By Ben Antao

IT’S NOT OFTEN that one gets the opportunity to meet an old friend approaching ninety. So it was quite special for me to greet and chat with Lambert last February at his sumptuous villa in Dona Paula. He was in fine form, lucid and warm, but getting on in years, as they say. We had a long friendly chat (his understanding, much-younger wife Jolly left us alone together for 90 minutes after serving me coffee.)

When he told me at the end of our talk that he was going to be 90 on September 17, I said I don’t see myself being as lucid as he is, even if I happened to live that long. “You’ll get there,” he said draping his arm around my shoulders, ”Just take care of your health.”

My acquaintance with the freedom fighter and author of the novel Sorrowing Lies My Land began in 1960 in Bombay when he sent me a note at my home address asking whether I would be interested in doing the sports page for the Goan Tribune, the fortnightly he edited, which was dedicated to espousing the cause of Goa’s freedom from the Portuguese rule.

Lambert Mascarenhas with the author at his Dona Paula residence.

Goan Tribune had begun publication in 1956, first under the editorship of Prof. A. Soares, whose manifesto A Blueprint for Goa was widely acclaimed. The magazine achieved literary success with high quality writing from contributors, some of whom being university profs, such as Lucio Rodrigues, Francisco Correia-Afonso, Frank D’Souza, Armando Menezes, and poet E. Mendonza. I looked forward to it every fortnight and read it from cover to cover from the very first issue.
Not only did I do the sports page but I also wrote profiles and news stories for the Tribune. Seeing my keen interest, Lambert gave me opportunities to do some editing and general reporting. It was a time of great ferment among the Goan freedom fighters in the city.

Although his novel was published in 1955, I didn’t get to read it until 1961. In October that year, when I went to the Tribune’s offices in Ballard Estate with my copy, I saw the secretary busy opening a carton of books. Lambert was in his little glass-partitioned office, happily editing some copy. I stood at the door, reluctant to interrupt him. Presently he looked up and said, “Hello Ben, come in, what’s new?”

“I have done the sports page.”

“Good,” he said and lowered the knot of his tie. It was three in the afternoon and the ceiling fan was whirling at slow speed. “Have a seat. Do you have some time? I need you to do something.”

“Sure,” I said and deposited the envelope containing my copy in the tray.

“Just give me a minute, I’m just about finished,” he said and pushed the Capstan pack on the desk towards me.

“Go ahead, have a cigarette.”

I had my own crush-proof pack of English cigarettes, gold filter-tipped 555, a gift of a carton from my cousin who was a chief steward on board the ship. But I took one of Lambert’s and lit up.

When he was done, I said, “I noticed you have fresh copies of the novel. Can I have one?”

He smiled graciously and said, “Go ahead, pick one up.”

Immediately I stood up, went into the outer office, and picked up a mint copy from the box. “Could you autograph it for me?”

His blue suit jacket was on a hanger against the wall and he had rolled up the cuffs of his white shirt a couple of times in Goan style. He had a fine physique, well toned and compact. And his high sloping forehead matched his sloping shoulders. He beamed again, pushed up his right sleeve, took the book and wrote on the flyleaf.

“To Ben 

Hope you catch the spirit of this novel.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

After Liberation, he invited me to join the Navhind Times in Panjim, where he was appointed a joint editor. I worked closely with Lambert at the paper where I was the chief reporter. He had a fine sense of humor as those who read his column “Musings, Moods and Memories” will readily confirm. In 1966 he came to Bombay, where I had joined the Indian Express, to invite me in launching Goa Today, the monthly he founded.

As a man and journalist, he had his failings, as which one of us does not? In this sense he has been human to the core.

Now he has invited me and my wife to dinner at Hotel Cidade de Goa on September 17. Wish I was there to say, “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in raising a toast. To Lambert and to his continuing health and happiness.” Glasses clink, voices murmur. “To Lambert, to Lambert."

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