Goa dear Goa - JP Singh

Goa Dear Goa: Please Powder Your Nose !

Once again Goa beckoned me, this time in the rains. As I rode through   countryside, past images started rolling. The instantaneous recognition of   hills,   the bends in road,   some uniquely shaped trees, the magnificent churches, all added to the feeling of   returning home. The lush green vista, the freshly washed foliage, the water soaked earth, a sprinkling of   rocks were all a treat to the eyes, as was air a rejuvenation to the soul. My ride from airport ended at Margao Tourist Hostel, as it usually does on arrival. The friendly staff and   welcome smiles were there as usual. My adventure started with the next step,   the search for a new sea-side accommodation.

Search was fun. The DoT's (Department of Tourism) Accommodation Directory turned out to be blissfully incomplete, listing age-old tariffs and telephone numbers. A bit of probing revealed that Head-office has the new edition that is more up to date. Obviously,   old stocks must be exhausted before new ones can be released, even if it means waiting for the new millennium. Inadequate information notwithstanding, the Goa political map on the back cover helped, as did the magnifying glass to select three-four possible locations for stay. A few pleasant trips up and down the Majorda-Betul stretch and I was happily enthroned in my new abode with attached   sea and palm trees that stretched to land's end. Now one could lie back and forget that the world existed. Feni helped, as usual, and I almost forgot to call the one family in Goa I dearly love. Luckily love was stronger than Feni and my friendship remains intact.

Calling friends turned out to be an adventure with the other DOT (Department of Telephones) chipping in merrily. Every time I would call,   exchange   would beseech me to ring up after some time. Even at six in   morning. One had always known that Goans love to chat across sitting in their balcaos.   That this had changed to phone calls with   bed tea was new.   By the fourth day I was sure that there were alternative hypotheses. Calls from   village to Margao were always possible as were   calls from Margao to village.   Difficulty lay only if one called from one village to another.   Surprisingly   village to village calls after 10 am would always mature. So the limiting factor was not technology, and instead had something to do either with the man-machine configuration or the human element in technology.   Thus to me the case for   decentralization or   privatization   is quite weak considering that improvements in any   system can as efficiently be designed by a central agency as by a local.

Among the things I love to do in Goa is to ride in the mini-buses to tiny villages and quaint places.   Once off the main route, the character   of this transport changes. It never stops amazing me how well integrated this system is with the local communities.   Drivers and conductors will chat with passengers at each stop, addressing several of them by name. They   would also honk and wait outside a house knowing that the intending passenger is just finishing his tea.   The social temper of this private enterprise also made me realize that the only time I publicly heard   local music was in these mini-buses. One day I hope the Department of   Sound Transmission will sanction a small range radio station that can play Goan music rather than Hindi film songs. Obviously, the issues are much larger. Somewhere the Govt. of India has to decide that liberalization may be as beneficial for its citizens as for   the international enterprise.

Generally, I keep aside one day to re-establish contacts that take me to Panjim and Talegaum. This journey to me is an exercise in   gauging   progress. Economic development of Goa, it seems is a close contest between the Ferry and the Bridge. Thus the government has to tread very gingerly to let both businesses prosper. If in the process Goa has acquired specialization in Collapsible Bridges, all the better for business and the decision makers. That this also protects the existing pecking order in   society is icing on the cake. Cracks in and on the bridges notwithstanding, I see greater dynamism emerging on the flow line between Margao and Panjim. I hope Goa keeps it that way, a dynamic   artery that runs across and capillaries that protect its natural charm. But who knows when someone will decide that Goa must match Californian Fun world.

Despite adventure and development, and perhaps because of it, I still love Goa. Whatever may be, I will never forget these: the wake up call by a whistling bird that foretells rain. The churning of sea and the sound of waves. The   rain drops from   clouds, roofs and trees. The melody of hymns flowing from windows. The local tunes to the accompaniment of a bus ride.

Or, the fifty pairs of fishermen moving rhythmically, almost like dancers, in early hours at the beach. The scores of   woman bending down in fields replanting   paddy.   The lapping up of mangoes with an ingenious home-made implement of bamboo and sack. The palm branches serving as venetian blinds to keep out rain. The tingling of taste buds with rare river fish bred next to the sea.   The xacutti, the cafreal, the vindaloo, the kokum. The mildly sweet sweets, the dodol, the piagre, the tizan.  

Time in Goa, they say, flows naturally. Before I knew my planned holiday had ended. My last day in Goa made me feel  sombre. Not because I was leaving. This I knew will happen and I was quite prepared for it.   I was downcast because there will be a feast and I will be out of it. That I was leaving on the very day of   Sao Joao festival. I looked up the Tourist Directory and noted that the festival was not listed. Perhaps I should have stayed with the earlier version. I found my solace with a breakfast of freshly plucked mangoes from a home tree.

Regrets over, I went to the sea to say my bye to the waters I like. As I was already dressed to leave, I sat at the edge and tentatively stretched my hand to touch the gently ebbing wave. Next thing I knew my shoes were fully soaked. I learnt my lesson: you cannot touch the sea   without getting your feet wet. At that moment I grew a bit more in life.

As I reluctantly turned my back to the sea, it started drizzling. I hastened my pace to return to the spot where I had written my name for the sea to erase, a self-reminder that all things are ephemeral. The quickening rainfall prevented that and I headed to the trees for shelter. It was of no use.   In my last hour in Goa, I was completely drenched.

Back to the room, I made one last call without which I could not have left Goa. Luckily, it went through the first time.   The rain did its best to stop me from leaving. But then, unless one makes Goa a home, one has to go. As the aeroplane turned north, I looked out of the window. The thick dark clouds hindered my last look at the land. This could only mean that I will return.   After all, nobody comes to Goa just once.