Takes me
two-and-a-half hours from my home in the north to Canacona. The bus to Panaji
bus-stand picks up passengers every couple of minutes even before 8 am. It’s
‘jam-packed’. The need for more/better public transport would be noticed/realized
only if it was compulsory for senior officers and MLAs to travel by it.
The inter-city
shuttle is a dream, by Indian standards. People queue up for buying tickets,
for entering the bus and there are no standees allowed. At Margao bus-stand, I
see an unfamiliar sight: beggars.
My cousin
advises me to avoid the direct bus to Palolem village. He says: “…that takes
the longest route. Then, when it reaches the crossroad at Canacona, it turns
eastwards, goes a couple of kilometres on the road going towards Karwar before
returning and proceeding to Palolem. And the ticket costs ten bucks more.”
I take a Karnataka number-plated
steel monster that rattles less than our home-bred ones.
At
chaar-rasta, there is no ‘pilot’ or rickshaw to take me home. Everyone’s either
busy with the Ganesh festivities, or snoozing comfortably, secure in the thought
that the annual income will be earned after The Season begins. Why waste time
with bargaining locals when the easier-to-fleece gora-skinned tourists will
provide? The Ganesh-pandal occupying a corner vacant plot is serving free ‘satvik’,
vegan food to anyone who walks in to pray.
Just opposite its entrance is a booze shop doing flourishing business. A
‘scooterist’ stops by. He’s carrying on his vehicle, tied to the pillion-seat,
covered with a thick wet jute-cloth, a skinned animal with disjointed limbs not
yet chopped to bite-sized pieces. He takes time off to cover the flesh
completely with more wet cloth. So as to not offend the bhakts, maybe; or maybe
to keep it cool under the hot sun. Close by are some fisherwomen squatting on
the pavement, hawking freshly caught marine-life. Opportunist entrepreneurs
sell flowers, incense-sticks, coconuts and sweet prasad right beside them.
Customers flit from one to the other. Except city-bred me, none has given an
iota of thought to the multi-cultural/religious tolerance the lack of which I’m
reading about in the newspaper in my hand. The thought of banning
fish/meat/liquor in the vicinity of a popular and ‘strict’ God hasn’t occurred
to anyone here. Yet. Viva Goan villagers, I think.
Cousin and I
go to our lawyer’s office for some work. The staircase clings to the wall of
the building; almost as if it was added as an afterthought when someone
discovered there was no way to reach the first floor. There’s no electricity
and the office is sultry. I sit on the parapet of the balcony outside along
with other clients. The cement is crumbly. I hope the wall doesn’t give way
with my weight and that of the others’.
I can’t help
overhearing the conversation taking place behind me. Six men, dealing in
buying/selling property, are talking loudly. One tells the group: “… is a nice
chap. Pay him what he asks for and he’ll get you the property you want…
Portuguese house, church, temple, middle of the sea, anything…” I wonder
whether I’d get caught if I tried recording this on my phone. I don’t take the
risk. I also learn about those who lost money in the Ruby tragedy.
There is no
toilet or drinking water facility close by. We’re a hardy breed, can do without
many things. But photo-copying machines… the lack of those might create a riot.
The yellow and black ‘xerox’ brand is displayed every couple of yards. ‘Public telephone
booth’ and ‘STD’ signs are still seen around, though the relevant instruments
have long been dead.
Work over,
cousin and I return to the ancestral house. I use the last two words because
they sound impressive, better than ‘cottage’. I wonder what sort of a life my
great-grandparents lived, sans running water/electricity. I remember, my
shore-bred grandmother and aunts thought it silly to go and sit on the beach to
watch the sun go down or to play in the sand. As for adults prancing around in
the waves getting wet… the family elders weren’t alive to see the tourist boom
here…it would have reduced them to hysterical giggles. They would have
marvelled that people from across the oceans and rich Indian homes travel and
spend money to stay on the beach to ‘experience’ it.
I lunch on
excellent fare. The flesh of just-plucked home-grown coconuts grated and ground
to perfection with local red chillies and tamarind. The gravy is heated to
boiling point, not boiled/simmered after that. The fish, caught at dawn, is
sliced, marinated and fried keeping its moisture intact. No tourist will ever
eat anything like this… except in a Goan home. Away from table-mats and
cutlery. Away from service and other taxes. Away from what other tourists tell
you. Away from candle-lights and the beach.
I start the
homeward journey when the sun has just tilted westwards from directly above me.
The wait at the bus-stop is short. I settle down in a seat by the window. The
salty-breeze reminds me of the sea I rarely visit when I’m here. The stretch
called Paradise Beach now belongs to the tourists. And I’m not a tourist.
Feedback:
sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in
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