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On Kashti--A
vignette from Velim
Ben Antao
May 25, 2000
 Real
Goans wore the kashti. Until my family moved to Margao when I was ten, I
would wear the kashti--the large red kerchief tied around my
loins--almost every day in Velim, more so during the hot months of May
and October. It was a perfect attire for a boy in which to walk around
the neighborhood, when playing with cashew nuts or romping in the local
ponds and streams. Most of all, the dress helped one to identify with
the Kunbis who wore it with pride and panache.
Those who have watched the toddy tapper, as I did often with envy, will
remember this scene.
The church bell pealed once, its sonorous timbre wafting over the early
morning fragrant air and signaling the consecration. Pedro, the toddy
tapper,
crossed himself and cocked his ears to savor the receding echo. On the
ground lay a large clay corso in which he poured the toddy from
the smaller pot after each trip from the top of the coconut tree. Clad
only in a large red kerchief draped around his loins in a G-string that
firmly supported his genitals, Pedro zipped up the tree in a half-dozen
vaulting leaps, surpassing the grace of an acrobat.
Now, ensconced in the cluster of fronds, he retrieved his broad sharp
scythe from his waistband and began to work. He examined the unopened
bud, which he previously had tightly bound with bamboo strips, to check
if it was ready for tapping. He felt the tip of the bud and left it
alone. Then he carefully lifted the narrow-necked terracotta pot that
held the dripping toddy from the other sheared bud, and drained the
frothy liquid into a jackfruit-shaped wooden flask, which he laid in the
palm crotch. With his palm he wiped off the residue from the cut, and
sheared anew a thin slice to aid the flow for the evening take. The pot
was rehung. The single-ribbed palms swished in relief as Pedro raised
his hams to descend. The top two would-be fronds, as yet not fully
budded, glistened in the mellow morning sun.
Pedro looked magnificent in his kerchiefed attire. His bronzed muscular
body glowed with vigor and vitality. He seemed immune to the ravages of
time or weather. His thighs, smooth and hairless, always appeared firm
and tight. His torso, square and erect, was fleshed out in muscles. With
the corso on his head, the scythe handle secured by a silver
chain on his hip, he walked barefooted, and even though his heel barely
caressed the sometimes sandy and sometimes red dirt road he traveled on,
his gait had poise and rhythm. He looked forever young and attractive.
He was a real Goan. I often tried to imitate his style but could never
master the art of climbing a coconut tree.
If the above scene sounds, looks, and feels sexy, it's because of the
kashti. Enjoy it in memory or in imagination.
Ben Antao
May 25, 2000
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