As a toddler (that’s half a century ago), I recollect that Goa had very few bars. Most of the good bars were concentrated in the cities. Across almost all villages, the number of bars were miniscule and, although it carried the mandatory “bar and restaurant” board, no bar had the faintest aroma of anything cooking.
The ever popular “taverna licenciada” ruled the roost then. Simply translated from Portuguese, it meant a licensed tavern lovingly called “gaadhi”. It consisted of a 3 X 3 metres mud structure which had a small door and a single window. The room was equipped with a small table and half a dozen glasses hanging from a wooden glass holder nailed on the wall. There would be an array of bottles on the table, some containing cashew feni, others stocked with coconut feni. Come March and the third lot of bottles would appear filled with the seasonal cashew urraca. A dominating figure of the “gaadhikar” would stand at the window measuring and doling out the precious pints. During the afternoon this was the privilege of the “gaadhican” who in later years came to be referred to as “aunty”. These tavernas were frequented by the working class and it was a usual sight to watch them return from work and hover around the taverna in their loin cloth (kaxti), awaiting the arrival of the “gaadhikar”.
Back then, there was more civility among the masses. People cultivated their tippling habits such that they enjoyed their drink just before lunch or dinner as was evident in the “taverna’s” timings, except for the odd 24 X 7 drunkard loitering outside the tavern, trying to coax and cajole the owner into giving him his dose at odd hours lest he develop “cold turkey” symptoms. Boiled grams and “chepni tor” (pickled and salted raw mango) formed the appetizers.
So many interesting things could be seen at a “gaadhi”. The owner, normally a semiliterate person (seventh class dropout or less), would consider himself/herself Albert Einstein’s teacher. In short, he/she was a know-it-all, and off course the customers were illiterate. And here would begin the great conversation of the evening between the one-eyed and the blind. Like the blind asking how America was always ahead of Russia and the one eyed replying that America being at a higher altitude could see everything happening in Russia which was lower in altitude. And the blind nod in agreement.
Or the customer ignorantly enquiring who this “Sodhan Bhaxen” personality was, who was always in the Kuwait War news, obviously referring to Saddam Hussein. The conversations would cover almost all local village news and then upgrade to state, national and international affairs, depending on how many refills the glass had seen. Before the evening was through, a silent literate listener had had his share of entertainment.
And then began the arduous task of dispersing and returning home. Home was never too far away, but with the feni dose tucked in the tummy, the road home was long and never ending (often swaying from end to end as some of them would swear). After wishing the owner and his companions “good night” umpteen times and plucking up all his strength, the slightly tipsy fellow would be homeward bound. With the spirit in him giving him wings, all his misgivings with his landlord who hired his services, found their vent now. He would rant and rave very loudly and tell off the landlord in abusive language. Next day he would appear in time for work and would only give a sheepish apologetic look at the landlord. All was forgiven and forgotten.
Where is our Goenkarponn today? Where can we enjoy a good locally distilled brew, without all the din and nuisance witnessed in today’s bars? How I miss my “taverna licenciada”! How I miss the cheery face of the “gaadhikan” and her Know-it-all husband! How I miss my fellow tipplers who shared many a dull evening with me at our favourite “gaadhi”. What would I not trade to enjoy a drink at a taverna today! Where have all the “gaadhios” gone?
- James Monteiro, Loutulim
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