Two daughters pay a tribute to warm the cockles of the heart…about their father, Dr Francisco Colaco, who taught them how to live and whose love has touched so many people of Goa without fear or favor….

HOW do you begin to write about a father who is larger than life? Our father, Dr Francisco Colaco, isn’t just a brilliant doctor – he’s a force of nature. A man who moves effortlessly between worlds — healing hearts by morning, firing off a bold Facebook post by afternoon that ruffles a few feathers (and often offends half the town), and then, by evening, stepping on stage to belt out “Marcha de Fontainhas…” with such energy and joy that even the quietest person in the crowd is clapping, swaying, dancing.
He is outspoken, unapologetically honest, sometimes controversial — but always authentic. And somehow, he carries it all with rhythm, wit and that unmistakable twinkle in his eye.
There was this one evening at Raj’s Pentagon in Majorda. He was performing with a band –completely at ease, mike in hand—when, out of nowhere, he broke into “Kaisi paheli zindagani…” (from film “Parineeta”) A Hindi song, in a language he barely knew. But he’d learned every word, every note — sang it like he’d known it forever. The crowd went wild. That’s just the kind of man our father is: Fearless, curious, and always ready to surprise you.

TREAT ALL AS FRIEND
FOR him, the audience is never someone to impress — it’s someone to connect with. He’s always told us: Treat the audience as your friend. Don’t let fear or judgement hold you back. The moment you start worrying about what people think, you stop being yourself.
Thanks to him, our childhood was a playlist without borders. Jazz, pop, Goan classics, Brazilian beats, Spanish serenades — we didn’t just hear them, we lived them. We grew up with Frank Sinatra and the Bee Gees in the background, Nat King Cole on long drives, Chris Perry on Sunday mornings, Ella Fitzgerald in the kitchen while we helped Mum bake. Music wasn’t a subject — it was our second language. He didn’t teach it. He shared it. And in doing so, he gave us joy, rhythm and a deep love for expression.
But the most precious gift he gave us was his time.
Even with a packed schedule, he was there. Taking us swimming. Teaching us songs, patiently guiding us through the lyrics and melody before picking up his guitar so we could sing along. He enrolled us in piano and tabla classes. Took us to the beach. Planned little “staycations.” And always insisted we read — because he read. He still does, voraciously. And remembers everything.
We often joke that he’s a walking dictionary. Throw him a word and he’ll give you its meaning, origin, usage and probably a quote or two for context.
He speaks English, Konkani, Portuguese — and despite growing up with no Hindi in his life, he taught himself the basics of the language. Once we found him with a Marathi-English dictionary – because he wanted to learn to read Marathi newspapers! At 60, he began learning Indian classical music — on top of already knowing Western classical. He often says, “This generation is so lucky. Everything — chords, progressions — it’s all on YouTube. In our time, it was a real struggle.”

ALWAYS A STUDENT
AND yet, to this day, he’s still learning. Still evolving. Still curious. At 80 years, he bought himself a brand-new, state-of-the-art echo machine — and then taught himself how to use it. Just like that. No hesitation.
In a world that urges us to slow down, he keeps going faster. That curiosity, that wanting to learn everything he possibly can — it’s his superpower.
But more than his talents, it’s his values that shaped us.
He taught us that joy is worth pursuing — even if others don’t get it. That money is never the measure of a meaningful life. That purpose and hard work matter far more than wealth.
And most of all, he taught us to see people for who they are — not for their religion, caste or class. Those divisions, he always said, are man-made. What truly matters is character. Integrity.
These weren’t lessons he preached. It’s how he lives. Every single day.
And through it all – through the music, the medicine, the grief and the joy – there’s been one person quietly cheering him on: Our mum, Fernanda. Their love story began with guitar serenades, and she’s been his calm centre ever since. She stood by him when they had nothing in the US, helped him finish his studies, and supported his every passion and pursuit. She knows his favourite food – bacalhau, bolo de laranja, bolo sans rival – and still makes or orders these items just to see him smile! Once, he asked her to sing along with him and appear in a music video – and she said yes, much to his delight. Not because our mother enjoys the spotlight, but because she understood what it meant to him to do this video. She has never needed attention. But she has always given love – in quiet, generous, unwavering ways.
And the values my parents lived by were tested in the hardest way possible. Our brother Melvin – my parents’ golden boy — was only 20 years old when he died in a tragic road accident. He was a doctor too. Losing him broke something in Dad that will never fully heal. But he carried on. With grace. With purpose. With even more empathy for the pain people don’t always speak about.
That same integrity defines his work. Even after decades in cardiology, our father charges modest rates. For patients who can’t afford care, he treats them anyway. Quietly. Without a fuss or recognition.

ILLNESS IS RARELY PHYSICAL
HE never rushes. He listens. To symptoms, yes — but also to stories. To fear. To silence. He’s always believed that illness is rarely just physical. That sometimes, the pain a person has is heartbreak. Is abandonment. Is loneliness. That healing requires more than a prescription.
And that’s why the trust he has earned runs so deep. We’ve lost count of the people who’ve come up to us over the years –grateful, teary-eyed, saying, “Your father saved my life.” Or saved them from unnecessary and expensive procedures. Or gave them hope when they had none. During the Covid-19 pandemic and lockdowns we were at a clinic when a doctor recognised our surname. “Your dad is Dr Colaco?” she asked. “He saved my son’s life. No one else could figure it out. He did — he’s a god to me.”
He would never say these things. But the people do. Their gratitude echoes in corridors, waiting rooms, and in moments we least expect.
All of 81 years today he still wakes up with purpose every day. With curiosity. With love –for his patients, his music, his books, his life. He doesn’t need motivation — he is motivation itself. He keeps learning. Keeps showing up. Not because he has to. But because it brings him joy. Because it’s who he is.

Long before the world discovered the Japanese concept of “ikigai” our father had already found his. A life of meaning, of service, of joy — lived fully, and on his own terms.
And his integrity doesn’t end at the clinic door. Over the years, he’s spoken out passionately for the Goa he loves — against corruption, greed and injustice. He’s gone head-to-head with politicians, stood firm in the face of pressure and spoken the truth, even when it was unpopular. Not because he enjoys confrontation, but because he believes in doing what’s right.
He’s never taken an undue favour, never asked for special treatment. People would often tell him he should enter politics — but he’s far too sensitive, too principled for that world. And that’s exactly why people trust him. He speaks with no agenda. Just truth.
Sometime, people would tell us – “Oh, he shouldn’t have backed this political party. Or that candidate.” And we say: “But he cared enough to. To take a stand and do what he thought was best, with the information he had. Even at personal risk to himself. Did you?”
He is never one to sit on the fringe or watch from the sidelines. He lives. Fully, fiercely and without fear.

MAN IN THE ARENA
HE is, truly, Teddy Roosevelt’s “Man in the arena.”
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again….
“…who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
His life is not about chasing success or fame. It’s about staying true—to his values, his work, his music, his faith, and the people he serves.
Our father’s legacy isn’t only in the lives that he touched. That he saved.
It’s also in the joy he sparked, the courage he stirred.
And it’s also in the hearts opened, and the songs sung.
And it’s in his two daughters who couldn’t be prouder to call him Dad.