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Happy to return to
Portuguese Goa after trip to British India
Alfredo de Mello
I venture to submit the following vignette of my
childhood memories, this one when I was ten years old.
Another memorable adventure was in store, later in the year 1934. In
November, my parents decided to take a holiday, by travelling by car in
British India. So the driver Ibrahim in his buttoned khaki uniform, and his
red Fez cap, drove us east across Goa, and up the mountain range of the
Western Ghats. Papa sat in front next to Ibrahim, while Mama, Eugenia and I
sat on the back seat.
We had already climbed the mountain, zigzagging around the DudSagor
waterfall (DudSagor means Sea of Milk, which was a very apt
name for the abundant cascade of water) and were already in British
territory, when we reached a crossing, which had no indications whatever, so
instead of going eastward, we took a left turn, because north was our
destination.
The short twilight gave birth, as if by magic, to the moon, which came over
the horizon in otherworldly saffron. Soon it became dark, and it started
raining cats and dogs. There were no milestones, just a dirt road, now all
wet and slippery, and immense forests on both sides.
By our reckoning, we should have reached the city of Belgaum by 8 p.m. and
it was already 9.30 pm under torrential rains, immense darkness, and
terrifying solitude, as there was no traffic whatsoever. Suddenly I saw a
milestone beside the road, and Ibrahim stopped, and with the headlights of
the car, tried to read where we were heading.
At that moment, we heard a tremendous uproar, as a herd of elephants crossed
the road in front of us at close quarters. If an elephant twice the weight
of our Citroen, had run over our car, which had a linoleum roof, and mica
side-windows, we would have been squashed to death. My father with his
six-shooter pistol would have been helpless. In front of the headlights we
saw at least twenty elephants cross the road, and disappear into the forest
at left !
Shaken and freezing, at close to 2000 metres altitude, pelted by an
unceasing rain, we continued to drive, until we saw some lights and stopped
in front of the house. A man with a kerosene lamp inquired what the hell we
were doing in a Reserve Forest! We had lost our way, and we had run a
considerable danger, as the Forest was full of elephants and tigers ! What
to do ?
Well, it was already 10 pm, so the man took us to a Dak Bungalow, in order
to spend the night;. the next morning he would show us the way to get out of
the forest and find the road to Belgaum. Dak Bungalows are buildings to be
found in many places in India, as resting places for wayfarers. They were
not hotels, but merely a house with a big room, where people set their
beddings on the floor, and slept the night. We were not prepared for this
kind of shelter, but anyhow, it was better than sitting in the car under the
rain. All the same, it was an unforgettable adventure, with its blend of
danger, which makes it more exciting.
The next day, we were led out of the Reserve Forest, and went on to Belgaum,
then to Kolhapur, where we saw the Maharajah's Palace. The entrance of the
Palace grounds was a huge archway, flanked by two big stone buildings, with
enormous arched doorways: each building housed an elephant on which the
Maharajah was taken for a ride. When we entered the Palace, the elephants
were being bathed and scrubbed by servants, who looked after the one hundred
year old elephants. It was funny to see a tiny Indian mahout perched on top
of the elephant, scrubbing its back with soap, while another menial hosed
the legs with water, before duly washing with soap. The tame elephant seemed
to be
enjoying the ritual.
Driving northwards along a road lined by large trees on either side, we saw
a pair of monkeys who were gamboling in loveplay, suddenly cross the road in
front of us, the male chasing the female. Ibrahim couldn't avoid it and the
car ran over the monkey killing it instantly. After we heard the bump, we
stopped the car about fifty metres away, and witnessed a distressful and
pitiful scene. The female monkey returned to her fallen mate and started
wailing like a human, lifting the head of the dead mate and caressing it
with lamentable and plaintive cries. Soon, a score of monkeys came down from
the trees and surrounded the fallen comrade, glaring angrily at us.
The traffic was stopped. A bus coming behind, jammed its breaks, and later
three or four automobiles also stopped. Nobody dared to drive on and shoo
away the black-faced, beige furred monkeys. The road was blocked for the
better part of a quarter of an hour, until four monkeys carried the dead
male to the grassy gulley on the wayside. Since monkeys are sacred in India,
to kill them is forbidden. We were moved and chagrined by the unexpected
accident, which revealed to us that animals have feelings like human beings.
We went on to Satara, and in the hotel of this hill station we met a huge
man, who was a weight lifter or a wrestler. I was staggered by the
quantities of food that he ate: 10 fried eggs for breakfast, four chickens
for lunch and so on. We drove up to the mountain town of Mahableshwar at
7800 ft, one of the highest spots of the Western Ghats.
Well, we saw many places within the Bombay Presidency, what is now known as
the State of Maharashtra, and realised how different British India was from
Goa: the Hindu temples beside the rivers, dressed people bathing in the
river, the platforms on the riverside where cremations were carried on, the
tongas, that is, public transportation consisting of a two-wheeled horse
carriage, and two passengers could sit perched at the back, on an inclined
plane: very uncomfortable indeed. There were also rickshas, pulled by a man,
carrying a two-wheeled carriage, where two or more passengers could sit.
These men usually died young with tuberculosis, as the effort was too much
for their frail bodies. I had never seen any rickshas or tongas in
Portuguese India.
I was too young to make a proper socio-economic assessment, but I was struck
by the stark poverty that I saw during our trip, and the beggars who
surrounded one everywhere, which contrasted with the riches, luxury and pomp
of the Palaces of the Maharajahs. In Goa there were no ostentatious palaces.
There were well-to-do families, a middle class, as well as poor, but never
so dirt poor as I witnessed in British India. There were no beggars in Goa,
and I was very happy to come back home after seeing another face of India.
Alfredo de
Mello
Aug 10 1999
Montevideo, Uruguay
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