In the glow of the afternoon light, the red brick walls and
the cobbled stones of Fontainhas, puffed their chests up, their grace and
finesse, growing with each passing day. The stately homes, protectors of so
much of history and a never ending pit of stories, were waiting for someone who
had the time to listen. The sound of a violin from one home, the soft keys of a
piano in the other and jazz playing – hopefully on a gramophone record, were the
only sounds which broke the still of the afternoon.
Fontainhas has time for each one of us, but many of us who live
and love in Goa, do not have time for Fontainhas. On a weekday afternoon a
chance meeting at a Fontainhas home led to yours truly “taking some time off”
and walking the streets, after ages. It was agenda-less, ambition less and
missionless, a careless languid stroll.
Thoughts of the past, of the early years in Goa, where time seemed
magically at hand raced in a conundrum of joyous madness. Linda’s Viva Panjim,
the first port for call for a ‘fresher’ to Goa, straight off the boat, in 2004,
is still there, unchanged and unhinged. All that is missing is the smiling
figure of her beloved husband Michael as he came down from the living quarters
and sat one of the tables, either rummaging through some papers, or sitting by
the window quietly having his lunch, as Linda chatted about, with diners at the
restaurant or with others. Afternoons and many evenings were spent, as I
received my first learnings of a land and a town which is now intrinsically
mine.
The walk that afternoon was full of symbolism as it was
real, from the road below Percival Noronha’s home, towards Mala and on the road
adjacent to the St Sebastian Chapel towards Panjim Inn. This could well have
been in Bairo Alto in Lisbon, the only difference being that at Lisbon,
tradition sits with the modern.
In Fontainhas, you just pray that it doesn’t. With fists
quietly clenched, you hope that Fontainhas and you, could, from that afternoon
onwards, stop the modernity at each entrance to this Latin Quarter of divinity
and charm. Unlike Bairo, where homes bathed in sunlight (oh the light of
Lisbon) with wrought iron balconies and 19th century warehouses, share space
with sleek shops, and hip cafes, the heart wants Fontainhas to freeze out the
modern. And yet it does have some charming restaurants and cafes, which blend
with the charm and not corrupt it.
As the afternoon wore on, I took out my small black book, where
I copiously write notes about everything, in the old fashioned slow way, and
not on a phone, and sat on the edge of the St Sebastian Chapel, right on the
street. Moments of delightful nothingness passed before which a short walk to Panjim
Inn – the vintage mansion built in the 1800’s and now a heritage hotel – was
taken, where the old fashioned mushroom cheese toast and a pot of Assam tea was
ordered.
Fontainhas of course has seen some new cafes and hostels merging
without quite disturbing the sanctity of the heritage and architecture, the Old
Quarter being one. This is where the heart of old Panjim lives. And at the risk
of pontificating, let us just say that the old lady needs to be looked after,
and visited and celebrated with. The Fontainhas festival, with its street music
and local food made in the homes spiced with revelry and chatter needs to be an
annual feature. Music, which permeates through every pore of Fontainhas, needs
to be heard on the streets as a soothing background note to heighten the
Fontainhas experience. And above all, the homes, each over a 100 years old,
need care and protection and that doesn’t come cheap. The restoration of
Fontainhas has to begin by the protection and preservation of its ancient homes
and unlike the very welcome private efforts of some, many of the home owners simply
cannot bear the expenses of keeping their homes the way they once were. Perhaps
the proceeds of the Fontainhas festival can go towards restoration work.
With setting sun, time moves on, and takes in its wake
people and with them memories. But memories must be passed down and preserved
and that can only happen, if Fontainhas looks and feels the same, for
generations to come.
