By Ben Antao  »  Eighteen-year-old Eliza Rodricks abruptly halted the Pfaff sewing machine. She scowled at the crooked inseam and cut the thread, tossing the partially completed blue cotton trousers aside.

“Damn,” she muttered, “why can’t I concentrate?” But she knew why. Her mind and heart were preoccupied with Diogo Baltazar. It was much more than a simple schoolgirl crush. It was an infatuation so overpowering in its magnitude that the memory of his touch seemed to be imprinted on the pages of her heart with indelible ink.

“How will I ever make it through another five months in Margao,” she whispered, careful to keep her thoughts from Senhora Lopes, her instructor, and realizing at the same time that her sojourn in her parents’ home country of Goa was crucial to her learning the craft of  tailoring.

Eliza knew that Goan tailors prospered wherever they worked, although in the larger Goan community their social status was low for they were victims of caste discrimination. No matter where they settled, their caste followed them, and Eliza’s parents had always been treated as inferior beings in Nairobi, even though they were successful tailors. So they worked hard to secure a better future for their daughter, often praying that God would show Eliza how to overcome the stigma of caste and be truly happy. Two months prior to her departure for Goa, Eliza had met Diogo. He was of Brahmin birth and out of reach for someone of Eliza’s position as a tailor’s daughter; but on this rare occasion, fate and irony seemed to conspire to bring them together.

“Come to the dance at the Gymkhana with me,” Diogo’s cousin Maria begged Eliza. “I can’t go alone; it wouldn’t be proper. Come with me. Please say you will.”

Eliza hesitated. Tailors and their offspring were not welcome in their own right at the Gymkhana; why should she subject herself to more blatant caste discrimination by accompanying Maria? But in the end she relented and put on her prettiest dress, a sleeveless, pink cotton creation with a plunging neckline that she’d designed and sewn herself. She walked besides Maria into the large wooden-floored room, with her head held high, pretending to be someone with immeasurable confidence.

Eliza trembled with the memory of Diogo and how he had swept her off her feet that night. She’d been captivated by his swarthy good looks and strong, muscular body. She longed to dance with him again—to feel his body against her—and wrap her arms around him as if by doing so she would be able to recapture the feelings she’d had that night. Her velvety brown eyes glazed with memories of how after the last dance and to the disapproving astonishment of everyone of the elite Brahmin community present, he’d escorted her back to her seat. She tried to ignore the snorts of disgust as Diogo led her off the dance floor; she revelled in her newly found social status when Diogo ordered a glass of soda with a twist of lime for her. She found satisfaction in gazing into his handsome face when he directed a young African male dressed in kanzu—a white flowing robe, red fez and sash—to bring a plate of sweets with the drinks.

Is this what love feels like? Eliza wondered as she sipped her soda and nibbled on a sweet. If it is, I must be in love!

Today, thousands of miles away from Nairobi, bound to a wooden chair in front of the sewing machine, she pined for him. She felt somehow that her life would never be complete without him, and she wondered, yet again, how she’d cope in Margao for the next five months. Dreaming of Diogo left her feeling weak and vulnerable, and the only emotional relief she could find was when she confided in her roommate, Silvia D’Silva, a nineteen-year-old teacher. Still, she wondered if Sylvia really understood her ardour for Diogo or if she was merely tolerating her passionate outbursts just to be kind.

Eliza sighed and looked out of the window to notice a bunch of green bananas in the glare of the hot sun, patiently waiting for nature to ripen them. Beyond the banana stalks, past the high compound wall, loomed the white stucco facade of the chapel of Our Lady of Grace. She learned from Silvia that the feast of Immaculate Conception of Mary was celebrated in Margao with pomp and ceremony on December the eighth. Because the feast marked a high point in the Catholic community’s life, young adults longed for its advent, making sure to promenade in the evening during its nine-day novena to see and be seen by the opposite sex.

On the evening of the feast day, as the sun was sinking, streaking the sky with vivid purples, pinks and oranges, Eliza and Silvia put on flower patterned dresses and leather sandals and left the boarding house to travel down to the fair. Eliza loved the fact that the house was perched on a sloping hillock, high above street level. Perhaps, this is God’s way of telling me that I will marry into a Brahmin family, she’d chuckled upon seeing its location when she arrived at the boarding house a month ago.

A gentle breeze kissed their faces and ruffled their hair as they crossed the street, hand in hand, and headed north on a paved walk that bordered the municipal rectangle. Its four hundred-yard boundary was studded with petite coconut palms, mango and lemon trees. Eliza was grateful to be with Silvia, whom she now considered a dear friend after only a month of living together. She hoped Silvia felt the same way about her. Moments later they turned onto the Abade Faria Road and in ten minutes reached the fair at the old market area. Merchants displaying a diverse array of merchandise marked the roadside. Eliza walked over to one of the stalls and, picking up a ladies kerchief bordered in lace, ran her fingers over its silky texture.

“Hullo.”

Eliza turned her head towards the voice, and realized that the handsome stranger was addressing his greeting to Silvia. Her lips were compressed into a thin line and her eyes narrowed as she studied him. Finally, she stretched out her hand towards him. “Jorge, how nice to see you!”

Eliza wondered why Sylvia’s words said one thing while her expression clearly said another.

Jorge Pacheco smiled roguishly; his charcoal brown eyes were fastened on Eliza, drinking in her flawless complexion, tiny waist, and long slim legs.

Silvia hesitated several moments before speaking. “Please allow me to introduce you to Eliza Rodricks, my roommate.”

Jorge grinned at Eliza. “I haven’t seen you here before, Eliza. Are you new in this area?”

Silvia answered his question. “She lives in Nairobi, Jorge. She’s here to study, to learn how to be a tailor, and then she’s returning to Nairobi.”

“Nairobi, huh?” Jorge extended his hand towards Eliza. “Always wanted to see Africa but haven’t had the time. I’ve heard it’s breathtakingly beautiful.”

“Very beautiful,” replied Eliza, offering her hand. He grasped it firmly, allowing his middle finger to tickle her palm…it was his way of telling her that he was ready and available to her. Eliza giggled nervously and covered her mouth with her hand as Silvia glared at her.

“Mind if I walk along?” Jorge accompanied them, ignoring Silvia and focusing his attention solely on Eliza.

They strolled as far as the Colva Road intersection. Eliza and Jorge carried on an animated conversation; and Silvia walking slightly behind them glared at each of them in succession. On the way back, Eliza and Jorge chattered endlessly, sharing bits of information about themselves and ignoring the calls of merchants to come and inspect their wares. Silvia continued to follow them, praying for Eliza.

At a narrow jog where the Almeida school stood, Silvia said, “Excuse me, just want to check something.” She walked towards a table of beads a few yards away.

Jorge took advantage of her absence. “Would you like to see a movie?”

“A movie?” Eliza’s eyes sparkled. She hadn’t seen a movie in two months. “I’d love to. When?”

“Next Sunday, for the matinee. It’s a Hindi movie called Awara—very popular. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

Eliza smiled.

Silvia returned to join them and frowned at the sight of Eliza’s smile. And then, at exactly the same spot where he had greeted them earlier, Jorge said “Adios.”

Eliza stretched out her hand and once again felt his finger tickle her palm. She followed him with her eyes as he strode down the red dirt road towards Comba where he lived. The image of Diogo began to fade from Eliza’s mind as she basked in the blaze of her new interest.    

• Published by the Goan Observer in 2007, The Tailor's Daughter is available in major bookstores in Goa, and in North America ($25) from the author at ben.antao (AT) rogers.com. For reviews of this novel and Ben Antao's other books, visit the link below. 

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