It is, as Lewis Carroll once said, ‘curiouser and
curiouser’; the things that happen in Goa. Where else in the world can the word
‘poder’ (baker) be taken as a grievance that inflicts irreparable damage to
one’s otherwise spotless character? Nowhere else on the planet would one hear
the excuse “No madam. I won’t be coming into work tomorrow, as it coincides
with the First Holy Communion celebrations of my maternal uncle’s brother-in-law’s
sister’s son and while I’m not invited, I’ve been assigned the task of
procuring refreshments.” But what started this train of thought anyway? Oh yes!
This time last week, a colleague announced that she wouldn’t be coming in to
work the next day as she had ‘Saibinn’ to prepare for. And it struck me that
only in Goa would such an event bring the giant wheels of the machines that are
commerce and industry to a grinding halt.
Now for those less initiated to the Goan way of life,
Saibinn refers to Our Lady or Mother Mary. In every Ward/Waddo/Bairro, a statue
of the aforementioned Saibinn will do the rounds, spending a day, sometimes
more, at each house. Here friends and neighbours will gather in solemnity,
austerity, obeisance and the promise of divine eatables after. Having been
informed by a dear friend that these gatherings can be quite the spectacle in
themselves, I decided to head out and take a gander for myself, and this is
what I spent many evenings doing last year. With the required ‘intel’ on the ‘happening’
locations, off I trotted to find out what was on the cards.
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My destination is the village of Varca, where said friend in
question led me to the house of one family by the name of Fernandes (name
changed for the sake of my life). Of course, in true Goan ladainha (litany)
spirit, a violin that was out of tune accompanied vocals in the key of X. For
those less musically inclined, regular scales only incorporate the alphabets
A-G. However, as the ‘music’ came to a stop, an octogenarian, who was rather sprightly
for her age, hip-bumped me out of the way in the Race to Sandwich Mountain
(notice clever usage of popular movie title).
It is here that I discovered the true heart of this
gathering. Not only does it serve as a means wherein one catches up on all the
local gossip, but it is also a place where congregations turn to a repast. On
offer at the average Saibinn table are the usual suspects of ‘chutney
sandwiches’, ‘patties’ (affectionately referred to in certain quarters as
pattissam or pattices derived from the singular pattice; shame on you for
thinking the singular was patty), and my personal favourite, ‘croquettes’ (at
the risk of sounding prissy, it is croquette from the French verb croquer and
not croquet, the sport). One traditional regular feature at the laden table is
a serving of chonne (boiled chickpeas), which apparently is known to have
planted its roots in the days of the yeoman. Sketchy though the details behind
this tradition might be, in conversation with a colleague, I have gleaned that
the tradition of the travelling Saibinn has come from the Hindu tradition of
the Palki.
However, this is where the local politics come into play.
Between mouthfuls of chutney sandwich, Conceição D’Souza from the house next
door muttered to Etelvina Pereira from next door that the offerings were too
paltry and that she was upping the ante by adding ‘rissois’ and ‘fish cones’ to
her table. The ever enthusiastic Etelvina nodded her head in agreement,
hatching a plan of her own in her mind’s eye, of incorporating all that
Conceição had in mind, but as a coup de grâce, she would add Frooti to her
menu, which as I learnt two days later, as I made my self-invited, curious way
to her Saibinn soirée, would result in an irreparable rift between the two
allies of old, owing to the conniving ways of the latter, according to the
former.
It merely made me reflect endlessly upon how food is so tied
into everything we do. It brings us together, tears us apart, goes hand in hand
with a religious tradition and is a talking point in its own right. With the
interests of socially warring factions, it’s about time that someone set a
uniform menu to these events, or at least ensures that next time around,
Conceição has her comeuppance on Etelvina; for God’s sake and our own.
