Joseph Lewis D’Silva
Goan Hindus, Catholics or Muslims, speak Konkani, though many also speak English, Portuguese, Marathi or Hindi. Many Goans have always migrated, even during the colonial rule as they aspired to improve their standard of living. But in foreign countries, they always felt homesick.
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The green-blue hues of hills and waving fields; the cluster of coconut trees swaying in the breeze; pearly sands, emerald seas, topaz mountains, azure rivers — all call migrant Goans back home. The valleys whisper, ‘Bangarachem Goem apoita Goekarank’ (Golden Goa beckons Goans), to return and relive the memories moving in their mind.
Goans abroad miss the unique sounds of home; the monsoon rain pounding on tiled roofs; the familiar rhythms of ‘tiatrs’ (local drama), and the joyous celebrations of Christmas, New Year and Carnival. Their memories force Goans to book a trip home, in time for Chapel, Church feasts and Cross Litanies (Ladins) where after prayers, at the foot of the Cross, boiled grams mixed with small pieces of coconut are traditionally served.
They even long for the thud or swish of footballs striking the village ground as it move across on the playground where barefooted boys spontaneously play the football game.
For the migrants, nostalgia is more than a longing for a place — it’s a yearning for a way of life: Morning Mass at the local Church, then reading the elegant ‘O Heraldo’ with gusto while sitting on a rocking chair.
In the evening, Goans living in distant cities often remember peaceful walks through paddy fields, sitting on a ‘mer’ (ridge) to breath in fresh air. Such moments bring calm and clarity that urban life rarely offers.
The golden sands of Goa’s virgin beaches also pull at migrant’s hearts. They long to bathe in the warm, giggling waves of the Arabian Sea — believing it to cure themselves of arthritis and prickly-heat.
Food memories intensify the nostalgia. The aroma and tastes of home — savory ‘sorpatel’, piquant xacuti; freshly fried fish; mouth-watering para, spicy sausages of pork; grandmother’s comforting ‘pez’ (canjee, rice gruel) with ‘kalchi-kodi’ (yesterday’s curry) which bring deep emotional responses — a sense of well-being to the whole body. Many remember the taste of ‘mangada’ (mango jam), jackfruit dosh and the warm welcome of their ancestral ‘cozinh’ (kitchen).
Even tavern culture leaves its mark. Some migrants fondly remember the time spent in Goan pubs, drinking ‘urak’ or ‘fiery-feni’ (caju or coconut liquor) with friends, under disco lights and soft music in drinking holes. And when their spirits rise, they walk homewards for a satisfying meal of ‘xit and nistea coddi’ (rice and fish curry), perhaps humming an old tune.
Elderly Goans dream of returning home for retirement; to spend their twilight years in ancestral villages where their hearts always remained. Others, tied down by responsibilities of family abroad, live out their days with unspoken longing.
All those who never make it to come back; die in foreign land; and they return posthumously; bodies are brought to Goa — and according to individual religious rites, their ashes are scattered in the Arabian Sea or their bodies buried in local cemeteries.
For many Goan migrants, the connection to their homeland remains unbroken by distance. They simply revisit their home in dreams. In life or in death, the migrant’s heart often finds its final resting place in Goa.
