2. Aparna Talaulicar:Once Upon a Time in Goa Aage aage khetle aaka,Raati biti bhovu naka,Tuka dekhlyar maka khata
Childhood stories evoke precious strands of holiday memories of Goa for me, of my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, a house large enough to lose myself in, a storeroom filled with coconuts, tall kitchen cupboards in which the toffee and biscuit jars were kept out of reach, evenings spent at Miramar beach and then a bedtime ritual of surrounding myself with pillows before listening to a bedtime story. My parents were born and brought up in Goa. My father lived there until he left for his higher education in Dharwad, Pune and later London until he returned to India and found a job in Bombay. My mother completed her schooling in Goa and left to join my father when they got married. They started married life as paying guests in a flat belonging to a Bihari family on Marine Drive. Ma used to say that she learnt how to cook from the lady of that family. But by the time I was born, Ma was definitely an expert cook of Goan cuisine. I was a baby when my parents took me to Goa to meet my family there for the first time. I don't remember that trip, but I know we drove there from Bombay and that Toby, our cat, was also with us and was left behind in Goa with my grandparents because I had a cat allergy. Some of the first stories I heard were about Toby's exploits. He was a beautiful, regal sort of black cat who preceded me in my family by two or three years. He was rescued and brought home by my eldest brother who was about seven years old at the time. When they found out that a new baby was coming, both my brothers were very excited. The cradle which had not been used for over seven years was brought out, cleaned and kept ready. Toby saw it and thought it was for him. Ma found him fast asleep in it. But apparently after I was born and took up my rightful place in the cradle, Toby understood and from then on his favourite place was underneath the cradle. And when I woke up and cried, Toby would go bounding to the kitchen to tell Ma to come. Ma loved telling us that his meow sound when he called her was different and really sounded like `Ma'! So everyone was very sad when I got a rash and the doctor pronounced me allergic to cats and told my parents to choose — baby or cat. Sadly for Toby, they chose me and that's how everyone drove to Goa to drop Toby off. Like I said, I don't remember all this, but I do suspect that this is when I fell in love with Goa. Because, in all my memories of childhood, I remember counting the days before I could go there and hating having to leave to come back to Bombay. I did not mind at all not having my parents with me when I was in Goa. Because of the big age gap between my brothers and me, I was more free during the holidays than them. So either Bhau, my grandfather or Maya, my maushi (aunt), or even both of them, would travel to Bombay and bring me back to Goa with them. Maya was in charge of me in Goa and I loved this. She was a couple of decades older than me but it didn't feel like that; she was like a really loving elder sister and I had a lot of fun with her. She spent a lot of time with me, pandering to my every whim, telling me stories, taking me to Miramar where we would make sandcastles while watching the sun set. She told me stories at meal times — probably as a way of getting me to eat better. She would deftly roll a bite of rice into a ball and top it up with a teesri (clam) and call it a rabbit. Several animals later, the meal would be done. There were stories with afternoon naps and at bedtime. Sometimes she would read aloud from a story book and at other times tell me Goan children's stories. We all spoke in Konkani to each other and, until I went to school at the age of four, it was the only language I knew. One of my favourite stories was one about a prawn and an Indian hog plum (ambado). This is what I remember.... On a lovely moonlit night, a prawn decides to take a stroll on the sand. She is clearly visible as she scuttles along in the moonlight and when she passes a hog plum tree, this is what she hears: `Aage aage khetle aaka; raati-biti bhovu naka; tuka dekhlyar mhaka khata!' (My dear sister prawn, please stop roaming at night, once they find you, they want to eat me!) Here I would stop Maya and make her repeat the little rhyme and then we would chant it together several times before my need to move on with the story surfaced. I would ask, “Whose voice was it? Why didn't he want the prawn to go for a walk?” She would explain, “You like eating sungtache hooman (prawn curry) with ambade (Indian hog plum) in it, don't you?” —“Yes! I love the sour ambade and I eat all of the soft, fleshy part and leave the rest.” —“And the prawns are so tasty too! But look at it from the ambado's point of view. He is growing on a tree with his family, with so many sisters and brothers. He does not want to be plucked and put into a curry.” —“Who is going to pluck him?” —“The fisherman will come to the beach to look for clams and oysters. When he sees the prawn roaming around, he will catch it and look for more prawns and then he will think of cooking the prawns into a curry for his dinner and next he will want some ambade to make the prawn curry even more delicious. So the ambado doesn't want the fisherman to see the prawn in the first place so that he himself is safe.” —“So what happens next?” —“Well the prawn is a naughty prawn and does not listen to the poor ambado. She ignores his words and keeps strutting around on the beach.” —“And then?” —“And then the thing that the poor little ambado is scared of happens....” —“The fisherman catches the prawn!” I exclaim. —“Yes, he catches that naughty prawn and a few more who have joined her on the walk and then he goes straight to the ambade tree and plucks our ambado along with a few more and then he goes home and eats a delicious prawn–ambade curry and goes happily to bed. And now it's time for you to go to bed too, my dear.” Even though I was not sure about how I felt about the ending of this story, I loved the idea of the prawn taking a moonlight walk on the beach — my favourite place, and the talking ambado. I thought about how on other nights perhaps some other prawn would emerge only after the fisherman had gone to bed already. She and the ambado would have long chats while gazing at the sea, enjoying the breeze and the sound of the crashing waves. They would remain safe in their world of water, sand and leaves. Another story that was much-told and very eagerly received was about Atule and Pitule, two sisters who lived near a forest. One day, Atule-Pitule have a craving for a dish called sanna (for those who might not know, it's similar to idli, eaten with a sweet or savoury coconut gravy) and they go into the forest looking for some firewood. Suddenly they are confronted by a tiger who looks at them greedily, clearly thinking that breakfast has arrived! Atule-Pitule quake with fear. Just as he's about to pounce on them, Atule has the presence of mind to say, —“Oh great Waghoba (tiger), please don't catch us, please don't eat us. At least not just yet.” —“Not just yet? Whyever not?” The tiger is surprised and stops in his tracks. —“Well, the thing is, we are planning to cook some sanna, wouldn't you like to eat some too?” The tiger is easily convinced. He tells the sisters to expect him at their house at lunch time. Atule-Pitule heave a huge sigh of relief and then they spring into action because there is a sanna feast to be prepared. A few hours later, the sanna are ready. The little hut they live in is full of delicious aroma. Both sisters haven't eaten all day; their stomachs are growling with hunger. They can't stop themselves from lifting the lid off the dish and grabbing one sanna for themselves. They share it and its gone, devoured in a couple of bites. Still starving, they take another and eat it, and then one more. Very soon, the two of them have managed to finish the entire pot of sanna between themselves. Replete now, they are filled with horror at the thought of not having any food left to feed the tiger. The only thing to do now is to hide! Atule hides inside an earthen storage pot. And Pitule hides inside the grinding pot and covers it with a sack. The delicious sanna smell has by now spread into the forest and the tiger gets a whiff of it. He bounds to the edge of the forest and enters Atule-Pitule's house, shouting out their names and clamouring for sanna. Seeing no sign of the sisters, his gaze falls on the empty sanna pot and he is furious. He lets out a great big growl and leaps around, shouting for them, knowing that they must be hiding nearby. By now, both sisters are shivering with fear and the tiger hears the sound of Atule's chattering teeth coming from the earthen pot. “Aha! So that's where you rascals are!” he shouts and lifts the pot onto his head to carry it away. In the intense fear of that moment, Atule can't help but let out a rather long and loud fart. This sound startles and scares the tiger so badly that he drops the pot and sprints wildly into the forest. And Atule goes to find Pitule and they both laugh and laugh and laugh. You can imagine how many giggles and laughs an ending like this used to generate. Some stories had scary endings with the villains being killed. Many years later, when I found myself in the role of the storyteller at my kids' bedside, I found myself changing violent endings to something kinder. It's as if I felt they needed to be protected from sad endings in that sacred and safe bedtime space. Why invite nightmares? But even if some of the stories I was told as a child had conflict, or questionable attitudes towards women, or were politically incorrect in various ways, looking back what stands out is the warmth with which they were told, the deep bonding they created and the happy memory of being loved so much. The stories in themselves were enjoyable certainly, but what matters even more is the comforting closeness of the teller, whom I could snuggle up against as I listened. Thinking back now, I seem to remember mostly part-stories, or only a catchy title or a rhyme from a story. “Chal re bhoplya tunuk tunuk” is one such from a Marathi story, but told to us in Konkani. I remember bits of ghost stories told on candlelit evenings when the electricity was down. I remember my grandfather's smiling face as he told funny stories from his younger days. I realise now that even these bits and pieces that remain with me are like the pieces of coloured glass in a kaleidoscope that I can keep gazing at as they form myriad nourishing strands of stories and memory. -- Aparna lives in Gurgaon but dreams of Goa, of walks on the beach and floating in the sea. She is a Goan who has never lived in Goa (as yet). She loves to read, do yoga, write. Most of all she loves a sushegaad way of life. She teaches yoga at the Sivananda Yoga Centre, Gurgaon. Published in 'All Those Tales', published in 2024, and edited by Nellie Velho Pereira and Frederick Noronha.
