Getting Found in Goa.

(29 May ’11)

            My mother still gives directions like this: come to Panaji/ Mapusa/ Miramar and “ask anyone” where so-and-so lives. Apparently, since she was a child, this has been the correct way to give/ ask for an address. Way back until the ‘eighties, it possibly was, at least in Palolem where her family home is. Ask for “Manguesh-baab’s house” and some neighbourhood elder knew what the person was talking about. The elders have all died, mostly, and the younger ones neither know nor care who Manguesh-baab was. Besides, there must a half a dozen Baabs in the village, of which five must have Manguesh as some part of their name if they’re Hindus.

            I don’t know why I’m picking on my mother. Overgrown village that Goa is, it’s quite common not to have a proper address in spite of a meticulous system inherited from the Portuguese that gives every house a number and every village a name. Visit Dubai and you’ll know how primitive a system can be. Here, there’s always a red oil-painted Shirodkar Bar or Desai Wines that make easy and not to be missed landmarks. In the absence of those, there’s a banyan tree or cowshed to indicate that you’re on the right track. Provided, of course, that the tree hasn’t been cut or masked with a billboard and the cowshed hasn’t been encroached upon by labourers from neighbouring states come in search of work in the local paddy fields. In which case, after a couple of wrong turns that take you down very narrow automatic single-laned one-ways, you try to get a signal on your mobile and when the network isn’t busy, you growl into that wonderful invention, the mobile phone, that you’re lost. “Where exactly are you?” the helpful callee asks. “Under a coconut/ mango/ kokum tree,” you say controlling your irritation. “Um,” says the callee, “Which one, next to Kamat’s?” Now if you’re from Panaji it’s your turn to ask, “Which Kamat… Classic, Mystic, Rustic, Mystique, Classique, Complex, Desire, Luxury, Estate…?”  It takes two litres of petrol and many “where does so-and-so live” asked in Konkani, English and Hindi, before you finally park in front of the house you were meant to go to.

            My friend from Moira, knowing this, gave us crystal clear directions over the email. I sat with the printout (hard copy, you know) on my lap. “Turn left at the cross,” I read out. We had crossed three crosses already. And another three, I was sure, were yet to come. Crosses in Goa are like Hanuman temples in Rajasthan or ‘no parking’ boards in Mumbai: one every couple of yards and one in front of every other gate.  “When you come to the bright yellow house, turn right.” That one was easy, because she had mentioned it had seven pillars. I counted. It’s good one has to slow down and come to a full halt before turning into any lane in Goa because you never know which motorcyclist wants to take revenge on something you did to him several lifetimes ago and turns up just when you turn in and because the lane is narrow, you bang into him and can’t escape because you can’t turn back. And if you have a number-plate with another State’s initials on it, like ours does, it doesn’t matter if you’re Goa, like we are, you’re in trouble.

            Something was bothering me. It was darkening evening time, this was the first time we had never been to Moira before, I was reading the instructions in a navigation-challenged way, and my husband didn’t even murmur, forget snap. I checked his forehead: no fever. I sat quiet, for this was unusual behaviour, and it made me uncomfortable. I’d rather get lost and forego dinner and sleep hungry after driving back all those kilometers than have The Sulk coming up. But no, life was pleasant enough inside the car, a song was being hummed and the clouds were being described.

            Without once asking at any corner, without once indicating irritation, the man was driving evenly, taking turns confidently, not worrying about directions. Indeed, the only time we stopped (perfectly, correctly, may I add) was in front of Casa XYZ, our destination, to check on parking space. “How did you know the way?” I asked, flabbergasted.

            “She’d sent you the directions on email, didn’t she?”

            “Yes, but you seemed to know without referring to the printout.”

            “Oh I’d seen her house on Google Maps.”

            “And you could come here so flawlessly? There was no address to type in.”

            “No address. I typed in her name.”

            What? So we’re back to square one: next time I want to give someone directions to my mom’s ancestral home, I’ll tell them “type in Manguesh-baab’s name”. Which Manguesh-baab? Let Google help you track that through his progeny’s progeny. It works.

            Viva la technology. It’s taken Goa back to where we came from. No getting lost now.

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