We Belong to the New World
Photo: Karan Madhok
Short story: “Unlike the little girls I see outside temples, draped in their pano bhaju’s stringing garlands of Marigolds, I dare not play with the flowers in our garden. Papa cautions me against the rows of Mogras, Shoe-flowers, Frangipanis and a multitude of others. He says that I must not be lured by a flower’s fragrance.”
I am inclined to ask Papa of perils. Do grown-ups avoid the truth to shield us from it? I steal glances at his newspaper. There are some photos of combat. Papa folds it and rises from the bureau. He extends his wrist, examines his shiny silver watch, and ambles to the French window. Next to it stands the stout round marble-top mesa de café, bearing an oriental tea-set for one and his gold encrusted snuff-box. He waits for a while before settling himself with the morning edition of the O Heraldo. Mrs. Marcia, our mordomo, walks in discreetly. When she angles the kettle’s spout toward his cup, I see the familiar blue dragon on it shimmer for a brief moment. As soon as I catch his eyes, I know to smile. My hand-beaded necklaces await patiently on the rug.
Papa occasionally stays back to convene with the estate manager, Michael Fernandes. They speak on matters of the Branganza estate and father’s holdings. Michael’s daughter Linda and I have been friends since we could count with our fingers. She taught me to bead last year; and since then, I have been stringing a bead necklace for Mama, placing one bead each month next to Mama’s framed photo. It is perched on Papa’s study desk, watching through the casing.
Mama smiles in this photograph too, unlike in the full-length commissioned portrait for our gallery in the Grand Braganza Hall.
When the tea revives Papa’s spirits, Mrs. Marcia informs him of the roadblocks across the city. Michael is running late. Papa grunts, stealing a glance at his watch. Change of plans: He announces that, after a short tour of the garden with me, he would leave for the Secretariat House. Mrs. Marcia says that most of Papa’s precious time goes into advising and working on the ambitious urbanization plan for Panaji city.
For now, I’m thrilled by Papa’s desire to spend time with me. I drop the beads and skip about the room. I’m only allowed to roam within the Braganza estate, unable to see much of the world beyond our walls. This is where I’ve been since Mama’s passing. The vast garden has always intrigued me: its clipped topiary and careful hedges along the paths towered high above, while the smooth green lawns are dotted with giant trees, perfect for hiding from the midday heat.
I run ahead along the familiar path, toward the topiary and the bright flower patch that Papa has always been very fond of. He calls from behind, trying to catch up, in the familiar stern tone he uses for everyone. his voice light with curiosity.
“Roberta, do you know the names of those?”
I shake my head uneasily, leading him on.
“Glory Lilies.”
“Ah! But they look like tiger’s claws!”
He nods lightly, almost miffed and impatiently pressing on.
“And that one?” He asks, bending over a purple bunch.
“I know that one. They’re Purple Dahlias?”
He smiles, pleased at last. I feel gratified. I pause at the next patch.
“And what about that, one Papa? Like a bell in a temple?”
“Yes, ah a temple bell.” He looked at me quizzically. I blink.
“Mama and I would go out, sometimes. She stopped to speak to people. And I would simply watch all around.”
For a moment I notice his face shrouded with something dark.
“I’m sorry Papa, I didn’t mean to.”
His face reddens.
“You have heard I suppose, what happens to a curious cat?” says Papa
I gulp, lowering my eyes, almost sorry for my frenzy.
He feels it too, for he takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.
“They’re Lily of the Valley!”
I look up to meet his eyes.
“You see, Mother Mary’s tears at the crucifixion blossomed into these,” Papa continues. “We also call them, Our Lady’s Tears.”
Unlike the little girls I see outside temples, draped in their pano bhaju’s stringing garlands of marigolds, I dare not play with the flowers in our garden. Papa cautions me against the rows of Mogras, Shoe-flowers, Frangipanis, and a multitude of others. He says that I must not be lured by a flower’s fragrance.
“Always ask a gardener before you play with flowers. Some can be toxic, remember!”
A familiar, thick voice greets Papa as he walks briskly toward us. Michael’s steady gait matches the calm expression on his face as he turns to greet me, too. Before I can ask about Linda, Papa speaks to him about the comunidades pending foro-taxes to the colonial treasury. Michael, in a lower tone, addresses his concerns, boundary disagreements, land disputes. They walk away, with Michael striding after Papa until the covered passageway.
I retrieve Papa’s jacket from the frame of his chair to drape it around my shoulders. I find a case with his spare smoking pipe and place it between my lips, at an angle. I even manage to mimic his broad-based gait.
While Papa administers from the Secretariat House, Michael manages the affairs of his land, plantation, tenants and staff affairs. I remember Mama telling me so. He has been an anchor for us for as long as I can remember.
Michal and Papa drive off in the ‘56 Chevy Bel Air Beauville out the back of the estate, through the orchard’s gravel road, setting off a cloud of dust as the car bounces along.
I walk back to Papa’s study to gather my belongings. Alone, I linger here. I retrieve Papa’s jacket from the frame of his chair to drape it around my shoulders. I find a case with his spare smoking pipe and place it between my lips, at an angle. I even manage to mimic his broad-based gait. Mrs. Marcia would clap at this theatre. On the mesa de café, I discover his neatly folded O Heraldo cradled between the table lamp and a pen holder. The side facing me reads: Minister from Spain Visits Goa.
My eyes travel over to his bureau and light up instantly to see Mama smiling back indulgingly. Ten beaded garlands, one for each month, rest beside her ivory photo frame.
*
“Mama, were you playing the piano?”
She extends her arms towards me to embrace.
“But look, your hands are cold. Were you outside?”
“Yes, under the mango tree.”
She kisses my forehead.
“Mama, can I grow my hair?”
“Don’t you like your bob?”
“I want to tie it at both ends. Like a grown-up girl! Linda does it!”
She brushes her fingers through my hair.
“She is older than you Berta!”
“Only two years!”
“Hm… let’s just say that the minds of young women have always been the most mysterious.”
Then, almost absent-mindedly she turns towards the window.
“Mama, are you okay?”
She sighs softly and caresses my hair.
“Never mind me.”
“Oh, tell me Mama!”
I sense her anguish.
“The people are gathering strength!”
I have seen images in the newspaper too. I lay my head on her lap.
“Is that why you barely take me out anymore?”
She smiles wistfully. “If I can manage it, I will take you one last time.”
I spring up to meet her eyes. “To Linda’s?”
She nods. She frequently meets with Pramila Titia, Linda’s mother and at times also with VK, Linda’s uncle. It is some party she says. Mama used to meet them every once in a few weeks, but not for months off late.
Mama cups my face and whispers, “Speak nothing of this outside, beyond this room?”
“Because, my dear Berta, I believe that I am doing some good. And where better to start than with your own people. With time, you will see that your mother can do good.”
I whisper back as though in a game, “Mama, is this a secret?”
Her eyes shine fiercely.
“Papa is a Chief! You know it, don’t you?”
“What if you tell him?”
“All in good time my dear,” she whispers back.
I watch her face, unable to fathom what she is thinking.
“But why Mama?”
“Because, my dear Berta, I believe that I am doing some good. And where better to start than with your own people. With time, you will see that your mother can do good.”
“Oh Mama!”
I hope to tell her that she has nothing to prove. Instead, I say, “Mama, will you play the Haydn Concerto 1?” It is my favourite on the gramophone. She throws her head back to laugh.
“A concerto! For that we should open the doors of the Braganza Hall to musicians, isn’t it?”
Relieved, she turns back to the piano.
“My darling, for you I will play a solo.”
As the first notes begin, I prance, the melody lightly lifting my feet, and I feel like a bee drifting around my mother in the garden of her adoration.
*
In the garden, Linda hands me a neat little box in a brown wrapper tied with a flowing red ribbon.
“Thanks,” I say. She takes a spot beside me under the tree.
“You’re welcome!”
When I unwrap it, two sunbirds fall into my lap—their red feathers translucent, eyes shining fiercely. They are of porcelain and the bottom reads Bone China, Made in Macau.
“Wars could be fought over it,” Linda says.
“Mama used to love chinaware.”
“Do you know what the Chinese called the Portuguese?”
I shrug.
“Ocean devils.”
“Linda, Papa says that the Emperor of China had granted Macau to us, in exchange for a few hundred silver taels!”
She smiles and looks at me. “But I’m no foreigner to this land, Berta! I belong here, too.”
I hold the sunbirds against the sky, resting my forehead against Linda’s arms. Her skin is brown, like the lap of the sandy shores on which we have grown up, where a million waves of the Arabian Sea crash each day.
“Sunbirds are nectarines, did you know? I will place them on the balcão next to the flowers then. For all the nectar they need!”
I turn to look into her eyes. “Linda, tell me truthfully. If he loses then, will we be free?
She watches me intensely and then nods.
“The world as we know will end. The old world.”
“But what then?”
“I don’t know! Life always finds a way, isn’t it? I have read so!”
She wraps an arm around my shoulder.
“Mama said that too,” I say. “But when I asked Papa, he called it a nuisance. One that should be quelled.”
Linda sighs deeply. “Amma says the dictator won’t last much longer. The Resistance will overcome! But Pa… He is too loyal to his job. All that I overheard has never been spoken in his presence.”
I watch her in amazement and she catches the drift.
“For generations, Berta, my father’s family, has overseen the Braganza Estate,” Linda says. “Though he harbours his own doubts, his honour remains intact; betrayal is beneath him. Amma, however, must wage her own fight. She has seen her family struggle for decades.”
I hug the porcelain birds closer. Linda glances around before answering. She lowers her voice. “They’re not protests anymore, Berta. Everyone is pushing back.”
“Everyone?”
“Remember the time when the wireless station was seriously damaged?”
“Of course I do! All communications were jammed for weeks. Papa was beside himself.”
“They were hand-drawn maps of the facility, revealing the layout of security fences, the placement of floodlights, and the location of blind spots not visible to the sentries on duty. All released from his desk.”
Linda holds my hand and looks intensely into my eyes. I follow her gaze.
“Oh, I wish I was older to participate in adult conversations! But in my heart I know I’m mature enough to do so, Berta. I’ve waited around the corner of my room. I have overheard…”
I nod slowly.
“I could be wrong Berta, but hear me out. Three days before that incident…”
“Mama had met them.” I say.
“There were such cases before as well. But I may have not followed the course of their conversations earlier!"
“But she would always say that she’s meeting at a party!”
Linda sighs deeply.
“Berta, I have overheard that word too. But a party is only a group of people, is it not?”
Her words dislodge a memory of the night. The night I saw Mama for the last time.
They sat at the balcão, winding down after dinner with a warm cup of herbal tea. I watched Papa dawdle toward the garden to fetch a cluster of pale blossoms. Jasmine? From afar I see him tip them in Mama’s tea cup.
I cry out aloud, unable to keep up with what it all implies.
The next day, Dr. Gonsalves is inside Mama’s bedroom. Papa stands beside the bed, one hand resting on the headboard. Mrs. Marcia cajoles me back to my room where I learn of Mama’s cardiac arrest.
“Our Lady’s Tears,” I say falling onto the ground sobbing bitterly.
“Pramila Titia?”
But Linda is already holding me, resting my head on her shoulders. She throws me an intense glare.
“Yes, Amma misses her deeply.”
I hold the sunbirds against the sky, resting my forehead against Linda’s arms. Her skin is brown, like the lap of the sandy shores on which we have grown up, where a million waves of the Arabian Sea crash each day.
“Did he love her, Linda?”
As tears stream, I recall Mama wanting to be remembered for doing good.
*
The quieter the estate grows, the more I hear the commotion from outside. Even O Heraldo mentions rumours of the marching Indian troops just at the doorstep. Portuguese soldiers patrol in greater numbers on the streets.
I pass by Papa’s study, but he doesn’t look up to greet me. Even his belongings no longer interest me.
Days later, Linda and I meet again. She unties a white ribbon from her hair and ties it around a low branch of the mango tree, to mark our spot. I sit underneath it, cushioned by a thicket of sweetgrass. My toes curl up over the tender blades. I look up at her.
“Linda, everything is so confusing.”
Yes, she responds with a nod.
“And Papa doesn’t see me anymore. He stays buried in work.”
She bends down to pluck the wild flowers and tuck them along my pigtail.
“Yes, Pa says so.”
“Pa says the chaos is because common folks have had enough,” she replies
“So, Michael...?”
She lays flat on the grass, hands behind her head, and watches the sky.
“You know what I think, Berta? You and I, we belong to the new world.”
She paints a canvas with her hands in the sky, while I lay my head back and close my eyes. She is still staring at a sky full of dreams. I turn to watch her instead, like a dream catcher. The warmth reminded me of Mama again, and tears rolled down sideways onto the red earth.
But before I open my eyes, she moves towards me, and presses her lips on mine, mingling our raw mouths together. When I open my eyes, she has already retracted. Curls of thick dark hair frame her heart-shaped face. I instinctively stretch an arm to graze them from her face. I do not know much about the world yet, but with her, I am willing to find out.
*
Linda and I meet at our spot a day later.
“Soon!” She whispers to me.
“Very soon!”
“We will go to college!”
“Yes. And we will sail to the harbour of Bombay!”
“And take a train ride to Poona!”
“Away from this estate. Far removed from this turmoil!”
Our knees touch, our plaits catch the rays of the sun through the canopy.
“But to you, I will always be Linda.”
“And to you, I will be Berta.”
In the distance a loud noise erupts, setting the birds off from the canopy in a startled cloud. We flinch. I look back at the casa, the balcão and Braganza halls shadowed doorways with premonition. Maybe Mrs. Marcia is waiting to cage me in? Maybe Papa is calling me back?
When I turn back to Linda, I see her running down the slope of the lawn toward the orchard. Does she beckon me? I begin to chase her asking her to wait. In the distance, there are sounds of rumbling, as though of engines and tanks. We keep running through the trees. It has been several minutes before I catch up to her but soon lose my breath.
In the distance a loud noise erupts, setting the birds off from the canopy in a startled cloud. We flinch. I look back at the casa, the balcão and Braganza halls shadowed doorways with premonition.
Linda slows down. “Berta, keep up. This is not a drill.” She says it valiantly and keeps pushing ahead. I hear the echo of gun shots somewhere and the earth shakes around me. Was it a tree that fell?
I hear her voice over the chaos in the distance, “We have to take shelter! There’s a pond!”
But I do not get that far. A loud boom deafens my ears and there I remain, lathered in mud, drifting in and out of consciousness with the sounds.
I’m a mile or more away from the orchard. Like a distant storm rolling over the hills, the rumble of artillery echoes, screams of people on the road mingle with the frantic tolling of church bells, and plumes of smoke curl above rooftops. Columns of Indian soldiers move along the dusty roads, their khaki uniforms stark against the red earth.
*
I wake up to a thick, chest-toned voice. It is possibly the darkest hour of the night.
“Roberta! Is it you?”
The voice is familiar. “Michael?”
“Good Lord! Are you okay?”
“Yes! Yes!” I mumble.
“Come on out! Where is Linda? She was with you in the afternoon, wasn’t she?”
“Yes…”
“Listen Roberta, they’ve taken Margão already, they say Panaji will fall by nightfall.”
“Where’s Papa?”
“I don't know. Senhor Francis might be still at the Secretariat. Follow me quickly! Ro…Rosa…lind!” he calls out. “Rosalind!”
“Linda!”
*
I watch the streaks of black smoke rising over Panaji. Somewhere in that shroud of smoke is the Braganza estate, too, set on fire. It is dawn and I am at the Fernandes residence. Linda’s body has been found, caked in mud in the orchard lake, on the red earth. Two bullets have pierced sharply through her bones in the torso.
And then I see Michael and his family members. He stands as quiet as a reed. He looks like a man who speaks to the dead.
Linda’s uncle locates me and informs me of Papa’s whereabouts.
“They have agreed to surrender, despite ‘the fight until your death’ order by the dictator.”
I catch my breath as VK uncle goes on. He is distantly related to Pramila Titia.
“Francis is alive. He might be court martialled.” He says to me with downcast eyes.
“Michael and Pramila are in mourning. But they will reach out to your Papa’s family in Margao.”
A deep ache rages in my heart. I am on the veranda rail, toes curling around the cool marble edge. I shut my eyes, filling my lungs with the smell of smoke and decay. A world is falling apart. I want to find Mamaand rush into her arms. In the taut and desolate air, I catch Mama’s playful rendition of the Haydn Concerto on her piano. As I listen to it, I am under the tree with Linda again, reliving the moments in a loop.
Linda smiles at my question again: “Will we be free?”
*
Drawing a deep breath, I extend my arms, poised in the air. I open my eyes. It is the arena stage of the restored Grand Braganza Hall. The audience awaits in pin drop silence for the concert to begin. It is December, 1986: the silver jubilee celebration of Goa Liberation Day. I will perform Hadyn’s Concerto 1 in C major.
The regisseur raises his baton. I say a silent prayer for Linda, Mama and all the people I have lived to love. At the cue, I lower my arms over the chords of the grand piano.
***
Debi (Debarati) Mukherjee has survived her two-decade dose of corporate jobs and traded it for a lifelong love of writing. Her short fiction features in a special climate fiction anthology published by The Hemlock Journal. Her work has been published in Usawa Literary Magazine, Kitaab, Mean Pepper Vine, QuillMark, and Remington Review. When she’s not writing, she loves to swim and spend time in nature. You can find her on Instagram: @ladywildflowrr.
