Touchdown, Dabolim. The gentle thump of the aircraft landing wheels triggered a sweet lump in my throat, butterflies in my tummy and a pleasant acceleration of the beat of a heart in a state of delirious anticipation. Home at last. Oh! To be in Goa…
Over the past several decades there had been numerous arrivals, only to be cancelled out by an equal number of departures. The most joyous arrivals were when we trundled off the ferry on the Mandovi dock. We would be hardly 24 hours away from Ferry Wharf in Bombay, but the exhilaration and headiness we felt would stay with us for the entire holiday. May, school holidays. It did seem strange however that we should be on “holiday” in our town, our own country, our Goa.
This has become the life story, history, of almost all absentee natives, to- and-froing dejectedly between there and Paradise. “There” was anywhere in over a thousand towns across the earth. Grandparents and parents having long since ‘immigrated’, mostly to Bombay, then onwards; dads sailing the high seas, children born elsewhere, but somehow strongly attached to their unique ‘native place’. You can get them out of Goa, but you can’t get Goa out of them. Family homes that once accommodated a score or two of near and dears under one roof, would steadily empty of most of its members, many born in that house. But then ancestral properties would change hands, leaving sons and daughters and an army of cousins with no “Goa home” to return to.
So when one returned, one would “holiday” with different relatives at different places; uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents who would have moved to a different village due to a network of marriage connections. When the magical tenure of a fleeting holiday would end, then it would be back to wherever.
Bombay? Dubai? Melbourne? London? You will find an active and spirited Goan Association in all of these and many cities across the world. This being a full-hearted attempt of the town’s local Goan natives, drowning in nostalgia and homesickness, to party as if they were back home. But does that really work? It would perhaps bring some solace to a longing, aching heart, maybe, but how far does that help?
After all, where are the green fields, the palm-tree lined roads, the beaches, the serene cottages nestled among mango trees, the bakeries, the rice fields, the tavernas, the churches, the country rivers, the well water, the air, the music, the peace, the cuisine? Yes, it is the abundance that nature has bestowed upon the people of this blessed land that has crafted the character and attitudes of the people who have had the good fortune to have been born in Goem, a land of remarkable beauty, flowing with milk and feni.
In reality, a Country is its People. Where else will you find that sweet gentleness, the sincere warmth, and people who greet you with a blessing; Dev Boro Dis Dium.
Then there’s this other side, change. “The only thing that’s constant is change”. Change is inevitable, many necessary, some acceptable, some not. But the unique characteristic and culture of Goa, its pristine natural beauty, preserved and nurtured over centuries, are being encroached upon due to the envious and predatory nature of many uncultured human classes from around the nation and the world.
The major factors that attract tourists and would-be immigrants to Goa from within the country and abroad, are the laid-back tempo and peaceful vibes one feels anywhere you go, the greenery and fresh air, the year-round access to clean and picturesque beaches, the world-famous cuisine, and of course the fun and freedom loving and genuine hospitality offered by the local population. Goa propels one into a celebratory mood every single day of the year. And the encouraging factor of having the nation’s highest per capita income and a population of less than 2 million. Compare that to the population of the Metropolitan Region of Mumbai, 24 million, and not one tenth the size of Goa.
Democracy at its philosophical best!
All of this invites a downside that brings in commercial and alien cultural activities with its attendant issues of pollution, overcrowding, drugs and crimes of varying nature; which in turn disfigures and alters the very nature and qualities that make Goa what the world knows it to be.
Patriotism? Yes. But patriotism is in fact an emotion, a display of love for oneself. You see your country as you. You want to protect it; you want to make it the best place to be. An open-hearted, generous soul would want to share this lucky stroke of good fortune; but in doing so, sees something that wants to snatch it away from him. Then the survival instinct begins to surface.
Trouble in paradise.
The prodigal thus returns. ‘Prodigo’ in Portugese, the meaning comes out a bit harsh as compared to the more biblical connotation in English. Perhaps, outside of Portugal, as an offer in thanksgiving, a ‘fatted calf’ would be sacrificed to celebrate the return of a beloved. In Portugal, perhaps it would be a ‘fatted suckling’. (Would that perhaps explain the variation in the meaning of the word between the two dialects?)
For now, above all else, it’s being drowned in the idea that one is in Goa. Swimming in state of bliss that this land floats on is only what really matters. Let the news pundits dish out the daily political shenanigans that provide the real masala that makes your morning cup-a-tea such a happy ritual. Day in, day out, it goes on, endless, ad infinitum.
At last no more suits, no tie; hey, I have to drag out my old shorts and sneakers, my most rag-a-tag t-shirt… ah! Here it is, the print on the back says “Make Love, Not War” and there’s the long lost ‘peace sign’ in that circle in front; it’s been waiting these last fifty years, crushed and crumpled, waiting to come back home. Okay, found the bike keys, an exuberant vroommm, down to beach….. under the helmet, tears of JOY!
(The author is now a permanent resident of Goa after living many years in Mumbai, New York and London)
