Village Life in Goa.

          Our family doctor in Panaji once said to me that he was a ‘metro-man’, who wouldn’t enjoy village life. As a person with multiple interests, he can’t afford to spare time from a busy practice to commute. Like him, there are many Goans who prefer urban amenities to rural living. We, who chose to make a village our home, find that we don’t miss the city, bless good connectivity. In fact, just a few days ago, our neighbourhood got a new mall, housing grocery stores, fashionable boutiques, fancy restaurants and cinema theatres. 

          “Never mind the traffic snarls outside it,” Shri Husband growled, grumbling above my shoulder as I type.

          Petrol pumps, shoe stores, white goods’ outlets, paint and hardware shops have brought the world to our panchayat borders.

          Some things haven’t changed. The poder’s honk, the fisherwoman’s cry, the bulls that are dragged to the field pre-dawn, women teaming up with sisters-in-law and friends to harvest alsandey… these ancient routines continue unchanged. So also the religious rituals, Hindu and Catholic, carried out by rote.

          Some things have. In corners where old (and now clogged) nalas meet tarred roads, drunks and druggies snuggle in the night. The cops might not know their secret hideouts, locals do. No one discusses where/how petty crime is born. They say cities are breeding grounds for crime. Really? Check out the backgrounds of the ISIS recruits.

Viva village life. Illegalities flourish. 95% of the housing isn’t approved by TCP: haphazard and with the quiet ok of the panchayat. Expensive gated communities attract reporters, make headlines, but pukka huts where laundry/ carpentry/ welding are done are as environmentally unfriendly. No activists talk about water-guzzling, mess-causing, noise-polluting ‘essential’ services that have stealthily taken over productive fields. Launderers and welders, carpenters and others live and litter where once stretched patches of alsanday/ tambdi bhaji. Apparently, I was told by a lawyer who provides free advice hereabouts, if someone complains to the panchayat about illegal constructions/activities, the culprits go to a higher authority and from court to court the matter proceeds draining everyone of time, energy, money, for a couple of generations.

          “Nothing new,” sniggered the ever-cynical Shri Husband over my shoulder. “Happens all the time, all over India, has been happening and will continue unless the people and the government both want a change.” Took me a couple of seconds to understand that statement. “Yeah,” I echoed. “Both people and the government.” Rare to have them (plus Shri Husband and me) on the same page, I guess.

          Villagers’ aspirations are interesting. I overheard a primary-school-aged boy tell another, ‘let’s play bus-bus’. He wanted to be the conductor so he could shout to passers-by ‘Mapsa-Ponnje-Mapsa-Ponnje’. Another person, long past childhood, was thrilled to get a bit of ancestral land so he could open a shack and ‘make money’. Professions: as waiters, maybe, or hotel housekeeping help. Vocations: as taxi-drivers. Occupations: preferably to play football/ carom/ do nothing at all. Selling well-water for swimming-pool consumption or opening yet another grocery store are ‘ideas’ that make their way into village homes.

          Ah, the charm of fishing after sunset: catching frogs (illegally again), romancing under the moon and mango branches… a perspective that slithers away when one discovers that squabbling neighbours had got together and twisted a newcomer’s arm to ‘donate’ a path/ lamp-post for them.  

          “Later,” Shri Husband said, “the same neighbours un-teamed themselves and went their own quarrelsome ways, right?” I agreed. Humans don’t change, whether in waddos, housing societies or continents. Some are friendly, some otherwise.

One experience: it took me some cajoling and chit-chatting with neighbours to discover where exactly the water-connection junction was buried when the ‘line’ was to be brought to my home. The assistant engineer at the PWD office couldn’t find his drawings (I wasn’t paying for his effort to trace them) and the plumber in-charge had selective amnesia (I wasn’t paying to revive his memory either) regarding this particular location. Eventually, it was a housewife who had her own pipeline fixed (illegally again) who disclosed the secret.

Come morning, the birds readying themselves for the day, the glowing bunch of coconuts ready to be plucked, the boy who eagerly aims and tosses the rolled newspaper over my gate, the stray dog that adoringly looks at me… remind me that life here is good. And then, I see the growing slum that’s causing as much damage (by comparative scale) as the def-expo and ask myself whether its dwellers/promoters pay taxes. The cars they own aren’t lower end. Don’t IT officials pay visits here?

          “Living in utopia or what?” Bai Goanna said when Shri Husband told her what I was writing.

          Over territory, over water, when panchs (pronounced ‘punches’) don’t get along, the fights are worthy of ticket-sale. “The history of the world is the magnified history of a village,” I said loftily.

          “Not your original quote,” quipped Shri Husband.

          “Apt nevertheless,” I retorted.       

          We can’t have a world cultural festival here, but we do have our own bhajan-mandali which advertises its talents through posters and leaflets. They say people come from afar to witness the events held in the temple close by. And eat the free prasad distributed subsequently.

          The villagers are happy. Real estate dealers are going around telling prospective customers ‘our village nicest’. Someone’s making money, no one’s grumbling, the garbage piles increase. The garishly-coloured flats/ apartments/ blocks/ complexes have come up fast: proof that the dealers are believed and doing a good job. Commission economy zindabad.

          The other day, someone asked me whether I missed city life. No. My answer was instant. Plucking self-grown, sun-ripened fruit and watching the antics of mongoose babies gives a high that city-life doesn’t. In spite of flaws, village life rocks.

          “Add…” Shri Husband said and I did: “…Our family doctor doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in