The D’Souzas (and DeSouzas) Are Coming: Hide the Apostrophes!

There are D’Souzas. And then there are DeSouzas. Some come proudly punctuated with an apostrophe: D’Souza, bold and dramatic. Others glide in with an elegant “e,” like a flourish on a wedding invite. DeSouza, if you please. Some wear a capital “S” like a medal of honour. Others settle for a lowercase cousin, quietly efficient.

But make no mistake, they're all part of the same sprawling, globe-trotting tribe. A tribe that has left its stamp (and rechado-stained recipe books) across continents, cruise ships and copydesks.

Start with India, of course. Goa and Mangalore were the cradles. Then came the migration to Bombay. Not the city of glass towers and metro lines we know today, but a gritty, bustling Bombay of trams and large waterbodies, hand-written church notices and one-bedroom chawls filled with six people, a browned flea-flecked clock, and a wall calendar from the local parish. D’Souzas set themselves up in Cavel, Mahim, Orlem, Dadar, Bandra, Vasai—anywhere within striking distance of a church, a fish market, a bakery and a football field.

Then, quietly but determinedly, they began their global expansion.

The UK? Tick. They brought their Marmite-and-mutton chops sensibility to London’s suburbs, sang in church choirs and introduced confused neighbours to sorpotel while pronouncing their surname with a faux British accent (“DaSooh-zah”), Canada? Absolutely. Braving the snow with a hockey stick in one hand and a large steaming casserole of hot sorpotel in the other. Australia and New Zealand? Yes, but don’t you dare suggest cricket. These DSouzas are football and hockey people. They know their headers from the put-the-ball-tru-man-bugger-tcheee yells. Tanzania, Portugal, Pakistan. You’ll find D’Souzas there too, not as fleeting visitors, but as established communities. They arrived there more than a century ago, some in pursuit of opportunity, and many following the quiet pull of family ties and familiar traditions.

A special mention must go to Portugal, the original mothership. It wasn’t just a colonial connection. For many D’Souzas, Portugal was a spiritual and cultural anchor. A distant home that shaped their names, their prayers, music, cuisine. Generations later, whether in Lisbon or Karachi or Dar es Salaam, you’ll still find D’Souzas quietly carrying forward that legacy.

Obviously, they are on cruise ships. As cruise directors, entertainers, chefs and housekeepers. They staff everything from the kitchen to the captain’s table. Chances are, if your towel’s been folded into a swan, a D’Souza did it. If the Hallelujah during Mass-at-Sea hits just the right note, a D’Souza sang it.

Then there was 1980. The Tardeo office of Mid-Day, India’s largest-selling tabloid. Within a 4-metre radius walls, four D’Souzas. All journalists. Newsroom, Features, Crime, Sports. Behram “Busybee" Contractor, the editor, looked up from his Remington and muttered, “Only four? Where are the rest—on assignment in Goa?”

So who are these D’Souzas?

They are journalists, sailors, fishermen, restaurateurs, musicians, teachers, priests, performers and sometimes all at once. They carry surnames and stories, cook books, shorthand books and headlines. They’ll feed you dodhol and fish curry rice, lend you a prayer card, then take your name down for next Sunday's fundraiser. 

D’Souzas didn’t just appear one fine day like fish curry and rice at Gomantak. No sir. We trickled in, like a leaky tap: Portuguese plumbing at its finest. Legend (and Wikipedia) says we started somewhere near the Sousa River in Portugal, a place with rocks, salt, and possibly more wine than water. Then, like all good things (fado music, bibinca-sorpotel and feni) and colonisation, we travelled.

Next stop: Goa. That glorious stretch of sun, sand and Sunday sorpotel. The Portuguese brought the name D’Souza along with their fondness for renaming people. Just like that. No forms. No Aadhaar update.

The D’Souza spirit doesn’t stop at the Mandovi. Oh no. We’re a mobile lot. Soon enough, you had D’Souzas in Mangaluru, Kochi and of course Mumbai—the spiritual capital of aunties, football and hockey, potato chops and that one uncle in greying banian who still plays wornout Pat Boone LPs at full volume on Sundays.

What does it mean to be a D’Souza today? It means correcting people when they say “De Souza.” It means knowing twelve versions of vindaloo and dried bombil curry, being suspicious of people who missed Sunday mass, and giving directions like: “ Don know kya man. Bleddy simple, bugger. Go past the church, turn left near Philo's bar, and if you hit the kulfiwala, you’ve gone too far.”

We may have started near some river in Portugal, but let’s be honest: the real D’Souza experience is on the narrow streets of Dadar, Mumbai arguing about price of fish from Agar Bazaar or Citylight market. 

They are not a brand. They are a movement. A beautifully chaotic, apostrophe-wielding movement. Once you know one, you’ll know five more.

Because the thing about D’Souzas? They travel in packs. And they always remember the name of your neighbour's Aunty's third cousin in Goa now settled in Brampton!