A Passage To The Old Empire

MICHAEL Denney is from Yorkshire and he apologises for the fact that so is Geoffrey Boycott. His seasoned defence: 'I don't speak like him. He belongs to the old world.' But Mike believes he's from the county's more lucid times, carrying a bag of virtues that goes deeper than being ashamed of Englishmen who say 'stoomps'. He lives in Sangolda, a peaceable portion of Goa, where many Europeans are evincing an interest in buying property. Here he seems to have found something most Indians find hard to come by-understanding and love.

Mike's house, lying alongside a winding road, is something of a signpost for most motorists. A huge black-and-white frame of Elvis Presley and the famous freeze of Marilyn Monroe-which confirms that skirts fly when there's a breeze-face the road. Mike and his wife Rita moved here in early '96. They bought a dilapidated bungalow, which, according to a real estate agent couldn't have cost them more than Rs 5 lakh-though Mike chooses to bring the infamous upper lip into play, if asked to confirm. The couple renovated it and have almost made a resort out of the commodious 300 sq m bungalow. In their greying years, this is what they call home.

Among the other bric-a-brac in the living room, there are two clocks: one for gmt and the other for ist and about 14 frames of Elvis in every possible mood-Rita, who was in love with the King, nevertheless believes he's dead. In another room, the Union Jack shares space with the tricolour. 'We wanted to put the flags outside,' Mike says, 'but people say that's not allowed.' Apart from an institutionalised idiocy called the law, which chiefly tells them what they shouldn't do, the couple have had no problems. They wake up every morning knowing fully well that all they have to do is eat, drink, watch cable TV and just be. For people who like to give notice and drop in for some English food, the house is known as the Primrose hotel. 'That way we have something to do when we feel like it and we don't mind the money that's coming in,' says Rita.

The couple left Britain in order to retire under the sun, but there was an emotional reason too: they'd lost their 17-year-old son. Now, their six children and five grandchildren are the only part they miss about Britain. Otherwise, life and Goa have been good to them. 'The real people of Goa are the ones who work in the fields and they're simply wonderful,' says Mike. The way he says 'wonderful' is somehow different from how a sun-burnt Caucasian with a heavy shoulder bag and a fat travel guide labelled India would have said it. The couple don't think much of most tourists. This is, surprisingly, a dislike shared by most of the foreign settlers in Goa. They are worried about the kind of 'decadence' flaunted by the whites who come in cheap chartered flights. 'They are not doing any good to themselves or to God. I have nothing to do with them,' Mike promises. Besides the tourists, Mike has one more problem. He was in the Royal Air Force for over 15 years and his strong personal ethics often clash with the befuddling Indian red tape.

Applying for a phone connection or a gas cylinder in Goa is temptation enough for a man to commit sin.'The easy way here is the wrong way,' Mike says with a wisdom that only India can teach. Almost all the settlers are discovering the endless circle involved in getting even simple things done. They are also discovering that they will keep running around hopelessly if they choose not to pay the officials involved. Despite this, the number of foreigners buying property is growing. 'Seventy five per cent of the foreigners who have bought property in Goa have bought it in the past 18 months. And there are inquiries almost every week,' says Angelo De Oliviera, an architect and real estate agent. He is presently handling the construction work for two Britishers and a German. 'Most of them buy old bungalows for anything between Rs 2 lakh-Rs 20 lakh, it depends on the architecture. Portuguese bungalows are the popular choice and they cost a bit more. And these people are very discerning, they know exactly what they are buying and what the right price is.' Billu Narang, a realtor, points out: 'They are concentrated in Northern Goa because it's more developed-which means that they'll get their phone connections within a few centuries, while you never know which generation will get it if they choose to live in the Southern parts.'

Most of the settlers here are Europeans. There are some Israelis too...a little cranky,' says Billu. While a local opines: 'They seem to revel in our kind of bureaucracy, unlike the Europeans.' David Coxhill is a Britisher who discovered that he was too old to enjoy running around in circles. After many futile attempts at getting a driver's licence, he decided to extend his right hand under the table. 'I got it in a day, can you believe that!' A believer in miracles now, he has invested £40,000 in a mansion in Pomburpa and lives with long-time companion Linda Wain. He faces problems he never knew existed: water shortage, power-cuts and a phone that dials a number he didn't. He came to Goa to retire after being a highly paid engineer back home. But soon decided to escape the endless holiday and is now a technical consultant with a company dealing in plastics. David's house has many problems, but he doesn't regret the shift, though he sometimes does wonder which school his builder went to, and still shakes his head when thinking of how he got the driver's licence. Rejecting David's naive wonder, Dominique-a French woman who insists that all French women are not called Dominique-is vehemently against paying bribes. Though she was a lawyer based in Cannes for over a decade, her eyes still widen when she thinks of the circuitous routes she was asked to take in order to get the water connection transferred to her name. Hints about sharing a piece of her wealth were dropped by various officials. But she always chose to give a piece of her mind instead. The result: the taps are still running dry. She continues to be determined not to pay more than she has to.

When she moved in four years ago with a friend and her teenage son Alexandre, all she wanted was to retire in peace. But the first tremors of an eventful retirement came when the carpenter went away with the chairs and never came back. The hurt still shows when she talks about her carpenter. Her rationale for deciding to live in Goa is very simple: 'I can't live in Bihar.'

But Dominique couldn't save herself from being educated about the ways of Indian officialdom. First was the mandatory rbi clearance. She got a letter saying that her claim was rejected because she hadn't mentioned whether the property was agricultural or non-agricultural. When she applied again, she received another letter saying that since she was buying a very old house, it was 'understood' that she was going to demolish it and build a new one, which was illegal as foreigners can't build, they can only buy.When she clarified that she would not break a brick, another letter arrived, saying that the plot was too big for the house and that it was 'understood' she was going to build a hotel. Finally she convinced them that all she wanted was a house where she could cook and go to sleep-if carpenters didn't take her bed away. 'If I knew the rbi was going to be so stupid I wouldn't have decided to come here,' she says.

But for Dominique the dim-wittedness of the Indian government is not a problem she cannot handle. She's more worried about the foreign tourists. 'Those people who come in cheap chartered flights,' she says, using a settler cliche. 'They don't respect the rules, as a foreigner you've got to do that. These tourists create a lot of problems and these days they are even getting beaten up sometimes. I always ask my son to hang around with Indians. The cops are keeping an eye on all foreigners.' Recently she was shocked to discover that the police had a report on her in their files. 'Three pages, and it's all true, can you believe it?'

Foreign tourists unnerve many settlers because they fear being identified with them. Sonja, who is from Switzerland, is mortified at much that the foreign tourists do in Goa. 'I saw a white woman wearing a bikini in a market,' she says. 'That's bad, really bad. If you are in a country, you have to respect its sensibilities. You should not shock anybody. You should not wear bikinis to the market if Indians don't.' Sonja, who now makes furniture, moved into a sprawling 320 sq m bungalow about two years ago with her long-time friend Thomas-a dreamy-eyed, almost saintly-looking painter. They took care to stay far away from other foreigners. 'We don't want to start a community here,' Thomas says. They have been in Goa for about nine years, living in various rented places.

Thomas was a draftsman and Sonja a window dresser back in Switzerland. True to their European instincts, they wrinkle their faces on hearing the word 'Britishers'. Says Sonja: 'We've seen a new trend over the last one year. A lot of Britishers are buying property and I think some of them look down at Indians. I heard one of them say 'stupid Indians'. That's very bad. The moment you think that way, you're getting into trouble.' Thomas, forgetting the intrusion on his otherwise peaceful Sunday afternoon, makes a strong point: 'Everybody asks me how I feel about Indians. The more you see the world and the closer you observe people, the more you understand that they're all the same. They all want a microwave. A better one.'

John Francis will disagree, not only because he is a Britisher but also because he sees character in Indians. A builder in England, he moved into the Siolim locality two years ago with wife Eunice. 'I don't know why, but the people around us are extremely friendly. There's an old man down the street who gives me advice on how to keep the garden-in Konkani. We don't understand each other's language, but the message does get across and my plants grow.' The couple hate the word 'servant'. 'Some people are actually called servants here,' Eunice says indignantly, 'if you use the word in England you'll get lynched.' She too had her tryst with Indian bureaucracy. One day she decided to buy a gas cylinder: 'I went to the market and asked for one and all the people started laughing. I didn't know I needed to have a ration card.' From that point, it was a hunt for that elusive piece of paper.

'The most important thing in India is paper,' John says. 'No paper, and you won't get anywhere.' Denied the gas cylinder, he decided to take on the babus.'I told them I won't pay a pie and if it's within my rights to get a gas cylinder, I will.' He got it finally by dropping the names of higher-ups who didn't know him at all. But the point is he didn't pay. While building his house, he took a sarpanch who was asking for money to court. And won. This actually spurred the Indians around him to take others to court.

Together, the foreigners, these white men and women, are learning the Indian way of life. Choosing to buy cheap property they know they've got more than what they paid for. A few sold their property and fled after a brush with Indian babudom. But sturdy men like John Francis will continue to take on the clerks-of-prey, and survive: 'I know that if any official creates a problem I can move the court,' he says happily. But do Indian courts move? He believes they do.