A Cure for Foolishness

When I first encountered this work by Navelcar I knew, because of earlier conversations with the artist, that these two lines of calligraphy were not some orientalist scribbling. The artist had shared with me that, as a boy, he had learned to read and write Urdu from a Catholic teacher in the neighbouring village of Aldona. Given my own inability to read Urdu, I turned the image over to friends on social media who revealed that the script was, in fact, Arabic. At this point differences emerged in interpretation. One friend argued that it looked like the work of someone practicing to write in Arabic, with the first line marked by errors and the second correcting those errors. This explanation made sense, since the artist has eschewed a title for this piece. A second appraisal of the text suggested that both lines were actually the same, just written in slightly different styles. “The difference lies in a slight variation in the cursive ‘h’, the ‘lā’ and the hamza...,” my friend offered. Both assessments were clear in their estimation, however, that the text before us captures the Arabic proverb “Alhamaq da' la dawa' lahu.” This translates to: “Foolishness/stupidity is a disease that has no cure/treatment.” The language and the choice of proverb with which to practice his calligraphic skills reveal interesting dimensions of the artist’s personality. 

Asked to write a curatorial essay for an exhibition in Hyderabad of the works of Goan artists in 2015, I encountered the sheer diversity of global experiences that animate their works. Taking cue from the erstwhile authoritarian Estado Novo’s proclamation: “Portugal não é um país pequeno” (Portugal is not a small country), and choosing to subvert it, my essay notes that “Goa is not a small country.” Having lived through the Estado Novo and traversed the pluri-continental Portuguese world, it is my suspicion that Navelcar, whose art bears the influence of these experiences, would agree with my reframing of the Salazarist claim.

Subsequent to Goa’s legal disconnection from the Portuguese world due to the annexation of the territory by the Indian Union in 1961, Goan identity has been reformulated by Indian nationalists to reflect a narrower character. Following the national lead, itself obsessed with brahmanical origins, Goan elites have crafted a local identity that is focussed on an imagined Sanskritic past, when in fact Goan culture is knit from heterogeneous strands. Navelcar’s efforts in this untitled piece counter this Indian nationalist tendency, demonstrating instead the centuries-old, and continuing, connections between Goans and the larger Indian Ocean world within which they are situated.

The ties between Goans and Arabs predate the migration of the former to the Gulf states as a result of the economic boom of the 1950s. The eastern coastline of the Arabian Sea was frequented by Arab traders even prior to the latter’s conversion to Islam. For example, the myths associated with the figure of Cheraman Perumal, the Chera ruler of the territories  that now constitute contemporary Kerala, evidence this ancient proximity. In one myth, the ruler, a contemporary of the Prophet Mohammed, witnessed the splitting of the moon. On learning from visiting Arab traders of a similar event involving the Prophet, Perumal is reported to have renounced his kingdom, travelled to Mecca, and converted to Islam. In the context of such exchange, one could enquire whether Navelcar’s present work operates as a suggestion of the “stupidity” or “foolishness” of contemporary identity-framers who tether Goan identity to a Sanskritic one alone, while obscuring the various pluri-continental strands that have and continue to constitute Goan identities.

Further, Arabic is not a language internal to Goan heritage alone. It is also inherent to the other spaces through which this exhibition tracks the journey of Navelcar: Portugal and Mozambique. Arabic was an Iberian language prior to the establishment of the Frankish kingdom of Portugal. As such, a reconnection with the language is critical to the future of Portugal if it is to move away from those historiographies of the country that are racialized and parochial. Being part of the Swahili coast, Arabic similarly maintains a visceral presence in parts of Mozambique. It turns out, therefore, that Arabic is not as alien to Navelcar’s world as it might first appear. Thereupon, his artistic practice could be viewed as a challenge to the postcolonial nationalisms that besiege the various locations in his world: Goa, Portugal, and Mozambique.

If such is the artist’s intent, then Navelcar’s choice of idiom, and his practice at perfecting his Arabic calligraphic skill, suggest that there is in fact a cure for foolishness. The remedy lies in the opening of one’s self to the larger world. Foolishness, after all, is not so much a naturally existing state, but a stubborn refusal to see the world as it is.

(A version of this text was first published in the catalogue organised by R. Benedito Ferrao that accompanies the exhibition 'Goa / Portugal / Mozambique - The Many Lives of Vamona Navelcar' organised by the Al-Zulaij Collective, at the Fundação Oriente India from 12 Dec 2017 - 12 Jan 2018.)

Lux in tenebris: Paulo Varela Gomes

Paulo Varela Gomes succumbed to cancer on Saturday, the 30^th of April 2016. He was familiar to many Goans both because he headed the Delegation of the Fundação Oriente in Goa for two terms, 1996-1998 and 2007-2009, and for his book on Goan churches.

It was in the first capacity that I met with Gomes. Prior to this meeting I had been warned against him. He was racist and offensive, I had been told. Also that he was just another one of these supercilious Portuguese, mocking Goa and Goans from their metropolitan position. I have no idea what pushed me to meet with the man despite these warnings, but I did, and I have not once regretted that decision.

Gomes was in fact - to be fair to the person who warned me against him - pessimistic, foul mouthed, dismissive, and from time to time a tad racist. But there was a logic to his madness. The prickly exterior was armor, but breach that spiky defence and one realized that Gomes’ barbs were the provocations of a profoundly sensitive and giving man with a wicked sense of humour. A man who relentlessly asked questions, and never accepted the given until it bore up to the critique he subjected it to. When caught, he would laughingly confess to his prejudices, and it was this intellectual honesty and the ability to confront oneself that has left a lasting impact on me.

As our association matured Gomes grew to become an intellectual father. Lucky enough to live in the same neighbourhood as he did in Goa, I found myself able to go over to his home, engage in conversations that went on for hours, and borrow books from his library. Gomes’ library was an intellectual wonderland because he was a widely read man. Despite his learning and the difference in our ages, ours was not an unequal relationship. Gomes suffered my irreverence, and indeed encouraged it with his own. It was thanks to these conversations that I was able to sharpen my perspectives, not just on Goa, but also on Portugal, a country that has come to be my second home. Gomes was among the first to point me towards developing a deeper understanding of the Bijapuri Sultanate and make sense of Goan history in that context. As luck will have it, the idea of an Islamicate Goa has now gained more appreciation, and for this alone, Gomes has left a lasting legacy on the way Goa can and should be studied. Gomes was also the one who pointed to the complex history of the Padroado and the manner in which by the time it was wound up it was Goan priests who were the stoutest defenders of this right of the Portuguese state. It was also Gomes who problematised, to my delight, the term Indo-Portuguese. Asking several piercing questions of this category that is so taken for granted he revealed so many problems with the term, not least being the fact that it can be crafted only in the context of the peculiar racist politics of the British Empire.

Perhaps the greatest testament to Gomes’s wide reading, his ability to go against the grain, ask unorthodox questions, and come up with a new, more meaningful vision, is what was possibly his last academic publication; Whitewash, Red Stone: A History of Church Architecture in Goa (2011). In this book Gomes broke with the hitherto established ways of looking at ecclesiastical architecture in Goa. His argument was bold, and there can never really be any going back to earlier ways of looking at architecture in Goa. His study demonstrated how the position that Goan elites chose in the conflict between of Padroado and Propoganda Fide had a distinct influence on the architecture of our churches. It is the conflict between these that led to the emergence of specifically Goan architecture. Gomes’s argument was that churches in Goa were not Portuguese buildings, nor were they mere copies of European buildings. They were in fact entirely Goan. These buildings participated in a European vocabulary of building construction, but the way these various elements and plans were assembled was entirely Goan. Churches in Goa were Goan buildings, constructions of a native elite who were making a statement about the uniqueness of their culture and their place in the world. It was for this reason that the Goan builders of these churches continued to hold on to a Baroque architectural style even in nineteenth century when the days of Baroque were long over and other styles were appearing in British India. Whitewash, Red Stone is a critical work that would allow Goan ecclesiastical architecture to be appreciated more profoundly and deserves a wider audience than the one it currently enjoys.

In making this argument, Gomes went beyond, and challenged, two orthodoxies. The first was the one that seeks to delegitimize the uniqueness of Goan Catholicism, and the second that sees Goans merely as blind copy-cats of the Portuguese. In a nuanced argument, Gomes acknowledged that Goans were South Asian alright, but pointed out that they were South Asians who participated and innovated within European frames and hence they were also European. It takes not only a profound understanding of the field to make such an argument, it also requires that one have a profound respect for the people one is studying. As an architectural historian, and as one with deep friendships with Goans, Gomes had both in abundance. In his passing, therefore, there are many in Goa who will feel as devastated as they did at the death of the late Pedro Adão, Portuguese Consul in Goa between 2005 and 2006. There are few like them, persons who are willing to step out of their comfort zones, make themselves vulnerable, and engage meaningfully with the local. For this reason their memories will indubitably be long cherished.

When I moved to Portugal I imagined that Gomes and I would be able to pick up where he had left off, the same rambling, but always stimulating conversations. Unfortunately, however, the distance between our residences, and the distractions of my frequent travel between Lisbon and Goa ensured that this was not to be.  Our meetings were too few and far between, and our interactions limited mostly to virtual correspondence. Further, the possibilities for physical encounters became impossible after his tumour made conversation difficult. And yet, it is a testament to the loyalty, and the grace, of the man that he was known to respond to every communication that one sent to him, almost until the very end. My own experience was that our correspondences became more intense and poignant and will remain a cherished part of my virtual archive.

As much as one mourns the passing of Paulo Varela Gomes the fact is that there can be no crushing sorrow simply because every cherished memory brings to mind not just his courage, but also his irreverence, and this brings a smile even amongst the tears. Gomes’s life was a lesson in picking up challenges and besting them. How else does one explain the élan with which he took up writing fiction in the last phase of his life? Of course, to those who knew him there was little surprise. For someone who was a natural teacher, and taught through lively debate, there was absolutely no doubt that the man was a natural raconteur.

Paulo Varela Gomes, my friend, father, philosopher, and guide. Our world is diminished by your absence, but it would have been so much lesser without you.

(A version of this post was first published in the O Heraldo on 13 May 2016)

The intimate on the other shore

Early last month I had the opportunity to spend some days in Doha. Even though I had never been to Qatar before, while transitioning from the airport to the city, and subsequently when in Doha itself, I did not feel like I was a stranger in a foreign land. There was something very familiar in the environment and the urban form that made me feel that I was in fact returning to Doha.

This sensation should not of course surprise many Goans. A number of us have spent years in the Persian Gulf states, either as children to migrant labour, or as migrant labour in our own right, to ensure that this region of the world is in fact also home. One has to merely look at the chronicles of R. Benedito Ferrão in this newspaper to realize the complex relationships that so many Goans have with ‘the Gulf’. Indeed, for many ‘Gulfies', especially those who were raised in the region, the various Gulf states were more home than Goa. This was true for the many Kuwaitcars, those Goans who lived and worked in Kuwait, who returned to Goa in the wake of Saddam Hussein’s invasion of that country in 1990.

Despite being the son of a Gulfie, my own relationship with the Gulf was in fact very short, as I spent only the first five years of my life in the Sultanate of Oman. I subsequently returned to the Gulf for a holiday only in my late teens, shepherded by family members from one tourist location to another, and the home of one cousin to another. And despite this short time, or perhaps because of it, the Gulf has always been a place that I have identified as a home of sorts. Indeed, on my return to Oman, whether it was my imagination or not, I felt that the air that rushed into my nostrils as I deplaned was not unfamiliar. I had encountered this smell before. The first memory of the seashore that I have is not of that in Goa, but of the other side of the Arabian Sea. Often with a small sense of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, it was that other shore that I wanted to return to; to home.

Lenny Gomes and H. H. Sheikh Rashid bin Maktoum, c. 1965. Courtesy Selma Carvalho.

It is because of this engagement with the Gulf that, for many Goans Islam is not an alien religion. This engagement with Islam may not be an intimate one, nor indeed may this encounter with Islam necessarily lead to a challenge to the Islamophobia that so dominates contemporary mindsets. On the contrary, it appears that Islamophobia may be engendered thanks to the power differentials between local Arabs and migrant labour, where migrant labour is reported to feel that the locals are lording it over them.

Given that as a child I was not privy to these strained relations at the time that I lived in the Gulf, my own appreciation of the Arab world and Islam has not been tainted by the Islamophobia that is rampant in many parts of the world, whether in India, or among various social groups, especially in Europe and North America. I recollect, of course with the aid of photographs, that my parents’ home received a number of Omani guests, guests into whose laps I felt free to crawl, and whose turbans, in the course of play, I would take off and place on my own head. Growing up I was surrounded by relatives, especially those who held white-collar positions, who would speak of earlier times when the distinctions between Arabs and migrants had not been so strong, where Arabs were part of one’s friend circle.

Perhaps it is this intimacy, prior to the explosion of the Gulf economies, that ensured that so many old time Gulfies also spoke Arabic.  It was this familiarity with the language that eventually passed on to me, such that using words, like Inshallah or Alhamdulillah is not uncommon in our speech. Contrast this familiarity, and indeed intimacy with such words, with the cultural illiteracy prevalent in the United such that recently ensured that a university student who was taken off a United States flight after another passenger heard him speaking Arabic.

At the time of his campaign to be elected President, Barak Obama received a lot of flak for his African and Muslim heritage. Such was the phobic reaction that Obama’s statement: “The sweetest sound I know is the Muslim call to prayer” was used to generate anti-Obama sentiment. Given that my earliest memories involve the azaan, the Muslim call to prayer, and given that I had the privilege of a secure childhood, I too share Obama’s sentiment. There is NO sound that is in fact sweeter, more reassuring of the order of the world, than the azaan.

There are tons of memories that I associate with the azaan. The most amusing perhaps, but also explicative of my intimate identification with Islam, is that as a child of five I had managed to claim a little hand towel with Arabic lettering on it as my own. When I heard the azaan I’d scamper off to retrieve my towel, and then proceed to use it as a prayer mat on which I would mimic the movements of namaz.

As emotional as my return to the Gulf was, however, I was unable to spend much time engaging with local residents, and this was a pity. But who knows when there may be another more fulfilling journey to the other shore?

(A version of this post was first published in The Goan on 8 May 2016)