RAIN, THEATRE AND ENDLESS CHATTER IN POMBURPA

POMBURPA, Britona Goa. The sky had a strange colour. Tufts of grey clouds caressed the emerging mountainous dark ones. Behind then were more, each furiously rushing to each other with gay abandon. They clashed, liked fists of fury in the vast expanse of the sky.

Yours truly was nestled way below this almost celestial jugalbandi in the backwaters of Britonna, in the long outer deck by the pool of a friend’s home. Over the watery edge of this manicured curated water body, lay the real backwaters, which meander through Britona, Pomburpa and Aldona, the old water route through which goods and people moved before the roads took their charm and usefulness away. The water route has mangroves, and peacocks and the endless eagles, who swoop in and go away. The riverine backwaters have a slow endearing existence which rubs on the life of the folk who live here.

This is a life distinctly slow, at ease, with the narrowest of roads connecting villages. Those who travel by car or on gigantic buses, complain about how difficult it is to pass through. But the people of those villages seem to wonder why their little place, and pace of existence, with few cars and some cycles, was enough then, without needing to be so cramped now.

But truth be told, the invasion of development is distinctly lower on these backwater streets of Britona, Pomburpa and all the way up to Quitla and Aldona. The river hugging these streets, the paddy fields and the washed homes, force stop the rapid high energy, box ticking pace of life that ironically, those who came away to Goa to slow down, lead.

Let’s go back then to the dance of the clouds and incoming rain. In the two days of mad disruption that Goa faced, as cyclone Kyarr threatened and teased, yours truly watched it arrive from beyond the turret of the Salvador do Mundo Church, a village between Britona and Pomburpa. It swooped down that way over the river and the fields, moving towards Britona and crash landing on the banks. The fishing boats wavered to the point of getting capsized, the fishing nets were pulled out safely and for once the chatter at the Patrao bar (it’s actually called that) moved to the weather, with anxiety writ large on the faces of those who had weathered and braved over 40-odd monsoons.

Of late, the journeys through these stretches and time spent here, has added to the ever growing, ceaseless, endless Goa experience. Goa is a tree where the leaves do not turn pale or fall off but with each season, different places, stories, experiences and people add to the branches, making the tree of fulfilment, much more buoyant and fulfilling.

Unlike the Moira or Assagao, “discovered” and taken over by Delhi (an euphemism for the rest of India, though folks from Bombay and Bangalore may take umbrage), the backwaters of Pomburpa, haven’t seen many such invasions.

But this has been a delightful one such ‘invasion’. On the weekend, one went “lunching” (in response to a gracious invite) at the home of a couple who have recently ‘nested’ in Pomburpa, the Dutts, Deepak and Rajyashree. Both have been aforementioned in these ramblings. He, a former ad guru and she a birder with other talents soon discovered in their home, tucked in the woods, sprawling yet cosy, built with bricks made of laughter, and seasoned with the constant chatter of friends and conversations, that enrich and unravel.

Both have firmed up, that to live in Goa, you need to be on the east of highway, which to the uninitiated, is away from the coastline, in the hinterland and the backwaters. Pomburpa, even to most who live in Goa, is in the boondocks. The Dutts have carved a dream and chiselled it with the life they lead and the lives they touch. Of course there was garrulous laughter, a touch of theatrics as they and us (which included the affable and equally theatrical and musical PD Mukherjee and family and a family friend Gulan Kriplani) indulged in everything from corruption to cuisine, in a journey that traversed through Bengal, Bihar, Goa and other places in between. With so many Bengalis in the house, drama was clearly the starter, middle course and dessert notwithstanding Rajyashree’s food spread which took us back to homes and kitchens we have left far behind, the light daal, the Bengali fish curry, the prawn malai curry and the Bengali style gulab jamun, washed down with nuggets from Deepak’s rip roaring advertising life and PD’s adventures in Bengal as a left leaning intellectual.

And yet there was room for more. Drama that is. Rajyashree is planning to initiate more people into theatre with the aim of creating and producing more. A different beginning of sorts has been splendidly achieved by teaching children, at home in Pomburpa, to enact plays of Shakespeare, giving kids roles from Shakespearean characters, with a little performance at the Bookworm bookstore in Panjim. This had led to kids now buying and reading the works of the great bard with more performances, we are sure round the corner. Goa is looking forward little Romeos and Juliets, Caesars, Shylocks, Antonios, Falstaffs and Portias emerging.

We drank to that as yours truly left, with promises to meet “in thunder, lightning or rain”.