The lights from the shacks over yonder, across the river at
Assolna bounced off the inky darkness of the Sal, each reflection scattered
like confetti over the water. We were on the other bank, feet dipping distance
away from the river, below the bridge which connects Cavelossim to Assolna.
The river was calm
but we were in a spate. A group of local folks, gathered to sign and play, let
ourselves lose, most known to each other, with some who yours truly connected
after years. It was in another sense a perfect setting for the first trigger
for Business with Pleasure, which returns to Herald Café after a hiatus.
If you enjoyed reading this article, you can help support our journalism by adding OHeraldo as a preferred source.
The house on the
river belonged to Goa’s much loved singing dentist Varun Carvalho, who fixes
teeth by day and ensures everyone’s smiles last, through his music, by night. He
and his motley friends some of who have settled down in Cavelossim and are
“locals” brought in their food and created music, their sounds bouncing off the
waters, giving tune to the dancing confetti of lights on the other end.
The living room and
kitchen literally became one stocked with dekchis of biryani, chicken
and other delicacies. This room extended to a tiny lawn which was literally
over the waters of the Saal. Across the river was Assolna stretching into
Velim. Varun and his little band of brothers started strumming. In attendance
was a character from what was once a part of my word- a baul singer from
Bengal, a wandering minstrel, Sudipto Mridha. Imagine the melodious embrace of
Varun’s singing merging with the full-throated high pitched rendition of
Sudipto’s, Varun in English, Sudipto in Bengali, each singing from their gut,
making music which had just one language-soulful.
And then there was
the river. And the river did both. Amplified the spirit of songs which simply
told us to rise against injustices, to love truly, to be one with the land and
enjoy each moment before saying “paka-paka” (bye-bye in Russian). At the same
time, the Saal and the rivulets which flow into it, reminded us of their
presence- quiet on the surface, in turmoil below, with how it has been ravaged
with debris and sewage.
The mind went back
to times in the past. Of long drives to Cavelossim and Mobor, chats on the way
back, discovering new places and revisiting old ones, and driving back, full of
the place, its music and its conversations. In one corner of Varun’s lawn stood
Roy Baretto, a very old friend who runs the iconic Betty’s shack. For years,
this has been the hub of food music and the starting point of many of his boat
rides.
Cutting into the
music with his wonderful renditions on the harp was Fabian, a true to kind dyed
in the wool Anglo-Indian from Ripon Street and Wellesly (where else) in
Calcutta. Varun new exactly where to pause, giving way to first Sudipto, with
his full throated accompaniment in Bengali, followed by Fabian on the harp. As
Fabian took off, Sudipto switched to his little percussion instruments,
reaching a crescendo as he revved up his harmonica, before slowing down to a
pause.
We gasped and the
river applauded as little silvery fish caressed its bank.
Standing and
applauding, with his quiet smile and his utterly j ovial disposition was Amir,
whose Kashmiri father showed him this land and made him experience the love of
its people. Amir then found love from Rusisan and married a Russian and lives
in Cavelossim, run ning a Russian restaurant, Temple Tree. Rumour has it that
he makes the best Olivier salad not just in Goa but in all of Russia and Goa .
The French inspired
salad with potatoes and tongue was re-curated by the Soviets with canned peas,
boiled eggs and potato es of course. He served the salad that night and the
rumours about his salad were promptly and effectively confirmed. But you can
never take a Kashmiri away from his biryani and that is what Amir made for
buddy Varun. The flavor his beautiful land, (wrecked by those who have
destroyed kashmiriyat- the original spirit of Kashmir) came through in
his biryani.
But Amir is a Goan
now. And it speaks a lot about us who live here that we have managed to isolate
vulnerable Kashmiris from any fear ad hate in Goa, post the Pulwama blasts,
giving the likes of Amir the happiness of making his olivier salad and his
biryani with the same passion.
As the night wore
on, the music became unplugged and acoustic. Some sang along and likes of yours
truly drummed along. (If I sang the neighbourhood would have woken up with
trepidation). Two things remained constant, the river and the music.
Thank you Cavelossim, for the memories.
