Hugo de Souza

An Appreciation by Ben Antao

During my days in journalism in Goa in 1963-64, I had a professional friend named Hugo de Souza, editor of A Vida. This piece is a reminiscence of my memories of Hugo de Souza who died on May 21, 2002 at the age of 66.

I remember Hugo as a thoroughly professional journalist and a great human being with a generous heart. After the first general elections in Goa in 1963, I saw Hugo at least twice a week in Panjim during the sittings of the legislative assembly. He had to come from Margao and some days the discussions in the assembly would be boring and not newsworthy. I often filled him in when he was absent, which he appreciated immensely.

He was taller than me (I was 5’10 then) and looked quite handsome with a beard. As our contacts and friendship deepened, I came to see another side of his personality—his passion for the Konkani language. He often translated the news into Konkani and printed it in his paper. A Vida carried news and views in three languages—Konkani, English and Portuguese. And he did it all himself—writer, editor and publisher. And I admired his love and passion for Goa and Konkani.

Then I saw yet another side of Hugo:

On May 27, 1964, India’s Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru died in New Delhi at the age of 75. The news sent shock waves through the nation and put it into deep mourning. As per Nehru’s wishes, his ashes were to be scattered from the air all over the land. An urn with his ashes was scheduled to arrive in Goa at the Dabolim airport on June 5. Hundreds of Goans were present at the airport to show their mark of respect to the departed Indian leader.

I was covering the event for the Navhind Times. When the IAC’s Foker Friendship airplane touched down at Dabolim, there was no urn and no ashes of Nehru. The people of Goa were deeply disappointed with the turn of events. It became clear that the functionaries of Mr. Dayanand Bandodkar’s ministry in Panjim had bungled up communications with New Delhi.

In my report the next day headlined “Kakodkar blocked in bid to bring ashes” I laid the blame for the foul-up squarely at the feet of Mr. Bandodkar, the chief minister of Goa. That Mr. Bandodkar was incensed by my reporting became clear two days later.

The assembly was in session then. Hugo was sitting next to me in the press box. If my memory serves, I think Hugo used details from my report for his paper, which was published twice, sometimes three times a week, depending on the news.

At session’s end, as I was coming down from the second floor of the Secretariat, I saw Mr. Bandodkar coming up the wide staircase. He stopped and stood directly in my path.

“What kind of lies are you writing?” he demanded to know in his Marathisized Konkani.

“I only report the truth; I never report the lies,” (Aum sodanch sott boroitam; focamdam kednanch maca vauronaim) I told him.

“Your report was false; you were wrong to blame the government.”

“Your own people gave me the details; I doubled-checked even at the last moment to confirm the date of arrival of the ashes. Your government’s ineptness has been exposed. You should talk to your assistants instead of accosting a reporter like me.” By this time I was getting angry because he was still in my way.

He stared at me and I stared back at him. “Talk to my editor if you have anything to say.”

“I’m going to talk to Dempo about you,” he said.

“Okay, go ahead, do what you want. I know I am right.” I raised my voice, and at that moment felt like pushing him away. However, my Christian belief in “Love your neighbor” principle saved me from what might have been an ugly incident.

A couple of Mr. Bandodkar’s aides stepped forward and said, “Babaji, Dadaji, let’s go,” and pulled him away.

A number of people, including Hugo and other reporters, stopped and witnessed the scene. I skipped down the stairs, burst out of the building and walked as fast as I could to the Navhind Times office.

It was about five in the afternoon. I was panting for a while. After I calmed down I went to see Mr. Lambert Mascarenhas, one of the joint editors. I didn’t sit down but stood in front of him and told him what had happened. He looked at me with mild curiosity, but made no comment other than to say “Okay.” I was not surprised at his reaction because our relationship had cooled a bit during that past fortnight. (By the way, the urn containing Nehru’s ashes arrived the next day, but the reception to it was cool, a letdown.)

Two days later, Hugo was in Panjim again. “Ben,” he said as soon as he saw me passing by the O Heraldo office. I stopped to greet him.

“What happened between you and Bandodkar? I didn’t catch everything.”

I told Hugo what had happened.

“Ben, if they do anything to you I’ve got a job for you in Margao. In fact, leave the Navhind Times and come and join me.”

“Thanks, Hugo, that’s very kind of you; you’re a real friend.”

“I mean it, Ben. I want your kind of reporter.”

“Thanks, Hugo. But I don’t think Bandodkar has the guts to talk to Vassudeo Dempo. He was just mad because I exposed his hidden agenda. You’ve read my report. He was embarrassed and trying to browbeat me. But I told him off.”

“That’s what I admire about you. You’ve got lots of courage,” Hugo said. 

Six months later I quit the Navhind Times and went to Bombay where I joined the Indian Express after writing my M.A. exams. A year later I won a journalism award from the World Press Institute based at Macalester College in St. Paul, Minn., and supported by the Reader’s Digest.

While in the U.S. I kept in touch with Hugo. In the spring of 1967 I was serving a newspaper internship at the Denver Post in Denver, Colorado. I had written a story for the paper about Easter celebrations in Goa and sent a clipping to Hugo. Later I learned that Hugo printed that article in A Vida.  

Hugo was a compassionate, kind, and friendly individual—and a hardworking journalist. I shall always remember him with great fondness.

Ben Antao

Toronto

May 31, 2002