Forgettable Mementos.

          You know Mr Ajit Balakrishnan? Founder of Rediff.com? I know how long his tongue is. He showed it to me and six-hundred others at the Kala Academy in Goa one day, when he’d finished giving his lecture at the D D Kosambi Festival, to express surprise and dismay at the six-kilo, two feet high brass lamp that he was presented as a memento. Someone would carry it right till the airport for him, but beyond the Security Check, he would have to deal with that gift himself: convince his spouse to make space on an already (I’m certain) crowded shelf and fit dusting and polishing it into her schedule so it didn’t get tarnished.

 I’ve seen people stuff their ‘show-cases’ with ludicrous plastic and glass ‘trophies’. Stylized lotuses, peacocks, scenes from Khajuraho, faces of favourite ‘godmen’ engraved or etched on metal plates stand rusted and pock-marked on top of pelmets, perfect for lizards and other crawlies to hide behind.

Oversized plastic flowers and garish abstract thingames are supposed to remind one of institutes one has lectured at, job tenures, seminars attended. They have cost someone money; that’s reason enough to not chuck them into the bin. The raddiwala gives nothing for them. So they stay.

Mementoes like mugs, ashtrays, and snack-bowls can be used to hold beverages or pens, but people still display them behind the closed glass doors of drawing-room cupboards to evoke nostalgia because they have photos of one’s ex-colleagues smiling out of their outer walls or innards. Deep inside crystal glass globes are laser-prints of one’s face and desk that magically appear and vanish when you turn the article. I don’t know why remembrances of others’ births and anniversaries should clutter my drawers. I have a clock that announces X married Y on such-and-such date on the hour. (Threw away its batteries to prevent a breakdown.)

Some of the most charming works of memento art I’ve seen were in the homes of friends in the Defence Forces. Their walls groan under the weight of reminders of exciting years gone by in places remote enough to not be found on regular print maps before google took over our lives. But could well-engraved small ornaments not evoke the same sentiments as shiny metal models of aircraft, bison, tanks, ships or real-size spears?

My husband’s sporty family brought in several ‘cups’ each year. Some of them are cleverly and prettily made. Quite useless now, but ‘What to do?’ my sister-in-law said, ‘can’t throw, can’t keep’. They were stuffed into cardboard cartons and stashed away in the loft.

My mother, whenever she’s invited to ‘grace an occasion’, returns with some ‘gift item’.

You go to judge a kindergarten fancy dress competition and return with ‘a token of affection’.

Manufacturing gifts for corporates to distribute at Diwali is a mature industry. From ipads and whiskeys to disposable vacuum flasks and key-chains from China, it’s a seller’s market. It’s still a long way to Diwali, and the salespersons are already making their rounds for orders.

Planners of conferences spend many hours deciding upon which bag/umbrella/writing-pads/pens to give the delegates. Then the chase for sponsors starts.

At traditional Gujerati and Maharashtrian functions, one gets steel dabbas. My sister, in an attempt to get rid of those she didn’t want, decided that the best way to re-use these dabbas was to pass them on to me. They were un-used, with the name of the giver, the date and the occasion engraved on the side or at the bottom. We spent many interesting moments reminiscing on long forgotten people and times as we examined them.

I’ve heard of VIPs pocketing silver scissors at inauguration functions, along with the shawls and coconuts, but that was before the era of scams and the reign of Pratibha Patil (who at retirement, I’ve read in the ‘papers, packed away official gifts that were meant to be left behind at Rashtrapati Bhawan). She would have been the best person to have introduced medallions as mementoes.  

Down-to-earth folk like Ajit Balakrishnan wouldn’t have minded accepting one of those rather than a huge Goan dewli that he would feel the urge to get rid of.

The World’s Coming to Sangolda

Less than two years ago, we had to make do with stale and dehydrated vegetables, wormy and dusty pulses and fungus covered onions if we bought them from local village grocers. One government horticulture stall and an enterprising family changed that. The months-old fruit-wallahs along Chogm road now have bhel-puri wallas alongside them in the evenings. They’ve been joined by a nariyal-paani wallah, too. Life in Sangolda has suddenly changed.

Bread, fish and the Indian Postal System were the only dependable home-deliveries. Even the gas-cylinder chap couldn’t be depended upon. Now, thanks to the company’s  computerized tracking system, the distribution is dependable; still, some are dismayed and rue the changes in the old way of waylaying the truck as it rattled through the village.

There’s a hub of commercial activity happening in the neighbourhood. I discover that through the newspapers, though not via them. Let me explain.

Whilst my husband scrambles for the first page and then, having scanned the headlines, turns to the last page for sports, I skip the entire newspaper and look for what’s in-between the sheets. Whether or not I shake them out, they flutter to the floor: these pamphlets, brochures, fliers, tell me more about what’s happening in the world immediately around me than any news channel does. I’ve collected enough material to do a short project.

         The maximum number of inserts in the last six months have come from a multi-national pizza-store that has opened an outlet at Porvorim. It promises to deliver within half an hour, pizzas with toppings and other inclusions of my choice. If I cut the coupon printed at the edge of the paper and present it to the delivery chap, I’m supposed to get a discount. An Indian-food stall has opened right next to our Panchayat; it’s competition, though pizza isn’t featuring on its list yet. It’s momos, sold under an umbrella from an aluminium dabba just outside it, causes traffic jams.

         Between Porvorim and Calangute restaurants have come up even in the gullies leading to the bowels of new colonies.

I flip through my inserts file to find out more about the commercial activity around me. The first glossy paper has tempting photographs of dishes piled with food. The second is not glossy; it’s shocking pink re-cycled paper with smudged ink giving details of a ‘cheep, wholesome sneck’ available somewhere. One restaurant has distributed its full menu with prices, hoping newspaper readers will place their orders whilst digesting the goings on in Delhi and Syria.

Since we eat stuff that comes only from domestic kitchens, I can’t give feedback on any of those outlets.

Another poor quality pink insert tells me that I don’t need to go anywhere far for non-urgent domestic needs: “latest curtain and sofa material with stitching… large variety of colours and designs.. we also make new sofas, dining chairs, re-upholster your existing sofas to brand new, our car seat-covers are the best in Goa”. I take a look next time I’m outside: there are more than one such shops down the road.

The world is coming closer to our village. I’ve checked the prices: these guys are going to give the old-world chaps in Panaji, Mapusa, even far away Margao and Vasco stiff competition.

We didn’t have a dentist within three kilometres of my house in any direction. Now, ever since Bata opened its huge showroom at the beginning of the road, there are three dental clinics. (I can’t see the connection, just penning an observation.) One wants to know whether I want a better looking smile. First consultation free, another announces on a black and white strip of paper. At the bottom of the third is information that its location its address has now changed. I’m spoiled for choice.

There’s a physiotherapist in the neighbourhood, too. An optician is getting rid of his stock, maybe, because he’s offering frames at half price.

When it comes to health, can insurance be far behind? A certain Sanjiv requests us to call him on his mobile phone so that our health and death related insurance issues can be tackled by him.

I have lived in several in various parts of India. In every town that I have lived in, these inserts /brochures /fliers have been indicators of growth and presence of the entrepreneur. Here, they are pointers that Sangolda is rapidly blending into neighbouring Porvorim, becoming rural urbania (I’ve coined this term for lack of any other).

Most of the inserts are regarding ‘education’. There’s a Mental Arithmetic Academy for children affiliated to an abacus and mental arithmetic association of another country. In thirty months, it claims, a child will have better perception, memory, reasoning, analytical skills, proactive and systematic thinking, speed and accuracy, advanced cognitive learning, multidimensional learning, higher level of positive and logical thinking, power of visualization, sense of responsibility, more perseverance, concentration… phew! It does more than the best universities in the world. Whole brain development happens, it reads. All the parents of these super kids must need to get some typing /drafting /printing done, right? There’s a ‘most reasonable rate’ shop very near the above academy that does just that.

Whilst the children are inside the super class, their mothers might want to while away their time doing something worthwhile. One pamphlet asks whether they are “looking for a make-over, a transformation inside out…?” It announces that ‘this is (your) chance’. There are ‘personal grooming classes and motivational speaking’ headed by a Miss India of some year gone by and a fashion expert. It’s a crash course that covers ‘personality enhancement, communication skills, builds confidence, makes up (sic), dresses up, manages lifestyle, public speaking, phone etiquette, general etiquette’ and more. Dare to dream, says the big font. ‘What are you waiting for?’

I browse through all the inserts and wonder, who is investing in, who is attending these ‘classes’?

The really expensive parlours and eateries aren’t sending in fliers. They have in-your-face exteriors and interiors that are clearly seen through the looking glass walls. Pricey they must be; their customers don’t need wooing.

         One charitable trust sends out its message on a four-colour glossy leaflet: Marriage Masala, where love never fails, it proclaims. Someone who has studied Business Management in IIM Ahmedabad is either running the charitable trust or the advertised ‘workshop’. It promises a fun event where you learn how to build a strong marriage through interactive sessions, games, discussions, videos and sound teaching. Rs 100 for individuals and Rs 150 for couples; I think that’s really cheap to learn about “different needs of men and women, love languages, how to fight right, and any more helpful topic (sic)”. The other side of the leaflet advertises a ‘good parenting’ workshop.  All taught in a couple of hours.

This Personality Development and Soft Skills market is getting crowded. One flier says: Building Character, Building Careers.  Of course being Goa, there’s stress on the hospitality and culinary skills. The fees are high and a loan is available.

Kindergarten schools, hobby classes through vacations and yes, beauty-parlours (for domestic customers, not tourists) found in converted bedrooms or garages make their way inside newsprint to a thousands of families every morning.

Then there are discount sales. Saree and dress material sales I don’t even bother to read about: kurtas, nighties, paticoats (there are plenty of spelling mistakes, this is one), kids’ wear, and linen. There are so many sales of these that I wonder why shops selling them exist at all?

         Like the eateries, the internet providers and mobile phone companies are also giving each other stiff competition. Their inserts give all prices and details clearly. Very professional. Easy to compare. Television and kitchenware companies from far away Margao and Vasco send their details through the newspapers without having to pay for the expensive advertisements, I guess.

Eventually inserts find their way into the dustbins. Most of our paper kachra goes into our personal, domestic organic compost dump.

I’ve preserved inserts involving car care. Repair, shampooing, dent removal - there is a pick up and drop of the vehicle and a seasonal discount to boot. Another one’s providing car grooming and ‘detailing’ (whatever that means)  at one’s doorstep. A third has shown a map to his place and a nicely designed card-like pamphlet tells us that his services include oil change, engine tuning, suspension check, gear box overhaul, engine overhaul of the most expensive cars in the Indian market. A friend said these guys do expert jobs at a fraction of the company’s service centres.

Someone’s undertaking painting of bungalows and flats at reasonable rates, but only in north Goa. I keep that paper

.

Best of all is the insert that tells me there is a delivery service that takes care of grocery delivery, laundry, electrician, plumber, carpenter, computer repairs, bill payments, and much more, “tension free”. I’m going to frame that and hang it in my drawing room. Another important input: these newbies also mention that they work on Sundays, quite a no-no in our corner of Goa until even a few months ago. This progress I like. (Though I still need to visit the towns to get a chappal or umbrella repaired.)

I’m amongst those who equate susegaad with stagnation. It’s good to see work happening in Goa. Pity that it isn’t tidy and organized.

So far, I haven’t received a pamphlet advertising sale of water or disposal of garbage, but that day might not be far when my file will contain a contact for those. Market forces nudge governments, sometimes, into action. Like accidents prompt panchayats into building speed-breakers.

 The last few inserts remind me to ‘take a holiday’. The world descends on Goa when it wants to relax (or so we like to believe). Where do Goans go if they can’t afford Dubai, Israel or the UK? They take package tours to Mahableshwar, Munnar, Manali, and Potta… in ac seater, sleepers, multi axle buses. The newest shop hereabouts is selling them (tours, not buses). Between the NH17 and the Chogm Road, hectic activity is happening.

Sleepy Sangolda and Saligao have woken up: and found that the world that was once at least a konkan railway ride away has crept up to their doorstep. Today’s insert lets me know that I can have salads and fruits home-delivered. Nice news, that, never mind what the headlines scream.

        

        

Non Religious Festivals of Goa.

There are a string of festivals in Goa. I attended the Marathi film festival in the monsoons, the film festival on mental health, children’s films, the guru-purnima ‘do’ at the KA, the events at Sunaparat (Altinho), the Art Chamber (Calangute), Thinkfest, IFFI, the Goa Art and Literary Festival (GALF)… and now the Lusofonia games, there’s life beyond Goa’s beaches and restaurants.

First, the controversial Thinkfest. For two years I treated myself for free (and paid Rs 1000 bucks this third time) to three days of music (this year the Intrepreti Venecia played), talks given by inventors, researchers, scientists, historians, politicians (they talked sense, incredibly), actors (Amitabh B and Robert de Niro were both boring), authors and… the soonthwali chai served in small glass ‘tumblers’.

I heard Garry Kasparov speak his mind. Met Kaifa Zangana.  Getting people like Louise Leakey is a feat. Getting someone like Medha Patkar an even bigger one, for she is particular about hating bottled water and all that it stands for (exploitation of land/ water/ people).

         As much as the precision in organizing an event of this size, and getting elusive persons to talk live, I was impressed by the spectrum of subjects. From medicine to astronomy, religion to economics, the marathon sessions covered in three days what might have taken me a year plus to read about.

         Jerry Sander’s idea of a floating, non-polluting public transport system (which is likely to take off in Kerala soon), Mansoor Khan’s take on the energy-bank and economics, hearing rape victims tell their stories of fighting back (how ironic that seems now) was an education of sorts. New Zealander Sharad Paul shared his knowledge about the curious history of the human skin. Farhan Akhtar and Shekhar Kapur described difficulties faced whilst living the roles of people dead (Queen Elizabeth) or alive (Milkha Singh) whilst making a film.

Conscious-keeper and documentary-film-maker John Pilger, made Shoma Chaudhury squirm when he said that money should not rule journalists/ media/ information. 

         Alan Russel’s talk on how to grow back an amputated limb through stem cell treatment was as fascinating as Moran Cerf’s lecture on how to read a mind (‘brain-hacking’). Zach Hoeken Smith’s 3-D printer drew a crowd outside the hall when he set up his invention to demonstrate what it could do.

         I’m still figuring out how algorithms are determining my life and what the clutter (or lack of it) in my room tells visitors about me.  Exposure to such research was paisa vasool. I would like to see the stand up comedian, Vir Das again, and know more about Shai Schiller’s methods of tracking criminals (terrorists) online.

         The session that attracted maximum attention, which was continued on the following day thanks to public demand, and which evoked a lot of responses on the Net, was the one that had ex-Taliban founder Mullah Abdul Salam Zaeef and ex CIA chief, Robert Grenier sitting together on stage, in dialogue. Tweeters thought he would go snooping around discovering niches to lay traps for future bomb-blasts in Goa!! India doesn’t need an external affairs ministry or experts in foreign/ security affairs, it needs armchair know-it-alls who won’t take the trouble to expand OMG on their posts. It was the session that earned the festival respect: it’s nigh impossible to get these guys to talk, and together, live… a possible beginning to resolve a conflict.

          Thinkfest might not happen again. Pity.

         IFFI. This was one time when the goras got less bhaav than the brown-skin. Susan Sarandon (the VIPs called her Miss Saridon) was the chief guest for IFFI’s inaugural function, but the hosts preferred running after Bollywoodies.

         I watched an average of four films per day. There were chat-n-chai sessions, open forums and master-classes to attend in between, so I could learn what went into making a film. Getting tickets was a problem because the number of registered delegates was higher than the number of seats available. Next year we could have govinda-pyramids for those who can’t get in but are still keen on watching a film of choice.

Interestingly, some of the out-of-Goa delegates had managed to get bed-&-breakfast accommodation for as low as 100 bucks/night at places like Anjuna. But they didn’t get the time to visit the beaches or bars. 

Some selected the films based on the category: Master Strokes, Country of Focus, Cinema of the World, International Competition, etc. I chose based on screening timings and availably of seats. 

If the easiest way to travel the world is through film-experiences, then I’ve done a ‘round-the-planet’ three times in ten days. I shared the lives of people on different latitudes and longitudes. I cried with the Israeli officer (A Place In Heaven) when his status as national hero was shattered after forty years. His once heroic deed had become a ‘war crime’. We point fingers at ‘violent’ acts done by the men in uniform. If they didn’t do those, would we be safe? In ‘Grigris’ I saw how African slum-dwellers survived. ‘When Evening Falls on Bucharest’ showed the other end of the economic spectrum. ‘Les Apaches’, ‘Hush, Girls Don’t Scream’, ‘When a Man Desires a Fifth Wife’ introduced me to cultures and people whilst I snuggled in a/c’d comfort right here in Goa.

Polish and German films covering the early 1900s showed that suddenness of change, lifestyles and attitudes caused by the World Wars can’t be matched even by the I-net revolution. In contrast, ‘Quai d’orsay’ was hilarious, poking fun at a French politician.  

The country of focus, Japan, threw in some surprises. ‘Recipes of Diet Diaries’ was mildly funny and predictable. In ‘Like Father, Like Son’, an ambitious corporate manager discovers that his six-year-old son wasn’t his: two baby boys born on the same day, in the same hospital, had got swapped by mistake.

Every evening, there were live music and dance performances in the Inox courtyard, on the pavement outside and in the Kingfisher Village, adding to the ambience and coffers of hearing-aid manufacturers. They helped national integration: there was someone singing Marathi folk songs outside, dancing to Punjabi beats in the Inox compound whilst Kingfisher village was belting out English numbers. Cacophony zindabad.

At the closing ceremony, Remo Fernandes announced he’d crossed the landmark of sixty years. Retirement age, I thought to myself happily.

A Festival must have food. The kebabwala from Mumbai was the biggest draw. The north-eastern one attracted the curious. The Goan fare had enthusiastic village women trying to desperately keep up with the number of orders. Last year, they had recycled the disposable earthen matki.  

Talking of food: the film ‘The Fifth Season’ was about famine. What if spring didn’t follow winter? Considering in India we have droughts and floods every alternate year, it wasn’t an unreal theme. Another familiar story was ‘The Promise’, a Bollywood idea: rich old man marries beautiful young woman. Poor but bright young orphan comes into their lives, then goes away for seven years. Rich man dies, young man returns, film over.

The most memorable picture was ‘Stray Dogs’. Ten minutes per frame. No sound, no movement. Seriously thought I was in outer space. An audience of over five hundred people was in deep slumber for over an hour. Well deserved rest for those like me, because “for the ten days of IFFI my true love said to me:…nine frozen dinners, eight snacks-n-smoothies, seven kinds of popcorn… and some beers that came free.’

Last month there was the Goa Art and Literary Festival or GALF held at the International Centre, Dona Paula.

At the first GALF, I hadn’t a clue what LitFest was. In a film festival one sees films. Does one sit reading books at a LitFest, I wondered. 

 On a small budget and with volunteer help from the GoaWriters, it has managed to get to Goa some impressive names: Mridula Garg and Gulzar, for example. Over three days, I heard people discuss books and matters of national and cultural interest.  I chatted with the authors in the lawns, under the benign December sun, on topics like “is the short story really a form of literature”? After Alice Munro’s Nobel, the answer is clearly ‘yes’.

Last GALF, a Kashmiri writers’ contingent had come over. And some had come from the North East. This year we had Pakistanis.

All who have attended any edition of GALF agree that the attraction is its non-commercial, intimate, stimulating nature.

This year, on 4^th December, at the Institute Menezes Braganza, Maria Aurora Couto launched “Filomena’s Journeys: A Portrait of a Marriage, a Family and a Culture”.  At the inaugural function at Kala Academy, amidst the unavoidable lot of speeches, more books were launched: by authors Lord Meghnad Desai, Meera Kosambi and Damodar Mauzo. More than twenty books were launched over four days.

There was a dance performance by the famous Uttar Kamalabari Satra troupe from the largest river island in the world, the Brahmaputra’s Majuli island. Then a Konkani ‘comedy’: even the school-kids’ guru-purnima function at the KA comes up trumps compared to these absurd ‘comedies’ and ‘cultural’ stuff that bore and embarrass.  We have the talent and the skill in the performing arts, why not put our best foot forward at times like these?  The Pakistani play that was cancelled without notice and postponed to another time and venue was a good one: “Yesterday an Incident Occurred”, written by Mark Ravenhill and acted by Nimra Bucha and Adnan Jaffar of the Desi Writers’ Lounge (DWL).

A group of Pakistanis run DWL as a labour of love. They bring out “Papercuts”, a magazine that showcases short stories, essays, poetry, plays and other expressions of thoughts and emotions by South Asian authors. In one session they shared their fund-raising experiments with a packed audience.

Meena Kandaswamy read her poetry with passion. That’s the only way to read her verse (shocking to some, exciting to others), Nandita Haksar, whose “Travels Through the Chicken’s Neck” is likely to be read by anyone interested in Nagaland and its sister states. She has made Goa her home. Bina Ramani earned fame through her difficult days as witness to Jessica Lal’s murder. She penned her experiences in jail and in dealing with the mighty monsters of Power in Delhi in “Bird in a Banyan Tree”. Sikkim’s Prajwal Parajuly had come here but a few months ago to launch his award-winning “A Gorkha’s Daughter”; this time he was here with his novel, “Land Where I Flee”. Shashi Deshpande told us how, where, when, why, she wrote and about whom. I wish the invited, outside authors had been given as much time as was given for the launch of “Taalgudi, Ghusmat and Clear Cut”.

Quiet and modest Saxticar Jose Lourenco didn’t tell people that the story of the film “Zor” was his. Goans are extremes. The ones who are modest are overtly so and the others….  

Claude and Norma Alvares’ son, Rahul, told us how long each picture took in his “Birds of Goa”. George Menezes’ “The Naked Liberal” was a collection of his satirical essays. I’m going to watch out for Rajay Pawar’s humourous, earthy and hard-hitting poetry. Patricia Sethi, a Newsweek ex-chief correspondent launched Ramesh Chauhan’s biography “Thunder Unbottled: From Thums Up to Bisleri”.

By the time this goes into print, the Fundacao Short Story Competition results would be out and Goa will be gearing up for the Kosambi lectures (which, like ‘Swarmangesh’), should be ticketed, not fukat and the South Asia Film Festival.

So much happening and they say Goa’s susegaad.

        

Goans Eat Fish-Food

         One of my great-aunts was sponsored by a dollar-earning nephew to visit several countries that she had on her wish-list. Even today that’s an expensive gift, but before cable television came into our lives, this was a very, very big thing. Silk saris were packed into wheel-less, hard suitcases (yes, that long ago, when mobile phones were still decades away) and foreign currency was tucked away in the various pockets of a custom-made wallet that also held her passport and other documents.

         She returned after the spring and summer months were over in the northern hemisphere. She’d toured museums, attended operas, window-shopped at some of the most expensive outlets of sophisticated brands, sampled not less than ten different kinds of cuisine and made temporary home in New York, Paris, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, Hongkong, Sydney.  On return, we found her accent had changed: just a teeny bit, but she no longer called the green notes doallaaars nor the capital of England Lerndern.

         We asked her about her experiences and this is what she told us: “The lobsters in Paris were exemplary. No garlic, no tamarind, they were cooked with milk and cheese, but it was stuff to drool over. The mackerals in Dubai were bigger than the Karwari variety, but as tasty. There were dried Bombay Ducks, too, in the market there. Catfish, if well marinated and cooked into curry, tasted as good as the shevto. The crabs, huge fellows, weren’t as tasty, but so fresh, and so fleshy.” The entire conversation revolved around food, fish dishes in particular.  No mention of music, architecture, clothes.

         Nothing has changed since my childhood. My mother still gets phone calls from her friends in and around Panaji… and some even beyond Goa’s borders… telling her what they ‘got’ in the market that morning and how they’re planning to cook lunch/dinner. Prawns, tiny ones, medium ones, big ones, made with brinjals, into curry or pickled. The small silvery vellyo cooked into sukke and eaten with the bone. Chinese and Thai recipes may have come into our lives, but they are still intruders in our kitchens, to be entertained occasionally.

         When we visit cousins or friends, we are invited to see the size of the surmai or viswon that they bought that morning. Like many Goan men, I had an uncle who would buy certain fish just so that someone else may not, at whatever cost. An ego thing, like whose car overtakes faster, who sees the first show of a film or eats the first mango of the season.  

         With a sigh the previous generation moans the loss of certain kinds of oysters, kalwan which have become extinct. The taste of ‘artificially’ bred marine life just isn’t like the original stuff, they claim.

         Those unaccustomed to coconut oil see visions of hair coming out of their mouth when they are told the crisp fish surrounded by salad in the plate before them was fried in it. A non-coastal friend who wanted to try dried fish took a sniff of the raw stuff, turned his head away instantly and said: “You mean you people eat that?” I took offence. There’s nothing as satisfying as a sukk-bandya-kismor with rice pez and solan kodi on a monsoon afternoon.

         How we’ve evolved. People have started eating tuna, once thrown away from the rapon as a worthless fish. Opposite the Pilerne industrial estate, like several points in Goa, fish-vendors sell fresh-water marine life: hilsa and rohu brought in from Karnataka, glistening attractively, deliciously. Some of the buyers were locals. Times they are a-changing and tastes getting more adventurous.

         Another great-aunt, when asked after a journey whether she’d had a good flight, said disapprovingly: “No fish. They served only chicken.”

         Best of all, I like the vocabulary that has emerged from this love of finny and shelly things. One young man trying to impress upon somebody just how much he loved Goan cuisine excitedly said: “Why to eat vegetables and dal, men? We eat fish-food. It’s good for the health and so-so tasty, no?”

         True, true.