A tin of sardines....

Whenever we had visitors who in all probability would be staying over for lunch, people were always staying over for lunch, there was hardly any transport and guests were part of the daily routine.  So if there was going to be a guest, who at the moment was relaxing, been given comfortable slippers and was staying over for lunch, the Dona-de-casa sent her young child to the nearby grocer’s shop ‘Loja de Lataria e Vinhos finos’ for a tin of sardines.

Carefully, the tin was prised open, the sardines were removed and with infinite care placed on a travessa, the cat meanwhile delicately licked the remnants of the brine or oil still lingering in the now open tin. Onions were cut in very fine rings, if the guest was lucky and there were tomatoes these were cut in roundels, a delicate vinaigrette added to the onions. The onion and tomato salad surrounded the sardines placed in the centre of the travessa. The edge of the travessa was wiped very carefully for any fingerprints of oil.

Of course, the sardines were not the only food at the table, the food that was always eaten for lunch was there too, rice, fish curry, fried fish, a beef dish and maybe a dish of vegetables.

The sardines were in honour of the guest who taken the trouble to visit the family.

There was nothing special about the shop selling all these fine goods, they were definitely not called gourmet shops, it was our next door neighbour, Militão Fernandes, who ran a shop selling not only these  fine goods but everything that was required in the village, a grocery shop.

Militão Fernandes a very tall gentleman ran the shop with his wife; his house was overloaded with gourmet goods rubbing shoulders with ordinary stuff like soap and kerosene. It was not considered special to sell all types of olives, olive oil, tinned sardines, salmon and even tinned peas, wines such as Macieira, Granjó, Tinto, Whisky and of course Genebra were always available.

Who knew anything about Gourmet goods?

But Militão Fernandes’ foray into entrepreneurship began much before his Loja, he and a group of nine partners pooled in a princely sum of Rupias Eight Thousand and bought a Batliboi rice husking machine from Bombay. The story goes that the Manager at Batliboi regretted selling the husking machine to Militão and partners; he even offered to pay them an additional sum of Rupias Six Thousand if they would return the husking machine. But our dynamic partners refused the kind offer.

At that time, there was a tremendous need for a husking machine, Militão and his partners plunged into this opportunity, this husking machine ran from 6 in the morning to Midnight, with staff working on shifts. It was a tremendous success with people from neighbouring villages coming in droves to get their rice polished.

Militão Fernandes however was not really happy with just a husking machine, that too in partnership, he went to Bombay slogged as a compounder of medicines in a Doctor’s Clinic, saved every penny and got his ‘Loja de Lataria e Vinhos finos’ going in 1924. Whatever Militão Fernandes touched turned to gold, no wonder then that his shop was another huge success.

At the Doctor’s he had picked up a great deal of information, he started mixing his own Ayurvedic potions and ointments.

If you had terrible burns, you did not rush to the doctor or the chemist, you rushed to Militão who gave you an ointment which you rubbed oh so gently on your burns and voilá you were cured with not even a scar to show.

 If your baby had tummy pains, Militão to the rescue with an ointment that left the little guy smiling. Oh yes, Militão was doing exceedingly well.

And then you realise with a pang, there is no longer a ‘Loja de Lataria e Vinhos finos’ and you wonder why, what really happened? To these questions, Militão’s son Caetaninho replies,

‘It closed in 1954’ ‘the year my brother João Pedro said his First Mass.’

We discuss this troublesome happening and although we do not say it in so many words, we realise the reason.

The setting was that of a Portuguese Colony, all around the village there were only Catholics. Having a business was not really a wholesome activity. If you were brave enough to ask,

‘Why are Hindus so successful in businesses?’

 A ferocious glare was directed your way and somebody said in a harsh whisper,

‘They know how to rob, they bend the rules, and they have no morals and principles.’

Forget the streak of entrepreneurship that Hindus have, or the money sunk in enterprises, or the risks taken. All that was said was ‘they were good in business because they know how to bend rules.’

So you can well imagine Militão’s pride when his son became a Priest. The respect his family now had in the village was immense. No longer would it be called the Shopkeeper’s house but the Priest’s house.

But on the other hand, it must have been a terrible, terrible wrench for Militão to close an enterprise that he had built single- handedly from scratch with his hard earned savings.

Militão’s lived in an age of repression as well as envy and jealousy. A Doctor who lived in the village and who  had the most abysmal practise, with hardly a living soul in his Consulting room complained to the authorities that Militão was selling spurious drugs, that is an offence as we all know.

Militão feared the worst and discontinued his Ayurvedic drugs.

He must have been a really dispirited person to see so much of his effort and work washed away through no fault of his.

They say that genetic traits skip a generation and so it is in the case of Militão, his grandson, Joseph runs a very successful Chemist Shop. But what really would have made Militão gloat with pride is that his Ayurvedic potions and ointments are sold openly with pride and nobody thinks of complaining to the authorities. We in India know all about Ayurveda...

I must apologise deeply to any Hindus reading this blog. I most definitely do not believe Hindus are successful in business because they know how to rob, they bend the rules, and they have no morals and principles. It was ignorance talking and a great deal of envy. Nevertheless I do apologise deeply.

Sybil goes to London…..

Every evening we asked ourselves the same question, shall we? And we always did, we always had our Tertulia at Sybil Silva’s house. Did I do my homework, probably not, however I am sure my sister did hers. At the Silva’s; we, Sybil, Pamela and Savita had plenty to chat about, clothes, boys, books. Talk we did, we could go on for hours, but a hot topic of discussion was dancing, how we loved to dance, we did not care if the person was black, white, tall or short, all we wanted was that he should dance well. Sometimes, we in the village would get hold of a Cassette player, beg some kind-hearted soul who had a large enough living room, dressed very nicely indeed and dance to our heart’s content. We called these dance-till-you-drop-unconscious sessions- Hops. Of course the next few weeks were spent dissecting the Hop with a very sharp scalpel.

Although we five girls discussed everything worth talking about at great length, of course a very good marriage was foremost on our minds. But do I remember Sybil mentioning that all she wanted to do was to leave our village and dash off to London? No! Try as I might I just cannot remember, maybe she did, maybe she did not fearing our derision, but oh yes Sybil just wanted to be in London. Now who can we blame or laud for this passionate wish?

Our parents who had returned from East Africa, Kenya a British Colony. ..

or could you blame those Agatha Christie’s novels with Paddington or Piccadilly which we thought were wonderful…

could you blame Enid Blyton and her root beer which we were sure was delicious. ..

could you blame Beano and Dandy, those naughty Bash Street Kids…

of course there was fish and chips just waiting to be tasted.

Truth be told, we were neither awed nor enamored by the British Royal Family, we did not fancy Prince Charles, we found Princess Anne horse-faced and the Queen oh-so-badly-dressed. Give us Caroline of Monaco any day.

But I do think it was the Beatles who incited a vigorous passion in Sybil, ‘let me just get out of here, let me just get to London.’

All Sybil had was grit and determination, nothing more. Going to London in one go was totally impossible, it had to be done in stages, a tiny jump to Bombay, hard work, saving every available penny, but despite hardships, Sybil brought her brothers to Bombay, shared her tiny living space with them so that they too could have a start.

Then like Vasco da Gama rounding the Cape of Good Hope, an opportunity to teach in Nairobi, once again hard work, poor living quarters, a box-room much like Harry Potter.

Mombasa a long period of waiting, hoping, working and most of all saving and skimping and then the most important document in her life……A British Passport….. London here I come!!  

Life in London was not at all that easy, it was not all fish and chips, but Sybil was not giving up. A job, then a series of temporary jobs, ‘temping’ which is amazing if you want to make money a tad quicker.

It is at this time that Sybil decided to pursue her other passion, dancing. What better place then the Goan dances held on important occasions, a saint’s feast, Christmas, or New Year. So here was our little belle togged in her best, on pins and needles, itching to have a go at the convoluted jive, a hearty rock-and-roll or even a sedate waltz. Sadly, the men from Goa had carried along with their, sorpotel, caju feni and bebimca, their prejudices. Under the watchful eyes of their well-corseted, nylon stockinged Mamas, they were very careful only to dance with fair-of-face ladies.

Oh, darling did you have to dance with that Silva girl?

But Mummy she jives beautifully!

Darling you are here to… Dance with the Gama Pinto girl

But Mummy she is so heavy, she cannot, twirl or twist!

Louie my boy…. enough of this.

This was more of a marriage market, not something our twinkle toed belle had envisaged. After a couple of attempts at these prestigious occasions where the elite from Goa, now in London, congregated, Sybil yawning her way through  a Coke,  bored to tears, with just a dance thrown in by the one Goa swain, who actually loved to dance, she  decided that such social occasions were just not for her. She wanted to Dance, nothing more.  So without a backward glance at the prancing Mama’s boys she quit the Goa expat scenario completely. Hung her dancing pumps in her cupboard. This was one time she gave up.

And then George came to the rescue, pssst you will have to ask Sybil who George is, I have been sworn to secrecy. Anyway, on a bright and sunny afternoon, George insisted she dress up well, no jeans, no shorts and absolutely no T’s. Agog with excitement Sybil just followed, at the end of the journey at Chorleywood Memorial Hall, Sybil could not believe her eyes and ears, there was Mr Wonderful the resident DJ playing the tunes. Everyone was dancing a very hectic jive. Oh yes, she pinched herself but she pinched George harder.

It was Paradise, it was a London concept called a Tea Dance. No more stuck up elite, Sybil now jives, rock-and-rolls, rumbas practically every day of the week, sometimes goes out of London on weekend Tea Dances; her suede soled shoes are always tucked in her large bag, her spangly, strappy black dress too.

 Sybil my dear you have well and truly arrived!

Tracing the history of a Tea Dance

A tea dance, thé dansant which is French and literally means ‘dancing tea’ is a summer or autumn afternoon an early-evening dance from four to seven, when everything is languid. It could be said that the function evolved from the concept of the afternoon tea. J. Pettigrew traces its origin to the French in Morocco. Books on Victorian Era etiquette such as Party-giving on Every Scale (London, n.d. [1880]) include detailed instructions for hosting such gatherings.

The usual refreshments in 1880 were tea and coffee, ices, champagne-cup and claret-cup, fruit, sandwiches, cake and biscuits.  Another writer on etiquette, Mrs. Armstrong, told her readers that "refreshments are going on all the afternoon, and gentlemen take the ladies to the tearoom during the intervals between the dances. The lady's maid pours out the tea ... the edibles consist of bread-and-butter and cakes, though some hostesses add sandwiches, ices and fruit."

Even after the introduction of the phonograph the expected feature was a live orchestra – often referred to as a palm court orchestra – or a small band playing light classical music. Dancing at tea-time was an elegant part of afternoon tea parties into the first decade of the 20th century. And then a new dance took London by storm and triggered a totally new approach to afternoon dances. The Argentine Tango, having first driven Parisian society into frenzy, arrived in London in 1910.

Tea dances were taking place all over the capital and in the provincial towns. Social columns reported that 'private 'Thés Dansants' are very much the rage just now in London houses and the Tango is the principal dance on the programme..' Beatrice Crozier in her book ‘The Tango and How to Dance it’ explained that for tea events at the Waldorf Hotel in London, tickets were available at the door and cost five shillings for tea and dancing, and three shillings for tea only. Once in the white and gold ballroom, ‘little parties of from two to six can sit and enjoy a most excellent tea between the dances, or remain throughout the afternoon watching the others dance.’ The craze for tea dances continued into the 1920's, but for the fashionable young set, cocktails and the Charleston were the next trend and took over from refined tango teas.

The Waldorf continued its tea dances until 1939 when a German bomb caused the glass roof of the Palm Court to shatter and frivolities such as tea dances were cancelled.

It was not until 1982 that the hotel once again became the venue for London's best known tea dances. Today, every Saturday and Sunday afternoon, the foot-tapping music of The Waldorfians tempts colourful couples away from their scones and clotted cream onto the marble dance floor and into the whirling steps of the Waltz, tango, quickstep and the 'Tea For Two' cha cha cha.

Tea Dances, cater to every type of person, quoting from 

http://www.timeout.com/london/alternative-nightlife/tea-dances-in-london

Lindy hopping to Metallica: not as easy as this lot make it look (© L Sauma)

‘I did a quick vox pop at our last tea dance,’ says Art of the Dog’s Vic, ‘and someone was born in 1932! Having that sort of age mix is superb.’
It’s not without its dangers, though. ‘The etiquette can seem a bit funny, like making sure you dance in the same direction as everyone else, but crashing into an 80-year-old is only going to end up in a broken hip.’
Since her first tea dance at the gorgeous Old Finsbury Town Hall last October, Vic – ‘just Vic’ – has been actively recruiting locals who remember the current trend for tea dances the first time around. Happily, they’ve been coming in droves.
‘I love Vera,’ she says, ‘she always comes in a pair of sparkly shoes, and there’s one guy who’s known in the Duke of Denmark pub as Dancing Dave. Yes, he really can dance.’
Afternoon tea dances like Vic’s are far more serene, romantic affairs and are chock full of elderly folk whizzing around the floor. Leave your looks of pity at the door and expect to be wiped off the dance floor by participants 50 years your elder.
‘The older people know what they’re doing at a tea dance,’ says Vic. ‘It’s their thing.’
City workers won’t be left out for, for they can – ahem – swing by Spitalfields Markets on the last Friday of every month for the Covent Garden Dance Orchestra’s free afternoon tea dance. 

Thank you ever so much for the inputs

http://www.timeout.com/london/alternative-nightlife/tea-dances-in-london

http://www.teamuse.com/article_010702.html

The Khmer Rouge trials Justice late, better late than never

The Khmer Rouge trials

Justice late, better late than never

Aug 7th 2014, 13:34 by L.H. | PHNOM PENH

For Cambodians it has been a long wait. Almost 35 years after the Khmer Rouge were driven from power by a Vietnamese invasion, the movement’s last surviving senior leaders have been found guilty of crimes against humanity and sentenced to jail for life.

Or whatever is left of their lives. Nuon Chea, chief ideologue for the Khmer Rouge and “Brother No. 2” after Pol Pot, is 88 years old, Khieu Samphan, once the head of state in Democratic Kampuchea as the country had been renamed, is 83. When they were taken away from the purpose-built courthouse on August 7th, a palpable sense of relief descended on the room.

Hundreds of Cambodians had been brought from far and wide to pack the public gallery for the historic decision. Many of them hugged, smiled and bowed in a show of respect to the tribunal that saw the case through, the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC). Bou Meng, a survivor of the S-21 torture and extermination camp, smiled broadly and expressed his approval simply: “good, good”.

In passing their final sentence, the judge Nil Nonn said that these two leaders had stripped Cambodians of their fundamental rights in the course of perpetrating a joint criminal enterprise to “suppress and subjugate the human population”. They were found guilty of conducting a systematic attack on civilians.

“The attack took many forms, including forced transfer, murder, extermination, enforced disappearances, attacks against human dignity and political persecution,” Mr Nil Nonn said. “This attack victimised millions of Cambodians.” He cited one testimony according to which witnesses saw “a Khmer Rouge soldier tear apart a crying baby who was crawling on his dead mother's body.”

As many as 2.2m people perished between April 1975 and January 1979. At that point the Vietnamese-led Communist takeover marked the end of one civil conflict but also the beginning of another, as Pol Pot led his loyalists into the jungle to fight a rearguard war against the new regime in the capital.

While the Khmer Rouge were still in Phnom Penh, the institution of money itself was abolished—along with all semblances of traditional Khmer life—as the cities and towns were emptied and millions of civilians forced into the remote countryside. There they were worked under wretched conditions, desperately lacking food, water and medicine.

In a way, there were too many crimes with which Nuon Chea, Khieu Samphan and many of their cohorts should have been charged. The fraction of their guilt that was decided in this hearing, Case 002/01 it is called, focused on the forced evacuation of Phnom Penh, the forced movement of people up until late 1977 and the persecution of former soldiers, civil servants and their families from the regime of Lon Nol, the American-backed nationalist who preceded them.

Nuon Chea wore his characteristic grimace and black sunglasses and remained seated in his wheelchair. Khieu Samphan stood as their verdicts and sentences were read. Neither man flinched.

Both had insisted they were innocent of the specific charges against them. At its heart their justification was that the evacuation of Phnom Penh had been deemed necessary to save the Cambodian people; they had reason to believe that the Americans were intending to bomb the capital. Mr Nil Nonn said the bench of international and Cambodian justices had decided their defence deserved no credence.

Nuon Chea had also claimed evidence used against him was “littered with doubts and full of lies”, in particular the testimony given by Kaing Guek Eav. “Duch”, as he is also known, is already serving a life sentence, for the role he played in killing thousands of detainees processed under his command at a prison complex called S-21.

Khieu Samphan’s judgment was less severe. The court found that he had never held sufficient authority to issue orders to commit the crimes in question. He had however “justified, defended and praised the common purpose and policies” of the Khmer Rouge that resulted in the atrocities.

The ECCC, which is backed by the UN, has been criticised sharply during its nine years in operation. Its critics fault it for lengthy delays; its susceptibility to interference by Cambodia’s current prime minister, Hun Sen; and for kickbacks to local staff, when it was being established.

It has also been costly. More than $200m has been spent on its proceedings already. The tribunal’s supporters justify the high cost by arguing that the total sum works out to equal about $100 for each person who died under the reign of the Khmer Rouge. It makes for a macabre accounting of the ultra-Maoists’ dream of moulding Cambodia into an agrarian utopia.

Youk Chhang is the executive director of an NGO called the Documentation Centre of Cambodia, which has been dedicated to collecting evidence from the Khmer Rouge period that could be used in a prosecution. He is among those who thinks that the court’s search for justice was better late than never, even if its legal processes were flawed.

Its accomplishment is more significant, Mr Youk Chhang says, in light of the fact that the world has done so little to change its ways in the decades since the Cambodian nightmare. Indeed, in his view “since the UN signed the Genocide Convention in 1948, not one genocide has been prevented. A court of law is only established after millions have already died. We need to search for a means to prevent such crimes from happening again,” he said.

Nuon Chea and Khieu Samphan know now where they will be spending the rest of their days, as they did long before this verdict. Whether this will be their final conviction is another question. Both men are facing additional charges of genocide in Case 002/02; it was launched last week and is expected to take another two years.

http://www.economist.com/blogs/banyan/2014/08/khmer-rouge-trials

Who says it’s not a man’s world?

Listen... Amaya 

Listen... Amaya is a 2013 Hindi drama film directed by Avinash Kumar Singh, starring Deepti Naval,  Farooque Shaikh and Swara Bhaskar as leads. 

Story by Geeta Singh.

On television, rarely do I catch a movie from the beginning, I always end up with dismembered parts, here a quarter, there a bit and sometimes just the end which always makes me want to see more, if of course the movie is good. But was I lucky, the movie had just begun, I was filled with joy, my favourite actors too, Deepti Naval and Farooque Shaikh and a new entrant Swara Bhaskar. I got comfortable, cosy chair with a deep cushion, a stool for my legs and of course a long cool drink……

Deepti Naval, a mother and a widow and her daughter Swara Bhaskar have carved a niche for themselves after the death of their father. They have a book-café, a very popular place, people drop in, browse, drink coffee, eat some snacks, go off as friends for life.  

Farooque Shaikh has been a loyal customer and friend for around three years, everyone knows that Deepti and Farooque nurture a deep affection for each other, sadly the daughter does not see it, or chooses to ignore all the signs. Swara collaborates with Farooque aka Jazz to produce a coffee table book about the ‘bazaars of Old Delhi’, she the writer he the photographer, the book goes down well with the editors and is slotted for publishing.

Just as everything is going on extremely well, Swara discovers that Deepti and Farooque are not just platonic friends but are having sex, an affair. All hell breaks loose, she shouts, she is extremely rude to everyone, she bangs doors, she refuses meals, every act that a petulant spoilt pampered teenager can muster.  Deepti and Farooque, both justify her actions, ‘she is shocked and thinks her father’s place is being invaded by a total stranger’ but her rudeness hardly abates, she seems to enjoy her new avatar. No matter how much Deepti tries to explain that she too like any woman needs some company and of course a healthy sexual relationship, Swara goes on and on in her role of an aggrieved martyr. Somewhere down the line, after talks with oh so many people, Swara realises her mother is human too, deserves a break, some love and of course sex in her life. So everything back to normal, Swara urges Jazz to buy her mother a really good ring.

One fine day, Swara finds Farooque at an traffic intersection totally confused, not knowing where to go, he speaks of things past, his daughter and we realise he has Alzheimer’s. During one of his lucid moments, Farooque slips a ring on Deepti’s finger and I sigh with disgust whatever is she supposed to do with a man who has Alzheimer’s?

Is author regressing back to those days when women were supposed to be self-sacrificing, devoting their entire lives to caring for their families?

But excuse me; isn't this her second marriage where she is supposed to enjoy her life after having taken care of her own family, she had looked forward to travelling, companionship and sex which made her feel complete. What a sad future, reading how to deal with Alzheimer’s, not to forget that our Alzheimer’s patient gets a free nurse to take care of him.  The author has cheated us women and as usual glorified women’s eternal self-sacrifice.

I finish my cool drink in utter disgust tinged with anger; we women are never allowed to win. Who says it’s not a man’s world? 

People’s Carnaval in our Village

Much before the Panchayat had made its presence felt, the governing body in villages used to be the Regedor de Aldeia, a man of standing and much respect, sorry it was a patriarchal society so I cannot recall a single lady Regedor.

 One of the highlights of the Regedor’s importance was that Carnaval was heralded in the village with the khell-tiatros enacting their first play of the season at the Regedor’s house, lucky were the people who sat in the front row watching these rustic plays. The tradition continued when the Panchayat started, the season was opened at the Sar Panch’s residence, here we were in luck, the Sar Panch’s sons, Buchulo and Celio were our great pals, we needed no second invitation, we were at the Lume Pereira residence in the afternoon, given balcony seats at a bedroom window, we were the guests of the Sar Panch, Senhor José Joaquim Lume Pereira.

Khell-tiatros were rustic and very topical; the personages were the evil batkar ready to fleece the mundkars and take advantage of their daughters, the church vicar a person to be feared and obeyed chastising the batkar for his meanness and philandering ways, local romances hardly disguised everyone knew who was being referred to and delicious songs laden with innuendo, all this accompanied by a rudimentary brass band. As there was no stage, the actors enacted the play in a large circle with the respective ‘houses’ set around this circle. The ‘church’ was a part of the circle so was the ‘batkar’s house’ and so was the ‘mundkar’s’, the entire village represented in a large circle. One of the personages said

‘Now what should I do? I will go to the batkar’s house and ask for help’ the band struck a tune and the man reached the ‘batkar’s house’ in a jiffy. Oh how we loved these little interludes.

Now, no respectable girl or woman was going to act in a Khell-tiatro  full of men, their reputation would be in shreds, but many men loved doing women’s  roles, all they had to do was stick a very artificial plait of hair to their head, decorate it with flowers, smear those rough cheeks with layers of powdery pink rouge, a very red  lipstick took care of the mouth, however, the part we loved the most was when two very polished, identical in shape and size coconut shells were produced and slipped under the tight bodice of a flowery much pleated dress, we now had a Josefina where earlier there had been a José. As this was done in front of us it added to everyone’s titillation.

Of course khell-tiatros are very much in vogue even today, they are larger and better, women and girls love to act in them and surprisingly people take great pride in their acting abilities, people say ‘oh don’t you know her ? She is from Cortalim, she acts in Khell-tiatros!’ As these Khell-tiatros are sponsored heavily by the local politicians, a small but a nice wooden stage is provided with the banner of the troupe as a backdrop, the music is a modern band with a synthesizer.  

Of course, one of the personages still says

‘Now what should I do? I will go to the ‘contractor’s’’ house and ask for help’ the band strikes a tune and the man reaches the ‘contractor’s’ house’ in a jiffy.

The batkar has lost his teeth and clout, he is a caricature. The priest is now a friend in Jesus. Everything is still out in the open under a large tree, chairs and snacks are provided at a small price and housie is played when the actors take a break.

The saddest part however is that religion has reared its ugly head, in one scene a Catholic boy in love with a Hindu girl, both deeply in love, both determined to marry, surprisingly both parents agree without even a discussion. The Catholic boy’s mother has one condition, that the Hindu girl marry in Church, the girl and her father agree wholeheartedly, the Hindu girl converts and becomes a Catholic, as an evangelist she converts all her Hindu friends and with large doses of Bible readings converts her own father who promptly discards his dhoti for western wear which turns him into a civilized person.

The mother-in-law ends the scene with gratitude for the daughter -in-law who has now brought respect and honour for the house and in the bargain brought ‘lost’ souls into the fold.  

There is a lament that Carnaval is no longer what it used to be, that it is no longer a people’s Carnaval whatever that means, to these people I say come to the villages, we enjoy ourselves we always have, some of us even stitch new clothes for this wonderful festival

Saptakoteshwar Temple at Narve

On a whim we decide to go to Old Goa, walk the ancient Rua Direita, maybe catch an auction, just as we are admiring the Viceroy’s Arch, we see the ferry crossing over to Divar, we look at one another, lets?  We nod and run to the ferry, such peace and calm.

At Divar bus stop a woman tells us there are so many ferries you can take, one that goes to Narva, lets?

A drive through Divar and we are at Narva, the driver says

 ‘What about the Saptakoteshwar Temple?’

‘It is Maha Shivratri’, we breathe in the peace and calm, Saptakoteshwar Temple it is.

We are told it is but a short walk, but……..we arrive tired and very hungry at Saptakoteshwar Temple, so many people, we can see Brahmins from Karnataka and Maharashtra clad in their beautiful silk dhoties of deep purple, muted scarlet. Strangely, we do not feel we are intruding although everyone can see I am Catholic.

Food is what I need, tea and bhajis are definitely not lunch. I crave a nice, simple thali!

And then I see the dining hall, and I enter it with no thought in mind except the delicious food I see, I fail to register the surprise and concern on the serving lady’s face, the look of utter stupefaction on the faces of some young boys. We are in place where food is cooked by Brahmins and I a Catholic…… The lady says;

‘Just a minute, I will ask Kaka’ and she says ‘Kaka, they want food, they have come from Margão’(as though it would make me less of a Catholic) Kaka looks at me for an instant and adds with authority

‘Today, food for everyone’

Oh, how the lady beams at us, she bustles to serve us. ‘Pot bhor jevat’ she says, eat your fill, can I get you kheer. We are full of food and kindness.

We are blessed on this day of Maha Shivratri.