CHOGM Road, IFFI and a Conductor Named Anushka

(2 Dec ’12)

            The road from Porvorim circle towards Calangute is named after a famous event that happened in Goa, yet few know its name, CHOGM, and even fewer what that stands for. When the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting happened in 1983, this road wound through the sleepy villages of Sangolda and Saligao. The latter was famous and rich, what with a CM who belonged to the place, but Sangolda was “Where’s That??” until a handful of years ago. Sangoddkars gave each other lifts on scooters since the two buses that stopped by it were inconveniently timed at early morning and late evening. Even today, in spite of the crazy traffic that leads to snarls at Porvorim circle and two-wheeler ‘victims’ to GMC with helmet-less head injuries, few public transport vehicles halt here.

            The two or three shops that existed on it were terribly expensive: Saudade, Rust and a now overrun by weeds Kashmir Emporium. Suddenly, in a couple of months, I’ve noticed that the world’s getting closer. Dreamscapes has come up to give the above shops competition, towards Saligao. Branches of HDFC and SBI face each other, their ATMs being the cause of many a traffic jam.

            From the Porvorim circle, there is a posh gymnasium, a BATA showroom that’s bigger than any I’ve seen in Mumbai or Delhi, and better loaded, too. With parking space!! The eateries here are attracting locals and tourists alike. Why, there’s even a paan-wallah so we can add spitting to our garbage woes. The signs of our civilization. Fruit-stalls, sugarcane-juice vendors and bhelpuri sellers have shown enterprise and I don’t need to depend on Mapusa/Panaji for those goodies. Thanks to the horticulture department, the CHOGM road boasts of a vegetable outlet, too. The little ‘bars and restaurants’ flourish as do the egg-curry and bread stalls, as indicated by the clusters of two-wheelers around them.

            Still, in spite of the activity, few know the road’s name nor its historical significance. It’s not yet been given a heritage tag.

            It’s high time roads like these had pavements/footpaths. People walking along them are at risk of being hit by cars. And drivers sometimes have a difficult time manoeuvring out of a difficult driving situation because of the narrowness of the road at places. It can only get worse. The only alternative is to have an efficient public transport system to bring down the number of vehicles. This government had mumbled something to that effect, let’s see what happens.

            Like the CHOGM, few people on the streets hereabouts know about IFFI although the papers have been covering it a lot. I take the bus from the national highway, and then the ferry to commute to and from Panaji. I asked fellow passengers about IFFI, and those who had heard of it confidently told me that one could see ‘cinemas’ there. Correct, but they were few. Considering that many well-wheeled people travel along CHOGM road to IFFI, as they do from Margao/Vasco/Ponda/Mapuca, perhaps for future festivals, some indicators should be put here about the event so that the aam junta knows what’s happening. And of course, somewhere, something should be put up about what CHOGM is… and make sure no one pastes a poster on it.

            IFFI, as always, has been a nice experience. For me, it’s armchair travelling, to see how people live in other countries, how film-makers represent events (like wars, religious atrocities) and human interactions (“Sister”, “Elles”). That people travel year after year to Goa not for the beaches or temples but for this festival, from India and from abroad, has shown how popular IFFI has become.

            If it wasn’t for IFFI, I might not have met Anushka, possibly Goa’s first woman conductor in a private bus. Plump, pleasant, usually dressed in a black sari, she guides people politely and happily on bus number 4470 that runs from Miramar to Porvorim. She doesn’t let me know what drove her to this job, only says that she didn’t see why she couldn’t do it, so she took it up. Ten hours of hard work, and surprisingly not much curiosity from the passengers. Only one other woman besides me asked her anything at all. Shows that Goans (of a certain strata and outside their homes) really do accept gender equality quite easily.

            The next exciting thing that’s going to happen in Goa is the Litfest at the International Centre. Waiting eagerly for it.

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Newcomers To The Hood.

(18 Nov 12)

            Ever since Pussy Wotsername got pregnant yet again, the husband’s been very caring and nice to her. I was nice to her even before she got in the family way. She lives downstairs and shamelessly accepts goodies from us. Her thank yous are translated into leg rubs. She uses extracts of milk, fish and rats for the purpose. Now you know why we smell strange. Sometimes. 

This is her fourth pregnancy. The first time she delivered, I didn’t even get to see the little ‘issue’ as we call children in India. We were new to her neighbourhood, she was a young adult, unsure of herself and of us and we took time to adjust to each other. By the time we’d made friends, she had had a brood of three. She could not fend for them, so kind neighbours gave her leftovers. These three were the darnest creatures I’ve seen. They loved our car. Got inside, and refused to move when my husband was to leave for work. Once, he didn’t know that one of them was hiding inside until he was half way to work. He had to return and give an angry mouthful to the harassed mother to take better care of them. Of the three, two vanished, we don’t know how or why. We carried on feeding and sheltering mother and ‘issue’ until one day, I found its carcass draped cruelly across our gate. I have no idea how it had died. Nor why someone had kept its body so visibly, horribly on our gate. I gave it a decent funeral, and the mother eventually overcame her grief and resumed routine: breakfast, lunch, dinner, sleep.

Pussy Wotsername has a couple of lovers who quarrel bitterly with each other for her affection. It’s only after the babies arrive that we can guess who the latest paramour is. The fathers are ruffians, though, irresponsible, too. She looks after her off-spring all by herself. Sometimes with our help.

The third delivery took place in our neighbour’s terrace. The hue and cry was hushed. The two illegitimate little ones were whisked away, either for adoption or death, I was never to know. Strange that those who won’t touch the newly borns lest their eyes not open, can dispose them of and let their mother mourn endlessly for them.

This time, we fed and cared for her through the confinement. Her abdomen was huge. We weren’t going to be in Goa around the time of her deliver, so we made sure her corner was comfortable and protected from the rain. We returned to find her even huger, and crying piteously, obviously in labour pain.

Then she vanished. For two days and nights, there was no sign of her. And as suddenly returned, with six of the cutest babies I’ve ever seen.

Now I’m looking forward to them growing up, crawling in their unco-ordinated way up the stairs and down. The mother is already desperate to get rid of them from clinging constantly to her belly. My husband is prepared to park the car outside, for the kids have a habit of getting into it and refusing to get out. We step gingerly whenever we walk around in the dark for fear of trampling or injuring them.

I’m looking forward to watching them grow. The tiny paws and nails, the tails right now like thick strings, the eyes still shut, the sharp terrified mews that attract the mother’s attention instantly, all remind me how wonderful Nature is. The way Pussy Wotsername picks them up by the neck and transfers them from place to place for their safety: not one, not two, but SIX mewling brats that crows, dogs, bandicoots and their own fathers are wanting to chew and swallow. Life is hard for her as it is, they make it harder, and yet she devotedly, dutifully cares for them, fascinating me with her maternal instinct, ever protective, ever nurturing. I don’t know whether she can think like me. I don’t know whether she can think at all, though at times I believe she acts out of thought rather than instinct when a deviant child has to be brought back to the straight and narrow or when she teaches it to eat raw fish heads without choking.

Pussy Wotsername has taken over my life temporarily. I cannot understand people who don’t like animals.

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Helmets, Trees, and The Season Has Begun.

(4 Nov ’12)

             A thirty-year-old in our village died of head injuries. He was trying to overtake a vehicle when banged into a truck coming in the other direction. Unfairly, the driver of the truck has been arrested. This man’s motorcycle was just a few days old, one of those expensive, fast machines. No one taught him the basics of driving: you have to be in control of the vehicle, not the other way around, no matter how fast the vehicle is capable of going. Just because it can touch 150 kmph doesn’t mean you have to force it to. Not on our roads, not with our traffic. Unfortunately, it’s too late to tell him that. It’s also too late to tell him that the helmet is not meant to be worn on the wrist. This must be the only place in the world where two-wheeler drivers wear their headgear on their hands. I’ve seen this many times, even in front of uniformed cops, at signals. It would be funny if so many hadn’t died because of it. Our village mate was taken to the crematorium with half his face smashed. Couldn’t help feeling indignant that this was not nasheeb, this was a preventable fatality. 

            At Porvorim circle, many afternoons, there’s a traffic jam. One day, one lanky self-appointed do-gooder shouted into the phone, quite obviously speaking to some senior cop, about how everything had come to a standstill because there was no cop to guide the cars. A single cop has never been able to manage any junction in Goa. The drivers haven’t heard of patience. They creep slowly onto the road so that oncoming cars are blocked.   Or they reverse where they shouldn’t because they’ve parked wrongly (oh yes, even at corners, so that everybody’s inconvenienced). It’s fun watching people do the wrong things. One day I’m going to film them, making sure their number-plates are clearly noticeable. Don’t know whether that’ll make any difference, but the cops can raise funds for their annual function through fines, if they’re allowed to use such films as evidence.  Like when people overtake stationary vehicles that are stationary because something’s block. The overtaker gets to the right side of the road (wrong side to be in) and blocks the other side too. If it’s a Goa number-plate, all is forgiven. If it’s an outside number-plate, a quarrel ensues and some time is wasted before everyone adjusts. We’re no different from the rest of India.

            We had to cut two old wild trees in our plot even though it broke our hearts. Last year, one huge bough narrowly missed squashing our hut, warning us of what might happen if we don’t trim it. Trimming such large trees regularly is difficult because every time one has to take permission from the Forest Department and then one doesn’t get the labour for the job. The neighbours had been telling us for years and years that because of those two, the fruit trees weren’t fruiting, the flowering shrubs weren’t flourishing, indeed, nothing grew in their shadow. Their roots were eating into the well and were likely to destroy our hut, too, eventually. The neighbours were having a difficult time, too, apprehensive about something  suddenly falling on them. We have planted far too many trees in our little compound. Less sunlight, less space… reminds me of our country… overcrowded and underproductive.  Now, the villagers say, the gloom is gone and the sun and water will work its magic and trees that we’d planted some fifteen years ago will finally get a chance to grow.  Interesting explanation they gave: they said our trees were afraid of (bhiyetaat) the jungle ones. More interestingly, within days of being exposed to the open sky, they really have begun to look healthier and happier.  I learn much from these sons of the soil.

            The Season has begun. In Kashmir, Ooty, Rajasthan, and places in the world where local people depend on outsiders to buy their rooms, services, handicraft, food, there is a dramatic change in people and habitats before the ‘guests’ arrive. White-washing , roofs being repaired, linen being bought or laundered, and (in Goa) canoes, beach-beds and swimming gear being checked out are common sights. I have a problem with tourists who don’t listen to the life-guards where the sea is unforgiving. I don’t see why we shouldn’t penalize them heavily for disobeying the safety code. Those who Nature doesn’t kill and are saved by the life-guards should be made to pay… and be enrolled in compulsory swimming lessons.

            Which gives me an idea: those caught not wearing helmets should be made to do voluntary work for a specified time for neuro-patients who are being treated for or have had a disability following a bad head injury due to a road-accident. 

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Gas Cylinders and the KYC.

(22 Oct. ’12)

            My gas distributor and I have a problem with timing. When I book a cylinder, he doesn’t have a refill available… for weeks. When he eventually gets one for me, I’m not at home because he’s forgotten to inform me that the truck is coming on an ‘off’-day. Let me explain that: earlier, there was no booking a cylinder. If yours was over, you kept watch by the window. When you saw a gas-truck come by your village road, or heard a neighbour alert you, you waylaid it, paid off the driver and dragged the filled cylinder into your house.

Then someone like me came along and insisted on booking one. WTH, thought the staff, she’s increasing our paperwork. The truck which was supposed to visit my neighbourhood on Tuesdays, came at any day of the week, but if you asked, the answer was: “It goes (to) your side on Tuesday.” So  a resigned me got used to poking my head out of the veranda every time I heard gears grating. Sometimes it was a vehicle off-loading small black stones or sand for construction, at other times it was a fridge or washing-machine being delivered, and sometimes it was the gaswala.

I complained to the company about the mismanagement of service. It worked. The distributor treated me like a VIP.  I got my refill brought to my house in his private car!! There must have been many more like me, country-wide, for the company started IVR bookings. And one could track the delivery trail. Didn’t help at all in my village in North Goa. We still had to (have to) pester and prod to find out when one should take a ‘Casual Leave’ (love this term) to be home when the precious fuel arrived.

Last week there was panic in the colony. “The gas people aren’t taking bookings, they want documents,” someone shouted. Everybody rushed to the distributor and found to their horror, it was true. Ration cards were dug out, only to discover that names of present family members were missing. Connections were found to be in the names of ancestors dead the last thirty odd years. “What a hassle,” one lady cribbed. “I’ve given my address as the ancestral house, but I live here, two kilometres away.” So, I suggested, change the address. Where was the problem? “I want to keep the gas connection ‘alive’ there as proof of residence.” “Then apply for a second connection here, maybe in your child’s name,” I suggested. “I have one connection each for all my children. When they get married, will be useful, no?”

So I learned that some people store gas-connections to be given as wedding gifts. Is the assumption that the in-laws side cooks on wooden sticks?

For the first time since I came to this village, I felt bad for the staff of four in the distributor’s office. I’ve always had a silent suspicion that they siphoned off domestic cylinders to bars, restaurants, shacks and we uninfluential, not-willing-to-bribe types had to pay the price by waiting-chasing-grumbling. Of course, the fault lies not with them but with the distributor who believes, like the government of India, that professionalism is a western concept that will corrupt our bad old customs.

I felt bad for the staff because they were suddenly faced with hundred, no two hundred or more customers (“where did so many people come from?”) who initially stood patiently in a queue, then, as the sun got hotter, chewed their brains for comfort. The staff’s brains, the customers’ comfort.

I was warned by a concerned acquaintance that if I didn’t submit the documents by the end of the month, I’d starve. “I love my micro-wave oven,” I thought. And a newspaper advertisement said the most modern way to cook was to use an induction stove. But as an Indian who has lived only in India, I panicked. I took the documents for Xeroxing where the person at the counter pointedly asked: “For KYC?” It’s like breathing: everyone ‘does’ KYC.

After many minutes of standing in the queue, I read a notice pasted on the wall: submit documents only if you have multiple connections in the same house. Words to that effect. I confirmed that was true, and returned home, satisfied that I didn’t have to do anything more.

This morning, the lady who lives across the very narrow street said. “Never mind what they say, if you don’t have a KYC compliance stamp on your book, they’re not going to give you a cylinder.” She maybe right. These things happen. Tomorrow, I will keep shut my keyboard and monitor and join the queue again. Never mind the official notice, in Goa things work differently.@@@@@