The World’s Coming to Sangolda

Less than two years ago, we had to make do with stale and dehydrated vegetables, wormy and dusty pulses and fungus covered onions if we bought them from local village grocers. One government horticulture stall and an enterprising family changed that. The months-old fruit-wallahs along Chogm road now have bhel-puri wallas alongside them in the evenings. They’ve been joined by a nariyal-paani wallah, too. Life in Sangolda has suddenly changed.

Bread, fish and the Indian Postal System were the only dependable home-deliveries. Even the gas-cylinder chap couldn’t be depended upon. Now, thanks to the company’s  computerized tracking system, the distribution is dependable; still, some are dismayed and rue the changes in the old way of waylaying the truck as it rattled through the village.

There’s a hub of commercial activity happening in the neighbourhood. I discover that through the newspapers, though not via them. Let me explain.

Whilst my husband scrambles for the first page and then, having scanned the headlines, turns to the last page for sports, I skip the entire newspaper and look for what’s in-between the sheets. Whether or not I shake them out, they flutter to the floor: these pamphlets, brochures, fliers, tell me more about what’s happening in the world immediately around me than any news channel does. I’ve collected enough material to do a short project.

         The maximum number of inserts in the last six months have come from a multi-national pizza-store that has opened an outlet at Porvorim. It promises to deliver within half an hour, pizzas with toppings and other inclusions of my choice. If I cut the coupon printed at the edge of the paper and present it to the delivery chap, I’m supposed to get a discount. An Indian-food stall has opened right next to our Panchayat; it’s competition, though pizza isn’t featuring on its list yet. It’s momos, sold under an umbrella from an aluminium dabba just outside it, causes traffic jams.

         Between Porvorim and Calangute restaurants have come up even in the gullies leading to the bowels of new colonies.

I flip through my inserts file to find out more about the commercial activity around me. The first glossy paper has tempting photographs of dishes piled with food. The second is not glossy; it’s shocking pink re-cycled paper with smudged ink giving details of a ‘cheep, wholesome sneck’ available somewhere. One restaurant has distributed its full menu with prices, hoping newspaper readers will place their orders whilst digesting the goings on in Delhi and Syria.

Since we eat stuff that comes only from domestic kitchens, I can’t give feedback on any of those outlets.

Another poor quality pink insert tells me that I don’t need to go anywhere far for non-urgent domestic needs: “latest curtain and sofa material with stitching… large variety of colours and designs.. we also make new sofas, dining chairs, re-upholster your existing sofas to brand new, our car seat-covers are the best in Goa”. I take a look next time I’m outside: there are more than one such shops down the road.

The world is coming closer to our village. I’ve checked the prices: these guys are going to give the old-world chaps in Panaji, Mapusa, even far away Margao and Vasco stiff competition.

We didn’t have a dentist within three kilometres of my house in any direction. Now, ever since Bata opened its huge showroom at the beginning of the road, there are three dental clinics. (I can’t see the connection, just penning an observation.) One wants to know whether I want a better looking smile. First consultation free, another announces on a black and white strip of paper. At the bottom of the third is information that its location its address has now changed. I’m spoiled for choice.

There’s a physiotherapist in the neighbourhood, too. An optician is getting rid of his stock, maybe, because he’s offering frames at half price.

When it comes to health, can insurance be far behind? A certain Sanjiv requests us to call him on his mobile phone so that our health and death related insurance issues can be tackled by him.

I have lived in several in various parts of India. In every town that I have lived in, these inserts /brochures /fliers have been indicators of growth and presence of the entrepreneur. Here, they are pointers that Sangolda is rapidly blending into neighbouring Porvorim, becoming rural urbania (I’ve coined this term for lack of any other).

Most of the inserts are regarding ‘education’. There’s a Mental Arithmetic Academy for children affiliated to an abacus and mental arithmetic association of another country. In thirty months, it claims, a child will have better perception, memory, reasoning, analytical skills, proactive and systematic thinking, speed and accuracy, advanced cognitive learning, multidimensional learning, higher level of positive and logical thinking, power of visualization, sense of responsibility, more perseverance, concentration… phew! It does more than the best universities in the world. Whole brain development happens, it reads. All the parents of these super kids must need to get some typing /drafting /printing done, right? There’s a ‘most reasonable rate’ shop very near the above academy that does just that.

Whilst the children are inside the super class, their mothers might want to while away their time doing something worthwhile. One pamphlet asks whether they are “looking for a make-over, a transformation inside out…?” It announces that ‘this is (your) chance’. There are ‘personal grooming classes and motivational speaking’ headed by a Miss India of some year gone by and a fashion expert. It’s a crash course that covers ‘personality enhancement, communication skills, builds confidence, makes up (sic), dresses up, manages lifestyle, public speaking, phone etiquette, general etiquette’ and more. Dare to dream, says the big font. ‘What are you waiting for?’

I browse through all the inserts and wonder, who is investing in, who is attending these ‘classes’?

The really expensive parlours and eateries aren’t sending in fliers. They have in-your-face exteriors and interiors that are clearly seen through the looking glass walls. Pricey they must be; their customers don’t need wooing.

         One charitable trust sends out its message on a four-colour glossy leaflet: Marriage Masala, where love never fails, it proclaims. Someone who has studied Business Management in IIM Ahmedabad is either running the charitable trust or the advertised ‘workshop’. It promises a fun event where you learn how to build a strong marriage through interactive sessions, games, discussions, videos and sound teaching. Rs 100 for individuals and Rs 150 for couples; I think that’s really cheap to learn about “different needs of men and women, love languages, how to fight right, and any more helpful topic (sic)”. The other side of the leaflet advertises a ‘good parenting’ workshop.  All taught in a couple of hours.

This Personality Development and Soft Skills market is getting crowded. One flier says: Building Character, Building Careers.  Of course being Goa, there’s stress on the hospitality and culinary skills. The fees are high and a loan is available.

Kindergarten schools, hobby classes through vacations and yes, beauty-parlours (for domestic customers, not tourists) found in converted bedrooms or garages make their way inside newsprint to a thousands of families every morning.

Then there are discount sales. Saree and dress material sales I don’t even bother to read about: kurtas, nighties, paticoats (there are plenty of spelling mistakes, this is one), kids’ wear, and linen. There are so many sales of these that I wonder why shops selling them exist at all?

         Like the eateries, the internet providers and mobile phone companies are also giving each other stiff competition. Their inserts give all prices and details clearly. Very professional. Easy to compare. Television and kitchenware companies from far away Margao and Vasco send their details through the newspapers without having to pay for the expensive advertisements, I guess.

Eventually inserts find their way into the dustbins. Most of our paper kachra goes into our personal, domestic organic compost dump.

I’ve preserved inserts involving car care. Repair, shampooing, dent removal - there is a pick up and drop of the vehicle and a seasonal discount to boot. Another one’s providing car grooming and ‘detailing’ (whatever that means)  at one’s doorstep. A third has shown a map to his place and a nicely designed card-like pamphlet tells us that his services include oil change, engine tuning, suspension check, gear box overhaul, engine overhaul of the most expensive cars in the Indian market. A friend said these guys do expert jobs at a fraction of the company’s service centres.

Someone’s undertaking painting of bungalows and flats at reasonable rates, but only in north Goa. I keep that paper

.

Best of all is the insert that tells me there is a delivery service that takes care of grocery delivery, laundry, electrician, plumber, carpenter, computer repairs, bill payments, and much more, “tension free”. I’m going to frame that and hang it in my drawing room. Another important input: these newbies also mention that they work on Sundays, quite a no-no in our corner of Goa until even a few months ago. This progress I like. (Though I still need to visit the towns to get a chappal or umbrella repaired.)

I’m amongst those who equate susegaad with stagnation. It’s good to see work happening in Goa. Pity that it isn’t tidy and organized.

So far, I haven’t received a pamphlet advertising sale of water or disposal of garbage, but that day might not be far when my file will contain a contact for those. Market forces nudge governments, sometimes, into action. Like accidents prompt panchayats into building speed-breakers.

 The last few inserts remind me to ‘take a holiday’. The world descends on Goa when it wants to relax (or so we like to believe). Where do Goans go if they can’t afford Dubai, Israel or the UK? They take package tours to Mahableshwar, Munnar, Manali, and Potta… in ac seater, sleepers, multi axle buses. The newest shop hereabouts is selling them (tours, not buses). Between the NH17 and the Chogm Road, hectic activity is happening.

Sleepy Sangolda and Saligao have woken up: and found that the world that was once at least a konkan railway ride away has crept up to their doorstep. Today’s insert lets me know that I can have salads and fruits home-delivered. Nice news, that, never mind what the headlines scream.