The Wise Fools of Moira...and Other Goan Folk Tales
A Collection by Prof Lucio Rodrigues
August 2020
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SEND FOLK TALES]
* * *
Is there a contradiction between wisdom and folly? An
English proverb says: "The fool doth think he is wise, but
the wise man knows himself to be a fool."
Is the dividing line between wisdom and folly so
thin that it is almost imperceptible? James of
England was described as the wisest fool in
Christendom. The inhabitants of an insignificant
English village have been immortalised in folk lore
as the wise fools of Gotham. This is so not only
in England but also in India.
Moira is a village in the district of Bardez in Goa. It lies
a few miles away from Mapuça, the capital of the district,
and the river of Mapuça flows along its southern, western and
northern sides, making its soil very fertile.
The village is famous for many things, among others for its
banana plantations, which yield big, long bananas, called
munnouchinz kellim in Konkani, and each fruit is equal to a
square meal. Each grows to the length of nearly a foot with
a diameter of about two and a half to three inches; the skin
turns from green to yellow as it matures, and then as it
ripens, the skin becomes soft and darkish brown and thin,
which is a sign that it is ready to be eaten in all its
glory.
But the bananas are not Moira’s chief claim to fame among
Goan villages. The people are as famous, if not more than
their kellim, so famous indeed that they have passed into
simile and proverb and legend.
They are among the most industrious people of Goa. Blessed
as they are with fertile land, they have used Nature’s gift
to raise many crops -- rice, chillies, vegetables, bananas.
Every Friday will see them wending their way with their
produce on their head to the weekly fair at Mapuça.
But it is not their industriousness that signals them out for
unique honour among their Goan fellows. It is for a legacy
that they have inherited from their forefathers -- a wisdom
that is traditional.
This wisdom has a stamp of its own which defies definition.
Perhaps you have heard of the wise men of Gotham, and of
their ingenious feats. The wise men of Moira of old were as
ingenious.
There is only one other village in Goa which rivals
Moira in this characteristic and that is Benaulim
in Salcete. Even in Konkani it has not been
possible to give this baffling quality an
appropriate term. This is how the people of Bardez
describe the indefinite trait. To moiddekar num
re, he is a guy from Moira, sar-koch moiddekar,
every inch like a guy from Moira; take matxem
moiddechem assa, he's got a bit of it from Moira.
That it is the thing.
Imagine a people as simple as simplicity itself, with an
innocence and faith that belonged to the ancient world,
disarming in their naïveté, winning in their irrationality,
and you will have some faint idea of the people and their
capacity for illogic. But it is best to let their ancient
adventures speak of their ancient wisdom.
* * *
As their numbers increased from year to year, the people of
Moira found that the village church was not big enough to
contain the growing population. They called up a meeting to
consider the problem.
"Let us have an extension," said one of the elders.
"It is better that we break down the old structure and erect
a new and bigger one," said one of the younger ones, who
believed in new things.
"To break it down and reconstruct another will be very
expensive," said a grey-haired elder. "We have no funds for
it."
"Why break it down at all?" said the most wizened
of them. He was easily the eldest Moiddekar alive.
"When a coconut tree or a mango tree is stunted,
what do we do? We loosen the soil at the base, dig
it up, and lay manure. Everything in nature grows.
Why not a church?" and he looked round to the
nodding heads, and repeated, "Why not a church?"
"Yes, why shouldn't the laws of nutrition and growth apply to
the church?" chirped one of the younger men who had learnt to
read and write.
"Manure quickens growth!" the elder continued. "Let's manure
the church," he concluded. "A small church today will grow
big tomorrow."
"Let's manure the church," the whole gathering echoed
approval. The solution appealed to the assembly. It had the
irresistible logic of two plus two makes four.
So said, so done. The four sides of the church on the
outside were vigorously dug up, and cart-loads of manure
poured in.
* * *
Some years later it was found that there was far too much
space in front of the church, and too little at the back. It
was necessary to bring the whole structure forward.
A meeting of the gaumkars, that is, the owners of the land,
was called, in order to decide how to adjust the space. The
sacristan of the church was invited to attend the
proceedings, though he was from the neighbouring village of
Aldona.
The discussion went far into the night, and no conclusion
could be arrived at. They were baffled by the problem,
though each of the gaumkars took part in the debate. At last
the sacristan stood up and with the permission of the elders
suggested a way out.
"What do we do when we want to bring a huge stone forward?"
he posed the question.
"We simply push it," the others answered. "A thing moves
when it is pushed."
"A body at rest continues to be at rest until an external
force is applied to it," said one of the youngsters who had
been to the parish school.
"The church must be brought ahead," the sacristan continued.
"Let's push it from the rear. Yes, friends, let us push it
from the rear."
All heads began to nod approval. "Let's push it from the
rear," said everyone. But the sacristan had not finished.
"But how far ahead should we bring the church?" he asked.
The elders pointed the exact spot. "Thus far," they said,
"near this tree."
"But there is one more point to be settled," the shrewd
sacristan continued. "If everyone pushed from the rear, the
church might be pushed far beyond the limit, and even out of
the compound. This must be prevented."
The sacristan had a plan. "I will stand in front of the
church and give the signal to stop." The members agreed.
But the sacristan went on, "There must be no doubt about it."
And he asked them to spread their woolen blankets in front of
the church right up to the marked limit, the tree. The
woolen blankets were spread as directed, right up to the
tree.
The men rushed to the rear of the church and pushed it with
all the faith of their fathers. The clever sacristan in the
meanwhile rolled up all the woolen blankets, and kept them in
his room. When the men were sufficiently exhausted, he
shouted a lusty Halt! Halt! With aching bodies but beaming
faces the men rushed to the front of the church. The woolen
blankets had disappeared, yes, under the church!
They were full of praise for the sacristan who had such
wonderful ideas.
* * *
The people of Moira are fine cultivators. One day,
a youngster critical of the old methods of farming
said to this father, "The man who sows tramples on
the seed he scatters. This must be prevented in
the interests of a richer harvest."
"We must summon a meeting," his father replied. "It's a
problem which has to be discussed and solved."
Accordingly, a conclave of the gaumkars was held. The wisest
brains struggled with the difficulty, and the discussion went
far into the night. If only the sower could have wings, he
would fly over the field and scatter the seed, and there
would be no trampling. But how could they give him wings?
Then, like a sudden illumination it came to one of the
octogenarians.
"Why, the sower must be placed on a cot. Then his feet will
not touch the ground and trample the seed."
"Excellent!. Excellent!" cried the others, with hearty
approval.
When seed-time came, a cot was brought into the fields and
the sower stood upon it with the basket of seed. Four men
had to hold the four corners of the cot, and move the sower
from place to place. The eight feet of the four men trampled
the seed. But the feet of the sower were far above the
ground, and did not trample the seed.
* * *
Loyalty to one's ruler comes next to loyalty to
one's God. The Rajah of Goa, it is said, once gave
the people of Moira a special grant of land. It
was a reward for their loyalty and for their
industry.
The people accepted it with great joy and were proud that
they had won favour in the eyes of the Rajah. The land
donations were a challenge to their sense of gratitude and
everyone felt that a suitable return gift should be made to
the Rajah.
"Let's send our Rajah one hundred of the best picked mangoes
from our trees," said one elder. It was the mango season,
and the crop that year was excellent. "Let each bring the
best from his trees."
Every loyal and grateful son of Moira brought the best fruit,
and the assembly hall was covered with heaps of different
varieties and the air was filled with their sweet smell.
There were Malcorado, Affonso, Pairri, Fernandina, Bism,
Colaco.
The selection of the best, however, was not easy. To choose
the biggest in size was simple enough; but how to judge the
most ripe and luscious fruit? They were all sunset-coloured,
some light in shade, others of a deep golden hue. The shades
were a feast to the eye.
"Colour betrays," said an elder. "The sourest are often of
the most fascinating hue."
"Yes," agreed another, "we cannot go by colour only. It must
smell ripe."
"But how can just colour and smell tell us that the
fruit is ripe?" said a third. "It must feel full
and taut in the skin."
"The final test of ripeness, dear brethren, does not lie in
colour or smell or feel," said the first. "The proof of a
ripe mango lies in the eating. We must taste each of the
mangoes, just a nibble and a suck, and then there can be no
mistake in our selection of the ripest and sweetest of the
fruit."
The suggestion was accepted, and there was no mistake in the
choice of the sweetest hundred mangoes.
* * *
It was Holy Saturday, and the church of Moira was crowded
with the faithful. The men had shaved their heads smooth and
massaged them with oil, so that the light of the candles was
reflected on their bald, round tops. The Mass was in
progress, and the congregation knelt devoutly and prayed with
folded hands.
Suddenly, the priest intoned the Allelujah, and the
choir burst forth into a series of Alleulujahs.
The men pricked their ears and looked at each other
as the whole church resounded with "Allemlum-yah!
Allem-lumyah! Allem-lum-yah!"
In the green gardens the ginger crop was ready. Ginger is
called allem in Konkani. And here was an order to bring it
in! For priest and choirmaster sang, "lum-yah," which means
"let's bring it in."
"Let's go and bring in the ginger crop," shouted one of the
men below the choir.
"Let's go and bring in the ginger crop," echoed the others.
There was an immediate rush out of the church to the green
gardens, and the ginger crop was brought in.
* * *
Old Salu, Pedro's neighbour, was celebrating the feast of the
patron saint of Moira. It was a grand feast. For seven days
there were novenas in the morning, and salves in the evening.
The most famous preacher from Old Goa preached in the morning
and in the evening and the band played old waltzes and
marches outside the church.
For seven days the village resounded with the blasts of
petards (khozne), while after the salve, the night was lit up
by fire-works. The vespers was the grandest ever celebrated.
The pomp and splendour reached its climax on the day of the
feast, Sunday, when the choir rendered the most solemn of
masses, and the preacher preached his most edifying sermon.
During the procession, Old Salu, clad in a white surplice and
red cape, walked proudly, and Pedro looked at him with
admiration. When the priest began the O Salutaris, Pedro
pricked his ears and said to himself. "What a great honour
to have his name thus sung in praise by the choir and the
faithful. I will celebrate the feast next year," he decided
on the spot.
The next year, Pedro spared no expenses to have the best
preacher, the best band, the best choir, the best cook.
Pedro was congratulated and praised by one and all. They had
never seen such a celebration.
But Pedro waited for the climax of his ambition. He has
ready with the white surplice and the red cape, ready for the
procession. He knew the exact moment when the celebrant
would begin with his name.
The priest began, O Salutaris. He could not believe his
ears. He turned round with shock. "It's most insulting," he
cried, "I Pedro, spend all the money for the feast, and Salu
gets the credit. O Salu-taris! I must speak to the vicar,
it must be some trick of Salu."
* * *
The people of Moira rarely went beyond Mapuça,
which they had to visit every Friday in order to
sell the produce of the land. They met the people
of the other villages at the weekly fair in Mapuça
and heard many a tale of their adventures in the
Ghats. The people of Arpora, Calangute and Anjuna
carried salt and dried fish and exchanged them for
grain from the Ghats.
One day, some Moiddekars decided that they would also go to
the Ghats. Twelve of them set out early at dawn. But before
they left, the elders warned them about the dangers of the
journey.
"Be always together. If you halt for rest, and then proceed,
count the number, in order to see that no one is missing.
Remember you are twelve in number."
The party set out promising to hang together and have a
regular check on their number.
Towards nightfall they rested under a large banyan tree, and
ate what they had brought from home. They were very tired
and slept soundly. Early at cockcrow the next morning they
rose and prepared themselves to proceed on their journey.
"Let me count if all are present or not," said one of them.
He began to count, one, two, three, and so on till eleven.
"Eleven only!" he cried out in surprise. "There is one
missing."
There was a general alarm
"Who is missing?" one shouted.
"Is it Forsu?" asked another, and was promptly assured that
Forsu was present.
"Let me count," said an elder, and he began to count.
One, two, three, four.... He stopped at eleven. "Yes,
there's one missing," he said, "Who can it be?"
Another of the travellers said that he could count, but it
was the same. Eleven!
"Ha! Ha! Ha!", suddenly laughed one who had been watching
the counting from a distance. "Have you counted yourself,
each of you?" he asked.
It was only then that the mystery of the twelfth man dawned
on them. The one who counted was the twelfth man and he left
himself out each time!
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