Some pictuires

This man brews 'Fenni' in Sattari

This is a man I saw in a tavern

This is my drawing.

She is from Canacona.

He sits outside the municipal garden, Margao.

Images

I have seen two things which I had not seen while growing up in Goa. At 45, I took the trouble to go as far as Chandor and Sattari. What I saw was strange

Chandor:

Chandor (Portuguese for Chandrapuri!) was the capital of the ruling dynasty of Goa, the Kadambas. A walk through the village testifies to its rich past, although architecture is quintessentially Portuguese with all those airy 'balcaons' and high ceilings etc. Not too far as you enter Chandor from Margao is the chapel. It is there that I witnessed that strange ritual. It takes place on the day following the end of the three day fest of the absurd, Carnival. It so happened that this year the day coincided with the Hindu festival of mahashivrathri. It added to the enchantment and the magic of the ritual. I had never seen Goan Christians wear a dhoti, and smear their foreheads with the tripunda-an unmistakable shaivite thing. In Chandor, on this particular day they do. They are all Christians. They go to church and believe in all that the christian doctrine prescribes. I saw these men, a group of about 20, with sticks in their hands and some musical instruments, initiate the ritual at the chapel. They lit a fire and sang praises to Lord Shiva! I heard also a name repeatedly featuring in their song. I wondered who that might be. An elder from the village told me that it was the name of the Kadamba king. I am not being able to express exactly my surprise at witnessing that in Chandor. It was indeed strange. I was enthralled. One in our group, a journalist, said that it indicated "our" Hindu past. To me, it was not so much "our" and "Hindu" past as it was the ability of those men (of human- kind) not only to tolerate other religion, but to accept it right in the heart of their belief in their inherited faith.

Sattari:

Sattari is one of the 11 Talukas of Goa. Ranes (ex C.M. Mr. Pratapsing Rane) from Maharashtra ruled this area. They have a ritual there which is in keeping with the war-lord-like penchant for gore. They have, at the end of Shigmo, the Hindu harvest festivity, an yearly Jatra. It is called 'choranchi jatra'- the feast of thieves! 'Gaonkars', or the village maintainers, offer food to all who come for this fest from outside. We had a simple meal at 5 p.m.; we were hungry! It was boiled rice with a gram curry, and pickle. That's all. Simple but delicious. And they ask you( they must) whether you would eat a bit of chicken gravy. Those who wish are served a chicken gravy. Only gravy, no meat! Why? Originally, I was told, there was human sacrifice on this day. 'Gaonkariponn' or gaunkar-ship is honor which you had to earn by sacrificing one young male from your household. But that was even prior to Portuguese rule. That was when Ranes ruled! Yet this human was stopped owing to a rather strange occurrence. It is believed that a young from the neighbouring village of Zarme was married in this village. The very year she was married the 'gaonkariponn' was requested by the head of the boy's family. It was granted to him, but then he had to sacrifice his only male child in order to get the honor. The parents of the who was faced with the prospect of widowhood could not accept this. " How", they demanded, "can we allow our daughter to be widow in the very year that she is betrothed? There will be WAR!" So all the elders met and saw reason here, and did a 'garhane', (a special prayer to Gods). Gods being very benevolent accepted and addressed them to kill a goat or a chicken. Since then man slaughter was stopped and we had chicken gravy prepared to serve all he guests who wanted it. But where was the meat? The meat is given to 'chors'(thieves). And after the meal they are buried alive in the ground near the temple. The human sacrifice part is symbolically enacted now. I saw the buried bodies when at the end of a prolonged ritual, they are 'shown' to the gathering. I saw that the 'chors' were breathing! It seemed such a bad show. But it was not disappointing because in sattari they distill the best 'urrak" available to man for consumption. we drank on our way back. We were happy and tired.

Straying thoughts

When two people contend, where both are right and their viewpoints are justified, status quo (to leave things as they are) seems the only answer. But that does not bring home a point conclusively. It does not 'nail' the issue. It is a compromise. Perhaps, there is maximum justice in a compromise. Win- some -lose- some- sort of thing. Live and let live, where both the contenders have to put up with a bit of injustice. Yet, pronouncement of justice as man understands and practices it, a judicial verdict, seeks to be conclusive. "Beyond any reasonable doubt" is the famous dictum. I wonder if that is possible. Whatever the values which define something as 'just', there will always be doubt. But that doubt is over ruled by dictates of an authority, the judge. At the end of a trial the judge hammers his desk to sign off. 'The case is closed' is what it signifies. That, too, is compromise. An 'authority', however supreme, rules a verdict in favour of one against the other for want of an all comprehensive omniscience. (I dare that term in human context!) Of course there is room for appeal. There are hierarchies of courts - Civil, high & supreme- where one may appeal. Yet, my understanding is that these courts too are not above the general limitation of human mental- vital muddle. Ancient Hindu thought seems to have considered this. It is believed that Hindus do not regard 'madness' in the sense that modern Psychology does. Modern psychology judges to condemn, albeit in terms most euphemistic, yet condemn it does. Hindus of old did not do that. A mad man was considered divinely inspired, as in the case of Ramakrishna Paramhansa. Only when the 'madman' was harmful, practical measures were taken to segregate the person. Recently I have experienced this very conundrum in my own home. I am right in the views I hold, and she is right in holding hers. Unfortunately, there appears to be no room for a compromise. It is not so much owing to my will not to be willing to pacify things as it is due to her refusal to make peace. We are humans. We should seek to make peace at every opportunity. If we fail to see the reasonableness of that, all human co-existence is a chimera. It is hogwash & nothing else! And despite millennia of 'civilization' we are still subject to animal law, which is survival of the fittest. In these thoughts of mine which strayed, there was quite some dwelling on something called "pardon". But since it will not be exercised in this case, let it be left unsaid.

Roaming lines

Season, the season

Has U bent and turned

sniffing at dew

At its own winter-tracks.

The rock to the sky- edge

Remains glued

Though its shadow

Has tumbled and fall'n.

***

The grey long worm track

Boring through vista

Transporting me to

Some fossil-xanadu.

If not for this heart beat

The quiet would be complete

If not for the breathing

Silence's worth nothing.

***

Krish

At 60+ years, S. Krishnamma is Krish to everyone. He left India in his teens for England. Krish has tried many things in his life: he has run a casino, played tennis, coached, got qualified for senior Wimbledon. Krish has been a businessman, and, some years back while dealing in cannabis he was nabbed, tried, convicted and sent to a prison in England. He did ten years in the prison they call the Lazy L. There he wrote a book. It is called 'the ballad of the Lazy L'. This book has gone through press twice. Krish signed one of the last copies left for me. I felt grateful. I met Krish a month back when he came calling to Alie with a few copies of his lazy L. A week later there would be a book reading. Alie is the founder member of the book club, and since Krish was here in Goa she's invited him for the reading of his book. The second time we met was at the reading (the day I lost my ear stud!). Our third meeting was last week, when Krish invited my friends and me to lunch in a quiet little place in Majorda. The food was excellent; conversation jovial. The first time I tried lazy L I simply could not get into the book. I remember entertaining a dismissive thought regarding the book. That was before the book reading. At the reading there were questions asked and Krish spoke about the prison and how the book came to be written. Everyone seemed to have read lazy L. I had not. I decided to read it. In the first sitting I read forty eight pages of beautiful English writing. Krish writes beautifully. When I met him again I said, hay Krish, I read your book. All I can say, I said, is that you write English. He laughed heartily. I also told him how I particularly saw him alluding to ual imagery while talking about a machine he was going to have to work with in the prison, but that his sexual imagery was not sensual, it was anguished. Anguished in a sense of longing, desiring for something you will not get for ten long years. These are attributes of great literature, I told him. "Well", he said, " not great literature, may be not, but it was not bad at all." I could see what he meant. It was not bad at all.

De-coding

I grew up with some assumptions which I thought while growing up to be the most natural Precis. Yet all along I had to pass through thin membranes of conflict. Growing up was a big onion pealing like process, as it were. While the conflict was there I could not always attribute its cause to those assumptions which were at the root of things. I looked for the more immediate cause, - a tactile causal element to get at, to accuse, take revenge on- for my displeasure, if not misfortune. Although I wrote that in the past tense, growing up has not ceased. It never ceases . What, I think, has happened is that I am a shade more aware that the causes for my anguish may be subtle. I have acquired a bit of a poise to consider that. If that is any measure of growth then I have grown I suppose. Yesterday I was with a friend, drinking at dinner. This friend of mine warms up to the booze and gradually his talk somehow returns to himself invariably. He becomes a big lovable megalomaniac. Sometimes, even those occurrences to which he may have absolutely no connection become his doings! And he gets repetitive. And boring. Had it been some years back, I should most probably have 'put him in his place', as they say. But yesterday, I became aware of my poised reaction to him. I understood him. That allowed me a great deal of room to listen to his 'yarn' if you like, or even indulge him. At the end of our dinner, there was genuine fondness between us. He was happy because I listened to him; I was happy because he was.

****

Funny how children think. Funny, because it is funny indeed. Yet the candid directness of their logic is frightfully endearing. Perhaps that is why children are largely loved by most adults. I remember an incidence: There was a teacher of mine who simply did not like my attitude. He did not like my torn shirts and my poverty. Since there was nothing I could do about it, I lived with his tormenting humiliations and punishments. He used to hit me. I dreaded him and hated him, too. I think most of us hated him.

One day I had bunked his class. (I took every opportunity to do so) After the ringing of the bell at the end of the period, I let some time pass before coming to the class from my hiding. Now it so happened that this once when I returned, the teacher was still in the class doing some extra work. I did not know that. I assumed that he HAD gone. He had not. He glared at me as I froze at the door.

"Where were you?" He asked me.

Fear of getting beaten had developed in me a healthy defensive tendency to lie convincingly. I say healthy, because apart from the moral perspective, it was natures way of self preservation. His question triggered a ready to shoot reply in my brain and I said, "I had forgotten xxxxx -a certain something) home, sir. I had gone to get it."

"Where is it?" He asked, seeing nothing in my hands.

" Oh! But it is in my bag, sir. I looked for it in the bag but did not find it. I thought I had Left it home. But I am certain it is in the bag. I must have not noticed in the hurry."

" You went home? Who asked you to go home without my permission?"

"Sorry, sir!"

The point I am trying to make is how this type of questions had impressed themselves on my psyche. When my father died, I often had this at the back of my head. I used to think, "Papa died without my permission!"

I find that touching somehow.

I was about ten years old, thirty five years ago. A long time has passed since then, but I remember these things. They are mile-stones which mark my growth as an individual.

Two thoughts

Office of the sub registrar in canacona is the worst building of its kind. It is uninspiring and the energy within the building, owing obviously to the long wait generated boredom, is stale. I was there today. I met a school friend.

He is 'open' today as he was then. Twenty years and more have passed. Lot has changed. Prashant, my friend's hair is greying and I noticed that he does not dye them.

We spoke briefly, while his young bro in law was getting married. Then the thing got over. Prashant dropped me to the place where I was asked to buy stamps by the Sub R office. Then we parted. As he was pulling out he said, "Charu, I will never forget you"

I was good of him to say that. It cheered me up. I had a bottle of beer.

*****

Some people do not grow.

Their bodies do, they wear and tear

But people do not grow.

Their talk at times makes you get involved in their passion. But over time you realize that it was just talk.

May be it is the limitation of language. And in today's values and morals, or the lack of them

adds to the mess. I am wary of people who use extreme adjectives to describe people, or even when they introduce two people by generous praises of both parties.

Such people are impulsive. Their success stories can be best described by the word chance, luck.

******

Accumulatings

I used to wear this beautiful ear stud. It was a real diamond, held with a golden pin. I loved it because it was, I think, one of those things you completely feel is "right". Well, my right thing ( I wore it on left tho')got lost somewhere last week and since then I have been looking for it everywhere. I looked for it all over the place. And I realised how large the earth is! Somewhere on this planet is fallen this little glittering stud of mine. I still look for it here and there, hoping to get it back. I miss it.

****************

It was one of Paula's pair. She had inherited it from her grandma, Nana. She is rather careless with precious materials, or should I say she is not as attached to them as I am. When she lost one of these studs, she offered the other to Anasuya, our domestic aid. I wanted it for myself, so I asked Paula for it and she gave it to me. I had my ear pierced way back in the 20Th C. BC. Here was an opportunity to start wearing a stud again. That is how I came to wear it. It was so perfect, that I am attached to it. I miss my little diamond. Hope I find it.

**************

I am sad that Mir is not with me. He is with Paula in Auroville. I spoke to him over the phone yesterday. It is only a month since I have come away to Goa, but I miss my little son. And I know he misses me.

When I called him yesterday he was pleasantly surprised. And the next thing he did was complain against his mother. "Mama is mean to me" He said.

"Did she yell at you?" I asked.

"Yes" said he.

"And do you want me to yell at her and tell her not to be mean to you?" I teased him.

" No!" Mir said, " you don't yell at her, but tell her gently not to be mean to me"

"O.K." I said, and when Paula took over from him, before I could tell her gently not to be mean to my son, I heard Mir in the background telling Paula how hungry he was and that he wanted to go to lunch @ Solar Kitchen.

******

In places like Auroville, a large part of idealism becomes the part of one's natural attitude. You realise how much you have progressed from your reactions to small changes: simple things like drinking tea.

Tea in Goa is horrid. Not one cup I have had so far has given me that simple pleasure of drinking tea which only a tea drinker knows.

The above may sound prudish, highbrow. It may reflect a holier than thou attitude. But horrid tea is horrid anywhere, just as good tea is good anywhere. In Auroville I have good tea. The brand: Cuppa chai, organic BOP. That is the Best tea that Charu likes.

***

Talking about tea, I remember that there was a time when we used to have tea in the canteen of the institute of psychiatry & human behaviour. Mental hospital canteen was run by a Mangalorian who made scented tea. He made it strong, the way I like it. Love of tea is a stranger madness. I have seen tea drinkers get into a trance like empty 'stare' while sipping their hot brew. I had read a Bengali nonsense rhyme by Sukumar Rai, where he gives tea the status as of a goddess.

**** Among the things I lost in recent times is my old pair of specs. I had looked for the right kind of round non shiny brass-coppery metal frame in as many shops as I came across on my specs hunt. Finally when I found it, I paid the man extra to fit my bi-focs right there and then. It was a good pair of specs that pair of mine. Sure, it is there somewhere, hiding from all evil, watching evil, seeing it from its good corner.

*****************