Time does stand still, but so do the bricks in the façades of homes, both the very old and crumbling as well as those which are old but inhabited. Every home retains that ageless magnificence, even as some of them are frayed around their edges.
Journeys to Moira had ceased for close to five years, since the village was bid farewell to, as home moved from here to the deep south. A part of the soul remained though,churning out memories and projecting them life-size. Of the magnificent home called BP, embraced by lawns and the fields beyond. The gigantic rooms with high ceilings and windows where the local frogs took up residence, allowing space for a visitor like me. Of the village lanes at Pirzona, winding their way in a labyrinth of smaller ones. Of the bungalows of magnificence which makes Moira a village like none other. (Of course the madness of Moira which I consumed and contributed to, makes it a village like none other too). Of the walk from my old home, past the St Xavier’s School and down the slope to the chapel in the middle of the road and then a narrow climb through a leafy lane to the main Church square. Each memory has been lived and enjoyed king size.
Nothing had changed. Nothing ever would, save some of the homes, obviously bought and passed onto fresh hands, looking grander with modern classy trappings, with the charm of the yesteryears ensconced. It was a lovely afternoon with the sun marking attendance but not intruding. In any case, tree lined Moira has an all round wall of foliage and greenery making it impossible for the sun to invade.
This road tapers off at the Church square and most turn back or take the lefty bend which leads to the main Aldona-Moira-Mapusa junction road, near the Moira Panchayat. But a better idea is to take the turn to the right, past the church and climb the road up past the rear of the Church for a top view of the fields and the rivulet. If you chose to pause and shut your eyes for a bit, this could well be the Lake Districts in England, and you, ready to rewrite the Lyrical Ballads, on the Romantic Age in English Literature. But as I say all too often, that is another story.
However, can any journey to Moira not a have a back story about food? Actually all this was done post a massive meal at arguably one of the best village restaurant bars – Andron. During my days in these parts, Andron, in the next village of Nachinola, was a lifeline. Tony, who runs this as his home has perfected two dishes in a manner where he can seriously apply for a patent – the salted roast tongue with gravy and the pork solantolem.
Before my Moira wanderings that day, a much awaited luncheon ended its wait. My friendly and combative ex door neighbour, Floriano, sat in the rear room with another friend. The front room is simply Tony’s drawing room, a portion of which has been turned into a nice cosy bar with high bar stools where I always had my meals. Nothing has changed here too as if we picked up from yesterday and not from yesteryears. The splendid cashew feni with the right mix of lime and lemon and chilli with a cut in the middle, which I dip into my feni, arrived promptly with no prompting. The salted tongue was already in the process of being done. Tony asked, just for the record, if the pork solantolem should be brought first, not if I wanted solantolem. As always, the pork was soft and succulent with the right amount of fat lingering on the flesh with red chilli and solantolem and salt. The hot crusty pao to soak in the oil and the pork fat was the proverbial icing.
The tongue roast arrived and turned out to be just that – a Tony special. The tongue is delicately spiced and marinated with a nice gravy and goes just as well on its own with your cashew feni or with the pao. Well just in case the uninitiated felt this was the meal, this wasn’t. This was just the beginning. No meal at Tony’s (or for that matter anywhere) is complete without the fat boiled rice and curry. Yet again, no thinking was needed. Tony’s data base on food habits of his regulars and irregulars, needs no computer server. Almost without asking, the shark ambotik arrived, the best in the world squarely, with a river full of shark curry gravy meandering into the fat rice. The shark pieces though were a tad smaller than usual but that again depends on the season and the catch.
The afternoon wore on, the chats never ended and Goa’s past, present and future were discussed and “settled”, before yours truly set off for his Moira wanderings which were reported in the first part of this tale of a languid day. I stepped onto paths not traversed for some time but never forgotten. Draped with memories, that afternoon reinforced two things- one that this true Goa stands still in a time capsule in villages like Moira and Nachinola and two, nothing should be done to touch these gems of Goenkarponn.
