Title: Who the bleep cares about a Prose to Salcete? By: Selma Carvalho Source: Goan Voice UK Daily Newsletter 30 Nov. 2011 at http://www.goanvoice.org.uk/
Full text: When you turn South of the silver-ribboned Zuari River, everything changes. The coconut trees suddenly grow taller; swooping down sometimes but mostly swaying, like the skirts of young dancing girls, upwards into an endlessly open and wide sky. The mango and oak grow thick; harbouring rats, squirrels, and lovers' secrets whispered underneath their shade or carved into their bark. The laterite red soil yields to the sandy white of the beach-front; Proud Gauda men walk alongside the road upright and muscled from hard labour, their women following them in single-file, midriffs showing, breasts swinging - a symphony in movement. Kharvi fisherman sleep on the beach stroked by the languor of a sun which refuses to recede until way past six in the evening; at which time the toddy-tapper makes his last call for the day, whistling between his teeth to let the housewife know evening is nigh. Children are rounded up, fires lit, rosaries recited and left-over rice from lunch-time served alongside an accompaniment of curry and fish. Outside, in the lushness of chikoo trees and bougainvillea, night owls quarrel with frogs and crickets; hooting, croaking and chirping into a crescendo of dissent. From across the paddy-fields, foxes howl, claiming the darkness to be their own but it is the night-blooming white jasmine that claims the night; unfolding her perfumed petals like the arms of a naked woman, intoxicating and driving you wild, until her scent crawls into the hollows of your nostrils blurring dreams that haunt you when everything else dissolves into nothingness. White-washed churches perch perilously on hill-tops looking down. On a clear day, their bell-towers dwarf the sprawled villages, their spires snaking into the sky tell stories of Empire, of lusty Portuguese sailors who travelled half-way across the world in their caravelas with a map in one hand and a sword in the other. The Church is the sobriety of the Catholic Goan; the Baroque, rotund naves of its cathedrals ringing in chorus with the hymns of our aspirations. In its custody are records, sheaf upon sheaf of paper validating our existence through baptism, marriage and death, and in its cemeteries lie headstones with small lettering telling the world of our relationships and conquests: daughter of Dom Martins Piedade da Silva or wife of Rose Gama-Pinto rest in peace. Mud, bones and to a lesser degree pedigree all mixed together. The many-windowed houses, with a full head of red tiles, are built by the bare hands of local masons. The older houses are built indiscriminately, without much architectural integrity. At the front there would be an entrade or reception room -the salle, which housed an ornately carved wooden altar dedicated to Jesus, Mary and Joseph. On the left hand side is an ante-room, the dakle-salle which was invariably inherited by the eldest son as his bedroom upon marriage. It would also be the room every grandchild would breath his first breath. At the back was the kitchen and walk-in larder, the dispense; river-fish submerged in palm-vinegar and stored in earthen jars would have to survive the long monsoon season, links of pickled pork sausage would dangle from beams, silos housed unhusked rice, and glass jars filled with mango preserves, pickles and guava sweets jostled for space on the wooden shelves. By mid-May, everyone breathes frugally; the mongrels lie at your feet stinking of heat trapped in their fur; the trees droop overburdened with rotting fruit, the grass dies a slow death parched with thirst, turning into a dried brown; the birds raise their voices in falsettos only to sing lamentations; sweat bleeds from every pore of the body; the air is so thick with moisture, breathing is an exercise of will, and a slight breeze when it comes is the only sign that God has not yet forgotten man's existence. Every living creature is in slow-motion, waiting now only for the arrival of the first rains. Then the heavens open and mankind rejoices!! Do leave your feedback at [email protected] Selma Carvalho's book Into The Diaspora Wilderness is listed at http://selmacarvalho.squarespace.com/
