Why I No Longer Eat My Lunch Near Miramar Beach

          Shri husband wants to know why twice a week I don’t have lunch at home.

“Can’t,” I say, avoiding the ‘why’. Like all men, Shri husband doesn’t take ‘because’ for an answer.

“Why not?” he asks. Pester-master, that’s what he is.

“You don’t understand,” I say patiently.

“Try explaining,” he says. Bully.

I try: on those fixed days (that he’s talking about), I go somewhere near Dona Paula to teach young adults how to speak and write stuff that’s acceptable to ‘industry’. On my return, the shortest route home takes me on the road parallel to the sea-shore. Pretty Arabian sea to my left, expensive abodes to my right. After crossing the Science Centre, it takes me about an hour to reach Miramar Circle, some hundred odd metres away. That’s when I feel hungry, where I have my tiffin. 

“Why should it take you an hour?” Shri husband probes.

I good-naturedly continue: the timing coincides with a school in the vicinity getting over. Children, mothers, drivers, teachers, amble around. Goodbyes are waved, homework-not-done discussed, birthday party invitations given and accepted, absent guardians gossiped about. Lots happens.

“What’s the connection between them and your delay in coming home?”

Cars come to pick them, I say, road gets blocked.

They would be parked at one side, he says.

I concur. Cars are (double-)parked at one side of the road, some protruding at peculiar angles. Solid geometry and calculus could be taught outdoors as places like these. No need to imagine the impossible: the Dept of Tourism can sell tickets to anyone interested in witnessing tangible chaos.

“Isn’t there a cop? Aren’t there school-buses? Don’t people car-pool? Don’t they use the skywalk?” at times I suspect Shri husband’s IQ’s lower than mine.

“Of course, of course,” I reply, countering him point by point: “There is a cop. He’s permanently on the verge of breaking down nervously. Once one parent told him to tell another to move her/his car. He passed on the message. The second parent turned around and told the complainant to go forth and have children or words to that effect.”

“Oh,” says Shri husband, flummoxed.

“There are school-buses as well, parked diffidently near the gate. Anyone exiting or entering them has a complex that s/he isn’t commuting in a fancy ride. And that s/he has parents with an unmentionable quality: civic sense.”

“Ah,” says he, comprehending somewhat. Slow is his motto, sometimes steady.

“Using a car-pool is like dreaming about a famous wink-eyed yoga teacher. Gross. But there are citizens who don’t mind the demeaning, belittling aspects of sharing four wheels.” 

Shri husband’s eyes moisten at the thought of such dutiful young parents. “India’s got hope,” he mutters.

I carry on, encouraged by his emotions: “The skywalk’s one wasted project. The little ones, bogged down by those heavy bags… how did the government even think that they could climb those stairs? I mean, just think of their little legs...”

Sri husband becomes his mean persona once more: “What’s wrong with their legs? Haven’t they two of their own? Can’t they walk? Can’t mother-darlings or driver-uncles or they themselves carry the bags? Surely the older students/siblings can help out sometimes?”

“You’re detached from reality,” I counter. “Walking is so passé. Children these days may waddle if they must, like whilst going from television to toilet.”

“What if…” when Sri husband’s in this mood, there’s no knowing what he’ll ask. “… it’s made compulsory for school-students to travel by school-buses?”

What if my grandfather gets the Bharat Ratna, I think. Aloud I say: “There’ll be dharnas and protests right till Delhi. It’s every snob-child’s birth right to move around on wheels.”

“We walked, our son walked,” Sri husband is stuck in a time-warp. Convincing him is a waste of breath.

“If you can’t do anything about the blocked road, take a detour,” he concludes in his sternest I-must-get-my-way voice.

So that’s how I now take the inner road that passes through Tonca. The consequences of the school traffic are felt there, too, though less. But there’s no pretty place nor longish halt where I can eat my tiffin. I miss the frolic of the obnoxious few showing off the misdemeanours of their untameable bhurgee. I miss the spirit of a school that proclaims to the world that its stakeholders are irredeemable. Most of all, I miss having my tiffin in the car, near the beach. I’m home for lunch.

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in

No Lights on My Car

          Poilee the government took away the tint from my car’s windows and now it says I can’t put a light on top. I loved all the lights on my car-top. I’ve removed them now because I’m a law-abiding Goan. I had devised a way of blinking them one at a time or all together, depending on my mood. Solid my car looked, like a disco on wheels.

When I put the red one on all the other vehicles screeched out of the way. Some cops saluted and no-body dared cross the road.

When I used the blue and yellow swivelling one, I’d sing neele-neele amber pe… at the top of my voice. All cops saluted me; some bystanders, too.

The pure blue bulb I removed. Not nice to imitate an ambulance. Might bring bad luck, I thought, what if some dying patient put a curse on me. Worse, if the patient got better, he or his mogachi might take revenge by releasing the varo from my tyres. Why take a chance? Like that I’m bhitrey haan.

I couldn’t pretend my car was a hearse because in Goa at least we don’t have red hearses. Don’t know about other places. Don’t know if hearses have lights on top because they’re never in a hurry. Or shouldn’t be. What if the dead (wo)man is a VIP? Maybe then they put a red light on temporary basis.  Must check.

Man In My Life (MIML) heard me grumbling to myself. “What are you going to do now? You’re not a VIP, no red light, nothing,” he said.

I gave back: “Government can make rules, poon haanv aikataa kai kitein,  haanve kitey kelaa zaanna… I took an idea from the truck-wallas. I strung purple, red and green fairy lights on my (oops, sorry, my car’s) fenders.  From the Jai Mata Di types I maroed another idea: I tied on the windows and the outer mirrors golden-bordered orange cloth festoons. And I’ve installed this fantastic horn, men, can make you deaf at half-volume.”

MIML said: “Just because you’ve dressed the car like a Bollywood item ….” And then he started laughing. (I think he’s jealous of my ideas).

Forget truck, I retorted. I know how to get my car to look respectable. I said: “I will get ‘Army’ written on my back number plate. I haven’t seen any with Coastguard/ Postal Services written on them. Maybe there’s a law against that and I’m law-abiding.” I got ‘Army’ painted neatly, visibly, before MIML said anything else.

Whilst I was at the garage, I thought I might as well get ‘Press’ painted on the front number-plate. In red and in capitals: PRESS.

Looked quite impressive, I thought, should be able to enter any enclosure at any event.

It was much later that I added the doctor’s insignia. Nowadays the simple red cross won’t do, you have to have those snakes going around some dagger/sword-like thing. Not difficult to find; I asked around and got a sticker. Dotoralee gaadee means I can park where I want, not many people will question me. I chant “Emergency” like a magic mantra. Everybody stands around in awe, staring, hoping some television-type excitement will happen. Bedecked car can bend rules.

Today I’ve added the lawyer’s black and white bow-tie sticker right next to the doctor’s one. So if I’m stopped for something, I can say I’m either a doctor or a lawyer. (Our cops will get stressed out trying to figure out who the owner is. Or impressed.)

Can’t leave religion out. I’ve got stickers for both Sai Babas, two ‘oms’ of different sizes and one ‘devak kaalljee’. Oh yes, one metal kurees to hang from the rear-view mirror with a Hanuman in an aerial dance-pose for company. Inside I have magnetic murtis of Mangeshi-Shantadurga – cultural necessity.

Best of all, I have installed fog-lights. Those bluish-white ones, zaannaa, that all the Mercedes, Audis, BMWs and other Big Money cars in Goa and neighbouring states have? They can effectively blind any driver in any weather. I don’t know whether there’s any rule regarding them, but who will enforce it? See, be practical, you can’t catch car after car after car, no? Plus, my number plate is also single digit. Shows Paid-Money status immediately.

Having loud music coming from every corner of the interior and saare jahaan se acchaa linked to the reverse gear helps.

There are so many ways to shows who’s the boss. Never mind the red lights.

(Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in)

Cops and Tinted Windows.

          Read in the papers that police will now charge a fine for tinted glasses. Where they get these ideas from I don’t know. Solid 2000 rupees, men, all money-making business. It was ok when it was 100 bucks, like, we didn’t mind so much. In fact, if we were 3-4 friends in the car, we used to share the fine, 30-40 bucks each. Then we would pool in some more money and buy a new dark film to put on the window. Can’t stand the sun otherwise, re.

But now, 2000 bucks I will have to pay. I just put new-new glass windows on my car, nice dark brown colour and all.

What to tell you, I’ve also fitted a new number plate which I got written in Devnagri. It reads ‘dada’ from a distance. Actual number is 5151. Real fancy, borey poishe dilley tya manshaak, got it done from a graphic-artist. For that also they’re saying fine will be 2000 rupees. Which means I’ll have to have a new number plate. Someone said it’s not a new rule. Am I supposed to know all the rules?

Goa’s going to the dogs, I tell you.

First how it was, rules were there, but when the policebaab found out who you were, from his wife’s sister-in-law’s village, that you knew his cousins, he’d slap you on the back (not hard, haanh, just small tap) and laugh and say, “Potte kor naakaa” and we could move on. There was no trouble. Everybody was nice. No one really worried whether you wore a helmet, had a licence, drank alcohol. Accidents happened anyway… people die when their time comes, no? What can a helmet do against God’s will, tell me? Now there’s too much of… don’t do this, don’t do that.

Newspapers say less people are driving fast on Miramar stretch; now people are fast-riding on Siolim Bridge, papers say. How you can stop people from driving fast? Why should people not drive fast? If you are a walker and you feel it’s dangerous, you don’t walk near the road, go somewhere else. You feel it’s dangerous for me? What goes of your father if something happens to me? Is this a democracy or not? We drivers have our rights, no? What’s the connection between driving fast, tinted windows and fancy number-plates?

Don’t teach me what happens abroad. We’re in Goa, ok? We have our own culture here.  It’s because of the outsiders that things are changing.

Nowadays, people have become complaining types. In our village, some young boys stole someone’s pineapples and mangoes. That was bhurgem-ponnachee mastee. We knew who did it. In fact, they did this year after year to many people. But we never complained. Little bit bad things everybody does, what is there to complain? All these new people, some are Goans only, who have stayed outside the state, they go and make bowaall of small-small things. “Somebody scratched my car.” “Somebody took away my gold bangles.” First, the police used to say: “Why make fuss, you only find out from the village who did it and sort it out amongst yourselves.” Now they take everything seriously, men, write FIR and all.

Also, I don’t like it when papers give credit to bhailey ghaatis for everything. Our own village boys do smart robbery and some people say outsiders did it. I say, give credit where it’s due.

Coming back to the fines for tinted windows: I’ve heard they aren’t going to allow VIPs to put red lights on top of their cars. Then how will we know who’s a VIP? Tomorrow they’ll say, you can’t paint your car with spots, stars or stripes.

I want special status for Goa. The rules that apply to the rest of the country should not be forced on us. We’re different. I say first try the rules on the bhailley, then on the Goans. But who’s listening?

Things are really not like before. First we were told “don’t throw garbage here”, “don’t park there” and now this “don’t have tinted glass windows”, “don’t have fancy number plates”.

When I mentioned this to a friend, he said something about res-pawn-civility. He tried to explain that word to me (correct spelling res-pon-sibility). He is no longer my friend.

I went back to the shop to change the tinted glass and number-plate on my car. Guess what, the guy charged me double!! Any excuse to make a quick buck. We Goans are like that only.

At least it will save me the fines.

(feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in)

Two-Wheeler Meets Tanker

         All motorized two-wheelers in Goa are called bikes. Irrespective of make, engine capacity, condition of road, or driver’s ability, they are driven as fast as their unserviced condition allows them to be driven. Since they can be manipulated through the four-wheelers, there’s an unwritten but popularly followed rule that they can overtake from the left, right, centre, through dividers and via pavements. When they come out from by lanes, the rushing main-road traffic must beware and brake if required. If you thought the main road traffic had right of way, you have another think coming.

         When a ‘biker’ sees a way to overtake a vehicle, something in his brain tells him he must take it. This is true about tourists who rent the bikes and Goan owners, too. Must be something in our tambdi maati. In the event there’s a bigger vehicle coming the other way, the adrenalin encourages him/her to race passionately towards it in fourth gear. Quite often, our ‘biker’ gets his/her way, broadly or narrowly missing obstacles like on-coming trucks/tankers. The thrill of having ‘achieved success’ is exhilarating. Chances are that the biker will do it again. Been there, done that, stupid years ago. Won’t let anyone do it, ever, if I can help it. Metal fenders kissing anything at high speed is the kiss of death. I was lucky. It has taken life or limb of people; the chance isn’t worth taking.   

         The 15-year-old (may her soul RIP) who recently died of crushed injuries to her crushed organs was at fault. She couldn’t have had a licence. Nor the sense to follow road-safety rules. A day later, on Mandovi Bridge, the car in front of us ran over a helmet that had tumbled its way. The car wasn’t going fast. The helmet was broken to pieces, its thermocole insides split, advertising its poor quality. Thankfully, the biker’s head wasn’t in it. Because he hadn’t strapped it on. Many bikers use straps to connect their helmets to their wrists or bike handles.

         To change this culture, to prevent gory loss of valuable young lives, we need to involve students of class VI to IX. Children at this age are capable of handling the responsibility of guiding traffic outside their institutions before and after school-timings. The Road Safety Patrol (RSP) in Mumbai used to (perhaps still does) do a brilliant job of sorting out the mess their parents and other adults made. The students can wear clearly seen and identifiable lapels/badges/cords, red and green flags for signalling and whistles.  A brief course in traffic handling will pay its dividends immediately. It will take the load off the cops. Better, in the years to come, these students will be responsible drivers.

Regarding protective head-gear. Who gives the licences to manufacture poor quality stuff? Helmets, like plastic bags and bottles and medical equipment, must be only of good quality.

         There is a connection between bad road behaviour and physical activity. If children, young ‘uns and adults, too, have a means of expending energy elsewhere, they are less likely to be aggressive on roads. So walk, cycle, take the stairs, work out the cardio-vascular or meditate and dissipate that energy. (This is my belief, if anyone thinks otherwise, sue me.)

         Those who complain in my presence about parking woes and traffic snarls get my dose of questions and responses: why do you use your car/bike? Take a bus. Are the buses uncomfortable? The autos/taxis expensive? Make a noise, hold a morcha/dharna, crib to the ministers, throw tantrums, get public transport workable, have more village level shuttles… or shut up. Most people I know, when I begin this rant, change the topic. Which means they really don’t want a change. Which means it doesn’t matter if the traffic is bad and drivers worse. Which means a 15-year-old’s death is just another headline, not a big deal. Except to the tanker/truck driver who is beaten by villagers, taken into custody and interrogated by the State. He is at the other end of the spectrum who, along with his bus-driving brethren, believes the road is their baapaalo.   Since we can’t have an RSP along highways inhabited by large gaadyo, we could perhaps have a VRSP (Village RSP) in Goa? Employ retirees. Let the rumour spread that irresponsible driving won’t be tolerated in our pot-holed, speed-breaker punctuated road.

         Else GMC must get ready with an efficient cadaver organ-transplant program. Would make an effective statement in a medical tourism brochure. And an extremely sad one.