DIASPORIC RE-VISITATION - Part 1

BRIDGE OVER CALM WATERS

River Zuari, Goa, India.
Painting in Water Colour by Tony Fernandes

Diasporic Re-VisitationPart 1

It was a long flight over two oceans and three continents. The plane circled once around the airport, made a smooth landing and finally came to a halt. The air outside was distinct, but slightly humid for the time of year. The airport building had changed quite a bit since his last visit. Felicio’s holiday in Goa was about to begin.

The taxi took on the sweeping curves along the river bank. As Felicio was about to turn homeward to the north at the T-junction at the base of the hillock Felicio saw the famous bridge looming over the Zuari river. The barges transporting the iron-ore slowly maneuvering their way under the bridge brought to mind a familiar sight of the past that had not changed.

The breeze hit his face through the open window of the taxi bringing some relief from the heat of the afternoon sun. Scooters were plying about almost everywhere. It seemed that everybody on wheels wanted to overtake Felicio’s hired taxi. Everyone seemed to be in a rush. “Who said we were susegad?” he mused to himself, “or could it be the scooter riders were not Goenkar?” he wondered.

Along the way Felicio received a casual news brief from the friendly cab driver beginning at state level, and then in a subdued tone a weather forecast followed by a general look at the prevailing situation of the land. As the taxi slowly came to a halt Felicio was surprised that he was home earlier than he had expected. He was quick to realize that it was due to the fact that new bridges were now built where none existed before, and so he did not have to wait at the ferry crossings, although he was rather perturbed to hear from the driver that the pride and landmark bridge over the river Zuari has some new problems.

The drive home was an enjoyable and also quite an experience. Apartment buildings now dotted the entire landscape. Felicio was surprised to see the pace of construction going on in places where in the past rice crops were cultivated. Huge factories and their smoke stacks emerged high in the distance north-east of the Zuari. Felicio’s village was bustling with great activity. It appeared to have undergone a metamorphosis. The footpath that ran beside Felicio’s house had now become a street and the once narrow lane in front had become a major thoroughfare. At first sight everything around seemed strange to him. He would somehow try to handle this unexpected situation and take the change in stride gradually, he thought.

His good good old neighbour and childhood friend, Manu, waved out from the balcao of his house across the street and hollered a warm and enthusiastic welcome over the din of traffic. Felicio was glad to see that Manu had not altered the façade of his house. Manu had now retired from his job as the compositor at the printing press in the city after a service of 35 years.

The afternoon swiftly transformed into evening. The road in front of Felicio’s house was full of hustle and bustle. It seemed as if it had been converted into a major highway just in a jiffy. People were speeding home from work on scooters. Bus drivers drove with one hand on the steering-wheel and the other constantly on the air-horns. The change was quite overwhelming.

As it had been habitual during Felicio’s previous vacations, he decided to go around the village and visit his neighbours. This, he remembered, was something he had done from the time of his college days in Bombay. In the month of April he would travel to Goa by ship to spend his summer holidays there. Visiting neighbours had been a courtesy and a habit since the days of his teens. Also he felt he should not let them presume that he has forgotten them.

His first visit was to the house of his closest friendly neighbours to find out how they were doing. Tia Anna hugged him and said she was now old, almost in her late 70’s, and lived alone. He remembered he had seen her upright long ago, but now she appeared frail and hunched. Her son worked in the Arabian Gulf. Felicio’s aunt slept over at her house since she had not been keeping too well lately.

While he was away from home he had often thought about Titi Joao. As a young lad Felicio and other boys in the village gathered around in the balcao of his house and attentively listened to the lengthy and intriguing stories he related during the evenings soon after Angelus prayers. His passing away saddened him.

Paulo Titi had passed away too. Aunt Maria had survived him. Her relatives were now living with her. As a child Felicio had played badminton in front their house. In the beginning the boys used a rope tied between two coconut trees. Later Paulo Titi had provided the village boys a real net, strong bamboo poles and powdered chalk to mark the boundaries. Paulo had organized village tournaments for them, and being a keen football player himself he had encouraged and given them tips on the fine art of the game.

(to be continued)