Wir bitten um das Gebet für unseren vestorbenen Mitbruder…

This is the concluding line of the necrology marking the passing of Herr Pfarrer Bertrand Georg Puchwein at the age of 87, and as I peruse the accompanying letter from friends who have conveyed the news, I endorse the prayer and the sentiment.

I met Father Puchwein, for the first time, when he was the 75-year young parish priest of St. Severin’s in Sievering, Vienna. He belonged to the Augustinian order of Canons or Choir-monks (for want of a better translation – the correct form is Augustiner Chorherr des Stiftes Klosterneuburg) of the monastery at Klosterneuburg – more about that later. And he was selected on the basis of his golden tenor. Only those who could sing could make the grade. And how he loved to sing!

We (my husband, one of my sisters-in-law and I) had barely stepped off the plane and into the parish house, when we were greeted, in a strong German accent, by this burly, red-cheeked, white haired priest: ‘Welcome, welcome!” His next words were, “Do you sing?” My husband and sis-in-law politely declined, while I responded with, “A little.” “Can you sing the Missa de Angelis?” “Yes, Father!” He had touched a chord – the sung Latin Masses are a much treasured relic from my childhood and the Mass he referred to was one that I can sing in my sleep. I was promptly trotted off, in my travelling clothes, to meet the group that was practicing for the Feast Day of a sister church. All Austrians who spoke only German and sang Latin, they welcomed me with beaming smiles and once the singing got under way, the smiles grew wider. I might have been wearing a sari and sporting a complexion of a darker hue, but I sang the same music!! There were several more practices, all of which concluded with white wine, crackers and cheese. The ‘treat’ was well earned – Fr. Puchwein was a perfectionist. And, yes, I sang with the choir at the Feast Mass at St. Vitus. The gift of music and the gift of inclusion are my lasting souvenirs of that visit.

During our stay, I got to know him and his larger than life personality, very well. After all, we were guests in his home and his hospitality was lavish. And he filled his home with music thanks to a powerful sound system - an offering from his parishioners who had known him for forty years. His knowledge of church music was wide as it was deep and he was eager to share this knowledge at every opportunity. I was an amateur and a novice, with just a smattering of German, but this did not deter him in the least! And when shadows fell, he would bring out his guitar and we would sing around the supper table the old favourites and folk songs from the region.

One of the high points of our visit (and there were many) was the visit to his monastery, the imposing Klosterneuburg with its even more magnificent wine cellars which descended three (or more?) levels underground. The vineyards and the wine were the monastery’s source of income. We were treated to a wine-tasting and attended Vespers. Both unforgettable. There is nothing so solemn or as wonderful as plainchant – invocation and response – sung by male voices (all powered by their own lungs – no microphones) under the vaulted roof of what was literally a vast castle. I was spellbound, experiencing in reality what I had only imagined of monastic life in the cloisters.

It seems more than coincidence that my present reading is The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. Set in a fictitious monastery, the descriptive passages returned memories to life. Once again I walked within cloistered walls and felt the shadowy presence of robed monks, hooded, hands tucked in sleeves, silent except in their songs of worship.

And now, when the relevance of monastic life is being questioned and vocations are few, old stones have seen once more the passing of one who graced their existence with God’s praises. Old stones whose rafters will continue to be raised in song, but for how long?

English, you snob!

The BBC is currently broadcasting a fascinating TV programme entitled ‘Worlds of English’. It deals with English as it is used in different parts of the world and, since there is considerable dialogue with local inhabitants, we are treated to unique insights concerning the evolution and use of hybrid English – Hinglish, Chinglish, Singlish, and so on. (Yes, I’ve watched just three episodes, so far!)

English was carried to the colonies and taught to the ‘natives’ who promptly adapted it to their own requirements. If they could understand each other, where lay the problem? English language teachers were horrified and sought to instill the use of propah English by drilling hapless students in grammar and vocabulary. The knowledge and ability to use correct English was the standard by which one’s erudition was judged! No more. As one savvy Singaporean put it, ‘We use Singlish to communicate with our friends and within our peer group. It’s a fun language – unstructured and accommodating. And we know when and how to use Standard English as well.’ He was affronted that Singlish was treated as pidgin. Singlish is used to communicate, therefore it is a language. How right?!

This brings me to the reason for my topic today:

I belong to a generation that was rigorously schooled in the King’s (Queen’s?) English. As part of this education, it was considered de rigueur for us to flavour our writing with the bon mot, phrases and expressions culled from Latin, French, and German. Such usage was indicative of a higher standard of language, such as exhibited by the best British Universities! So we mugged up the words and phrases: carpe diem, Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes, bête noire, la dolce vita, savoir faire, doppelganger (go figure!) and made sure that we used them within the texts we produced. We wanted to appear au fait with the language, and how! (And what is wrong with saying ‘conversant’ anyway? The Lord knows that the English language has enough synonyms to fit any bill).

My current reading brought this home. A series of essays on the work of other authors, the text is peppered with mutatis mutandis, contemptus mundi, propria persona, Zeitgeist – you get the drift. What makes it deliciously ironical is that these phrases are culled from the ‘classic’ languages, the languages of nations that were inimical to the British – at one time or the other in history, Britain was at war with France, Germany and Rome.

Yet, when it comes to the language of the colonies, the injection of local words and phrases is considered a corruption.

Why does it cause so much jhanjat (such a furore) if we choose to ghoosao (try and infiltrate) a few choice phrases of our own? Particularly those phrases which, thanks to juicy idiom, defy translation?!

And, to use such an idiom, even though out of context, why must the English be kebab me haddi? (‘play spoilsports’ would be an accurate translation, but it conveys none of the spicy flavour!)

PS: A note of caution. In the words of my favourite grammarian, David Crystal, one must first know the rules in order to know how to bend them. A strong grounding in Standard English is required for representation at the global level. One cannot carry over Hinglish and expect to be appreciated!

Drenched but not quenched – II

I have just found out that there is more than one way to get ‘drenched’ in the monsoon.

When the lights went out, I thought it was the usual temporary monsoon glitch. When the lights did not come back on, I ventured out to check. It turned out that, thanks to our lackadaisical landlord, the meter room was taking in water through the roof, posing the very real threat of an electrical fire. The power supply company had pulled the fuse and would replace it only if the room was waterproofed and dry. With the rain showing no sign of stopping, I was staring at the prospect of at least eight days without electricity! No lights, no fans, no fridge, no mixer, no geyser, no washing machine, no iron, no computer or internet, no television, no battery recharge, and worst of all, no music. Thanks to the ongoing deluge, my world had changed in a matter of moments.

The landlord was not traceable, the power company adamant and I was caught in a time warp – the time before Thomas Alva Edison.

After the initial impotent fuming and wondering what to do, I gathered myself together , sat by a window where there was still sufficient light and picked up my crochet (something one can do without electricity). As I worked, the memories of other times and other places came flooding in.

Hubby and I used to retreat to a nearby village to recharge our batteries. Ironically, it was a place without electricity! We rose with the sun, ate our supper by the light of the moon, and used kerosene lamps as needed. Baths were at the well (with sufficient arrangements for feminine modesty) – refreshing douches of cold, crystal clear water from an underground spring. As I shivered and gasped through today’s ablutions, I marveled at the hardier, more adventurous person that I once was. Yep, been there, done that and how!

After a night spent in the company of a guttering candle, I awoke at war with the world. I decided to attend morning Mass even though I was all of a-grumble at my Maker, and found myself being admonished in the sermon - a grateful heart never complains! Well, I do complain to the Lord and don’t plan to stop, but I am also grateful for the gift of gleeful memories that even a power failure cannot quench.

Drenched but not quenched!

Yesterday, I set out dry on an errand that was imperative in its urgency. Cocooned in AC comfort while waiting for a print run to be completed, I was oblivious to what was happening outside. Imagine my horror on being confronted by a torrential downpour and a howling wind, when I opened the door! In the span of just fifteen minutes, the weather had changed dramatically. Courageously clutching my inadequate brolly (I like ‘humble brother’ too!) I braved the rain. Home and bedraggled, I headed for a hot bath and an equally steaming cup of chicken soup. Seated by the window, I watched others struggle against the storm and commiserated.

There is nothing quite like the wet and windy Indian monsoon. I know. I have waded through waist deep murky pools in the concrete jungle and in the real one too. I have trudged through rural sludge and through urban slush. And I have muttered imprecations at the weather gods for picking on hapless me.

But there is a flip side. I have seen the wonder of a firmament lit up end to end by streaks of blazing lightning – a pyrotechnic fantasy, and I have heard the swell of thunder – crashing cymbals and reverberating drum rolls, building up crescendo upon crescendo till the climactic finale. (Yes, I am spellbound by thunder and lightning, and maybe one day, I’ll learn to dance in the rain without protective battle gear!) And I realise that I am but a speck in this great cosmos. But, I am here – an indelible fragment in the history of humankind. To paraphrase Descartes, I experience, therefore I am.

Father Trevor Zenon D'Souza

Occasionally, a little packet would be dropped into my letterbox. The covering would be slit, the whole tied with string and the postage affixed was just Re. 1! When such a packet arrived, all other mail would be put aside and I would happily browse the little booklet revealed by the unwrapping.

I was truly privileged to be on Fr. Trevor Zenon’s mailing list. He made it his retirement work to spread, through the printed word, the message of God’s love. He also circulated, through his little booklets, affirming thoughts and guidance for daily Christian living. Over the years, I have built up a collection of these pocket-size books which I return to whenever I need a ‘dose’. Thanks to my contact with Fr. T, I have always had something to turn to when I am in a slump - inspiring words can be the best pick me up in times of need!

We remained in (and out of) contact over a span of some 40 odd years, all because of CONTACT. That was the name of the newsletter that Fr. T published when he was based at Byculla. He sent out the first copies through an embryo mailing list, parish wise, and a friendly priest passed on the publication. At 15, I considered myself a fledgling ‘writer’ and I flooded Fr. T’s mailbox with my manuscripts – mostly poems and teenage ramblings. He published my work and sent me complimentary copies of the newsletter. I was thrilled - for the first time, my words were in print outside the Parish Bulletin. Fr. T was transferred, and went on to serve in other parishes. We lost touch as we went our separate ways. And then, out of the blue, I encountered him at the Clergy Home to which he had retired. We resumed our acquaintance and once more, I looked forward to the mail in the letterbox.

Strangely, we never met in person.

It was with a heavy heart that I attended his funeral yesterday, but it is with gladness and gratitude that I will always remember his presence in my life.

Like Fr. T, I am a ‘scrapbooker’ – I shared his love of quotations, extracts, poems and philosophical asides and I collect these with avidity. Fr. T gifted his readers nuggets from his collection and I gift you, in remembrance, one from mine – a poem that, for me, is evocative of the Lord’s servant:

“He cast a stone,

And wavelets on a silent sea

Caressed the shores

Of lands where he would never be … he started something.

He hid a seed,

And blossoms in the wind that blow

Have set aflame

The countryside with radiant glow … he started something.

He dropped a thought,

And in youth’s eager mind

A candle reared

Through all the future years enshrined … he started something.

He lived a life

Which made appeal to you and me;

We loved to live

In what was his community … he started something!”

- (From: He Started Something by H. Halbisch)

I DO

“When I said ‘I do’

I meant that I will

To the end of time,

Be faithful and true,

Devoted to you.

That’s what I had in mind

When I said ‘I do’”

(Words from a song)

Where and when did it all start? The incompatibility? The refusal to reconcile? The climbing divorce rate? The beginning of the end of marriage?

Time was when marriage was a living, breathing, loving partnership. Unequal at times, perhaps, but the shared plans, dreams, laughter and tears evened out the odds. Anniversaries coming and going, marking the years, rubbing off the hard edges, fitting together more comfortably, growing older but staying young at heart, listening to Jim Reeves singing that touching reminder – ‘Memories are made of this’ – marriage is romance, most certainly, but not the fictional romance of Mills & Boon.

A wise man once told me, ‘A husband is not the handsome guy in a well-fitting suit with a stretchable wallet who buys you expensive gifts; he is the man who will be the father of your children.’ And for the man who seeks a wife, she is not the arm candy or the life of the party, she is the one who will be the mother of their children. Whether there be children or no, the ‘mothering’ and ‘fathering’ qualities make sure that the course will be stayed, that the nurturing will be there, that the sharing will be complete because man and woman, husband and wife, need to be halves of a whole. They are each other’s support system, ‘for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health...as long as they both shall live’.

Is marriage to the ‘right partner’ a dream come true? Certainly not! Everyone retains their individuality and certainly has the right to – this means divergent reactions, different wants, different needs, different purposes. All good marriages have their rough and rocky moments and time shows how and when to compromise; one just has to weather the initial turbulent patches – not easy, but certainly possible. You pull in different directions but you know, instinctively, when the bond has reached snapping point and you relax the tension, take a deep breath and start over, one retreating step at a time. A sense of humour helps. As does the art of conversation, where each one listens as the other speaks.

I am no marriage counselor. On the other hand, I am privileged to have married into a family that has witnessed several silver weddings, a few ruby anniversaries and at least one gold. Would we like to go back and do things differently? Perhaps. Would we choose the same life partner, given a second chance? Most definitely, yes!

When you set out on a long and difficult hike, you invest in a stout pair of shoes. When you set out on a marriage, you need a stout heart. Which is why, when you set out to meet at the altar, if you do not mean ‘I do’ please don’t.

Food, Glorious Food (or, an AI in an EI Kitchen – Part V)

The real rite of initiation for a new bride is her first stint in the marital kitchen (and I brook no argument!). For one who has never stepped into a kitchen before, the trepidation in advance and the ordeal that follows rivals any feat of endurance. Think of all the weapons of mass destruction – fierce flames, hot cavernous ovens, sharp knives, choppers and skewers, heavy skillets, pungent and dangerous condiments (when you chop a hot pepper, for heaven’s sake, don’t rub your itching eyes – a very novice error!) If you’ve been there done that, smile. If not, look forward to it. It’s an experience you’ll never forget.

But once the first terror has been overcome, the rest is a rollicking adventure as you pick up culinary skills that are at once unique and fascinating. And you can chuckle at the goof-ups that made you cringe. Thanks to an affectionate and helpful mother-in-law I was coaxed and coached into learning hubby’s favourite foods - like all good EIs, he loved variety and quantity on his plate. The highest accolade I could hope to achieve was ‘just like Mother’s’ (I never made the ‘better than’ grade). I was often regaled with stories of feasts and festivities and special dishes which now reside only in memory and imagination (mine!). I stuck to the daily fare and left the fancy to the more experienced hands. Occasionally, I would slip in a few AI variations. Hubby would take a tentative first spoonful and then utter a plaintive, ‘What’s this?’ He knew authenticity when he tasted it.

Over the years, I find that I have a acquired a goodly collection of recipes – EI, AI, local and international cuisines - which embrace the instructions received from hubby’s mum and sisters and also those gleaned from friends, cookbooks and magazines. The books (yes, I have many) have been well thumbed and the firm favourites splattered with tell-tale smudges - relics of the working kitchen. And now that I’m a battle-scarred veteran of the senior citizen's brigade, it is my turn to pass on the folklore, the helpful hints and tips. This is why I have decided to embark – very ambitiously – on a recipe book. I doubt very much that the next generation will find it useful, but they can read and dream.

So, if I am absent from my blog, you’ll know the reason why.