Lessons in free-spiritedness

Ira Pande

Ira Pande

THIS January has been the coldest in Delhi since we came here from Chandigarh in 1990. In fact, the last few winters have been so mild that I gave away all those heavy woollens that were clogging up our cupboard space. How I regretted that generosity as we hunted for new heaters and radiators only to discover that all shops (and even online shopping sites) had run out of them. It was then that we decided to run away to sunny Goa, even though buying tickets at this time of the year, Goa’s busiest tourist season, made a serious dent in our savings. However, as we got off the plane and the first waft of a warm sea breeze greeted us, we decided that it was worth the deal.

It isn’t just the warm and balmy weather, but the laidback attitude of the Goans that’s certain tension buster. No wonder just about anyone who can afford has a place here. If you are a well-heeled person, you either get yourself a villa in Goa or a cottage in the hills (preferably both) to relax in when city life gets too much.

Ironically, these beautiful homes are used for just about two months in a year, yet, there is a flourishing service sector that has come up: caretakers, taxi drivers and pop-up restaurants are to be seen all over. The range of food is astonishing: from local Konkani fish thalis to exotic artisanal Italian, French, Russian cuisine to say nothing of the wonderful patisseries that sell fresh bread and pastries. Did I mention handmade chocolates and cheese or the fresh seafood? And how can I not tell you about the utterly addictive sapota (the almost seedless custard apple), the strawberries, figs and baby bananas? Almost every corner has a kaju outlet and for tipplers, there’s a huge range of alcohol at rock-bottom prices to choose from, since Goa has wisely kept its excise taxes low.

So while we sat under a sunshade, sipping a drink, the kids and grandchildren ran around the beach and joined us for a hearty lunch, topped off by great coffee. Since I had the time to, I studied the behaviour of the various kinds of people around us. There are the ubiquitous foreigners soaking up the sun on loungers or swimming in the warm waters. They come in all sizes and shapes: from the typical blonde bombshell in a just-about-there bikini to fat and paunchy middle agers-turned-into-red lobsters as they sunbathe. Our own desis are no less interesting: there are the Bombay yuppies and their partners: their beautiful faces hiding low brain power (I couldn’t help overhearing some of the conversations), the yummy mummies with brats in tow and the servile nanny who is forbidden from scolding her spoilt charges. The loud Punjabi family, without which no travel experience is quite complete, is always a welcome distraction. Perhaps it is my long association with Punjab that makes me feel all warm and happy when I see their uninhibited behaviour that converts any place on this planet into a piece of Punjab. It is such a heartwarming sight to see them dig into their tandoori fare, washed down with generous glasses of beer-sheer.

The old Portuguese Goa is slowly fading and there are few who can speak Portuguese now, but the legacy of music and food remains. Wandering in the old quarter of Panjim, it is painful to see the gracious colonial architecture almost hidden from view as spanking new houses and retail shops bring in a different culture. But that is life and even though my old friends there bemoan the death of the splendid mangroves and point out the gashes of red left behind by mining corporations, to us northerners, Goa is still, in some sense, the ‘phoren’ part of India. Along with Pondicherry and Chandernagore, it is a reminder that our colonial past was not just about the British and Company rule, it was also about those Portuguese, French and Dutch traders who gave us so many fruits and spices (potatoes and chillies included), taught us how to make bread (pao) and sing and dance.

There was a time when every nightclub in India and every band had a Goan behind the wind instruments, or a crooner from there. That tradition is still visible (although in a modified form) every February when the famous Goa Carnival is celebrated with song, dance and good food and wine. Floats depicting scenes from life and clowns and jugglers wind down merrily to end up at huge street parties. Why can’t we celebrate our own Republic Day like this, I wonder? Instead of the quasi-fascist military parade of nuke warheads and tanks and armoured cars, what fun it would be if we all joined in to dance and sing together.

As I write this, I am mindful of the enormous churning taking place in the streets and parks all over the country as more and more citizens join the young and angry in their protests against a divisive law. As long as the citizens honour the Constitution of India and take an oath on it to keep us all together and live in peace and harmony, nothing and nobody can push through laws that are unacceptable to us.

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