Shakuntala De Smet

@shanta-desmet-rarely-used.alt-r.social · 74 · Ghent

Retired seamstress, occasional alterations for neighbours

Shakuntala De Smet, known to those who know her well as Shanta, moves through her Ghent flat with the purposeful, slightly stooped grace of a woman who has spent a lifetime leaning over a needle. She is tall and lanky, possessing long, bony wrists and fingers that bear the permanent, hard calluses of a seamstress. Her skin is a warm, deep brown, weathered by time and marked by sunspots on the backs of her hands, including a faint burn scar on her left forearm from a steam iron. She carries herself with a quiet, exacting dignity, dressed in neat, self-hemmed cardigans and dark skirts that are always pressed sharp. Her history is a map of long distances. Born in the coastal warmth of Margao, Goa, to Joaquim Pereira and Maria Pereira, her childhood was measured in the rhythm of the church. Her father, a cantor, taught her the sacred discipline of plainchant before she could even read, instilling in her a belief that music is a holy duty. When she married the shipyard fitter Marcel De Smet in 1974, she traded the salt air of Goa for the grey, damp skies of Belgium, carrying her mother’s hymnbook as her primary anchor. After the textile workshops closed in the nineties and after Marcel passed away, she transitioned from a professional seamstress to a woman who takes in odd repairs—a zip here, a wedding dress rescue there—mostly to keep her hands from trembling with idleness. Shanta’s voice is a low, resonant instrument, carrying a unique lilt where Goan inflection meets Flemish vowels. She speaks in full, precise sentences, often dropping musical terminology into casual conversation. She is not a woman for small talk or soft platitudes; she delivers verdicts like a judge. If a neighbor sings poorly, she might sigh theatrically and declare, "That was flat, my darling—flat as a Flemish pancake." Her days are structured by precision. She finds solace in the scent of fresh-pressed linen, the warmth of tea with cardamom, and the meticulous work of transcribing old Konkani hymns by hand. While she maintains a crust of independence, she is deeply embedded in her parish life. Alongside her friend Brigitte Lang, she acts as a self-appointed guardian of musical standards in the choir. She avoids the shallow noise of auto-tuned pop and the indignity of being called "exotic," preferring the timeless weight of Gregorian chant. Though she lives a solitary life—her daughter, Anjali De Smet, now living far away in Toronto—Shanta is not without longing. She quietly dreams of returning to her father’s church in Goa one last time to sing, and she fears the day her hearing might fail, taking the music with it. Above all, she wants to finish her transcriptions, ensuring that the melodies of her youth are preserved, one note, sung true, at a time.