Memoir

A Late Letter, Missing Wedding Photographs, and a Phone Call from Baghdad

A Late Letter, Missing Wedding Photographs, and a Phone Call from Baghdad

By Marlon Menezes

Issue no 22

It was on the 2nd of August that I woke up to the familiar wail of Arabic on my radio, but I immediately realized that I was listening to the wrong language in the wrong country. I was in Canada and the Arabic I heard was a plea for help from Radio Kuwait that was re-broadcast by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) as a lead-in to their headline story that morning.

Even if My Voice Shakes

Even if My Voice Shakes

By Noor Alhuda Aljawad

Issue no 22

I was born in Southern California in late August 1991, a year and a few weeks after Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait. I say Saddam’s invasion, and not Iraq’s, because every Iraqi person I have ever known, be they family members or friends, opposed what my great aunt Raja’ described as اعتداء, an act of aggression.

Goan Homes: A Lamentation

Goan Homes: A Lamentation

By Yvonne Vaz Ezdani

Issue no 17

The sun has just waved a glorious goodbye, leaving lingering light for my path. I latch the gate behind me as I step out on my evening walk. Clusters of crimson bougainvillea slipping over our white-washed garden wall make me stop to let the beauty soak in. More warmth, as passersby smile and friendly neighbours wave from balcãoes as I walk on.

Short Memoir: My Son's Goa

Short Memoir: My Son's Goa

By Rachana Patni

Issue no 15

Joshua and his father sat with a book on dinosaurs. On the first page there was a timeline which indicated that first there were water-creatures, then came dinosaurs, and then finally, came human beings. Joshua looked at this timeline, heard the description of it, and immediately asked his father, ‘Papa, what will come after human beings?’

Short Memoir: Growing up in Palolem, 1963

Short Memoir: Growing up in Palolem, 1963

By Sheela Jaywant

Issue no. 15

The men of the Gaitonde family were rarely seen in the ancestral house. The Portuguese had left; the cry aamchey Goyen aamkaa jaay (our Goa must be ours) still echoed around; it wasn’t yet certain whether the Union Territory would be merged with Maharashtra. The villagers kept their distance from my politically active family; my eldest uncle, Dr. Pundalik, had, in the 1940s, done an unthinkable thing. He married a Portuguese girl, Edila, who lived with the family for some years.

Memoir: The Note-Book (A window into Colonial Goa)

Memoir: The Note-Book (A window into Colonial Goa)

By Edith M. Furtado

Issue no. 14

My father’s house was in Salvador do Mundo, Bardez, not grand by the standards of colonial Goa, yet, surrounded by fruit-bearing trees and flowering plants. The trip across the Mandovi in a noisy ferry, past the picturesque Penha da França Church was already a preview of the much-awaited freedom the children enjoyed at our paternal grandmother’s.

Short Memoir: Growing up in the company of nubile women

Short Memoir: Growing up in the company of nubile women

By Ahmed Bunglowala

Issue no. 8

For a small town guy, St. Xavier’s was a testing place for the first six months. The young men and women—strutting their designer clothes and attitude in the gargoyle-festooned quadrangle — made me very self-conscious of the two pairs of shirt and trouser my mother had put together from her meagre earnings as a part-time seamstress.