It's that time of the year again. The two weeks when Goa suddenly becomes the
place where everyone wants to be, when revelry seems to stretch end-to-end. It's
also the time when Goans abroad miss home the most, when the mind's eye returns
unerringly to what has been left behind.

This week, in Canada, bebincas are being made in high-powered gas ovens, but
those who eat it will sigh sorrowfully and praise those made without such aids.
Right now, in Australia, a Goan has pulled out a precious bottle of feni that
had been hidden away for years. It tastes bittersweet, like a draught of pure
exile by those who forgot to make travel plans for Goa this year. And in the
Gulf countries, scores of young men are counting their days of work like
currency, calculating when the pay-off will amount to a trip back home.

How do I know all this? Well, I was once one of them. But no longer. So this is
a brief diary entry from a proud ex-expatriate. I too have spent hours on the
phone trying to get my share of the end-of-the-year feeling from Goa. I too have
scrambled through recipe books, and sent frantic emails, trying to recreate a
holiday sweet. And I too have toiled at the stove in a wintry place very far
away, trying in vain to capture just a single taste that could satisfy the
yearnings.

I see them all come back now, just as I used to. They walk the by-lanes of the
old vaddos so eagerly, often with a reluctant new generation in tow. The rafters
of houses that slumber quietly for 50 weeks of the year suddenly resound with
accents usually native to North London and New Jersey, Queensland and Dar es
Salaam. And every where there are streams of children running, running,
climbing, getting acquainted with cousins and relatives who they only get to see
once in a while.

I had the same look in my eyes as the children. I too hated to leave at the end
of my trip. I too wondered why we had to say goodbye to the fields, the endless
beaches, the easy-going family members, the cashew trees and cattle egrets. If
all this was in Goa then my conviction was that this was clearly where we
belonged.

I too felt the same annual anguish as the parents who had to take their children
back from this beloved place to lands where life can be considerably less
appealing. The migrant's life comes with significant rewards but nothing quite
makes up for what is irreplaceable at any cost. At this time of year, when the
imagination turns to thoughts of resolution and friendship and family, the
expatriates always finds that his world again revolves around the axis at home
in Goa.

And how that home has changed. Economic liberalization has filled the shops with
precisely the kind of goods that used to be prized as rare gifts from abroad.
The youth here watch the same TV shows (with more channels) as elsewhere and
idolize the same universally popular athletes and singers. But they generally
speak more languages and are far more resourceful, polite and respectful than
our cultural orphans raised abroad.

The expatriate thus finds old assumptions turned on their head. Money flows out
of the stock markets of the West and into the Indian bourses. The rupee gains in
value every week against the dollar. Thousands of Britons and Germans and other
"outsiders" decide that they'd rather live in Goa most of the year and resurrect
crumbling village houses to former glory. And as India sustains real economic
growth, this state is consistently ranked the best place to live in the whole
country.

Some of that news can provide solace to those who are leaving their homeland
again after this brief holiday interlude. Perhaps we've seen the beginning of a
shift in 2004, and behind all those newly resident Westerners lurks a wave of
our own. It has happened in other parts of India, and it can and should happen
here too. Take it from me, the best part of being an expatriate is when you
extricate yourself and return home.


The above article appeared in the December 29, 2004 edition of the Herald, Goa.


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