On a rare fine morning,
in these musty
humid times, yours
truly caught a fine tall
gent, with a cap which
was straight from the
British Isles or perhaps
the cobbled streets of
France, walking briskly near Campal. He is a chip of my
most treasured Goa memory block. He is an old timer,
the last of the maniacal prodigals who imbibe Goa in all
its spirit and mirth.
Raised and perhaps born in a home on a cobbled
street within the dreamy recesses of Fontainhas, Zito
Gouveia Pinto (a hero of a few of these columns), is the
epitome of a breed struggling to survive extinction. A
breed that once defined Panjim’s joie de vivre. As Panjim
changes, with big restaurants, fancy drinking places and
neo cosmopolitanism which is at odds with a different
kind of warm inclusiveness of long time locals, Zito Pinto
and his merry band are the last ambassadors of a Panjim
that once was. Which is why, at every meeting (we unfortunately
met at two funerals in the past fortnight), time
joyously spins back to an time when Panjim lived by, of
and for the pure exultation of spirit, speaking of which
there was plenty- shared and consumed.
Panjim lived for the simple joys of conversation, eating,
trading stories, all of which happened sometimes at
home but generally at Clube Vasco da Gama, George’s
bar and Clube Nacional. Dinito, Nandin Pinto, Gabru,
Ernesto and Vasquito (who ran Clube Vasco da Gama for
years), Ricardo Rebello and many others in our cast of
characters, are all worthy recipients of the title of ‘blithe
spirit’, which is what poet Shelly called the Skylark bird.
Joie De Vivre was a philosophy, a way of life almost
transforming into a religion to which I became an instant
convert on arrival in 2004. Panjim’s charms were
worn on sleeves, there was music in the air, Clube Vasco,
Nacional and George’s bar were institutions where mirth
and simple revelry was followed with dedicated fanaticism.
There was drama and dancing, and rejoicing and
romancing. There were languid afternoons of beer and
chat sessions, and then cards and music and dinner and
chatter late into the night.
The graces and finesse of colonial Europe lingered,
lightly, without being intrusive- in music and mannerisms,
in food and frolic, in customs and in our clairvoyance.
Oh to be in 1985, or 95 or even 2005. But not 2015.
For starters Zito Pinto is losing too many members of his
team and he is not getting too many good replacements.
He does call occasionally when having a drink at Clube
Vasco or when Clube Nacional, with his typical greeting
that cannot be published in a family paper like ours.
Yes this is a note of lament. As Panjim goes modern,
and Porvorim looks like Delhi’s Saket or Greater Kailash
or perhaps some Bombay up-market suburb and even Saligao
and Sangolda are losing their grand homes to buildings
and supermarkets, we are losing our joie de vivre.
Today credit card machines are replacing the happy
endings of most bar nights when a bartender would scribble
the amount his customers owed for their excesses,
knowing it would be “settled soon. Hindi songs are replacing
beautiful impromptu voices, and PR companies,
event managers, perfect sound systems are replacing
shout-outs and word of mouth invitations for gatherings.
And yes there were no “events” in those days, just gatherings
of simple people out for the simple joys of life.
Nostalgia is always sweet but if ever there was a need
for this sweetness, it is now. As the skyline changes, of
even places like Campal and Fontainhas and Mala-the
last remnants of a wonderful past losing their shine- the
constant carnival of Panjim too has become parody of
its former self. Why even the actual carnival, is a painful
nightmare for those who have done the cha cha cha, and
the tango at the Red and Black Dances of yore, in front of
the Garcia de Orta garden.
To all of us, we say, let us not let that Panjim slip
away. Hold on to it for dear life, preserve protect and
promote, let us tell our children and our grand children
what Panjim once was and will never be. Yet still, but
still, if we rekindle that spirit, and it is we alone who can,
(and it doesn’t cost a farthing), we will thank ourselves
that we can still float and run, with un-bodied joy whose
race has just begun.
Let’s start running for that Panjim once again.
