Bhatta’s Catamaran on the Mandovi.

          The deep voice over the cell-phone ordered: “Last ride of the season, Coco Beach, 1800 hrs, you have to come.” I went.

Coco Beach is in line with Reis Magos fort, towards the mouth of the Mandovi. Across, I saw the Kala Academy, Raj Bhavan, Miramar… then an ugly brown building hit my eye. “People have spent some crores to buy a flat in it,” I was told. So much money, such poor taste.

The boy holding out his hand to help me into the small boat that would take me to the Catamaran warned me that one of the stairs was loose/ slippery. Just like last year. Reminded me of a hospital incident: a state-of-the-art expensive ultra-sonography machine was installed in Radiology; the tests were priced profitably high; the staff got a good raise after the training, but paper tissues were/are never available for patients to wipe the gel off. Small details, forever remembered. Like when I serve crab and can’t find the claw-cracker.

We were 22 of us in the catamaran, whose name I still don’t know. Boats have names. “Sea-zar’s Love”, “Bai Treza,” I read on the trawlers going by. (I can’t tell you here why boats are considered ‘feminine’, because respectable people, their parents and children read this paper. Also because disaster might strike me: my politically correct friends will unfriend me from their FB list.)            

Everyone aboard called her ‘Bhatta’s Catamaran’ after the owner of the deep voice. Inversely, in Goa he might be known as Catamaran Bhatta, like we have Taxi Diago in our village; and Shorthand Sada (speaks very fast) and Exercise Shiva (practises physiotherapy or teaches PE, not sure).

We sped towards the Aguada Fort. The setting sun was shocking pink and saffron. I tried to imagine people at the other edge of the Arabian Sea, beyond the horizon, on the east coast of the Africa. They would have just finished lunch.

Aguada must be the world’s prettiest located jail. My uncles were imprisoned in it for wanting the Portuguese to quit Goa. Subsequently, their professions took them away from here. Ironically we, a generation removed, returned to settle.

The catamaran was turned around and driven into the darkness, Britona (later Chorao and Diwar) on the left, Ribandar to the right. Once we’d crossed under the two bridges, and left the casinos behind, I thought I was dead. Not the slightest sound anywhere. No boundaries of any sort, thick darkness. It was so peaceful that I even forgave the gentleman who’d nibbled off the potato wafers kept next to me whilst I was deep-inhaling that crisp salty breeze.    

‘Bhatta’s Catamaran’ rocked. Not swaying side to side like the ferries that take you from Gateway of India to Alibag. Those make you nauseated. But ‘rocked’ in the way Elvis Presley broke the rules to change the world. Slick, moving tidily, fast. The ripples didn’t raise froth nor waves. I was sitting in front, on a stretched canvas-like material. I could see the black water below me and the dotted sky above. I remembered journeys by ‘Chowgule steamship' from Mumbai to Panaji as a child, sleeping on the deck with hundreds of other fellow goemkars. On the return, we’d carry with us mangoes, jackfruit produce, kokams, rice. Those ‘steamships’ had a lot of froth around them. When two ships crossed (these journeys were at night), they blew their horns and everyone in/on them waved and clapped.

One vacation, we visited Hankon, near Karwar. We had to cross the Kali Nadi in a big basket that could fit four humans.

 Another time, in Dubai, we went on a dinner ‘cruise’. The route was lined by glitz, glittering lights and buildings scraping the sky.

Here I was in a modern watercraft, now heading towards the silhouette of Alto Betim and the nebulous halo of the Secretariat lights, enjoying such luxury but a few kilometres from my home … if I wasn’t dreaming, then I must be dead, I figured. No such luck. Someone roared and startled me awake: “This is the good life.” 

Friends, I tell you, ek minute shaant busspaa dinaat.

 “Why did you shout in my ear?” I asked.

 “In what did you want me to shout?” was the reply.

I gave up.

The trip had taken three hours. A ramponnkar on a traditional erstwhile hodi would have taken half a day for the same. Both have their own charm. Now the barges will ply again. I’ve heard more yachts are likely to visit Goa in coming times. ‘Bhatta’s Catamaran’ will have company. More the merrier provided, as on our roads, the traffic rules are followed.