Two Designers and Visiting Posh Goa.

                                                             (17 Feb ’13)

            Friend and fellow writer Fatima (known as Fats though she weighs less than 40 kgs) requested me to look after two young women who were coming to my neighbourhood from Vasco. The sister-in-law of one of these women was the friend of Fats’ daughter’s colleague, which meant they were ‘known’ (vollkheecheen) and therefore welcome to share lunch and use the loo in my home. Fats hadn’t met them, nor knew what they looked like, but as everywhere in India, ‘known’ people are to be treated like family, ‘specially in small places. That’s how Ramaa and Shradhha, talented designers of The Jade Collection came into my life. Juggling home, toddlers, challans, tailors, artwork, cloth-merchants, packers, delivery trucks and posh boutiques is what they do for a living. What’s more, the store they were (are) supplying to was near my home and the manager of that store happened to be the daughter of another writer and friend George Menezes. More ‘known’. This Indian trait of accepting the ‘knowns’ into one’s private world has enriched my life.

            From Ramaa and Shraddha I discovered well-hidden aspects of Goan women. Women of means. Who wish away their wardrobe-contents at a whim and order The Jade duo to conjure up more contemporary stuff. Shopping-challenged me was impressed.  The other big customers were those with family weddings coming up. Now designer outfits look really nice on racks and shelves in shops, but I wondered how big the wardrobes of those women of means might be to accommodate several such. My mind goes dizzy thinking of large plastic bags and naphthalene balls keeping away crisp brown ‘roaches and other less disgusting but more destructive crawlies. Those without domestic armies to lord over are happier with light-on-the-wallet and easily discarded, non-dry-cleanable, eco-friendly raste ka maal. Good thing everyone isn’t like me, otherwise creative, hard-working people like Ramaa and Shradhha would waste their talent like the desert flower that blooms unseen…

            My life is restricted to within two kilometres of where I stay and other than the internet and television, I have no contact with the outside world unless someone takes me out. Poor public transport keeps me wheels-deprived. So when another friend B and her husband took me and my man to a hotel near Morjim, I was excited. B and her husband belong to a community I have high regards for: they are BBRs. Book-Buying-Readers.

            I’d never been on this route before. I didn’t see too many signs in Russian, but the ambience reminded me of the Calangute belt in the ‘70s. We crossed a well-laid out ‘housing colony’, with fairly well-maintained homes and roads laid out at right angles to each other. Ah, the charm of uniformity. (In America, there are no surprises. Every corner has a number, every street a name. In Goa, our landmarks are so-n-so’s house, the place where once a jackfruit tree stood, or more recently bank ATMs, restaurants and lifestyle stores.) Other than that single ‘colony’, the rest of the landscape was as charming as I remember in my childhood memories.

      The hotel we went to was posh, new, beautiful, expensive (afterwards I was told compared to places in parts of Goa it was actually reasonable). It didn’t feel like India. The staff were well-trained and confident without being servile, the view fantastic (so typically Goan!!). The menu was international and authentic (this bit I depended on someone else’s judgement, but after months of watching Fox Traveller and other cookery shows, I think that someone’s correct). The guests present were polite, considerate, well-behaved (they’re getting increasingly difficult to find in Goa). The music, live on Sundays, was so good and played by a girl so young and pretty that I investigated to make sure no cd was secretly being played behind the curtains.

      Hotels are cropping up in this north Goan neighbourhood. Obviously, Big Money believes that tourism is likely to grow. I thought it was on the wane. I seem to be wrong.

      Every time I get a house guest, I see a new aspect of Goa. On my part, I take my guests away from the ‘routine’. I show them the Liveraria Central or Krishnadas Shama Grantha Sangrahalaya (sounds better than the Goa State Library) and, dead though it seems, the museum next door. On their part, my guests take me to places away from the beaten track… this column will feature them from time to time.

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Fourteen Years is a Long Time.

(6 Oct ’13)

            He came in a military aircraft, sitting in a basket lined with old sheets, fed biscuits and tea by the kind men in uniform. In the days before mobile phones, computers and cable television came into our lives, we had to book trunk-calls and make ourselves heard through moments of alternate crackle and silence before we could assure the lady who sent him to us that he was fine. “He has ragi-roti for breakfast, and soya-bean chunks for lunch,” she advised. “He loves bananas. He hates having baths. He loves chewing wooden spatulas…”.

The first night we held him close to our abdomens, because he was missing his mother. Big mistake. He never slept alone again.

When I served him rice for in his bowl, he howled like he was being given an injection. “Don’t be mean, he’s so small,” my husband said. “Make him rotis, he eats those.” Bigger mistake. For the next decade and a half, I had to roll out thick whole-wheat rotis for him every day. Stale ones, frozen ones were no-no. One sniff and a protesting whine would be hurled at me.

“Let him be,” my son said when we tried to discipline him and forced him to sit at the back in the car. We let him be: third mistake. He sat only next to the driver, all 44 kgs of him, till the day he died.

Our nomadic lifestyle meant Lopsang, as we called our yellow Labrador, had new adventures every other year. He quarrelled with other males, stole newly-born pups from stray bitches, got them home and guarded them with growls if anyone attempted to take them away from him. Sadly, the babies were fragile, and some died because of his zeal.

He could chew off with a single bite an inch thick rubber slipper. Yet didn’t object when our servant’s infant groped at his tongue and pestered him with her tiny fists. He could have broken her skull with a snap, but the child’s mother was sure he wouldn’t harm her. “They are like brother-sister,” she’d tell me in Hindi. “He won’t hurt her.”

Lopsang believed he belonged to the two-legged species. Every stranger deserved a lick and a wag. Yet, when an armed intruder attacked me in my house one afternoon, instinct took over. He gave chase, a vicious expression on his face, snarling, unrecognizable. When the fellow was caught and restricted, Lopsang sat beside him. I wonder whether what would have happened if, instead of fleeing, the thief had knelt and asked Lopsang for his paw. Lopsang might have sat his buttock down and obeyed him!

He warned me when the gas leaked out of the rubber tube once. And barked his head off to warn me of the presence of scorpions and monitor lizards when we lived in a desert area.

Whenever he accompanied us to friends’ homes, he found his way to their kitchen store and gobbled up a couple of raw potatoes. This fondness for raw vegetables amused everyone. Such a huge dog and he eats peas/carrots/beans raw, they’d giggle.

He had attitude. If he wanted something, nothing and no one could make him change his mind. Chasing the vendors and hawkers was a favourite afternoon pastime. Stragglers and garbage-collectors were other targets. The bulls, squirrels and goats that perambulated by our compound wall were always taken by surprise at his sudden, loud vocal attack. Once, in the middle of the night, he found a mouse. My husband tried to pry open his jaws, but no, Lopsang preferred to swallow the terrified creature live. He caught lizards and offered them to visitors, knowing well the drama and punishment that would follow. That was the only time he went on his own to the bedroom and sat himself in the corner without being told. 

When he wanted to show anger, he’d destroy whatever he could sink his teeth into: curtains, table-cloths, mattresses, leather shoes, books (my son once told his friends that the dog had chewed “the Cosmos” by Carl Segan), and more. If one of us was travelling the other had to force-feed Lopsang his meals.

I had to trick him to enter the bathroom for a wash. He hated it and skidded all over, banging into the walls, whacking off the shelf with his tail bottles and other containers, vigorously shaking his head and muscular body every other moment.

After years of countryside living, we moved to a small apartment in a city where he had no place to run around in, no other animal life to connect with, the sounds and smells were unfamiliar. Still, as long as he was with us, he was fine. Then I took up a job and he had to be left alone a major chunk of the day. I believe his skin condition was more due to depression than the hot and humid coastal weather.

He lost his fur over two years. We tried every treatment for the itching and rawness, but failed. Old age brought with it pain in the joints and poor digestion. He couldn’t swallow food unless it was mashed and fed.

It took me three months to decide to put him down. I wished and prayed that he’d pass on before the vet came home. That was not to be.

We wrapped his body in his favourite sheet. For some strange reason the door of the car dickey wouldn’t open and we had to place it on the back seat when we took it to the crematorium. On the way back, there seemed to be no problem with the lock, it opened as if nothing had ever been the matter. If there are souls and spirits, then there is an explanation: Lopsang would never sit anywhere in indignity, not even in death.

His absence, that vacuum, still hurts. We did not keep a dog again.

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Meeting Jo Masacarenhas and Cantoments in Goa.

(31 Mar ’13)

            Considering we don’t party or socialize much, it’s surprising how many interesting Goans come into our lives. We were at a friend’s home for dinner. This was the first time I’d visited a Naval home and was more curious about the trees and shrubs lining the broad roads and the view of the Mandovi from the hill than about whom I was conversing with. I love military cantonments in India because of the well-preserved and displayed plant life. The hidden fauna occasionally do peep out, but the regular visitors to and inhabitants of the place would benefit by that. But the conversation turned out to be really interesting. First, my hosts were far better informed than I was about Goa’s natural history. Then I met the Mascarenhas family.

            Jo and Sharmila Mascarenhas impressed me because a) they were open about the poor value system in some of Goa’s expensive private schools and b) they felt the daily need to expose their children to people from different economic, religious and ethnic backgrounds. Of all the young parents I’ve met, these have been the only ones who have shared my opinion. Most of the time I find parents more concerned about whom their children will network with when they grow up. They sow the seeds for the contacts they will harvest as adults. Groan. That’s why I found this couple’s point of view refreshing.

            Secondly, Jo, who works with an institution I think is India’s unsung educational success, the ITI, took part in an inter-government hockey tournament. The participation was creditable because of his age: 42 yrs. If he’d been regularly in the circuit, I’d not have had much to say. But this happened over two weeks, and hurriedly put together Goan team with but fifteen days of practice, beat Karnataka 4-1. What’s more, Goa also returned with the trophy for the best march-past. Out of 42 teams, Goa won. Marching involves teamwork, co-ordination, rhythm, smart alertness, and more. My state has all that, it’s the best in India.  I take pride in writing this. Sadly, they told me that the school they had admitted their children into, did not take assemblies and marching seriously enough. I listened to what they had to say because they told me interesting things.

            They told me they ate much of what they grew in a tiny area surrounding their house in a dry neighbourhood of Porvorim. “We have to often buy water as the supply isn’t enough.” My take on this is: in India, we need to have two kinds of water supply. One potable, the other for toilets, cleaning and plants. It takes a lot of energy, money, effort to provide drinking water the consumption of which is much less than for the other uses. If our panchayats/governments/municipalities were to take water resource management seriously, we need never have to buy water privately. One thing needs to be drummed into every Indian head, specially politicians: harvest the rain, harvest the rain, harvest the rain, harvest the rain…  By eating what they grow, they’re setting a good example to their children.

            Over plate, napkin and fork, I learned that Jo knew how to catch snakes.     

           The snake-lovers of Goa are a unique breed. They belong to various professions, come from unusual backgrounds and are passionate about catching, identifying and caring for snakes. I remember my son’s friends, Aaron Lobo and Luke Victor who were avid snake fans, getting into near-fatal venomous trouble because of this love of theirs. It was all the more of interest to me because just that morning, the guy who cleans our plot, who isn’t afraid of reptiles and usually tosses them across into the jungles with a twig if he encounters one, killed a baby cobra whose venom wouldn’t have been of the dosage to sedate a kitten. If the creature hadn’t walked over the man’s hand, it’d have been alive today. His being in the vicinity wouldn’t have scared the man, but touching him, crawling over him – that was another matter.

            By coincidence, within 24 hours, I visited another ‘Camp’ as military areas are called. In Vasco. Wondered how they managed to keep their neighbourhoods so tidy. No signs of plastic or any other litter.

            One of the lessons I’d learned early in my hotel and later hospital-administration career was: a motivated workforce follows a code of conduct. Basic skills taught at the highest level are important. Equally important are grooming, greeting and gentleness (this word encompasses punctuality, behaviour and a sense of honour). Our Defence Forces have followed that tradition and it shows in the ethos of any Camp. The environment is about large trees, well-kept gardens and people walking or jogging for good health. It’s also about politeness, civility and couth attitudes. There’s so much we can learn from the Forces. If only we were willing.

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When The Guests Come Marching In

(27 Jan ’13)

            I’ve set up home in India’s best-looking places: Srinagar (before the guns took over), Punjab (during the curfew days), Ooty (or near-about there), Jodhpur (where we lived just behind and below the grand palace, Umaid Bhavan), Bareilly (on the way to the lovely Kumaon) and now Goa.

            Before National Geographic, Discovery and other travel channels barged into our drawing rooms, if you wanted to experience a place, you had to go there. Before computers made (online) booking something you could do from your bedroom and arrangements were made after sending several letters (that’s like email, but on paper, in case you’re less than forty years old). It took weeks to confirm dates. Standing in queues and carrying trunks (wheeled suitcases and haversacks were a generation away) was the norm. Everyone owned a canvas hold-all in which they carried mattresses and sheets for the journey and everyone hired a coolie to carry it. Bottled water was unheard of and air travel only for the rich. Cattle-class folks like me had sturdy insides, fortified by drinking unfiltered, scarcely potable water at various small stations which may still not be visible on Google images.  Guests never stayed in hotels.

            Now, at least in Goa, some of my guests do stay in hotels. Once they discover that the sum cost of their lodging and boarding in a ‘decent’ place is cheaper than taking a taxi for the day, they get in touch with me.

If it hadn’t been for my guests I would never have seen the Kannka Devi temple at Narvem. Nor met the fully deaf and partially blind priest who handed out stale flowers along with the prasad.  Off the tourist track, the trees, the people, the ambience still retained a lot of charm. It also meant there were no toilets for us to use. That’s true about the well-frequented temples, too, where one has to walk quite a distance to empty one’s bladder. Frustrating experience. The churches, at least in Old Goa, have easy access to toilets.

If it hadn’t been for my guests, I would not have discovered French, Mediterranean, Kerala and other cuisines within a few minutes drive from my house, for (non-Goans find this hard to believe) we don’t eat out as a rule.

            Thanks to my guests, I have discovered that Goa is more happening than Mumbai, Kolkatta, Bengaluru, or Delhi.

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Winter In Goa.

(5 Jan ’13)

            My memories of New Year’s Eves away from my home state are of thick woollen coats, prickly inner garments, warm shawls, and painful toes and fingers. I have lived much of my adult life in North India, where temperatures hover in the single digits at this time of the year.  I couldn’t have survived without the tent-like pherans in Kashmir, inside which I hugged both son and kangdi together. The latter is a matka housed in a cane basket. Inside the kandgi are kept live, glowing coals, quite dangerous to hold against skin and kid, can and do cause fires and cancer (when used over long years). But for me, ignorance was bliss. The heat it generated was more bliss.

Words like razai and bukhari make no sense in Goa. The former my aunt uses as a mattress. The latter I left behind for the next tenant in the house I lived in. As the government of India had ‘posted’ us in that cold place, it weekly rationed us a big (approx.) 20 kg chunk of coal which we used to drag over the quarter kilometre kacchaa lane that led to our house from the main road. By candle-light (because the voltage, whenever we had ‘current’, was seldom over 40 watts), we hit at it with a hammer to break it into manageable pieces to feed the bukhari. Sometimes we missed our target and injured one of our fingers.

Painful memories of winter.

They take my thoughts to our soldiers at the border who bravely live (and sometimes die) there in extreme discomfort so that we can earn a living, crib about the government, be a democracy. My deep thanks to them.

            Other memories: carts loaded with juicy red (not orange) carrots, fresh peas, cauliflowers the size of my head, so much spinach that those who grew them in their yards stood in the middle of traffic on the road and gifted away big bunches to drivers of cars that stopped. Mountains of tomatoes. Cracked heels, cracked lips, adrak ki chai (ginger-flavoured tea doesn’t sound or taste the same, does it?), women clerks in offices speedily knitting something instead of putting fingers to keyboard. Fogs and mists.

My Goan blood hates low temperatures.  These days, it’s ‘cold’ in Sangolda. One neighbour politely wishes me good morning through chattering teeth, head covered by an acrylic-wool shawl, upper limbs enveloped in two layers of husband’s long-sleeved shirts, brand new canvas shoes firmly on socked (sic, but that’s how we talk hereabouts) feet.  Her hands are folded, fingers tucked into elbow folds. “Bai,” she says by way of conversation. “Cold, no?”

            I’m busy bending, stretching, untangling a kink out of a stiff plastic pipe. Yes, I tell her.

The poder comes along, ‘monkey-cap’ protecting his head from frost and chill. She feels sorry for him and reflects a second “Cold, no?” towards me.

            I stupidly decide to educate her about the temperatures in the Himalayas, Kashmir, the North-East, even neighbouring Belgaum. Blank stare. I tell her about snow. She has her aha moment: she’s seen snow. Her cousin from Canada had come via New York once, bought her a transparent globe with a ‘Statue of Liberty’ inside it, floating in clear fluid. When the globe was shaken, a white substance floated to the statue’s head, and slowly floated to its feet. “Snow,” says my true-blue Goan friend. “I have it in my show-case.”

            I tell her about the extreme conditions our soldiers live in, in Siachen. She tells me how her arthritis improves with a khare udak  dip in the Baga waters in late February. “Our bhangrachey soil and the cold-cold waters of the sea at this time of the year make miracles, haan.”

            I don’t give up. I tell her: “The Himalaya is so cold that the soft snow on the ground hardens into ice.” I know, her eyes tell me; she responds: “Ice? In my freezer, lots of cubes, but they give us sore throats, so we don’t use them.” Then adds: “But you won’t fall sick, this early morning oxygen is good for health.” Her yoga teacher said so.

I try to convince her that there are places colder than Goa. (What is wrong with me?) She quickly goes into her house and triumphantly waves a newspaper at me. A headline says something about ‘coldest night in five years in Mollem’. I shut up.

            I recall a debate about use of geysers in the bathrooms and wearing (artificial) leather jackets on motorcycles so that you don’t get the sniffles, sore throat, joint pain, headaches, fever, the runs, etc. Another trick: Hot milk with sugar and haldi consumed first thing in the morning, last thing at night. I guess the nausea it gives rise to makes you forget all discomfort due to 17 degrees Celsius.

            Whilst wrapping myself up at bed-time, good Goan that I am, I remember that my offspring brought for me a pair of pretty woollen ‘Santa-shoes’, with white bobs at the ends of the laces, ankle-length and leather-soled. I wear them through the night. My south-west-coast blood is warm and any temperature in the teens reminds me ‘it’s winter’.

            Whichever part of the world you belong to: the cold northern hemisphere or the sunny southern one, happy 2014 everybody, belated doesn’t matter, does it?

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