A Cricketing Metaphor

Since the time Cricket broadcasters and Indian advertisers deemed it fit to push L-shaped ads, Pop-up ads, Exploding ads, Crawly ads in the middle of a delivery of all things during the recent India – South Africa cricket series, heralding a new low for even the greedy broadcasters and the even greedier BCCI, reducing the cricket telecast to interspersing cricket between unending intrusive advertising rather than the other way round, I’ve come to dislike brands who intruded into my viewing pleasure so blatantly and put me off all things cricket in print and on TV.

I steer clear of the clutter now, and am apprehensive of switching on the TV for fear of running into yet another segment of Dev’s Devils from 1983. I’d want India to win this year’s World Cup if for nothing than at least so we’d spared of the aging narrative of the 1983 team repeated ad nauseam each time the World Cup swings into view. I’d rather have Dhoni’s Dhulaiwaley given the bar stools four years hence, not that they’d offer any more insight and drama on the studio camera, but at least the faces would be different.

I think it’s a good enough reason for me to cheer the Indian team on. And this coming from someone who, barely out of primary school, sat through the grainy broadcast of the 1983 final on EC TV where the players were indistinguishable from the Lord’s grass, cheering them on on the strength of radio commentary since the fierce hiss on the only TV in the neighbourhood had all but turned the commentary on TV barely audible.

Fortunately, the streets are relatively free of cricket advertising heading into the World Cup unless you’d consider the India Today cover plastered on a Telephone Box at the corner of Nanabhai Lane in Fort a part of it.

Even so I’m delighting in the snatches I overhear on my way about the city. And none more so than the exchange between two youths I overheard recently on my way up the crowded stairs at a suburban railway station.



In rush hour local train traffic I negotiate the stairs connecting the over-bridge servicing railway platforms more from instinct than anything else. The steps are barely visible among assorted feet jamming the stairways.

On reaching out to steady his friend who stumbled on a step behind me, nearly falling in the crush of bodies, the smiling saviour could not resist quipping in jest:

Rough Wicket Hai,
Gir Jaogey.
Simple Delivery Bhi,
Googly Hai.

And the magic was back on. Show me the remote.

Home On Uttrayan Eve in Ahmedabad Pol

He saw me much before I noticed him. His window on the first floor overlooked the turn that led into Kuvawalo Khancho, located in Doshivada ni Pol in Ahmedabad’s old neighbourhood of Kalupur, not far from the Shantinathji Mandir in Haja Patel ni Pol we had passed through earlier.



The narrow lanes breathed history, their legacy and antiquity on display as much in the wear of doors splintering from age as in intricately carved woodwork gracing facades and balconies of homes variously dating back through the centuries beginning in 1760 or thereabouts.



Too often in India, where the antiquity of a neighbourhood or a house is in question, the earliest recorded date of construction is likely to be the earliest surviving record, unless the owner happened to engrave the year on the wall.

At the point where the Calico Dome lay crumpled, retained as much for its former architectural significance as for its significance and role in Ahmedabad’s textile legacy, we had crossed the Relief Road apparently built to ‘relieve’ the main thoroughfares of traffic but Amdavadis will joke that while the intention was noble at the time of its construction years ago, the Relief Road is now the most crowded, and it’s likely a smiling Amdavadi will quip, “No relief on Relief Road,” in an accent that is decidedly Gujju, the OOOs arcing through the air in abandon while delightfully reminding of a jest for life.



However we saw little or no traffic on Relief Road that morning. It might’ve to do with our taking to the road early. Even for the enterprising Amdavadi, eight is a tad too early to be plying his trade. Moreover it was the eve of Uttrayan or Makar Sankranti as it is known elsewhere in India when we found ourselves in Kalupur, a time when much of Gujarat, and Ahmedabad in particular, forgoes all worries and responsibilities to take to the roofs to fly kites.



Much of everything comes to a standstill. The Manja makers were busy at work lacing kite thread with powdered glass for use in flying fighter kites on Uttrayan the next day, a Friday.

Resting his face lightly on a wooden length framing the open window, and prone on a bed set at the window his was truly a room on the roof. The blanket was askew at where he had likely stretched his limbs upon stirring to life at the stroke of dawn. If his window were facing the east the clothes hanging from a line outside the window might’ve shielded him from the awakening sun.



I had sensed eyes on me as I approached the turn in the lane and instinctively looked up seeking the gaze before finding it framed in a smiling face pressed to the wooden lengths.

It’s easy to guess in the manner of a school boy if he has any intention of going to school that day, or if it’s a school day to start with. For one it’s unlikely he’d be smiling and lingering in bed if there’s a roll call to answer later. And nothing in his demeanour indicated he had to answer one that morning. Even so I couldn’t resist asking him since it was a Thursday.

“Not going to school?”

“No,” he replied, smile widening. For a moment I thought he might be actually pleased to be reminded he didn’t have to go to school that morning. Reliving it must somehow double the pleasure to a school going lad.

“Isn’t Uttrayan tomorrow?” I persisted.

“It is. But we’ve holidays starting today. Three days.” The smile never quite left him. Apparently, Vasi Uttrayan, the day following Uttrayan, was a holiday as well.

Thursday. Friday, and Saturday.

Then there’s the Sunday.

January is a nice time to be going to school in Gujarat I thought as we parted, skipping along, dodging cows and silence in equal measure.



Glossary: (1) Khancho is Gujarati for ‘Open Space’. (2) Pol is derived from the Sanskrit ‘Pratoli’, meaning ‘Gate’ or ‘Entry’ to an enclosed area, here Pols are micro-neighbourhoods with houses on either side of a street, with access controlled by the gate. (3) Manja is kite thread developed to sharp edge using powdered glass bound by adhesives, including rice paste. (4) Mandir is Indian for temple. (5) Uttrayan or Uttrayana denotes the period (six months) when the Sun travels North on the celestial sphere, the beginning of which is celebrated as Makar Sankranti or Uttrayan.

Trucks Roll On, Roll Off Konkan Railway

Before the Konkan Railway came into being, connecting Mumbai with Goa along the Konkan coast, I would travel to Mumbai and back by bus, along roads winding through villages and hamlets hidden among trees and interspersed among rice fields. To watch a villager walk by in the backdrop of mountains would be watch tranquility nudge time along.



Sometimes the bus would pass close enough for me to make out the farmer’s features as he ploughed his rice field in ankle deep slush, goading his oxen on with short guttural commands. In the next square would be another farmer with his bullocks, the scene repeating for many miles along the Konkan stretch.

The sameness never jarred, instead it sought to connect me with a tradition, even if fleetingly, that’s barely changed since the time humans first began to work the land, rooting them to the earth just as surely as wings root birds to the skies, and as irresistibly as a bend in the road draws a wanderer’s feet to it.



If the skies were blue and an occasional cloud were to be making its way across, the water in the rice fields would reflect it just as clearly as if I were craning my neck out the window to sight it in the skies. And in the water I could see the breeze I felt on my face pressed to the window.


The pastoral scenes along the Konkan stretch filled in the hours well. Soon enough the rumble of the bus became a steady hum, receding to the back of my mind like an insistent fly buzzing about in a room stilled by the noon silence. I might’ve been in a theatre watching a slide show of picture postcards play out and not know the difference.


The Goa - Bombay journey was a long one, and the only time I was brought up to a thudding break in the middle of the scenic slide show was when the driver would occasionally swerve wildly to sway out of the path of an oncoming truck joyously muscling his way past a terrified bus-load of staid passengers. I’ve had my share of these untimely thrills over the years to an extent that I began to keep a wary eye out the window for an oncoming truck if only to give me a momentary head-start for a bracing impact, helped no doubt by the occasional wreck left to rust along the Bombay - Goa route, macabre installations that might yet be turned into art someday if only to remind a traveller of the perils that his Karma might’ve in store for him.


I needn’t have worried much, for I’ve lived to tell the proverbial tale. It’s just that having shifted to traveling by the Konkan Railway, and my encounters with trucks on the highway having reduced to seeing them waiting alongside bullock carts at railway crossings, watching my train thunder past, I was nevertheless reminded of my highway journeys when, three years ago, the Mandovi Express I was traveling by pulled up alongside Konkan Railway’s RO RO service for trucks, shortened from Roll On - Roll Off.



The Roll On - Roll Off flatbed rail car was headed the opposite direction with its cargo of thirty trucks transporting goods when we passed it shortly after leaving Khed.

Doors open, the drivers and cleaners were probably twiddling their thumbs, or maybe playing cards awaiting Kolad, their Roll Off point 145 kms. short of Mumbai. In all likelihood they’d Rolled On at Verna in Goa, or maybe at Suratkal, 20 kms. off Mangalore.


The Konkan Railway operates the Roll On – Roll Off (RO RO) service for truck transportation between (1) Verna – Kolad, (2) Suratkal – Kolad, and (3) Verna – Suratkal. The Verna – Kolad stretch is 421 kms., while the Suratkal – Kolad route spans 721 kms.


A little over a year ago reports had suggested that Konkan Railway had made profits to the tune of 120 crores from their RO RO service over ten years, the service having commenced in 1999 before recommencing after a minor suspension of service in between.

The trucks have to obtain height clearance before they’re permitted to Roll On the rail car at the loading point to ensure a safe clearance through the slew of tunnels along the Konkan Railway route.


It must be a welcome change for drivers to sit back and take in the picturesque Konkan stretch from the safety of their cabins as the rail car proceeds to their destination along the coast instead of keeping up through the day, and the night hunched over the wheel.



Needless to say it saves drivers long hours of driving, cuts down on transportation time between the destinations serviced, saves trucks from the wear and tear of the road, and the owners of fuel costs, bypasses check posts and the inevitable greasing of sundry palms along the way, primes the business for quick turnarounds on account of reduced travelling time, and most importantly reduces the probability of accidents resulting from reckless, drunk, or fatigued truck drivers. The opposite is also true, saving truck drivers from accidents resulting from reckless, drunk, or fatigued drivers behind the wheels of sundry motor vehicles.


Watching the trucks idling in silence, I couldn’t help wonder if my own journeys by bus might not have benefited by fewer ‘thrills’ on the highway if this service was up and running back then. It’s another matter really that if Konkan Railway was around ‘back then’ I might never have traveled between Mumbai and Goa by bus to start with, though I’d continued with traveling by bus to elsewhere.

Watch Video: Roll On, Roll Off (RORO) trucks, Konkan Railway

While 30 trucks ‘removed from plying on the highway’ might seem too few a number to make a significant difference to the health of other motorists on the highway, and which might indeed be the case more so now than when I used to travel infrequently to Bombay and back by bus as a school boy, it’ll nevertheless make highways safer considering the service runs each way and is set to be increased with rising demand for the same besides the likelihood of being adopted across the country.

A Sabarmati Moment

Later, stepping past the entrance and onto the freshly washed tree lined approach reflecting the morning sun in tiny pools of water each time a light breeze blew in from the river, nudging leaves into letting light course through and momentarily relieve the shade of its cool, moist grip, I paused to watch a young boy trail a kite behind him. He tried in vain to interest his pet dog in his morning endeavour but it had other priorities than follow a paper kite.

Watching the kite rise up behind him the boy ran up to where the path forked at the Upasana Mandir, the ashram prayer ground where inmates of the Sabarmati ashram used to gather with Mahatma Gandhi for morning and evening prayers and his sermons, before turning and running all the way back, scattering squirrels back up the trees. In the shade of trees, the prayer ground overlooks the Sabarmati river.

A lonely figure of a young woman of foreign origin sat hunched over a book in the warmth of the sun, oblivious to the shrieking of parakeets perched on the concrete wall channeling the river onward.

In an opening between raised platforms a wide flight of steps led down to the river. Scattered on the steps were youth in deep contemplation, gazing fixedly at the shimmering waters of the Sabarmati, their whispers if any lost in the breeze. The only sounds floating up were of parakeets squawking urgently, followed by those of crows. Even the steady crush of leaves as sweepers cleared the litter seemed to emerge from the trees, of which a wide variety was represented, among whom the Neem and the Ashoka seemed to be particularly favoured.

Flowers were many, in kind and number, drawing Sunbirds into their midst. It had taken me only a few moments after stepping out the rickshaw to find out that while times had changed, timelessness had not.

On The Streets, Stray Dogs Ensure Welfare Of Humans

Sometimes the obvious is not nearly as obvious. It’s entirely possible in this age and time to ‘know’ about ‘everything’ at the click of a link and yet not know a thing about most things that matter in ways beyond the cursory as we happen upon them when going about our daily lives.

I’m inclined to believe that this might be truer of those of us who live in Mumbai or cities like Mumbai where making time a premium commodity, to the exclusion of the timelessness of the laidback, is considered a necessary virtue and held up as a standard to emulate. Any exception to the contrary is likely dismissed as a ‘wasted life’ even if not said so in so many words.

This was brought into sharp focus by Abodh’s post the other day.

On occasional walking forays about the city I'll sometimes pause to meet the eyes of a 'stray' I’ve noticed from my earlier walkabouts, delighting in a secret way the sense of permanence the assortment of wet noses and friendly tails bring to nooks and corners of the city they’ve come to inhabit alongside humans who live and work on the streets. In those occasional moments it never occurred to me to contemplate on the depth of bonding that stray dogs and cats will share with those who begin to care for them from mutual familiarity on the shared street, at least not in the way Abodh experiences in his work with stray dogs in Mumbai.

While I knew of the bonding on the street between 'strays' and humans as a fact, I realized I didn’t know of it from experience.

Reading about Rambo, Tiger, Soorya, and Ronnie whom Rajan, a rag-picker, named after his son who died aged two, and other kindred souls like Karunakaran Pillai in Abodh’s warm reminisces in his First Aid Sundays with Street Dogs and Humans merely reinforces the fact that all that seems obvious at first glance isn’t really that obvious the first time around.

While Abodh’s narrative plucks tentatively at heartstrings, there’s nothing tentative about the warmth the stray dogs bring to lives on the street.

It’s in the light of his poignant reminisces in the post linked above that the annual calendar brought out by The Welfare Of Stray Dogs (WSD) takes on a different meaning.

Extending WSD's assertion that: Stray Dogs Are A Breed Apart, I'd add: For More Reasons Than One.

Here’s where you can still buy The Welfare of Stray Dogs (WSD) Annual calendar featuring strays with stories in their eyes.

A peek into the WSD Annual Calendar:

Below: Isfahan, a ‘Rags to Riches’ story, came from a Mumbai street.



Below: Rocket, now the ‘King of the Couch’, was born in a WSD kennel.

Wandering Feet

Kolkata. West Bengal.


Some things changed,
Some things did not.

That which changed did not change everything.
That which did not change stopped nothing from changing.

Things meant to change did not.
Things meant to remain the same, changed.

In the lull between the push and the pull my eyes rested,
Suspended in the momentary equilibrium of my wandering feet.

The Sultan

“He is Sultan,” said his caretaker on the street outside a makeshift shaadi ka pandal in Aurangabad. He looked every bit of a Sultan, commanding his Sultanate in the admiring glances of passers-by.

A Marwari wedding was scheduled for later in the day, and Sultan basked in the Sun while he waited out his turn to ferry the groom through the streets of the old city.


While Sultan’s eyes were shielded behind his blinkers, the regal red set off his flowing mane in the late afternoon sun, and I could not help imagine what he must make of his majestic bearing used to embellish those who might’ve little or none of their own.

The Open Road

Kankavli, Maharashtra. 2008.


Trust the road you walk on
To lead you along,
So you’re never lonely
When you’ve to walk it alone.

Should you return the same way
Lend your ear to the grass on the margins,
So you may hear it whisper
The song of the open road.

Fiat Ducato Campers At Kala Ghoda

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I was pleasantly surprised last weekend to see three motorhomes (alternately called camper vans or RVs as in Recreational Vehicles) parked together in the traffic island along K. Dubhash Marg in Kala Ghoda, Mumbai. The number-plates and the profusion of stickers on the back of the vans, more so on one of the two Fiat Ducato Campers, evidently marking countries traveled through, indicated of foreign tourists touring India by road.



It's unlikely that they collected the stickers along the way at each port of call on their overland journey through countries before driving into India, it’d be too much of a hassle to locate one in each country that one is passing through.

It’s more likely they’d purchased the stickers before starting out on their travel, possibly sticking each one on the back as they crossed international borders.



The two Fiat Ducato camper vans were joined by a Mercedes Vito F, or so I think as the logo identifying the Mercedes camper van model was not immediately readable, at least not from the acute angle on the left. The raised V (the larger of the four letters) obscured the rest, particularly the adjacent (smaller) letter, rendering the logo in the kind of flourish that some logo designers will only too happily relish creating as a tribute to one of their inexplicable doodling moments fuelled by cigarette deprivation, or worse for want of spirit fuelled inspiration. Among differently-sized letters raised on a surface, the smaller letter adjacent to the larger one will be obscured when viewed at an angle.



The blue Fiat Ducato was seemingly spared the dust coating the light coloured Fiat Ducato parked adjacent was subjected to on its India travel. When travelling around India by road, it helps to be painted in dark colours if only so the dust will not make itself immediately apparent on the surface, small consolation actually.

A muggy winter day in Mumbai is as good a day as any to be up and about. However the light on the street did not mirror the unusually blue skies overhead, heightened in no small measure by the occasional white cloud sailing free. Post-monsoons, approaching winter, is a good time to travel to India. In the US, the occupants of the three motorhomes would be known as Snowbirders, for escaping the harsh winters of their native countries for the relatively warmer climes nearer the equator, not unlike migratory birds.



While I was interested in having a look inside I contented myself with the exteriors. Considering how difficult it can be to avail of railway reservations to and from major destinations in India (if not booked in advance), in addition to hotel fares on the upswing during the holiday (nee traveling) season in India, the winters, it actually makes eminent sense to get a camper van with amenities that’ll allow a sleep-in on the road every once in a while.

The Mercedes Vito F at Kala Ghoda was smaller in comparison to the two Fiat Ducato motorhomes parked alongside. Contraptions fitted to the back of the van and the roof possibly made space for luggage, or maybe beds. I couldn’t tell for sure. Travellers are known to carry bicycles strapped behind, or even motorcycles.

The lighter coloured Fiat Ducato appeared to be fitted with a retractable roof that motorhomes will sometimes be equipped with to accommodate a roof bed and provide for standing room. Where hydraulic controls are absent, the roof is operated manually, elevated when needed, and covered on the sides by canvas fitted with fly-screen vents.

The Fiat Ducato has a major share of the motorhome market in Europe. The chassis is made available in various lengths, as also height, to suit customer requirements for space to accommodate their travel requirements when converting the caravan base into living quarters. The two Fiat Ducato motorhomes I saw were of similar size and would comfortably fit four in each.

It bears thought why motorhomes cannot similarly succeed in India considering the conveniences it can offer on the road even if we were to discount the fact that such travel will likely mean skipping the India of public travel and related experiences.

If the Indian traveler is prepared to put up with the few inconveniences of the road as opposed to the conveniences of a hotel, namely facilities to wash up in the mornings, he could benefit from being able to sleep out in the open, under the stars as he travels across India. It also bears mentioning that for the concept to take off, towns and cities will need to plan for washroom facilities at the very least for Camper Van/Motorhome travellers without having to book into hotels to avail of them, assuming it's difficult to tank up on water along the way or manage waste disposal.

If that were to happen I’d expect each state in the Indian Union to issue a state logo reflective of the state that the traveler could then stick on the back of the motorhome, collecting stickers along the way at each crossing of state borders. Imagine how much better the mass of stickers would reflect India than if it were to be indicated by only the flag.



Note: Of the two Fiat Ducato motorhomes parked alongside, one prominently advertised Adria Space, the entity that designs motorhomes to suit customer requirements, fitting the design to the Fiat Ducato chassis, like is possible to do with models by Auto manufacturers in the Motorhomes / Campers market.

While I could not see the interiors, the Adria Space page highlights the custom-made interiors they offer to customers. As you’ll see, it’s not made for the backpacker experience. India backpackers will be advised to do it the old and more fulfilling way.

Note: Motorhome / RV Living options in India are limited. If custom-built in India as some Western travellers have, using the Mazda chassis, or bus-frames at local manufacturing facilities, they'll likely offer up their motorhomes / RVs for sale in India before returning, finding it economical to sell it than incur import duties if they were to ferry it back.

Mark, an American, got a motorhome / RV custom-built in Goa, and is now offering it up for sale.


Related Links

1. Explore the Fiat Ducato Camper

2. Camper Van Life, Information and Online Community

3. FICCI - ATA Carnet (Duty-free Temporary Admission of Goods)

4. Chief Commissioner Of Customs (Mumbai) - Traveller's Information

The Venerable Father, And Grime Riot Disco

It was not just the poster imagery that drew my attention to it on the pavement outside St. Andrew Church, Bandra. That it was overlaid on a flyer announcing Venerable Father Agnel’s Day was one reason, more so since Ven. Fr. Agnel’s Day, Nov. 19, was scheduled for a little over a week after the event that was plastered over it!.

The puff of shy chest hair and the African style suave blue head wrap secured in the front and above the forehead with stylish bobby pins, the millipede styled tuft at the back I’ve no idea of, and proclaiming on a sleeveless tee “I Left My [Love] At Disco”, had enough yellow and maroon, or was it red, to stop church-goers in their tracks barely a stone’s throw away from the horse driven carriage festooned with red and white balloons outside the entrance to St. Andrew's Church.

With Christmas still weeks away, Bandra store-fronts were already beginning to wear a festive look. But what stuck me about the poster, aside from papering over Ven. Fr. Agnel’s Day announcement, was it listed no venue, no announcement of who was performing, nothing. Except for the day, announced prominently. 11.11.10.

To those who knew, the day was enough. To those who didn’t, they didn’t matter for, if they did, they’d know who and where, and most importantly how. So that was that. There was every bit of underground feel to every bit of the announcement - GRIME RIOT DISCO.

It fitted Bombay well. Grime, there’s enough of it if you’d care to look. Riot, there’s been enough of it anyways, of the blood variety that is, unless you’re not prepared to discount local train travel. Disco to forget the grime, and the riot.

The poster on the circuit box screamed – Closed Group. For the moment it still is, if the Facebook page for GRIME RIOT DISCO, only listing Kunal Lodhia, Monica Sharma Dogra, and Anamika Singh, is anything to go by, with only the RSVP for the party put out on Facebook. Partly the lure, I’d assume.



Monica Sharma Dogra of Shaa'ir + Func announced it on Twitter the day before. It turned out that GRIME RIOT DISCO was scheduled at Club Madness in Khar’s Ramee Guestline Hotel, with word getting around via Facebook, and selective promotions at events around the city.

Anamika Singh of FlirtEve, an Event Planning outfit, was tasked with getting the party going, while Kunal Lodhia of WETHEPPL would use it to promote his entity’s artwork, and if his only tweet, “sometimes barbers pretend to snip behind your head so the scissor makes sounds and you feel like you're getting your money's worth.” was anything to go by, the promotional would be side-fare to the music.

With GRIME RIOT DISCO announcing on its Facebook RSVP page: This is the party we’ve been waiting for. Grimey, raw, egoless, ass on the floor, fun. Bombay’s loud. We’re louder. Get into it, it didn’t need a soothsayer to tell you that Ven. Fr. Agnel stood little chance with Bandraites, surely not with the young and the restless, definitely not with a further promise of cheap booze and big sound the organisers threw in for good measure.

However, his faithful, now hopeful of his canonization after the Vatican declared Fr. Agnel, a Catholic priest of Goan origin, Venerable, even if the process of beatification and sainthood is likely to last long with no certainty he’ll ever attain sainthood, have an even bigger battle on their hands than the one with the Vatican – that of ensuring the posters announcing Fr. Agnel’s Day will be read by church goers atleast until the day has passed!

Until then it’s Club Madness ahoy for GRIME RIOT DISCO, or rather was.

A Moment Of Truth At Cutbona Fishing Jetty

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The Concip had already docked and was preparing to offload its catch when we turned right and made for the Cutbona Jetty on a bright, cheerful October day four years ago. The final stretch had passed quickly as we made straight, past coconut palms along an arrow of a road, passing a wetland with cheering lotuses. Large Egrets landed in the waters as we sped past. More took off from behind the trees in the distance.



The skies over Betul were clear. I breathed deeply of the air, and exhaled to the pace of the road slipping away beneath us. We had left Margao behind and had traveled South through Assolna, then Velim.

Soon we slowed down as the fishing jetty came into view. Past the cluster of fishing trawlers that had docked early that morning, the Sal shone in the Sun, rippling violently as Kites hovering overhead made sharp, terrifying dives into the waters before winging upwards, prey twisting in their talons, flashing whites where the Sun caught their desperation. The ripples from the violence jostled against the current, prevailing long enough to notch Sal’s timeline with depredations of its birdlife before dissolving into nothingness.

The Maria Bai had brought up Concip’s rear and was preparing to cast off, its nets sorted and piled high on deck.

Drying on clotheslines strung on Concip’s deck, a bewildering array of daily wear, in far greater numbers than its fishing crew, spoke of days out at sea. A wooden cross surmounted the Captain’s cabin. Employed by Concip's Goan owner, the dark-skinned, lean youth were busy emptying the holds of fish into blue plastic crates. The crew, I learned later, hailed from Orissa.


Having bathed and scrubbed away the smell of high seas away some of them sat by in towels watching their colleagues stack fishes in crates. Plastic sieves lay stacked alongside. In their eyes I could see the relief of a run successfully completed. Soon it would be time to sail away again. They would rest their weary limbs, mend the fishing nets, carouse in local bars and swap stories until it was time to stock up and set sail for the high seas.

Up ahead I lost the jetty’s run South in the flags fluttering from masts of fishing trawlers bunched tightly along its length. It ran straight like the final stretch of road we had ridden to Cutbona, nudging the eastern banks of the Sal before it empties into the Arabian Sea where the sliver of land that had held it inland finally tapers and ends in a sharp finger abutting the ocean, letting the Sal run free into the Sea.


Two years later I would, along with Ajay and Don, ascend the hill at Baradi where the Holy Cross Chapel stands. On a clear day, the sharp finger is visible South-West from the foot of the Chapel if you look long and hard enough. The ocean cuts a wide swathe, wider than you can dare imagine.



Weighing scales stood dockside. Soon Tempo carriers dispatched by hotel chains and wholesalers would make their way to the fishing jetty and load up the catch just in time for chefs to whip up sea food for their clientele. Fish markets in Assolna, Velim, Chinchinim, Cuncolim, Balli, Navelim, and Margoa would soon come alive to excited chatter, the outwardly friendly banter belying the hard bargains regular shoppers strike with Goan fisherwomen who're no pushovers themselves.



However, not everyone in Goa makes for fish markets for their daily shopping lists. And not everyone who cannot afford fish at market prices will let their day go by without their fish curry, rice.

I might’ve missed noticing the thin elderly man in a striped t-shirt trudging up the jetty if it was not for the flimsy polythene bag trailing in his hand. Sheltering under a much used cap he walked slowly sizing up the deck-hands on Concip as they hauled eels into crates.


The man kept his distance from the trawler at first, probably still making up his mind, before walking up to it. Motioning to a crate he passed a deck-hand the polythene bag he had carried along, watching as the youth slipped two eels into the bag. The bag could hold no more. Nothing changed hands save the eels.



A quick nod of the head in acknowledgement and gratitude and he started back the way he had come and the youth returned to his task. Pausing at the reflection in the water dockside he retrieved the eels from the plastic bag. Straining as he bent he turned them over in the water for a quick wash before returning them to the bag.

Holding his head up, he made his way past me slowly, looking straight ahead. I turned my face up to trace the flight of a Kite circling in the skies.

When the moment of truth arrives, some will stand up to its test.



Note: In an earlier post, Gambling Away The Sal, I wrote of the threat the river Sal faced from Goa Government’s Tourism Policy.


Related Links:

1. Velim locals resist Goa Govt’s land acquisition plans at Cutbona.
2. Velim Gram Sabha Opposes Acquisition of Land at Cutbona.

Willing A Wanting In Curtorim

When I’ve time on my hands like I sometimes do on my occasional trips to Goa, I ride the backroads, chasing silences I like telling myself.

It’s a wonder how I rarely suffered punctures considering I would be bicycling in the Sun till the pedals threatened to come off. I would keep my eye on the road and actually count the shadows the trees cast on the road, in time learning to distinguish between them and soon I came to pride in my ability to recognize trees from their shadows on lonely roads. Looking back now I’d imagine one seeks unlikely companions when free-riding down quiet roads. Needless to say it took me a long time to get more guesses right than wrong.

My cycling days are over, for now.

The last time I rode one was two years ago when we went cycling on rented bicycles in the Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary in Rajasthan. Show me shadows now and I doubt if I can tell a dog from a tree.

Given a choice I’d rather ride pillion now. While it’d mean I would see fewer things than if I was riding it, now I can linger longer on things of little consequence, like straining to see if anyone would emerge from a bend in the road past a brightly whitewashed roadside Chapel, and if it was a lady would she be wearing large floral prints, or if there’re lighted candles on the altar.

Sometimes, no degree of willing an event or a want will make it happen. Even before I can reflect on my disappointment if I can call it that I can already see the next bend in the road to will the next want. And then another. Soon miles burn away, only pausing by roadside shrines where the gods are largely left unmolested. The gods came in peace, only they haven’t been left in peace ever since.

So, occasionally I’d rather keep my distance and take in divinity from afar, and seek to proffer instead of ask, like the day we went riding through Curtorim some years ago.



Stopping by a wayside Chapel past harvested paddy fields I willed peace for Christ even as I kept a nervous eye past the bend in the road, dreading someone would ride into view and shatter the quiet.

No one did. But that was more because I chose to move on before someone actually did. And in that moment I was reminded of the limits of mortals, and how unwise it would be to play god.

The Torchbearer

This was no ordinary house.

That was no ordinary time.

And, she was bequeathed no ordinary legacy.