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FROM AN EYE OF AN
EAGLE - 2
Tony Fernandes
I was visiting my folks who
have their abode high up in the Western Ghats bordering Goa at its
southeastern quarter bordered by covetous neighbours. I had spent almost
a fortnight with my relatives at their guest house aerie during the peak
tourist season, the Exposition of the Relics of our Patron, Saint
Francis Xavier, combined with the much-hyped fancies of IFFI, the
festivities of Christmas and the New Year celebrations all in a row. I
was reeling from the pressures of excitement about these events.
Checking out all these functions with the chaotic situation on our
deadly road deathtraps was sure going to be a impossible task. How
absent-minded could I be? I’m an eagle. Of course I can fly and keep out
of the congestion on our mind-boggling traffic situation, worsened by
erratic behaviour of some of our mindless road-users. Vehicles have
priority where men, women and children fear to tread and daily risk
their lives.
So come one late December cool early morning my three cousins and I
decided to go sightseeing, flying over our southern coastal area and
central cities with Cousin Senior in command. Flying leisurely due west
at an average speed of 20 kph we were over Palolem Beach in no time.
Briefly, while gliding over the southern skies we thought we were in
Paradise. We were fooled into believing we were lost for a while. Forced
back to reality by the sheer breath-taking beauty of our sandy shores,
we banked north-westwards towards Margo city in unison.
Just to make certain that were on the right path we swallowed our pride
and signaled for directions from what looked like an unruly bunch of
black birds, and as bad luck would have it, they crossed us flying
north. We got no response from this lot at first. Then after a while we
received a message in a coded language that seemed alien. My cousin was
quick in assuming that these guys must be “bhaile”. My other cousin
Larreagle confirmed this wayward flying pattern coupled with strange
garbled signals. No need to carry on any further conversation, he
thought. “Gang of nomads, lamanis?” he wondered, “surveying areas of
business interests where our ganv-bhaus fear to tread?” he queried.
Just as we stopped pondering over these negative aspects and effects of
the trivia about this “bhaile” and “bitorle” mentality we tried to look
upon the better side of it. How benevolent, tolerant and peace-loving
bird-souls we have always been.
The cool sea breeze from the serene western shores gently hit our
portside wings. The sun in the east lit the northwestern slopes with
liquid waste and smoke-spewing factories, chimney stacks seemed to have
made huge ecologically damaging and disastrous strides with their
protrusions on their once glorious and pristine sides.
My thoughts seemed to wander. I was immediately interrupted by my
cousin, an experienced and senior navigator. He brought to my notice
that we were already flying over the city of Margao. So we circled
around trying to locate the once beautiful and mythical Margao Municipal
Garden. After a frantic search among the chaos of unruly parking, the
pollution in the square amidst the din created by cars, buses, trucks
and scooters plying through garbage-ridden streets, we finally found the
once mystical garden if one could hardly call it a garden at all
nowadays. It had lost its former charm and glory. The city had tried,
albeit unsuccessfully, to hang on to a well-laid out former glory. It
dared to stand up unsuccessfully to the ravages of time, with a garden
now teeming with jobless day-lodgers, free sleepers on the municipal
benches and idle people whiling their time away sprawled on what we
could now hardly call lawns, if at all. As we glanced west we were
saddened to observe the crushed coaches of KRC. There went our dream!
And theirs! Generally we were not at all impressed with what we saw. The
squalor of side lanes, the unbearable stench in the market place that
could be sniffed at an altitude of over 5500 feet, nearly sent my
younger cousin into a spin.
Long ago the people of this great city spoke three main languages. With
our ultra sensing devices we could now hear a rattle of over two dozen
alien tongues and dialects, excluding foreign tourists conversing in
strange languages. They now seemed to be a confused lot, lost in a rat
race heading nowhere. We had another problem yet again just before
heading out of town. We seemed to have got lost in this city inspite of
our fabled vision, flawless sense of direction and unmatched
navigational skills. We felt challenged in this disturbed metropolis. We
tried to locate a once well known street. So we inadvertently signaled
another bunch of unruly fliers, that we yet again unluckily ran into,
for directions. After a slight delay came a reply that we christened as
“Konkanarese”. My youngest linguistically adept cousin was quick to
decipher the coded message. Strangely, it read: “Street ka Naam
changed hai, saar, also now streeta goinga all DIE-WRECKTIONS, saar, but
afternoona time each and everyone buddy goinga one-way, saar”.
“Another bunch of ‘bhaile’obviously” blurted my no-nonsense flying
partner. “Very shoddy message drafted with obvious help from a “bitorlo”
in preparing the original draft message”. “Don’t be so rude” said I “You
should not say things like that. After all some even NRI’s are sometimes
wrongly referred to as aliens in their own homeland”. Following the
train tracks from Margao towards the north, we were soon cruising over
Majorda and Cansaulim and were over Vasco in no time. We circled over
the city for a while, keeping out of the path of the noisy flying
machines landing and taking off from the nearby airport still under the
management of a naval command. It was almost noon – the peak hours of
peak season of incoming and outgoing local and international passenger
flights.
We had promised my uncle and aunt that we would report back to base for
lunch. We decided to hurry back to our settlement situated high up in
the mountains, along a row of aeries southeast of the border down
Canacona way.
Returning home was very easy. We simply followed our beaks, so to say.
The train tracks led us due southeast at first and then towards Colem
before heady south. Our radio-operator gem of a cousin, Harreagle,
radioed our aerie-base about our whereabouts and ETA. Headquarters
responded how anxious they were to hear about our escapade. We would
definitely have an interesting tale to tell over a scrumptious afternoon
meal that we looked forward to.
Tony Fernandes
Author of “Goa – Memories of My Homeland”
MISSISSAUGA. Ontario L5V2C2
Canada
March
21, 2005
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