To the west of India on the gateway to the Thar desert there lies a blue city at the foot of the fort of Mehrangarh. There in the old mohallas if you strain hard you can hear history echoing the reign of the Rajput rulers amid the brilliant colours of Rajasthan.
In those old mohallas blue houses straddle some street corners. On my way across the Old city each day I latched onto as many mohallas as I could, walking the narrow lanes from morning to evening in the blazing Sun until I could walk no more.
One blue house in particular sat on the threshold of an ancient market, and each time that I walked past it I glanced at the door wondering if it was open. Sometimes it was, but not once did I see anyone at the door. So I never got to know who lived there. Somehow, in not being able to ‘put’ a face to the house I was left with a sense of the incomplete trailing in my wake each time that I made past the house.
One day as I rounded a bend in the mohalla a cart hitched to a lone Ox stood in the lane by the house, looking past the bend in the galli. From then on I rarely see an Ox without seeing a blue house on a street corner.
In time I’ll post my Rajasthan Diaries on days when colors beckon and footsteps sound past closed doors, even if no horse once rode past it to the sound of a war cry.
In those old mohallas blue houses straddle some street corners. On my way across the Old city each day I latched onto as many mohallas as I could, walking the narrow lanes from morning to evening in the blazing Sun until I could walk no more.
One blue house in particular sat on the threshold of an ancient market, and each time that I walked past it I glanced at the door wondering if it was open. Sometimes it was, but not once did I see anyone at the door. So I never got to know who lived there. Somehow, in not being able to ‘put’ a face to the house I was left with a sense of the incomplete trailing in my wake each time that I made past the house.
One day as I rounded a bend in the mohalla a cart hitched to a lone Ox stood in the lane by the house, looking past the bend in the galli. From then on I rarely see an Ox without seeing a blue house on a street corner.In time I’ll post my Rajasthan Diaries on days when colors beckon and footsteps sound past closed doors, even if no horse once rode past it to the sound of a war cry.
This was the one.
The Government of Goa is pushing the State in the direction of Las Vegas, the Casino ‘Capital’ of the world. The fact that some local politicians from the coastal belt, known more for their muscle than intellect, are plumping for Casinos to be floated on the seas off Goa and on inland rivers has queered the pitch further, bringing the Government of Goa in direct conflict with the local fishing community who oppose the Casinos on the river, fearful as much of the culture seeping offshore and laying waste the youth as of the environmental damage that river dredging to accommodate Casino vessels will inflict on their livelihood. There is growing opposition from the local populace to the dredging of the river Sal to accommodate a Casino vessel floated by Hotel Leela to cater to well-heeled tourists and attract more of the same.
It was last October, on the eve of Diwali, that we rode down the winding roads, past Assolna and Velim along the Sal, stopping by the fishing Jetty at Cutbona to take in the early morning calm off the river and making small talk with fishing hands from Orissa employed on small Goan fishing vessels anchored in the waters. Maria Bai lay in the safety of the jetty, resting easily among the vessels crowding the waterfront, listening to voices floating in from the decks where youth bent over fresh catch of fish while local villagers gathered by the vessels to buy the catch straight off the decks. A warm sunshine had settled in while trees stirred in the gentle breeze.
At times of such serenity it is difficult to imagine the transitory nature of outward calm, belying the feeling of continuity that nature in its primeval state evokes even while disturbing currents might simmer within inches of the surface, threatening to upset the balance of the very same continuity. It is this state of well-being like the one we experienced on the banks of the Sal that day that I most fear, for it is when one begins to favour a state of permanence that its fragility begins to unravel. 
