Quid Pro Quo
The key to getting gangster Abu Salem extradited from Portugal could arguably lie in Goa. A long shot, but might be worth a try.
Let’s rewind to the 1960s and a true story: a prominent citizen of Bombay was flying to the US for a conference. His travel agent worked out the arrangements, which happened to include flying one leg by TAP, the Portuguese national airline, with a stop at Lisbon. The gentleman, a prudent man, asked the travel agent if that was okay: after all, relations between India and Portugal were pretty hostile back then, in the wake of the liberation of Goa, and he didn’t want any problems. Oh, don’t worry, the travel agent assured him. It’s only a refuelling stop; you won’t be getting off the plane. And so the gentleman took off. When his aircraft landed at Lisbon, the pilot announced that there was a technical glitch and the passengers would have to disembark and change planes. Uh oh! The Portuguese authorities took one look at his Indian passport and flung him in prison. Then, metaphorically speaking, they threw away the key. The country was a dictatorship back then, and such things happened.
Days passed, and then weeks. The gentleman’s family back home in Bombay was frantic. But there was nothing anyone could do. There was no embassy in Lisbon at the time, nor any diplomatic relations. Appeals to various contacts in the external affairs ministry drew a blank. “Relations between the two countries are bad,” they shrugged, “And, anyway, he should not have flown by a Portuguese airline.” Months passed and the poor gentleman was still languishing in a medieval Lisbon gaol, not knowing what his fate was to be. Then, finally, some influential friends in Bombay got into the act. There was a flurry of what would today be called “backchannel diplomacy”, and an informal deal was worked out with the Portuguese authorities. There was, said the Portuguese, a valuable old portrait of a Portuguese grandee in Goa that they wanted very much to get back. In return, they would be willing to consider releasing their prisoner. So that is what ultimately happened. The portrait was sent back to Lisbon; the prisoner was sent back to Bombay. This, as I said, is a true story.
Which brings us back full circle to the issue of Abu Salem’s extradition. Perhaps the CBI should look into making discreet enquiries to find out if there are any more old portraits that the Portuguese authorities want back from Goa. It’s a long shot, as I said, but, what the heck, it’s worked in the past.
One Hand Clapping
I met a senior Portuguese diplomat, who told me about the liberation of Goa from the Portuguese point of view. When the Portuguese army returned home, after the fall of Goa, they were apparently taken off their ships, loaded into buses, and sent straight to prison in the dead of night. But why, I asked. Because Salazar, the Portuguese dictator at that time, considered them traitors for not having defended Goa strongly enough, he replied. That was the kind of brutal regime it was—which was why nobody lamented its ultimate demise. But today’s Portugal is a completely different place, he said. And it is very keen to do business with India. One of the diplomat’s first stops, after being posted to India, was obviously to come to Goa, with the hope of rekindling old ties, emotional and economic, but the Goan government ignored him completely. Never mind, he said, with a trace of bitterness, when India’s a country of 1 billion people, why should he bother about one small state with a population of 1.3 million? It’s a pity: a little graciousness would have gone a long way.
Slow Noon Days
Readers will recall my finding—and, logically, prank-calling, in a moment of idleness on an earlier trip (Goa Diary, June 18, 2010)—five Anthony Gonsalveses listed in the Goa telephone directory. In the grand reiterant manner of hi-jinks, after an afternoon of too many feni-sodas, a friend dialled them, one by one, and, in his best Amitabh Bachchan put-on, asked if their name was Anthony Gonsalves. When the person affirmed, he’d say “Excushe me, pleashe,” and hang up.
I didn’t know, until I read my friend Naresh Fernandes’s wonderful history of Indian jazz recently, that there was, indeed, a real Anthony Gonsalves who was the inspiration behind the song. He was a Goan pioneer of Hindi film music, who taught the industry the art of scoring Indian music with a western-style orchestra. Many years after he had faded away, the composer Pyarelal (of Lakshmikant-Pyarelal) decided to pay a tribute to the man who had taught him to play the violin. And hence, My name is Anthony Gonsalves.
Sign Language
I miss those romantic Portuguese shop signs of old: Barberia for barber shop, Farmacia for pharmacy, Lavanderia for laundry, Drogaria for drugstore, sapateiro for cobbler. I did spot a ‘Fabrica de gas carbonico’: turned out to be an oxygen supplier.
Food For Thought...
Goa’s best-kept foodie secret is Anandashram, with its most excellent fish thali. It’s one of
Panjim’s oldest eating houses, hidden away near the gpo. A meal for two? Try about 200 bucks!
Anvar Alikhan is senior vice president & executive creative director of JWT Mindset; E-mail your diarist: Anvar Alikhan1 AT gmail.com
