Only the three of us together in
Goa for nine days was unexpectedly a rare event, it happened for the first time
and let’s hope not for the last. Soma Biki and me, siblings, through the grace
or call it sledge of some unseen puppeteer’s hands spent a ‘blink and you miss’
period (from the 17th to 25th Nov) in our respective
lifetime in each other’s company at Biki’s place, doing nothing, just relaxing,
sight-seeing, eating out, cooking, talking and not talking. Generally speaking
touching each other’s souls. That such an occasion has never come to pass
earlier did not dither any of us, but that such an event could never have been
imagined earlier is also the sacred truth. It was meant to happen somehow; it
happened through some quirk of fate and now is history, yet another memory.
During those nine days Biki had
his weekly off on a Saturday when all of us went to a further down south Goa’s
pristine beach. A few of our evenings were spent at some local gourmet
restaurant. Biki spared his car for us and on a few occasions I took Soma
around Old Goa and Margao. I spent many a mornings walking around Margao
reliving childhood memories. Rest of the time was spent reading, eating and
resting. Together we did not have any profound talk sessions, we did not
utilize the opportunity to bond together, we did not tie our hands around each
other’s shoulders to laugh and cry, and neither did we squabble and fight.
There was no need to. We were just - comfortable. Biki and Soma can easily gel
together while obviously I am the odd ball.
Margao Goa a significant town to
this world is also a major milestone in our present life journey. Biki was born
there while Soma and I have our fondest childhood memories still nesting there.
I first cut my teeth as a kid at Aquem Alto Margao and therefore visiting the
place is like a pilgrimage to me. From the moment we landed at the Dabolim
Airport I was transfixed into my past. The very smell and color of Goa puts me
into a subdued and reverent mood. Goa smells different from any other place.
The fragrance of the sea, fish, feni, pav, sausages, curry masala, church, they
add up into a feisty concoction. Goa is colorful in unique ways. The elderly folks
preferably wear either white or black to church but the youngsters wear bright
colours, the inside of the church is multi-coloured and all lighted up, the
Goan houses are painted in every shade of the rainbow, and from the beach while
on one side you see only blue the other side is all green and red. And I
haven’t yet referred to the carnival.
We stayed in Margao from 1968 to
1976. Since then the place hasn’t changed much except in subtle ways. While the
old roads have remained intact without any increase in width, a few new
highways have propped up. While old houses continue to stand as permanent
landmarks, vacant plots have been swallowed up by new flat schemes. In fact
every open space and erstwhile forest land has vanished. The Municipal Park and
Municipal Office building in the heart of Margao still continue as distinct and
beautiful show-pieces. These are not tourist attractions but to me they mean
significant structures from my past, some assurance of permanence, some comfort
to be able to relate to my childhood again through real visuals. The lanes and
buildings, the Kamat hotel and old market nearby the park, the Milan Kamat
hotel some distance away, the old fish market, the Longuinhos and Woodlands
hotels, these are all old sights which refresh and kindle old feelings. Walking
west from the park is the Vishant cinema hall, and further is Aquem Alto, its
old power house and their staff colony, St Joseph Convent where we studied, the
old house where we stayed, Acharya’s Saw Mill, the places where the Patel
family and of course Neela Didi and Manik teacher stayed. At times nostalgic
waves have taken over my heart. Nothing else was comprehensible. The drama
plays out in front of my eyes as I stood at these places, remembering the
people who were there along with me in the past, distinctly my mother, father, Soma
and friends, what did they say, what did they do, like a movie flashback the
scenes rolled on. These nine days I must have walked around these points
numerous times and everytime I have been overwhelmed with emotions beyond my
control.
To recount a few of these visuals;
in those days there were a sizable Gawda population in Margao who vended fruits
and vegetables amongst other things. Their women folk wore a particular red and
white printed sari in a distinct fashion they could be recognised by their
clothing. The Gawda’s are not seen any more - Soma suffered from asthma right
from her childhood and due to which she always got preferential treatment at
home. I always detested that and have held it against her till date. For every
mischief which we both executed, I got beaten and she was forgiven. Once I had
accidentally dislodged the gear in fathers Jeep and it rolled into a ditch
along with me and Soma. While I got spanked Soma got hugged. However inspite of
my animosity, our bhai-phota ritual has survived till date - vendors honking
their blow horns and selling bun, pav or fish in a huge basket tied on the back
seat of their bicycle and covered with a blue plastic or rubber mat, they are
still seen today - sometimes the Goan ladies of the fishermen community would
walk from house to house with a basket of fish on their head, which is not seen
anymore - once every week in the evening, mother used to take me and Soma to
the Municipal Park to relax and play and then to the Kamat hotel for masala
dosa. We went by bus and returned along with father in his jeep because his
office was nearby. Sometimes we waited for him at the residence of his boss Mr.
Chaterjee, whose wife was a great host – father took me on Sundays to the
market to buy vegetables and fish/meat. Once I saw many live Tortoise of two
feet diameter each being sold as meat - the Acharya family who owned a Saw Mill
were family friends, once a group of men including my father went on a hunting
expedition into the jungle and returned with deer meat they shot and skinned -
Neela Didi was a great friend of mother and she took tuitions for me and Soma
every evening. Whenever a new movie was released in Vishant cinema, Neela Didi,
my mother, Soma and me used to walk in the sun to watch the afternoon show - Once
father had taken us to Panjim to watch the movie Bobby where a stranger had
mistakenly spit near me and father had taken offence - Purshottam Patel’s
father was the Manager of the Damodar Saw Mill which was about a kilometer away
to the south of our house and I used to go to his place sometimes - the space
in front of our house was an empty ground where the neighborhood boys used to
play football. Sada was one gifted player. I played with them whenever they
took me - Anant and Anil Apte stayed a little distance away near the residence
of Baba Naik where I went on many occasions to play cricket. Anant used to create
box projector and show us some slides. They shifted to Panjim soon - There was
a big function hall near our house (still exists). Every year a collage annual
day celebration used to be conducted there with boys and girls dancing from
morning till evening to western music. Sometimes educational movies were
screened in the hall free of charge - there used to be a Kaju tree in front of
our house shaped like a horse and we used to climb its branches and then jump
down from a height. This routine got repeated - St. Joseph Convent a
well-structured school with good teachers and all round curriculum. The Sisters
of the convent were sweet and patient with the kids. I remember Manik teacher
who also taught us dance. On one school annual day function we trained for
African Zulu dance and also took it to a inter school competition. I was always
amongst the top three in my class as I was a good student. Girija always used
to come first in my class. The senior class had very handsome boys and very
pretty girls who always played pranks on each other - Diwali and Christmas were
the two most celebrated festivals, both associated with lightings. The whole
neighborhood used to get lighted during these times, sweets and namkeen used to
be prepared in every house and exchanged from house to house. Troupes of boys
used to take the Narakasur and Krishna dance from house to house and stage
innumerable performances in a single night - when the rains started in Goa, it
rained continuously for days together. I was often down with fever during those
times - our annual sojourn to Raniganj was during the summer holidays. We went
when the sun was very hot and returned when the rains had already started - on
occasions I had been into the nearby forest along with some friends, throwing
stones at Kaju and mango trees. I never know the road back home and depended entirely
on the others - there was a bakery nearby, and at three in the afternoon sharp
they used to open up to sell freshly baked bread. I have walked there to buy
bread many hundred times. Bread and butter used to be our favorite snack. The
smell of fresh bread still lingers in my nose.
The Christian churches of Goa whether
big or small are very beautiful both in terms of architecture and interior
design. The ivory and golden hues at the altar accompanied with lighting are
really an awesome sight. But that is beside the point. The Christian religion has
made their community God loving instead of the common Hindu concept of god
fearing. The colourful pictures and statues of the life and times of Jesus
Christ as depicted in these churches create images of compassion and humility in
the hearts of people.
The music of Goa with its mix of
native rusticity and European melody is also a treat to the ears. Music is
popular in the Church and the restaurants. It does not matter whether the
lyrics are in Goan language or in English, it does not matter whether you understand
the meaning or not, but you will most certainly tap your feet and move your
hips if you are in a restaurant and sway to serenity if you are in the church.
Lastly the thought crossed my mind that had we stayed back at Margao then what would I have become today. I think I would have still been my low confident self. I can’t say with certainty that I would have been doing a regular job. Maybe I would have joined the church or been a teacher in some school or maybe I would have been associated with the tourism industry as a foot soldier. Over the years infact the tourism industry has exerted some influence over the lives of Goan people. Most have taken to rental income from hotels and guest houses which have mushroomed. But sadly tourism industry have also made the men folk lazy and drunk. No business is transacted in Margao between 1 pm and 4 pm and most of the shops and office down shutters.