Quiet flowed the
Mandovi on that serene morn. The softcaress of the waters on the edge of the
mangroves was like a quiet tune, gently breaking the silence of this quiet
cosmos.
A fellow wanderer, Luis, and yours
truly waited for the ferry to swing from one bank of St Estevam to the bank
where we were waiting.
Two years ago, after the untimely
passing away of friend and warrior Bismarque, whose soul pulsates in this
island of Jua, (as St Estevam is called) this little ferry crossing was a daily
right of passage on those tumultuous days when the serenity of the mangroves,
the farms and the quiet fields were ruptured by his death. The stench of
suspicion, intrigue and violence hung heavy. While closure of the passing away
of Jua’s son is a gift that has eluded the villagers, time does dry wounds.
The ferry arrived and swung us to the
other bank in a jiffy, from where the drive through the fields, the sluice
gates and the breathtaking expanse of green and gold commenced. Twenty minutes
from Panjim and ten minutes from Old Goa, St Estevam is a century away from
both.
Here, people lived off the fruits of
the land and water. The men left for their lush and fertile fields at dawn, and
while they worked, they cast their nets in the ponds and rivers and came back
with more fish than they could bear or eat. And that is when every home had
excess food that used to go to their neighbour’s but only to receive excess
from them. So not only did everyone have plenty but they also received as much.
Goa was indeed land of milk and honey.
Every home had onions, coconuts and chillies and the rice had the colour of the
earth. No one needed to go out of the country to find work. No one had to line
up outside ministers’ doors to get government jobs and land was protected.
Times they are changing and some of
the last bastions of the Goa of old happen to be our island on the Mandovi
hugged by the backwaters. On a rare weekend holiday, Luis, a chronicler and
witness of Goa’s change, invited yours truly to go back to these islands, cross
the backwaters, hopping from one island to the other, and re-experience nuggets
of a life then led. And well led.
After the verdant fields on either
side of the straight road that cuts through the countryside like a tracer
bullet, it arches up toward the St Estevam Church. Around that spot, there’s a
narrow path that bends further up towards one of the best vantage points of the
village, and perhaps in the entire countryside. We drove up the path to perch
ourselves on the top of the world at the St Estevam Fort with a bird’s-eye 360
degree view of the plains below. The Mandovi river meandered on one side and on
the other, over yonder was Bicholim, Amona and Ponda and behind us were the
fields and waters of St Estevam. Divar, Chaorao and Old Goa were all on the
radar.
Looking down from the Fort and the
white structure atop which stands the statue of Christ the King, you get a
clear and striking view of one of the myriad river crossings, between Amona and
Jua. It’s actually one of the longest stretches, as far as ferry crossings go.
In the pale light of the morning sun, on a very bright day, the sight of the
ferry silently gliding out of the mangroves, entering the river and easing into
the other side, is as much Goa in a frame, as a football field, church and a
tinto.
This statue of Christ the King at St
Estevam was brought from Rome in 1926 by a son of the village, Father Antonio
Leandro Roberto Da Rosa, installed on December 16 and blessed on December 27,
which is celebrated each year as a day commemoration.
Luis and I sat atop the steps on the
little balcony below the statue and ate the carefully packed beef sandwiches
and the lemonade made of fresh lemons form Luis’s garden. A boy from Divar and
a wanderer and free spirit, Luis’s core existence has been in these islands,
mangroves and backwaters. And he is in that part fortunate, part unfortunate
generation that has sampled the wonderment of Goa, and has also lived to see her
degradation.
Our journey wasn’t complete. We moved
on to imbibe the abundance of goodness, first to Divar, to the site of Luis’s
ancestral home from where we undertook two ferry crossings, first from Divar to
Naroa, where the ferry service was run especially for sand laden trucks
carrying debris from some hill cutting back to Divar to fill bunds. These were
live images of Goa’s decay, frame by frame, sullying the picture perfect
journey. At Naroa, where we stopped at a bar where the conversation was all about
the loss of land, we crossed over to Chorao where just before the ferry point
to Pompurba is a small seafood restaurant.
It was a backwater round trip of
learning, entering form Old Goa, through St Estevam and emerging in Pompurba
and through very narrow roads of the village to Britonna before reaching the
madness of Porvorim.
By time, the last of the sandwiches and the last of many glasses
of fresh lemonade were consumed, but the stories of joy and lament, of the past
and the present, of love longing and betrayal were never over. Such is the
relation we have with our beloved land and her travails.
