouraging the public to participate in the celebration. People are advised to bring some candles, since the garden is not very well lit. Nobody is worried about the bandstand “accidentally” burning down.

 

I personally hope this will give the Municipality some alternative ideas on how this space can be utilized, other than filling it with fake fiberglass mountains and absurd toilets in the shape of castles. After all, the Municipal garden is not Disneyland. Maybe I’ll see you there.

Goa is a state of mind  (Published in the August issue of Goa Today)

Margaret Mascarenhas

 

When I was first asked to contribute something on Goan identity for this issue of Goa Today, I thought it would be a piece of cake. But as the deadline approached and I actually sat down to write, I discovered it involved more soul-searching than anticipated.

 

Certainly a culture is defined by certain characteristics, a commonality of history, customs, belief systems, musical traditions, food preferences, etc. But all that is too obvious and done to death where Goa is concerned. I want to find my own turf.

 

When I reach into myself in an effort to grab onto that part of me that is quintessentially Goan, what I finally come up with is a fistful of ingredientssights, sounds, smells, and feelingsthat change and shift in the metaphorical palm of my hand. And I suppose this is not so unusual or surprising, or even unique to myself, since identity, like culture, is never static.

 

I was born at the University of Michigan hospital in Ann Arbor, USA. Ours was a classic nuclear family, comprised of my parents, myself, and my younger sister, Fernanda. The earliest bedtime stories I can remember are those my father would tell me about a magical place called Goa, where people lived in big extended families, sharing everything, and went for picnics together on beaches with white sand like sugar. Where his sister lost a diamond earring, and his aunt threatened St Anthony before digging her hand into the sand of Calangute and pulling out the solitaire, which shone in the moonlight like a star.

 

I doubt that my father had any preconceived notions about acquainting my sister and me with our Goan heritage; more likely, it had to do with the fact that he was homesick. So when my sister and I were old enough to travel, he began the practice of flying our family to Goa every two years. The result was that I was hooked on Goa from an early age.

 

I was six or seven the first time we made the long haul from New York to Bombay on Air India. We spent a night with friends and took a flight to Goa the following day. The airport was a makeshift shack, and our suitcases were unloaded onto the tarmac. It was hot and humid, and the air smelt like salt. My fathers youngest brothers were there to pick us up in their pale green Ambassador. But before we left the airport area, we stopped at a local bar. My sister and I were given some kind of soft drink (ordinarily prohibited by my father), the adults drank beer. What I remember most about the drive to Cortalim was the incredible expanse of green for as far as I could see. Even at that age, it took my breath away. While waiting for the ferry, the adults again stopped for a beer. After crossing the ferry, there was yet another beer stop. And when we reached Panjim, my uncles pulled up in front of the Olympics Bar, only a few hundred metres from my grandparents city dwelling, for more beer. I had never seen my parents consume such quantities of beer; they seemed perfectly content to drink beer indefinitely. But when my sister threw a full-blown tantrum out of sheer exhaustion, screaming I want to be INSIDE Goa, by which she meant inside a house, they quickly decided it was time to complete the last leg of the journey.

 

When we finally entered the home of my grandparents, my great uncle Jorge and my grandaunt Olga, and their son, Alvaro, were waiting with them. We were covered with kisses and all our newfound family members took turns holding Fernanda and me on their laps. Then Tio Jorge entertained us with hand shadows on the wall.

 

So, my first memories of Goa, are of the heat, the smell of beer and salt air, the laughter and the excited chatter of a number of people I didnt know, and the sense of being enveloped in a big love blanket. Oh, and of not wanting an ayah to watch me while I bathed, which was a stunning show of independence as far as my grandparents were concerned. But my favorite memories are of summers in my grandparents house in Anjuna, which involved a big production process of packing pots and pans, provisions, and my grandmothers chickens, and where sometimes up to thirty peopleaunts, uncles, cousinswould congregate, all laughing and telling stories and dancing before dinner. And of Naguesh, my grandfathers right hand man in his pristine white dhotis, who would bring me tender coconut to eat. And of Muncu, who would take out my dist.

 

When my family moved to Venezuela, it was almost like being in Goa; the Venezuelans are warm and friendly people, with a great sense of humour and a love of music. Like Goans, and unlike Americans, they have a strong sense of family. After awhile, one of my uncles from Goa came to live with us. He cooked Chinese soup and taught me chords to fados on the guitar. On the weekends, wed have parties, and by the time I left Venezuela to continue my studies in America, all our Venezuelan friends knew how to sing a mando.

 

A year after graduating from college, I came to Goa to visit my grandmother (my grandfather had died a few years earlier) and I was offered an editorial job in Bombay. I decided to take it because it would make Goa and my family more accessible. Several years later, it occurred to me that if I loved Goa so much, I might as well live here. And so, here I am. Not a small number of people think Im crazy to live here, when I have the option to live in America. And I suppose I would be crazy if I were a rocket scientist. But Im a writer, and the advent of the internet has made it possible for me to conduct my work from anywhere I choose. And I choose Goa.

 

Awhile back, I met a guy who struck me as somewhat deficient in the IQ department. Or maybe hed had too many beers. People like you come to live here because its cheap, he said as if he wanted to pick a fight. And it seemed pointless to educate him on the fact that there are hundreds of cheap locations in the world that are just as pretty as Goa, that many of the governments of these places are more environment friendly, and more amenable to foreign residents. And actually, Goa isnt exactly cheap. So, no, it isnt that.

 

I am not an idealist; I know that there is a downside to Goa. I have seen men living with their parents and remaining financially dependent on them right through middleage, never becoming self sufficient, never striking out on their own, or accomplishing anything productive. Just sitting around in their banyans on their balcao, drinking beer or feni, and talking big about how they taught this one or that one a lesson. And I want to tell them to get a life.  Ive seen women marry the man of their parents choice, rather than their own, and never having a moment of self discovery. I have witnessed the steady rape and pillage of the land, the gauging of hillsides and destruction of forests, the pollution of the rivers and coastal areas, the demolition of heritage buildings, the increasing polarization of the people. The Goa of my youth is rapidly diminishing. So maybe one day, I will decide that Goa is no longer where I physically want to be. But wherever I go, I will carry Goa with me. Because for me, Goa is a state of mind.

Bye, Bye American Pie (Gomantak Times and Asian American Journal)

Margaret Mascarenhas

 

Today is September 11, 2001.  As I write, I am sitting in Ann Arbor, the town of my birth, at a U of M cafeteria, watching replays of the American Airlines and United planes crashing into the World Trade Center towers and the smoke billowing from the Pentagon. The casualties are enormous. New York City Mayor Giulianni appears for a CNN interview looking and sounding shell-shocked.  The President is summarily whisked away to an undisclosed location. Across the country, air traffic is grounded.  Schools, major shopping centers, corporate headquarters of American companies are closed for the day. Even Disneyland. National Guard troops rush to New York City.  Major bridges are shut down. The military is on the alert.  Aircraft carriers and battleships move off the Eastern Coast of the nation. National security officials are scrambling.  White House grounds have been evacuated. A state of emergency has been declared.

 

This is not a movie. This is real.

 

You would think that with all the spy novels and Hollywood films that have more than adequately depicted the hypotheticals of a terrorist attack on the U.S. with Washington D.C. and New York City as the primary targets, the American would be better equipped to ward off such a scenario.  Or at least conceive of the possibility.  And better prepared to deal with it. This is not the case.  The U.S. State Department had no clue of any potential terrorist threat; they have admitted as much.

 

With its ascension to supremacy in the world, Uncle Sam has dissolved into complacency.  In my minds eye, he no longer looks like President Lincoln, but like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, smug, fat, greedy.  Unreasonably self-righteous.  Sooner or later unbridled self-indulgence catches up to you.  In this case, sooner, is now.

 

For years, the U.S. has relied predominantly on satellite intelligence to obtain information on what is going on in a world where it has the dubious distinction of being Chief Cop.  Effective human infiltration and information-gathering was virtually aborted with the end of the Cold War.  This means that the U.S. has a diminished capacity to analyze, much less anticipate, events of this nature before they occur.

 

Why, why? a young woman at the table next to me murmurs repeatedly. A perfect example of the fact that most Americans dont get the corrosive effect that years of economically driven policies and support of oppressive regimes has had on the psyche of those who have suffered the consequences of those policies and regimes. This is, undoubtedly, the biggest failure of intelligence in US history.

 

Clearly, this is a country that is out of touch with reality.  Having lived, worked and traveled abroad for so many years, even I could have told the U.S. government that.  And, in fact, I have repeatedly commented to my American friends that the U.S. is too insular, dangerously unaware of a steadily growing hostilitynot just in the Muslim worldbut even among its so-called allies.  To anyone paying attention, it was never a question of whether the U.S. would ultimately have to face terrorism in its own back yard, but when.  And now the suspense is over.  There is only the grisly aftermath.  There is only damage control.  The U.S. spin doctors are insisting that the government is in control of an out-of-control situation.  Beefing up security after the fact.   

 

It doesnt help, that in the time of the worst threat the U.S. has faced since World War II, the country has the most inept of leadership.  Here is a situation that requires deft handling, excellent response time, the brilliance of a Robert Kennedy, the charisma of a Teddy Roosevelt.  George W Bush, the accidental President, has neither the charisma nor the IQ to inspire confidence among the American people. When he appeared on national television this morning, he looked like a frightened Boy Scout (Daddy, what should I do?) spouting bravado rhetoric.

 

To those Americans who have been paying attention to world affairs (a minority), it is pretty clear that Texas Cowboy politics may not be what the doctor ordered. And as I look at the bewildered faces of the students on the university campus around me, it is pretty obvious that the average American is as scared as the President. Reactions range from raging we should just nuke the bastards (who?),  to stunned disbelief.

 

Not since Pearl Harbor has the U.S. been required to contemplate, much less confront, and act of war on its own territory.  And whether the incumbent U.S. government is prepared to come out and say it or not, this is, ladies and gentlemen, an act of war.  The problem, of course, is that the perpetrator is not readily identifiable.  Of course, the Bin Laden organization is the most obvious suspect, being as it is, possibly the only terrorist organization with the incentive, the money and the capability to execute such a maneuver.  The Afghanis have issued a statement denying involvement. However, if you will recall, it was only recently that Osama Bin Laden nominated the head of the Taliban as the spiritual leader of the Muslim world, and declared Afghanistan as the true Mecca.  The name Saddam Hussain is also being bandied about by various American terrorist experts.

 

I watch some news clips of the Palestinians celebrating the Attack on the U.S. And I phone a Palestinian friend, a professor of economics, to get his take on this.  According to him, Americans are right now getting a tiny taste of the horrors the people of many other countries have suffered for decades, often with the endorsement, implicit or explicit, of the U.S.  It is terrible what has happened, but it was also inevitable.

 

The tragic price that so many American civilians have had to pay for the negligent short-sightedness and absurdly childish smugness of those they have elected to power has been the worst possible kind of wake up call.  We can only be proud of New Yorkers, but it remains to be seen whether the same can be said of American leadership.