A board near The International Centre at Dona Paula points to
‘Machado’s Cove’. Narrow lanes crookedly find their way to the banks of the river
Zuari below. The area resembles any ‘residential colony’ in the newer
localities of growing Indian towns like Ghaziabad near Delhi, or Nashik in
neighbouring Maharashtra or even the outskirts of Guwahati in the Far East. Oversized,
ostentatious bungalows (‘villa’ is the contemporary word for bungalow) squeeze
out every permitted square foot to build upon. Some have two floors, some
three. Most have sloping roofs to deal with the heavy rains here. Unexceptional
are the ornate gates. Garishly painted walls shared by neighbours chew up the
edges of the grit-surfaced, badly scarred roads. Adolescent trees, standing awkwardly
at irregular intervals, strive to stretch their sickly, lanky limbs towards the
azure summer sky. Come monsoons, they get covered in baby leaves. Post October,
they’re stark again.
The difference between the architectural mongrels in other States
and Goa is that these are the ‘second’ or holiday homes of the rich from Delhi, Ahmedabad or
Mumbai. Their owners, the ‘landlords’, seldom live in them, though their relatives
and friends occasionally come to stay during the holiday season or over weekends.
A few villas are tenanted by people who have jobs in nearby Panaji. The
majority are generally kept locked, unless briefly rented out, and looked after
by ‘caretakers’ (no one uses the word servant any longer) like Bhadoor and his
family, who live on the premises in tiny independent, individual sheds called ‘quarters’.
Plots without caretakers can be identified by the piles of unattended garbage
dumped in them. ‘Bhadoor’ is a colloquial corruption of the name Bahadur; every
watchman or servant is Bhadoor, irrespective of his real name.
In bygone years, one tracked an address by mentioning the name of a
house-owner; for example: “… take a left at Babu Naik’s house..”. Later,
numbered plots in sectored blocks made it easier to give directions. But even
now many people give directions using landmarks instead of numbers: “… take a
left at the pink villa after the pharmacia next to the chapel.”
Rarely does anyone get lost, though, thanks to the mobile phone.
Everyone has one, even a servant (sorry, caretaker) like Bhadoor, who cleans
and maintains four villas and their gardens. Every other month he gets a call
from one or other of the landlords, checking on payments of bills, or telling
him to be hospitable to some friends who would be holidaying there during such
and such week. He gets his salaries on time, a couple of thousands per kothi (that’s ‘villa’ in servant-lingo)
per month. He doesn’t need to moonlight any longer.
Back in the ‘eighties, when most of the kothis hadn’t been built and he didn’t have an election card,
Bhadoor used to earn some extra bucks cutting onions at the chorao-pao, sausage-and-bread stall. Today
this snack, like the beef cutlet, is obsolete: most of the owners and visitors
are non-beef-pork eating. Even the mention of such meats is blasphemy. What
flourishes is bhel, the Mumbai
version of Delhi’s
savoury, roadside snack, chaat. To
eat xit-kodi, the ethnic, staple meal
of curry and rice, one has to go to Panaji.
One solitary, busy stall, tucked in the centre of the colony, does
good business selling rajma-chawal, red
kidney-beans and rice, a cheap, filling and nutritious meal. The stall is
actually a caretaker’s quarters being misused. The owner of that property
hasn’t been here in years and, unchallenged, that caretaker, now considered an
established entrepreneur rather than a trespasser, has taken possession of a
chunk of the plot and employed migrant lads to do ‘home-delivery’. His fare is
as popular with workers as it is with ‘guests’, the visitors who come on
holidays.
The arrival of a ‘guest’ is preceded by a flurry of activity in and
around a kothi. Caretaker-belongings
lying around in the kitchen, veranda or bathroom are removed. Bhadoor’s very
particular that no signs of his children’s clothes, shaving-samaan or trinkets are visible anywhere.
Then, windows are opened, the garden is weeded, furniture dusted, the fridge
stocked with drinking water, the linen aired, etc. ‘The Visit’ seldom lasts for
more than four days. Longer stays are welcomed because they mean a higher tip
at departure.
This latest sms has upset Bhadoor’s family. He reads it out yet
again to his wife, Sundari. His daughter, Resham, echoes the words to her
brothers, Rajoo and Guddoo, who snatch the instrument from him to read the
message for themselves.
In the thirty years that Bhadoor has lived in this ‘quarters’, the owners
have made rare but meticulous forays to check on their property. In the other
three villas where Bhadoor works, the quarters are used as store-rooms and kept
locked. (Rumours abound, not without reason, that unoccupied ‘open’ quarters
attract pimps and chors, rogues).
“Malik-malkin are going to stay here for the pooraay mahino? For a whole month? Chaay. Bad news. ”
“Could be zyaada. Maybe
longer. It seems malik has retired
and malkin wants to stay hinga. She loves the baareesh, the monsoon.” IMalik
means lord or boss. His wife is thus malkin.
“Why? Isn’t there paoos in
the rest of the muluk? Doesn’t it
rain in the rest of the country? Delhi mein? In Delhi?
What will happen to uppun log? To us?
Where are we going to sukhao the kapdey, dry the clothes?”
“Sukhaoing
clothes the least of our problems. Mummy, Guddoo and the four of us will have
to sleep in one kholi. In a single
room, think of that. Aadat choot gayee;
we aren’t used to it any longer.”
The servants (sorry, caretakers) in and around Dona Paula speak an
indigenous mix of many tongues: Hindi, Marathi, English, Nepali, Kannada and
Konkani. The vocabulary is restricted and at first it sounds familiar but
incomprehensible; one gets used to the accent and words within a day. It’s a dialect
that’s evolved and used right down through Nagalim till Taleigaon’s Sao Paulo market and
beyond till St Cruz. Catch a bus from the Ferry till University and you’ll hear
all versions of it: some sprinkled with Rajasthani, some with Malayalam. For two
generations of bhailley, ‘outsiders’
who have settled here, the quarrel over standardization of Konkani’s script and
status is irrelevant. They have borrowed words from it and incorporated them
into their own mother-tongues. The migrant labourers’ interdependency for
survival has blended several languages. Each gardener, small-stall-owner,
sweeper and coolie has added something to this fusion. Sharing of resources - plumbing
and carpentry tools, water, rents – has led to a shared lexicon. Abuses lead to
quarrels, or vice-versa, as do the use of toilets and stolen job opportunities.
The nameless language that has been distilled from those experiences, effective
and accepted by locals, politicians, businessmen and labourers alike, is the
one that Bhadoor’s children speak.
“Hari is coming baygeen. Maybe
phalya-para. He’ll be here in a dees or two, for his naukri. He’s got a job offer, and we
said he could stay hinga, here with
us, remember?” Hari is a village mate from far off Bihar.
Bhadoor’s house has been (still is) the platform from which many
young men like Hari have sought their fortune. In the last twenty-seven years, as
many lads have brought their brides, found themselves in quarters like
Bhadoor’s and settled here to raise their families. In time, their children
will follow Bhadoor’s children’s example and bring roshani, glory, to them. They
will cook and procreate in a single-room shed, but will make use of the vacant
verandas of the villa to sleep through velvet summer afternoons and tropical nights
abuzz with the malaria-macchars. They
will get used to running water and flushes in toilets. They will dream, aspire,
succeed.
Bhadoor barks: “No one can stay with
us whilst the malik-malkin are here.
We’ll make some other arrangements for Hari. I’ll ask Jabbar if his kholi is free. I could pay him some
money. Hari can repay me later. Now… Sundari, get the place clean by today.
None of our things, ek bhi cheez nahin, should
be seen here. Samajhi na? Am I
clear?”
Sundari whimpers and slinks away,
duster and broom in hand. But Rajoo, the eldest, is quivering to snap. Where
will he park his bhel-puri cart? He’s
invested in it with the money he’s saved from his job as a scuba-diving helper
at a five-star resort.
“Take it to someone else’s compound for a couple of days,” Bhadoor
tells him. “Be discreet.”
Rajoo curses audibly under his breath
Bhadoor sternly reminds him: “This isn’t our ghar. It’s the malik’s home.
If someone tattles to him that we’re parking your cart here, we could get
thrown out.”
Rajoo-Guddoo-Resham consider the villa their home. They have played
and slept in the rooms on the ground floor— perhaps with caution, yet without
qualms.
Guddoo, who sells zips to tailors
and purse-makers, reasons: “… Rajoo, when the malik or malkin are here,
I have to find a place for my things, too.”
“I hate staying in quarters.”
Resham pipes in: “It’s free, no rent,
remember?”
The pragmatic Resham is a self-trained
beautician. She goes to her clients’ homes to cut hair, apply henna, wax limbs, massage feet… charging
much less than her competitors. She’s picked up a smattering of English from
her foreign customers, and learnt to be hygienic and meticulous. Like her bhais, her elder brothers, she is
ambitious and wishes to have her own shop. Unlike them, she is not rough.
Silently, tidily, she places in a metal trunk, hair-driers, brushes of various
shapes and bristles, long-handled combs, clips, small towels, plastic gowns, an
array of bottles and jars, spatulas, and other paraphernalia. This corner of
the villa’s kitchen is hers. When visitors come a-holidaying she moves her
things back into the quarters.
Bhadoor allows her to keep the chawee,
the key to the back-door of the kothi
which leads into the kitchen. He trusts her. She won’t misuse anything. She
sometimes drinks cold water from the fridge, but that, most people agree, is
allowed. Resham secretly gives the key to her brothers if they want to use the
bathroom for a hot shower or a fancy shave, maybe once or twice a week.
The siblings don’t dare use the bedrooms or the cupboards like some
of the other caretakers’ children. Bhadoor will thrash them to bits if they
did.
Today, Resham refuses to give Guddoo the key. “Not when malik is expected. Ask Bapuji,” she says.
Sundari, still whining and grumbling, is half-heartedly sweeping the
drive and portico.
Until malik and malkin return to Delhi, Bhadoor will have to make arrangements
for his sons. Surreptitiously, of course; if they get caught staying in another
villa’s quarters without the knowledge of that landlord, there could be a
police case. His livelihood depends on trust and his reputation on word of
mouth.
He overhears snippets of conversation and discovers that his family
has not been obeying him as they should.
Sundari: “No gas to cook on. Hurry
up, book one. And go and buy some
kerosene and collect some wood. We have to start the choola for ourselves. Hai
Ram, I’ve got a headache .” So Sundari’s been cooking on the gas, then?
Resham: “Shouldn’t we clean the
house first? They’ll be here in two days. We can’t leave any nishaani, any signs of us, right?”
An agitated Bhadoor wonders, which nishaanis? Where? Why? How?
As if in answer, he hears her say: “We haven’t used their things, we
haven’t slept on their beds, our mattresses and chattaees we can roll up and carry back to the quarters.”
He sighs, relieved. Then wonders again, were the ac or fans ever used?
The electricity bill would give them away.
Rajoo: “The
bathroom on the ground floor has my bottle of perfumed hair oil on the sill.”
Guddoo: “I hope you didn’t touch
anything else… malik notices the
levels of the shampoo and after-shave and …everything, everything.”
Rajoo: “You mean the daroo? Haven’t even smelled the whiskey.”
Resham: “The fridge has to be cleaned. Go buy the
eggs, butter, milk, tea, sugar. I’ll check the bathrooms, windows,
washing-machine. Go.”
Bhadoor is afraid. If his family has
used what belongs to the kothi, if
they get thrown out … the monsoons are unforgiving to the unsheltered … besides,
there’s no going back to his village in far-off Bihar.
His children have no memories of it. His own are dilute and remote.
Once, about five years ago, malik discovered that they’d been using
the ‘landline’. The bill had the numbers on it. They got away with one big
tantrum, several nagging reminders of the incident, plus a deduction from their
salary.
After that, they have been careful. Or so Bhadoor has believed until
now.
Contrary to the meaning of his name, the Brave One, Bhadoor is
afraid to know the truth. Keep quiet, he feels, and the troubles will go away.
Routinely, for a small commission, a taxi-driver friend is informed
to pick up guests from Vasco or Karmali and then show them the sights, take them
shopping and dining through the duration of their stay. Bhadoor and his wife
keep the guests comfortable whist the trio, Rajoo-Guddoo-Resham stay away.
Can’t question the children now, Bhadoor figures. He hopes his
family will be responsible enough to not sully his name.
The day malik-malkin arrive,
the trio is nowhere to be seen.
Later, Guddoo phones Bhadoor: “We have rented a hut on the slope.”
On the other side of the Bambolim plateau, where the road sharply skids down to
the Taleigaon fields, there are big buildings with hundreds of apartments.
“We’ll manage the rent,” Guddoo assures him, “We have our jobs.
Also, Rajoo and I can wash cars. Resham can get more clients here.” Bhadoor is
relieved, and proud of his offspring.
The crowded hutment skirting the road is encircled by smelly slush,
unlike the cleaner surroundings of the colony. Still, it’s a place where
there’s no bhook-bali, where a person
can earn his bread.
For the entire month Bhadoor-Sundari slog. They clean the
water-tanks, execute a new layout for the garden, and shop, chop, sweep and mop
till their sinews ache. The blank hours are spent in the kitchen, standing or
squatting, waiting, waiting, waiting to be called… to make tea or search for
some long-forgotten curio or ‘hurry-up and start cooking’ for yet another
noisy, drunken dinner with faces new and familiar. The owners party every
evening.
Two days before departure, the malik
hands over a sheaf of papers to Bhadoor.
“Xerox copies,” he says. “I’ve sold this place. Someone will come to
collect these.”
“A new malik? Bhadoor asks, tremblingly,
hesitatingly: “What about us? Where
will we go? What will we do? The monsoons…
this place, this shed behind the kothi
is the only home we’ve known.”
“How can I say? The new owner will decide. He may want someone else.
You’re old, Bhadoor, you should retire. You’ve been loyal and good to me. Here,
take this.” He gives him enough cash to tide over six months.
Sundari weeps silently when he tells her what has happened. They are
just a twenty minute walk away from the children, but they prefer to use the
phone to give them the news. Resham gets emotional, but the boys say: “You
always said it isn’t our home, Bapuji.
We can all stay in this hut here. We’ll manage.”
A week after malik-malkin have
gone, the blanket of melancholy enveloping Bhadoor gets mouldy. He won’t move,
he won’t eat, he won’t consider looking for another quarters. Other caretakers
comfort him: “There are other kothis…anyone
will take an honest man like you.” “We’ll find you something, don’t worry.” “You
have two adult sons. Let them look after you.”
But, Bhadoor is not asked to move out.
To the new malik-malkin who
come to stay immediately after the old ones have left, he is like the moody
water-pump that need not be replaced; like the repaired wall that protects and
guards in spite of the scarred plaster, the memento of a drunken young man who
had smashed his father’s new car to its grave, and his, some years ago. He has
been around before the faded, jaded, brittle moulded-plastic chairs that stand
higgledy-piggledy on the terrace were bought. Like the crumbling woebegone
terracotta statue standing sentinel over the rusty pillar at the entrance, the
righteous Bhadoor is an antique to be inherited. He gives the owners a sense of
continuity, security, belonging.
“Goa’s really different,” the new malkin
tells her friends. “The people are so-o nice. Our Bhadoor, for instance…”.
Neither Bhadoor nor their house, their neighbourhood, their experience, is
different from any in a colony in Noida or Aurangabad.
They have fallen in like with Goa
because here they can wear loose blouses and shorts, drink without disapproving
glances from in-laws, sleep late and through the day be waited upon every
waking minute. Because it’s a fashionable place to park one’s extra money.
Money that knows no boundaries, cultural or geographical.
The very day the new owners leave, Rajoo-Guddoo-Resham return.
“Bapuji,” they excitedly
tell Bhadoor. “There’s so much happening in the markets. Let Hari get his
brothers over. The vegetable-sellers need helpers. Here in the colony we get no
news at all.”
“Where will they stay?”
“People share huts. Share rents and save money.”
Sundari wants her brothers to come, too. “But let them stay in
quarters, not huts.” She wants them to be, like Bhadoor, dependent on maliks for shelter, but not ghulams, no longer slaves to poverty.
Like in the ill-planned residential colonies sprouting around Coimbatore, Indore, Bangalore and Cuttack,
so also in Dona Paula, name-plates may change, but the houses stay put. As do
the Bhadoors, the indispensable accessory that comes with them.
“… where do you get servants
like him nowadays?” New malkin, new
terminology. The caretaker is dead. Long live the servant.
