Lakshmi by Joseph Furtado is a very comic poem where the sportive spirit, the note of exaltation can be marked in, and this is quite supportive of the fact how amusing and exhilarating is he in his verses which have come down to us from his poetic pen. It is a fun and pun on Lakshmi, how good, noble and serene is Lakshmi, really a Lakshmi, a Saraswati, an Indian cultural girl he confronts, her delicacy and modesty he comes to mark, her shy and coy posture calmly composed of purity, one delving into the realms of serenity, polish and refinement. Using Hindustani English, Indian pidgin-English reminding us of the barracks and its speakers, the military camping and trying to talk somehow, the poet keeps regaling in his own deshi way, but in a vilayati boli. Only a loafer can say in such a way, O meri rani, amku deo pani. A Goan fiddler, his comics are amazing, his sense of humour, fun, pun and laughter and if you have not laughed, you will on reading him and his verses laced with mazak and mockery, good caricature and lively jokes.

To read him is to be reminded of colonial times, barrack room English, the British talking with Hindustani orderlies. Khushwant Singh and Rudyard Kipling too use in this kind of English. How would the English have conversed with the Indian counterparts? This is also a matter of discussion. How did the Portuguese with the local inhabitants? To read him is to be reminded of the speaking of Hindi in non-Hindi belts.

It gives us pleasure in finding Furtado the fiddler fiddling with Lakshmi and both are flirting, doing mazak with each other. What is their motto, I cannot find it, but can see them engaged in amorous talks, poking fun. 

It is difficult to understand the role of the comic poet who sometimes poses as a well-wisher, sometimes as a holy man and sometimes as a lover whatever be it, he is not a sadhu, but a fiddler, a fiddler from Goa fiddling with words, not Hazlitt’s Indian juggler juggling with balls. Furtado may appear to be a mendicant, a vagabond in the disguise of a holy man, but he is not after all. He is a flirter flirting. He is a false astrologer seeing the palm lines of a deshi girl named Lakshmi. Just like a mind-reader he is trying to read the mind and the identity that of Lakshmi too is unknown.

The poem refreshes us with that whether you know English or not but try you to speak in English and the mere practice of speaking in will make you conversant with even though you know the rules of grammar or not. Many well-read too may falter and fumble when trying to carry a discussion in English which but the loafers too may do in quite a handy way. A Christian holistic healer, Furtado is trying to heal Lakshmi and she is applying her mohini mantra on him to lure into an unbreakable discussion and talk. Let us see who is able to heal whom whether Furtado heals or Lakshmi him. We do not whether they are trying to speak in English or not.

Goan Fiddler — 0 men rani, amku deo tora pani.*
Lakshmi— I speaking English, saib
Goan Fiddler — Very well, my English-speaking
daughter, give me then a little water
Lakshmi — Why little? drink plenty much All peo-
ples liking water of this well
Goan Fiddler— Many thanks Never expected to
find in this out-of-the-way village a Hindu girl
speaking English And nice English too you
speak, my daughter
Lakshmi — I going to English school in Poona. 
“Smart thing that goldsmith’s daughter,” teacher
always saying I no girl, saib, I marry
Goan Fiddler — I know it, and have a child too--
quite a beauty like its mother. You must let me
see it
Lakshmi— No, no, I have no got child, saib  You 
make me quite shame Where you going, saib? 
Goan Fiddler —There’s no knowing where I may be
going, so large is the sum required to put the
chapel in repair But God is great For a
handful of  this rice people give me a handful of
money. Rajah Balaram gave one hundred
rupees. The rani is going to have a child, after
all God is great, say I.
Lakshmi—And what they doing with the rice?
Goan Fiddler— Wonders, my daughter, mostly
curing sick people
Lakshmi— Curing babies’ dysentery, saib?
Goan Fiddler— O yes, any sickness of anyone
Lakshmi — Please give me some, give me some, good
saib I giving you one rupee. Baby getting
dysentery.
Goan Fiddler — But you have no baby, my poor 
daughter.
Lakshmi- I begging pardon thousand times.
I afraid you making jadhoo,’' and speak lie — beg-
ging pardon, good saib.
Goan Fiddler — Be not afraid, my good daughter
Take this rice, and, should your child be cured,
give me what you like when I return this way
next month God bless you, my daughter!

Solus — Enough to tempt a saint!

So simple too and kind
“I no girl, saib, I marry.”— 
Indeed I must not tarry
Or look behind.

* O my rani, give me a little water
*Jadhoo Magic