Alex looked around the hovel. His home. Cow dung plastered floor, stained walls and a dilapidated roof. He sighed. He glanced at his father. What a pathetic figure. Was he content being a cook, working for the upper class? He vowed he would find a means of escape; escape from Goa; from poverty and the odious caste bias.
He envied the children of well-to-do; their fine mansions, their many servants. One particular home caught his fancy as he trod to school. What a lush garden! And the little girl peering at him through the hedge . . . did she pity him? Or was she snickering at his worn-out clothes? Well. He would show her. One fine day.
Aware of his superior intellect, the Vicar of the village, principal of the parochial school, enrolled him in the only English medium school in the city; the elite Loyola Academy. This was the turning point in Alex’s life.
The vicar kept track of Alex’s school records through the years at the Loyola Academy. He congratulated himself when Alex finally matriculated with distinctions in all the major subjects. “Congratulations, my boy. A First Class student! Splendid!. Now we will have to ship you off to Bombay; in British India, for further education.”
Alex was perplexed. Bombay? “But Father . . .”
“Don’t worry, Alex,” the priest broke in. “Arrangements will be made with the Jesuits at St.Xavier’s College. The principal, Father More, is a good friend of mine. So, that’s all settled.”
* * * *
His dedication to his studies at university stood him in good stead. The world was opening up for him. He had a good career, with a decent stipend. Why then the vacuum? He pondered over his despondency, as he sat in a corner of the dingy Goan bar, nursing his beer, lost in thought.
“You haven’t touched your beer, Alex,” remarked Ben Fernandez, owner of the bar in a Goan neighborhood of Bombay. Middle-aged, and a friendly soul, he took it upon himself to befriend the loner. “Something bothering you?”
“Bothering me?” Was he a mind-reader?
“Do you feel fulfilled in your present position, a professor of English at St.Xavier’s College? In my humble opinion, you should aim much higher. Make more money. Money. That’s what it’s all about. And you have the brains . You would make an outstanding lawyer, Alex. Criminal law. that’s where the money lies. Crooks are willing to pay whatever it takes to beat the law. Take my tip,” he winked, giving him a fatherly pat on his shoulder.
* * * *
It was indeed a wise choice. It was a rough road. But it was his true calling. The taste of money was intoxicating. It was the panacea for all ills.
* * * *
“Hello Alex. Long time, no see . . . Yes. I’ve heard the good news. Your dedication has paid off. A distinguished lawyer. And very, very busy . . . Look at you. The figure of a prosperous man. Indeed, you have put on some weight. Middle-age spread?” Ben laughed jocularly, as he poured Alex another beer. It was true. He was in his mid-thirties. Time to settle down. The young woman he had met did not appeal to him. Too modern. Too liberal. Better seek a suitable bride from his village. His mind meandered . . . the pretty young girl whose eyes crossed his whenever he passed her mansion . . . probably married to some rich upper class gentleman. He could imagine her , all grown up . . .
* * * *
Father James, the current parish priest, fairly young, with finely etched features and charming smile, realized Alex was not an everyday parishioner. Unashamedly, he provided the priest with pertinent details of his past and present. The well-groomed, well-spoken, well-mannered dapper figure, seated comfortably in his chair, was the son of a . . . A well established lawyer in Bombay?
Alex wasted no time in broaching the purpose of his visit. The priest was nonplussed. “Oh. I see . . . But how can I help you?”
“I have lost touch with the village folk, Father. There’s no one else I can turn to. You see . . . I was wondering whether the young girl I used to catch a glimpse of when I was schooling here, is married. She is the daughter of . . .I’m afraid I’ve forgotten his name. They live near the village spring.”
“Oh. You mean . . . Senhor D'Souza?” The priest was caught off guard.
“I know he’s from the upper class, Father,” continued Alex blithely, unfazed by the priest’s discomfort. “And you know exactly where I come from! But I can assure you that I can offer the young lady a far better life than she has here; that is, if she is unattached.” He looked the priest in the eye. “Perhaps, I’m being presumptuous . . . Am I?”
“Well.” It was an embarrassing and sensitive question. “I shall have to make some enquiries. But I know that the young lady, Clara, is not married. The family has fallen on hard times. They’ve suffered sever financial misfortunes. Without a dowry, it has been almost impossible for Senhor D'Souza to arrange a suitable match for his daughter. Maybe he’ll consider this proposal. He’s autocratic, strong-willed; very proud of his family’s standing. Anyway, I shall do my best.”
“That’s all I ask for father. Thank you.”
Alex pondered over the tête-à-tête in the quiet of his hotel room. Well, Senhor D’Souza’s loss could well be his gain. He smiled to himself.
* * * *
“I’m glad you could come on such short notice. I have some encouraging news. Senhor D’Souza has invited us over for a cup of coffee.” The priest smiled, but spared him details of his encounter with the old curmudgeon . . . “Who is this upstart who dares to ask for my daughter’s hand? The audacity of the pipsqueak! Does he not know who I am? And where he comes from? The nerve of the man! The priest placated him, turning philosophical; advising him to reflect on the present predicament of the family, rather than dwell on past glories. Very reluctantly, the old man consented to a meeting with the ‘upstart.’
The magnificent mansion was in a sorry state of disrepair. But the imposing figure of the tall, pot-bellied gentleman, with balding gray hair and walrus mustache overshadowed the decaying frontage. He gave the priest a cordial welcome, ignoring Alex’s extended hand. At the entrance to the living room, they were greeted effusively by Mrs. D'Souza, a buxom woman in her fifties, graying hair in a chignon, in a gaily printed frock. Thereafter, a woman servant, bearing a silver tray entered, with Clara at her heels. She was quite ravishing, delicate features, light complexion and a head of beautiful black curls. Alex shot surreptitious glances at her. What a catch! The old snob had reined in his pride, had he?
Senhor D’Souza sequestered himself in his library, lost in melancholy thought. He cursed Julius, his son and heir. Were it not for his gross mismanagement of the estate, his drinking and gambling, his Clara would have had her pick. As for his friends in high places . . . Friends? Where were they? He had to face the truth. As the family match-maker had blatantly stated: No dowry -- no takers. Even his last, desperate attempt to forge an alliance with his second cousin’s dim-witted son had failed. What a mockery! Clara, marrying a low-caste Goan! His ancestors would surely roll in their graves!
* * * *
“I knew you could do it, Alex,” enthused Ben. “See what money can get you? Married to the daughter of the upper-class? Congratulations!”
“I’m very happy. Clara is a wonderful girl. No false pride. Down-to-earth. We get along very well, indeed. Of course I didn’t receive any dowry. The old snod might have offered a piece of land so we could build a home in Goa. But of course not. I don’t belong to the right caste!” He laughed, but was not amused. I’d better get home. Good-night, Ben.”
* * * *
“Oh. Alex. Such terrible news.” Clara handed him the telegram. “My beloved Papa is . . . dead!” she sobbed.
He glanced at the message. “Your Papa dead?” It was barely six months since they had last met. At their wedding. He had appeared robust and in excellent health. What could have happened? A heart attack? Perhaps a stroke? He was dead! He tried to comfort poor Clara. “Let me fetch a cup of coffee, my dear.”
“Clara, I think we should take a short trip to Goa,” he stated, handing her a cup of coffee. “You should be with your family; with your mother in particular, at a time like this. Come, drink your coffee. If we pack right away, we could catch the afternoon train.”
She put down her cup, and looked earnestly at him. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” he smiled, as he kissed her.
* * * *
Their unexpected arrival took mother and son by surprise. Clara rushed into her mother’s arms. “Madam, I thought this was the right thing to do. Clara was really upset,” He glanced briefly at Julius, standing belligerently at his mother’s side.
“It’s very kind of you to have taken so much trouble, Alex. Yes. I’m glad to have my Clara share my grief. Thank you.” responded his mother-in-law.
“Should you need any legal advice, don’t hesitate to ask. I shall be only to happy to help you,”
“Nobody invited you here, and we certainly don’t need your advice or interference,” retorted Julius, taking umbrage at this offer. “As heir, I’m responsible for all our affairs.”
“Your past record hasn’t been impressive, has it?” Alex questioned sarcastically.
“Actually, it’s none of your damned business. Marrying into our family doesn’t make you one of us!” “You people with your pride and superiority complex! You make me laugh! It’s all so hollow. What have you accomplished, Julius? I have every right to be here. I didn’t receive any dowry. According to Portuguese law, Clara and I are entitled to a share of the house and all other assets.”
“Please stop all this bickering,” implored Clara’s mother. “I can’t stand it. This is a house of mourning. Let us try to be civil, and settle matters amicably, shall we?”
“Mama, you and Clara had best go to bed. I shall deal with this . . . upstart in the morrow.” Walking to the hallway, he summoned his servant and handed him a key. “Antonio will take you to your room. Good-night.” He turned his back on Alex.
Alex followed the servant, who looked intently at the key. It was the key to the . . . storage room . . . unopened for years. Well. It was none of his business. Lamp in hand, he led Alex along a dark, narrow passage, handed over the lamp at the doorway and departed. The room was stark. Just an old, rusty iron cot, and old tin trunks stacked in one corner. Layers of dust everywhere. Mice and cockroaches scurrying to and fro. The air was musty. Alex opened the two cracked window shutters. Fresh air , accompanied by a flurry of mosquitoes wafted into the room. What a welcome . . . fit for a . . . Thank God he had a sense of humor. Opening the door in the rear, he discerned bushes, brambles, injured trees. The raucous creaking of frogs and crickets assaulted his ears. He had to answer Nature’s call. He was on familiar turf !
The bed creaked as he lay down. Yes. He would have to sleep in this dungeon. But by golly . . . he would deal with the arrogant b . . . come morning.
* * * *
There had to be a way out of this mess; the debts, the loans. He needed advice. Lawyers, among his father’s former friends kept him at bay. Who could he turn to? Not a low-caste lawyer! It would be too demeaning. Furthermore, one couldn’t trust him. He needed a drink to clear his head. By midnight, he lay slumped in his armchair, snoring stentoriously, two empty bottles of feni, (a cheap, local, potent brew) and glass on the floor.
* * * *
Mother and daughter sat patiently at the breakfast table. “I’m so glad you came down Clara. I’m so happy that all is well with you. Papa could not forgive himself for allowing you to . . . “
“To marry Alex? Mama, he’s very kind, very considerate. And a perfect gentleman. He’s given me a lovely home, and a luxurious life. Who else would have married me, Mama? I do wish Julius would look at it from my point of view, and stop taunting poor Alex. But then, he’s always busy doing his own thing! He never, ever thought of us. My God. It’s ten o’clock. Where are they? Julius probably drank himself to sleep. But Alex? He never drinks or sleeps in. Never. I’m going to his room. Antonio, lead the way.”
* * * *
Where were they heading? The filthy storage room? How could Julius stoop so low? Ho could he be so vindictive? Poor Alex! The embarrassed servant left her on the threshold.
A piercing scream echoed through the house. Alarmed, Clara‘s mother rose and followed her servant.
Clara stood in a catatonic stupor. Alex’s eyes were glazed, his mouth agape. The snake on his chest uncoiled itself, reared its head, flickered its tongue, hissed menacingly, and slithered under the bed.
THE END