From the dark recess of the night, this four legged languid figure
emerged on to the main road on the edge of Loutolim village and decided to
stretch his limbs and let out a yawn. From the bend the headlights of my car
couldn’t spot him, blended into the night till the distance between the
stakeholder of Loutolim village and me the outsider was a few inches. The
brakes worked.
The fact that yours truly has survived is only a minor footnote in this
story. What is critical is that the stakeholder, one of Loutolim’s magnificent buffaloes,
did not get even get a scratch. So peace prevailed. The ultimate blasphemy of harming
any of the creatures of the village was not committed.
The night wore on without any further incident, but that can’t be said
of all nights as sudden bursts of excitement prevail such as dogs from another
territory straying into Orgao, leading to a brutal gang war, with a lot of
noise (barking) but no action (biting). In fact the dog fights in Loutolim are
as harmless as those of intellectual Bengalis, whose arguments and abuses are
resplendent with verses from Tagore and Shakespeare, “full of sound and fury
signifying nothing”. But no harm is ever done.
The night is full of music, of insects, of the wind and of course the occasional
barks. This is Goa at its best, a Goa which is now fading, a Goa still laden
with trees and not buildings and the pity is we don’t
quite pause, step back and breathe all this in. But it’s at day break,
especially on a Sunday that the village bursts forth, in all its splendour.
Menino, the beef samosa man, who held his citadel for years making piping hot
beef samosas, for folks who came after mass, has health concerns. His son has stepped
in to ensure that there is no void. The market is buzzing, the fish is getting over,
the choris and the chicken is leaving the market and entering homes.
Very soon Yashwant, who started life in Loutoilim making and selling
snacks from his cart, would arrive. Yashwant now has a series of carts run by
country cousins who he has brought across from his native village, and with his
money earned has built a three storeyed apartment. In a spirit of enterprise
that seeds to be saluted, Yashwant gave his children the gift of education. And
guess where his son is? In the salubrious climes of Switzerland, studying. The
humble Yashwant remains where his, manning his cart.
Villages Like Loutolim have several disconnects with the wired worlds
of Panjim and Porvorim. Mobile calls don’t get through, the BSNL land line has
mood swings, several times a day at times and the line is dead resulting in a
trip to the rundown BSNL office. There’s no certainty of your phone getting
repaired but you’ll surely end up having a great chat and gossip session with
the BSNL staff.
Will your phone get fixed? It might, but that’s not really a priority. The
Loutolim Messaging Service (LMS) works on the word of mouth software and life
doesn’t stop without the mobile or the landline.
After the deep slumber of the afternoon, the village returns to its activity
hub the tinto. This is also the time for visitors to drop in, unannounced of
course, unless the occasion is solemn as it was last week at one of its
gorgeous mansions. I was an overtly reluctant but covertly interested witness.
A man in his thirties walked in with two ladies and an elderly gent. One was
obviously his mother who still commanded the 30 year old as a little child. The
father of course was just another member of the entourage and then there was the
matchmaker, another lady in her seventies, who specializes in doing all she can
to get two free people into lifelong custody. The meeting commenced with the
grand lady of the house checking out the boy, his credentials, his employment
history and all else that her “candidate”, the prospective bride may want to
know. I wanted to tell her, there’s Facebook and Linkedin you know, but decided
against it since the solemnity of the occasion would be tampered with. 30 minute
later, they left, with hope and I suspect trepidation. Anyway, some things
never change. If you thought the BRICS summit in Goa was important for geo
politics of the region, the Loutolim summit
was as critical for the future of one identified 30 year old boy, one unsuspecting
young girl and two match makers. And no marks for guessing which one was more
important.
And so, as they say, life goes on in our beloved village, with its quirks
and characters, a village blessed by almighty, for keeping the sanity of Goa
intact with its delightful madness.
