Atika Modassir
The Goa I grew up in was a tranquil and modest version; an abode tucked away within the greenery of its swaying groves. Now the poster child of social media feeds, it has become a shortcut to nirvana with people arriving in pursuit of that quiet life. That chase for the calm though, has somehow drowned out the sounds that I grew up with. There was a time when our watches were secondary and church bells tolled the hour. Temples drums set the tempo of our day, not the honking of vehicles. The azaan wafted from minarets, not electronic music from boom boxes in restaurants and boats. While many of those sounds linger on, they have grown fainter in the blitz of tourism, entertainment and development.
We rode our bikes freely as kids, tinkling the bell as we passed neighbours chatting on their balcãos and waving to friendly shopkeepers. Never missing either-- because who knows when Mrs D’Souza had extra slices of 'baath' or when the ‘shop-uncle’ was in an expansive mood to dole out ‘pepsis’. Not the omnipresent fizzy cola, no thank you, but the summertime delight of sweet slush in thin plastic tubes. If not for the magnanimity of ‘shop-uncle’, we would have to dole out a princely sum of one or even two rupee notes to afford the pleasure of ripping off the top and slurping up that nectar of the Gods. It helped of course, that riding a bike on our roads was certainly not an adventure sport then, neither was crossing a road.
Neighbours sauntered in for reasons ranging from “ Emergency! Sherko is over yaa, I really need it for my ambot tik” (of course you do, that qualifies as a legit emergency) or “tuka khobor assa go, Nina is back from her trip! I saw her myself, at Miramar circle today!” The ‘myself’ always held more credence than secondary sources, unless of course the source was Mrs Desai. She always knew- who broke whose window while playing cricket, who went for a jolly or why the milkman was late. It makes me reflect on how we have a deluge of information at our fingertips nowadays, but rarely any of it concerns our immediate lives- our neighbourhoods, our friends or our well-wishers.
So, Nina spotting is passé, as we now have hordes of celebs who have moved to Goa. #GoaLife #BeingGoan has become a lifestyle statement and less, the cultural nuances of the daily life that we kept. Which starlet grows what fruits in their organic garden and who frequents which café for coffee, now makes for news of the weekend. While most are happy to see café culture flourish in which people converse and engage, what they did not bargain for was the invasion of the influencers. Posing outside ancestral homes, hanging around private entrances or making reels outside an old auntie’s bedroom window at 3 pm. Has no one heard of a siesta? That’s an integral part of our culture too- a truce that we make with time to soften the bright light of day.
Rainy days ushered in by croaking frogs called for celebrating in puddles and muck, or a round of soaking football on the beach. To welcome the incoming monsoons, I took my kids to a beach the other day, assuming it was far enough from the milling crowds. What greeted me was the precise sight I had strived to avoid-- throngs of people in postcard mode, lavishly interspersed with peddlers of all ilk. Bottles and bags scattered across, a clean-up drive was in order, after which of course the next deluge of garbage will be thrown on the beach.
Walking along the bund at Divar recently, I was startled to find plastic waste scattered along the way- a sight that felt completely out of place in that haven of biodiversity. The cacophony of a boat blaring Bollywood item numbers along the island became my sign to call it a day. I thought I had got accustomed to that din across the river in Panaji, but here I was.
Reminiscing on my way home, it was not lost on me that as a little girl, it was at this very spot that I used to await with my mother, the arrival of the fishermen as they returned for the day. As she went about her field research, I perched there to spy on their imminent approach that was always betrayed by the kites and gulls, long before I could hear the whoops and songs about their silver bounty. What will become of the otters, crabs, egrets and all my other friends? The rivers and lakes we just jumped in and paddled about are now laced with sewage and toxic dump.
Like many others, I carry within me a geography of home and belonging that is morphing rapidly as luxury developments abound and malls are built to buy the things we did not desire anyway. I have never really thought of the islands and rivers as terrain, but rather as a marker of our shared identity. Perhaps this is why the changes that I see around me feel so personal.
As I returned home, I was greeted by the ponk! of our poder’s bicycle. Thanks to Mingel, I have always had the pleasure of warm poies, pão, kankna or undo for meals, come rain or sun. He waited patiently as I got out of the car and we chatted for a moment. He informed me that now there’s a deluge of bakery tours in demand, to familiarise people with the 500-year-old baking tradition. We giggled that his selfie posing days were finally here, before he cycled off into the evening and into the fabric of my daily life. On his way back Mingel will wisely weigh in on all the local matters that the elderly residents sitting in their balcãos will discuss, until the darkness finally draws him homeward.
Walking around the next morning I realised that whilst I was growing up, I didn’t really see so many boundary walls or locked doors. Gone were the days when we could pop into an adjoining garden just because we were following an earthworm. Please do not underestimate the difficulty of the aforementioned task- they burrow in and disappear before you can even say ‘earthworm’. So yes, no more skipping along into unfenced gardens or leaving your doors wide open through the day. Recently we had a gang of robbers grace our vicinity, attempt a robbery and then decamp in their Mercedes Benz - no less! Well, if you assesses the merit of their choice, they do need the car for speedily surmounting the potholes and lofty speed breakers. But that’s a topic for another day. On second thought though, locking doors maybe not such a bad idea because if it’s not thieves, there may be a betting syndicate or phone scammer around the corner…don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.
Long before it became an ‘in’ thing to hang out at ‘it’ places, our football grounds, temple and church squares have been placemaking for generations. People of all faiths gather to play, observe feasts and zatras, teaching entire communities about connection and celebration. Human experience reigned supreme over exhibitionism, and no one cared to ‘post’ about it. These everyday occurrences create a distinctly Goan manner of participating in the hustle and bustle of life.
When a public area shrinks, we gain another construction site slated to be a hotel or condo; only to lose an anchor of shared life, paddy fields, old houses and the stories that vanish with them. While we all welcome friends to share our lives and progress with, the question remains, that what is it about Goa that is worth holding on to? The issue is not about change itself, because change is not new to a pluralistic society that has embraced the Mauryas, the Kadambas, the Muslim Sultanates (Delhi, Bahmani and Bijapur- that founded Old Goa), the Vijayanagaras and the Portuguese.
The question is what values of being Goan do we hold dear and what values must endure to enable us to foster our identity built through centuries and not just a brand built in the yesteryears. The blessing of being Goan in an increasingly commercialised world cannot be captured in a curated alternative lifestyle. It resides in the earthy resonance of the ghumott, the tunes of pianos and violins wafting out from old courtyards, the drone of the ferry boats, and the beating of rain on our tiled roofs. It speaks through the teachers who have taught generations within a family, the neighbours who check on one another, the chatter of the family gathered over Sunday lunch and the banter on our balcãos. This is not nostalgia for the sake of it. To me, our timeless cultural decadence is what has always personified Goenkarponn- long before it became fashionable to style oneself as Goan. Because Goa is not a lifestyle destination, it is home.
(The writer is a Human Capital Strategist and Educationist; meaning she invests in humans like blue chip stocks and teaches them how not to crash the market)
