In the Goa I knew, monsoons besides bringing in relief from the summer heat, was welcomed wholeheartedly.
Lush greenery as far as the eye could see with no concrete monstrosities to hinder it. Homes had sloping not flat roofs. The modest ones had thatched palms that were so expertly laid that they did as good a job as tiles. Nights were a pleasure. The rhythm of the rain specially when accompanied by thunder, lightning and a light wind brought dreams that transported you through a deep and restful sleep. Dinner was a pleasurable thing. The low glow of a kerosene lamp provided the right aura to a delectable table of simple rice and dried prawn curry with a plate of pulled dried skate or mackerel that was fried and then slathered with coconut oil or for those who could afford it, olive oil. A little before that you sipped tinto or grandjo wine and if you wanted to throw sequence to the winds, a little Porto, all Portuguese. This brought you the appetite for your rice and curry. If you were hardier, you flung the Europeans back to the wall-embedded liquor cabinet and chose the real version of Cashew Feni instead. In Bardez with the dining area directly looking into a water well, you hauled out a pot of water and drank the sweetest and freshest liquid that nature offered. The combination with the food was unbeatable. Families were tight. Conversation poured out. The events in the village and nearest town were analyzed and insights given. The news of departures of Bombay visitors was rued with their invitation to visit them accepted as a treat. Dripping tree branches and cock crows were a soft alarm for the morning awakening. A bright day brought you cheer, no matter the clouds that later amass. Cycles were taken out of the shed and a morning trip was made for fresh milk to the posro with perhaps some bread to make up for the non-arrival of the baker who would later tell you his oven misfired but later repaired though not in time for the usual rounds. If it was Sunday, you dressed up for Church not so much to pray as to watch the village belles in their cotton finery and if you were so lucky as to have had rain on the way to church, the bonus of the sight of form-fitting feminine attire not from the tailor but courtesy of the rain. Monday was not the start of the week you dreaded. There were no deadlines, bosses in offices didn’t look for ways to keep you on your toes or have secret lists to include you on when the next layoffs would come, for the simple reason that pink slips were unknown and every man’s job was treated as essential to his well being. It was a simple economy and there was no quarterly reporting to some distant head office. Life was so extraordinarily simple that even if you didn’t work for somebody, you found the means through the land to support your family. You only had to be the least bit enterprising and because of the lack of competition you made a decent living anyway. If you found that too modest, you made your way to the oceans or to jobs overseas with a heavy heart because you knew you would miss your family, your neighbours, your villagers and the way of life, but you learned to make the most out of every single day you got when you came back home on furlough. Everything changes. Life progresses into other, for you newer lands, your wants change and your desires take more complicated turns. But those monsoon days in Goa remain tethered to your memories and unless your mind loses its grip on you, they remain forever. Roland Francis Scarborough, Ontario.
