12
Goa in Konkani, the local language, is called Goy or Goem. It is ascertained and confirmed from authentic sources that the word in Mundavi language means a land “cultivated high with grass and food crops.” It may be the name . . . given to Goa by reportedly the earliest settlers in the territory, the Mundas and their related proto-australoid kin, the Konkas. . . . The subsequent arrival of the Dravidians or the “Kush” in Goa superimposed on that cultural base the new trappings of the lingam (phallus), nag (serpent or cobra) and peepal (fig-tree) as the main props of their religious symbolism. The community-worship and female dancing, in the temples, which were introduced into Goa and other southern regions of India, owe their origin to Sumerians who came to these regions from the Mesopotamian area, being assailed at home by some calamity.
Goa arrival, tiny airport exit into waiting (4-hour waiting) white Ambassador (flight delayed from Bangalore), ride up coastal road. Rusted sides of freighters visible in harbor berths along the way, lazy palms at roadside, a shrine to a Catholic saint lit like a Hindu shrine, its principal figure garlanded. Women beside the road in western blouses, skirts. The lushness of the vegetation a great change from the aridities of Tamil Nadu, Karnataka. Fields of newly planted rice submerged in water, collected from rainfall. The system, we are told, depends upon collection of rain during monsoon season, after which it is drained from some fields, held in still others, to be used throughout the dry season for irrigation.
The car continues swerving from one side of road to the other, avoiding village traffic as we move on up the coast, over a newly built span that arches the Govari, and on towards Panaji. Dusk falls. Lights come on sporadically in the small shops that line the streets of villages. In one, a continuous row of perhaps 12 shop fronts, all elevated above the roadway 3 or 4 feet. At another, a bend in the road, most of the villages out in the street in pleasant socializing at this darkening hour. The approach to Panaji marked by a sudden incline ─ the roadway now obscured by nightfall. Not given to horn honking, Goan tradition apparently also prescribes headlightless travel, giving an air of secrecy, unpredictability to our progress, which before too long concludes with a winding ascent of the town’s hilltop to the state guest house.
Goa has two districts, North and South, with headquarters at Panaji and Margao respectively. Ensconced on the slopes of the Western Ghats, it stretches out to a length of 105 kilometers from north to south and is about 60 kilometers wide from east to west. The terrain is hilly and branches off westward through spurs and ridges which lend a rich variety to the entire landscape. It is intersected by an extensive network of waterways. The most important rivers are Tiracol, Chapora, Mandovi, Zuari, Sal and Talpona. All these rivers have their origins in the Sahyadrivanges and flow westward into The Arabian Sea, breaking the long coastline into enchanting estuaries and bays which mark off idyllic, palm-fringed beaches like Arambol, Vagator, Anjuna, Baga, Calangute in the North, and Colva, Betul, and Palolem in the South.
6:00 am Goan balcony view, Althinho vista, second floor of State Guest House, rain, begun as drizzle, now accompanied by mildly gusting wind, which moves water along asphalt roadway in speedier washes. Pace again reduced, the steady splattering continues, building placid rivulets in roadway. “For exactly a century, from 1500 to 1600, the Portuguese enjoyed a monopoly of Oriental trade.” Up comes the wind again causing double Ashoka tree to sway above author’s vantage point, a second to flap its leaves, where they have newly emerged at author’s second-story level. “They had, however, neither the political strength nor the personal character necessary to maintain such an empire.” Below, 200 yards downhill, a single fluorescent tube, still lit, through the orchard-like flora in field opposite, bordered by tall granite-posted fence. “Their national temper had been formed in their contest with the Moors at home.”
A figure descends the hill, head hidden beneath umbrella, his pants rolled up 6 inches, feet bare. “They were not traders.” Reverse-angle shot of hilltop military installation. “But knights errant.” Its gateway framed by 2 large trees. “And crusaders.” An army truck pulls up. “Who looked on every pagan as an enemy of Portugal and Christ.” Its canvas-covered convoy bed, its back lights an orange-white; it slows to make its turn into the gate. “Only those who have read contemporary narratives of their conquests can realize the superstition and the cruelty with which the Portuguese history in the Indies is stained.”
A white-shirted man, holding umbrella in both hands, makes his way out the gate. Voices of guest house personnel below in a low 6:30 grumble, as preparations for breakfast begin. The man in white shirt returns, an aquamarine, transparent bag in his right hand, the black umbrella tilted to catch the breeze-blown rain. At the opening of a small house, some 20 yards uproad from the white gate, a woman in red sari, white wrap, stands in the doorway, framed by the dwelling’s baby-blue walls. She waves back and forth a still closed umbrella, waiting nervously for the rain to desist. She is joined briefly in conversation by passing pedestrian. (Quotations from The Imperial Gazetteer, “Early European Settlements.”)
Cock crowing, 6:45 am hillside overview of Panaji, rain almost ceased, author under black umbrella, observing single streetlight, a half-mile distant, its reflection cast along a hundred meters of rain-glazed asphalt roadway surface, reading as a pale purplish blue, single figures negotiating its shiny contours. In the near ground: a quickening rivulet of clear, mountain-like water coursing by at curbside. “Our ancients had one more aspect of thinking which was unusual: mixing of true with false. What the Westerners say would be either right or wrong; but what we say is both right and wrong.” A black-raincoated man pushing bicycle uphill, pink plastic covering its wares; honks rubber horn in continuous in-out motion; as he parks, he reaches beneath the pink plastic for several ripe mangoes. “Take the example of Aryabhatta’s explanation of the lunar eclipse.” Driveway to several houses headed with sign reading “No Entry,” behind which a generous, handsome Portuguese house. “Alberuni was amazed at the Indian scientist’s knowledge of the alignment of the sun, moon and earth in a particular posture.” Long verandas in gray railing, red-painted, iron grillwork, yellow stucco beneath. “But was shocked to find the same Aryabhatta say that a heavenly dragon devoured the moon, and hence the eclipse.” Its red tile roof, rain stopped, is still dripping. “Alberuni could not comprehend why a scientific fact be thus killed by a myth.” Behind it, 2 coniferous trees aslant. “But this is Indian psychology, which is equally true in the domain of history.”
Below in the valley an urban scene of tall office buildings, all still vacant, lightless. Beads of rain have collected on the near ground telephone lines, past which the scene is viewed, whose lower reaches include blocky concrete dwellings disposed on the side of the hill, their irregular disposition decreed by its vagrant descent. “What the Europeans say might ultimately turn out to be either right or wrong.” On a plateau half way down, 2 chickens chase one another about in a circle. “But what the Indians say would have an element of both right and wrong.” A cock crows. A dog barks; barks again. Crows caw above author’s head. “One cannot deny the sharpness of Indian intellect.” Beyond the beige high-rise buildings a glimpse of the inlet on the other side of Panaji. “And this sharpness generates ideas.” Beyond that, hills mounded with green trees. (Quotations from B. Shiek Ali, “Ideas in History.”)
Above, a sky beginning to clear, gray wisps hanging off cloud mass. Descent through hillside streets, people just waking up at 7:00 am, sky still heavily overcast, though rain has entirely stopped. Two cats regard author, who stops at a doorstep. A man in longhi brushes his teeth with a yellow toothbrush. A little girl in yellow dress sits on veranda eating idli from a silver pan.
Downward, past pump, past communal toilet, through more twists of road down mountainside to vacancy of early-morning downtown streets: all freshly paved in asphalt. A European ambiance prevails: cars parked at curbside ─ Fiat, VW, ancient Morris Minor, along with Ambassador and Maruti Suzuki. On through official streets, past a dozen hotels, to bayside boulevard, water’s edge, where author now sits on retaining wall, waves gently lapping it behind him, the diesels of blue ferry boats chugging their cargos of single trucks, a few people, from one side of the bay to the other, where a jetty, surrounded by a few placard-fronted shops, awaits them.
Along the avenue itself 7:15 am pedestrians, an early tour bus of Indians, barefooted porters in shorts arranging their luggage. From the opposite direction, a student in maroon blouson, black slacks heads toward the center of town. Off one of the ferries a yellow-topped, black taxi emerges, followed by another; a blue truck; a white European car; another yellow-topped, black taxi. Over author’s head, banyan roots hang down from low branches. The mildewed awnings of a hotel across the way scarcely cover its tall windows. A beautiful 30-year-old in magenta pants passes.
Café Prakash, 7:30 am scene, humidity about 90 per cent, scraping sounds emerging from kitchen, a table of young mothers, 2 pretty daughters. Dark girl of 11 in pink dress, her hand supporting her jaw, 7-year-old sisters in red and white dresses. “Specialty of the House: Shrikihand Puri” (ad on brown icebox). Bare-waisted man quickly past with heavy bowl of potatoes. Single girl in dark red dress enters, shyly takes seat, a flower in her tightly gathered hair. She seats herself, folds her umbrella, yawns. Coffee arrived, she quickly pours it into its saucer, lifts it to her mouth, drinks it off, leaves 2-rupee note at counter, is out of restaurant before author can finish sentence.
“It is, indeed, very questionable whether the ancient Hindus ever possessed the true historical sense, in the shape of the faculty of putting together genuine history on broad and critical lines.” Thin restaurant worker takes 5 plastic bags of milk out of brown refrigerator. “As we shall see.” Boy of 7 cleans tables into aluminum basin, stacking, noisily restacking plates, metal cups, porcelain coffee cup and saucer. “They could write short historical compositions, concise and to the point, but limited in extent.” Bread-delivery boy arrives with armful of rolls; he is 4’ 6” tall, has a shiny hat with long bill; looks over shoulder at author/other restaurant clientele as he exits. “But no evidence of the possession by them of the faculty of dealing with history on general lines.” Bearded man, blue shirt, enters, seats himself, is served coffee, drinks it before author can start next sentence. “Has survived to us in the shape of any genuine historical work.” Drizzle recommences. “Deliberately written by them as such.” Smell of kerosene stove fills restaurant interior. “And also accurate and reliable.”
Waiter, asked to bring 2 coffees (number indicated with 2 raised fingers, the word “two,” gesture indicating author, Jacob) instead brings one. Asked for order of poori (“Specialty of the House”), indicates its unavailability. A swarthy, dirtily clad worker enters; drinks coffee; leaves. An air of enervation pervades the restaurant; talk, though loud, without much contour. (Quotations from The Imperial Gazetteer, “The Absence of Ancient Historical Compilation in India.”) Rain commences, a steady, earnest downpour, just as streets are beginning to fill with pedestrians, some rainwear-clad, some with umbrellas only. A group of kids on their way to school take shelter in arcade next to restaurant, shutting their umbrellas. Other school kids, in dull pastel plastic raincoats, make their way up the middle of the narrow street, avoiding the curbside wash, oblivious of the downpour. Water from the alleyway streams off a slanted sidewalk into the gutter. A lottery salesman, his table next to author, pats with a towel at a row of water-warped tickets. The rain begins to abate.
Across the square, view beetled by the arcade’s lintel, a classical temple sits off-center, its Corinthian pilasters painted gray, its dome white. Before the green sward that surrounds it stand 4 auto-rickshaws. Six Indian tourists move to situate themselves in the first 2 of them, 2 maroon-panted, brown-shirted drivers awaiting result of deliberation as to who should go with whom. The cabs’ sides are hung with pink plastic to keep out the rain.
Rain picks up again, preventing author’s departure. Left with nothing else to observe, he turns to titles of books in adjacent kiosk. American best sellers (Kane and Abel; Iacoca; Citizen Cohn). Hindi titled magazines, an English Eve’s Weekly. Books on India; a Kankanese-language book; India on $15 and $25 a Day. More schoolchildren passing, their spirits subdued by the rain. The Portuguese in India. Rain once more slowing to a drizzle. “Varsha Book Stall.”
3:45 pm Panaji white Ambassador ferry await, the “Pilgad” docking, its deck filled with pedestrians, cyclists, scooterists, who slowly disembark, fanning out into town. A woman in rust-and-off-white sari, yellow choli, diamond nose pin, bearing a huge burlap bundle of metal cooking utensils, scrutinizes author as she passes open car window. Two military men in different shades of khaki uniform, one with a lathi, one a beret.
“Creative history suits the genius of the people.” To one side of the landed ferry, an octagonal restaurant. “Others had placed genealogies in chronological order.” Its tiled roof coming to a peak. “We place them in cosmic settings.” Ambassador on-ferry maneuver. “Others narrate events after they occur.” Followed by rusted pale blue Premier, “Western India AA” sticker on rear window. “We mention them in advance, as if we were predicting the future.” Workers, secretaries, students, military personnel all boarding on foot. “Others take note of relative values.” A middle-class man in scuffed helmet, gray scooter, has sidled up to author’s (Ambassador’s) side. “We concentrate on absolute values.” Occupant of blue Premier exits car to adjust bulky boxes in trunk of car. Ferry turns about to head toward the other shore. “Others indulge in narrative history.” A second ferry passes athwart our bow. “Ours is argumentative, critical, dialectical.” A woman in purple chiffon blouse, overweight, red-lipsticked, talks amiably with a man in early middle age, her tinted glasses on strings suspended at mid-chest. “Perhaps it is in this dialectical dialogue that the truth will be perceived.”
The Goan ambiance is definitely subdued. “If history is an X-ray that shows us the inner working of the mind.” “Though pleasantly expectant as well. “Then Indian history is full of X-rays.” “SUPER * DELUX” reads a label stuck to the dashboard of our Ambassador. “Whether they are Hindu Puranas, or Buddhist Jatakas, or Jaina Prabhandas.” A circular icon of Jesus Christ opening his vestment to reveal his sacred heart sits above the glove box. “Whether Veerasaiva Vachanas or Vaishnava Bhakti songs.” Two gold stars, bright patches of reflective material, on either side of the radio dial. “They are all replete not only with philosophy and ethics.” One in red, one in gold. “But also with an urge for social change.”
The other shore arrived at, “Dynasty: Real Smooth Distinguished” reads a sign. “Yamaha Rx 100” reads another. “Quality That Counts.” We await the exit of pedestrians before backing off the boat, a predominance of peasants simultaneously entering on foot. A long line of vehicles awaiting their turn.
Porvorum northward passage, driver driving much too fast, swerving through village scenes, where dogs lie in roadway, children dressed in salmon-colored uniforms play happily in school yards. Women in colorful saris plant rice in paddies, at the outskirts of town, some knee deep in water. “They give us a fairly accurate account of the society with all its customs, manners and abuses.” A nun, suddenly visible, as she walks along the ridge between paddies. “They exhibit both the strong and the weak points in every vital area.”
The air is at the same time both cool and warm. Descended for a view of a lighthouse (“This is the lighthouse,” says the guide), author stops to write, a fly crawling along his page, seemingly incapable of taking the suggestion to buzz off. He returns; is brushed aside; returns; brushed aside, he returns again. “If Voltaire is right.” A crow caws. “In saying.” Caws again. “That history is not the story of kings.” Cawing subsides. “But the manners of the people.” Leaving only the sound of the waves below. “We may claim our ancients have not failed us.” Wind in the trees above. “Even in the realm of history.”
A long vista returns the eye to Panaji, the intervening water brownish-green. Cumulus clouds, in a light sooty gray, are piled in the middle distance but threaten imminent disintegration. Large puddles of water stand in the dark red walkway, as the cliff face itself, of porous volcanic rock, tumbles gently to the sea, its descent carpeted in luxuriant grassy cover. Out in the bay a line of shoal receives the continuous foamy action of surf.
Calangute beach scene, exclusively Indian tourist crowd, rather meager on account of ominous weather, windy conditions, which prove prohibitive to bathing. Red sign in form of flag reading “Don’t / Dabble in Drugs / It is a Social Evil / and Crime / Punishable with 10-30 Years / Beware of the Menace.” Nuclear families seated, eating roasted ears of corn. Couples strolling in their finery. Groups of moderately rowdy Indian youth. Two crows perching on the “Don’t Dabble in Drugs” sign.
Waves begin breaking atop a swell some 50 yards out, the whole machine in motion. The gray cumulus clouds have concerted their massing to pile lighter gray on a medium gray. As author writes, a black bull steps to his side, chewing a cud. Tourists, mounting the concrete steps, are diverted in their path by the bull’s quiet presence. The crows abandon their perch. Bull comes closer, nuzzles author’s notebook. A mother, her sister, her daughter, step to author’s side to examine notebook’s contents. Bull descends concrete steps in search of something better to eat. Looking up from below, he re-establishes eye contact with author.
Author, Jacob enter official restaurant, only there to encounter Western tourists, a couple, mid-20s, seated in ironic conversation, blond male in bare white legs, red topsiders, fashionably ratty beach jacket. Female, also blond, in jaded expression, pink and black beach slippers. A pack of Winstons sits on the table; female drags on cig; smiles at male’s knowledgeable patter; exhales through nostrils.
“The argument that ancient Hindu kings had no interest in history is also not correct. They did maintain in their courts officials called Sutas whose business it was to chronicle the events and keep track of the happenings around them.” Beachside shrine, Vishnu, baby blue visage, narrowed eyes; serpent, crescent moon in golden locks; painted lotus, painted golden columns, on concrete base. Within the shrine’s real receptacle, 2 empty soft-drink bottles, 2 coconuts, 2 wax candles lying on their sides. “But their approach to events was also characteristic of the Indian attitude towards life.” Before the shrine, 2 upright candles, one in a dish, one planted in its own wax dripping. “Where objectivity was at a discount.”
Reverse shot through palm grove, wind creating symphony of randomness in a well-planned arboreal display. We have reached the end of a route of smaller tourist hotels, individual cottages, huts. A group of jackanape Indian tourists, all in athletic suits, athletic shoes, cavorts before writing author, as though posing for photo. Beyond, the sea, against which an ordinary girl in pink blouse, red tote-bag, patterned green skirt. “These writings cannot be compared to the chronicles either of medieval Europe or of the Delhi Sultans.” Before one hut stands a native woman, her orange sari elevated to knee-level. She regards us intently; turns; enters the hut, as white Ambassador passes, driver signaling to author that it is time to go. Before the woman’s residence stands a pig, its legs colored the sandy red of surrounding soil.
“Bana’s Harsha Charita was more a philosophical treatise than sober history. The same is true of Asvaghososha’s Buddha Charita or Bilhana’s Vikramankadeva Charita.” As we prepare to leave, the sky darkens. Palm trees whip in the wind. Pieces of paper blow up and across the street. A genuine squall is about to commence, so it would seem. “But Kautilya’s Arthasastra belongs to a different class, which could be compared to Abul Fazal’s Ain-e-Akbari.” Two mothers hold their 2-year-old children by the hand, as other women take in hanging garments from a stall, where yellow, red, magenta-patterned fabrics flap against gold dresses, silver bangles, wooden jewelry. “Arthasastra was compiled through the method of appointing village officials.” Tourists scurry up the street, in search of shelter. “Who kept a record of everything that happened.” We return to the car, enter quickly, are off for the ferry to Panaji. “This quite modern idea of a demographic survey was known to ancient India.”
*
“Old Goa Churches” (tourist literature):
“(1) Basilica of Bom Jesus. The mortal remains of St. Francis Xavier, kept in a casket, are enshrined here.
“(2) Se Cathedral. The Cathedral has five bells, including the famous Golden Bell, one of the best in the world.
“(3) Church of St. Francis Assisi. The entrance and the choir are in the Manueline style.
“(4) St. Cajetan Church. Built in the style of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.
“(5) Church of Our Lady of the Rosary. Bears an inscription about the re-conquest of Goa by Afonso de Albuquerque in 1510.
“(6) Nunnery of St. Monica. Built like a fortress, significant in its massive walls and buttresses.
“(7) St. Augustine Tower. Close to the Nunnery is a lofty tower defying torrential rains. The tower is one of the four of the Augustine churches that once stood there.”
Old Goa bus descent into vast esplanade of Portuguese churches, Bom Jesus in red sandstone, massive post-Renaissance structure. Downpour commencement, author through windblown rain to portico; pants wet, shoes wet, hair wet; rain on glasses, uses dry corner of damp shirt to dry them off. View out to yellow church from within another yellow church, wind spraying rain onto porch. Bed of tropical plants burgeoning at church’s margin, flock of birds departing its belfry. At author’s side, rusty pieces of lawn equipment.
“Vasco de Gama, honored with the title of Admiral of the Eastern Seas, set sail . . . on the 3rd of March, 1501 . . . . Having doubled the Cape of Good Hope, and sailed up the east coast of Africa, and after waiting for his brother to join him, de Gama continued his course across the Indian Ocean. Arrived within sight of Mount Dilly, a little north of Cananore, he fell in with a large ship belonging to the Sultan of Egypt.”
The adjacent church, its tile roof patched with corrugated asbestos, stands immobile, imposing, vacant. Elsewhere within the spacious portico, a rusted, seatless bicycle, a new gray scooter. The rain has almost stopped. The sound of a bus heading back for Panaji. The sky clearing to a pale blue.
“It was richly laden, and had on board many Muhammedans of rank and wealth, bound on a pilgrimage to Mecca. He immediately attacked and, after vigorous resistance, captured it. . . . Once on board, he called the principal passengers before him, ordering them to produce whatever property they had in money or in goods. They declared that most of both had been left in Calicut; but seeing one of their number, bound hand and foot, thrown into the sea, and threatened with similar treatment, they became terrified, and yielded to his demand.”
Massive white barrel-vaulted interior, gold-encrusted apsidal wall, Christ on cross, wooden benches filling flagstone nave. Imperial brutality overarching all, dwarfing man with the greater glory of Portugal. “After dividing the plunder among his crews, and removing all the children to his own ship (to fulfill a vow which bound him to make monks of all the males he should thus capture), he forced the passengers and crew of the Murish vessel below, and, having nailed down the hatches upon them, told his brother to set it on fire.”
A figure has entered behind author, moves down side aisle in bare feet, his umbrella still incompletely closed. The chirping of birds audible from the distant heights of the cathedral’s dome. “This fiendish order was executed; but the unhappy victims, rendered desperate, made superhuman efforts and, having broken open the hatches, succeeded in quenching the flames. Had they been the guiltiest wretches possible (instead of inoffensive pilgrims), they had now surely done enough to save their lives. But no.” Down the central aisle an immense glass chandelier has been dropped on a rope from 100 feet above. “Their destruction had been ordered, and Vasco de Gama was not to be satisfied with less.” The floor slopes upward. “Stephen, who proved himself no unwilling instrument in his brother’s hands, was told to board and made an attempt but met with such a reception from the Muhammedans, when he saw that no mercy was to be expected, as compelled him to retire.” The visitor has departed India, entered Europe. “Had de Gama been acting under a sudden burst of passion, he had now full time to cool, for night came on, and nothing more could be done till morning. When he rose, it was only to repeat his inhuman order.” The dominion of the stone church. “The vessel again was boarded and set on fire, and 300 persons of whom 30 were women, were burned to death, or drowned, or were slaughtered. Of all in the vessel when the capture was made, not a soul escaped except the children, whom this bloody baptism initiated into the Romish faith” (quotations from Beveridge, the Comprehensive History).
“Se Cathedral” (tourist literature). “This cathedral of the Dominican order was built in the first quarter of the 17th century.” “Almeida’s son Lorenzo, who had previously incurred his father’s displeasure.” “The structure is oblong but the interior has a cruciform plan, Corinthian in style.” “By declining on one occasion.” “Whereas the exterior is Tuscan.” “To force the fleet of the Zamorin to action.” “A belfry on the southern side is said to possess a golden bell.” “Was very reluctant to take a step.” “Which was heard all over Goa.” “Which would justly be considered an acknowledgment of defeat.” “The pillared nave is barrel-vaulted.” “And continued to linger on.” “While the crossing is rib-vaulted.” “Till the day began to dawn.” “And supports the choir.”
“The church has, besides the main altar, seven chapels alongside the aisles and five altars. They are:” “He had by this time consented to retreat.” “(1) Chapel of Our Lady of Virtues.” “And several of his vessels had set sail.” “(2) Chapel of Saint Sebastian.” “Unfortunately.” “(3) Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament.” “When he began to follow.” “(4) Chapel of Our Lady of Life.” “His ship grounded.” “(5) Altar of Our Lady of Sorrows.” “And after some ineffectual efforts to tow it off.” “(6) Altar of Our Lady of Three Necessities.” “The rest of the squadron continued their flight.” “(7) Altar of St. Peter.” “And left him to this fate.” “(8) Altar of Our Lady of Hope.” “He might have escaped in his boat.” “(9) Chapel of St. Dolowres.” “But at once made up his mind.” “(10) Altar of St. Anne.” “To sell his life as dearly as possible.” “(11) Chapel of the Holy Spirit.” “And die at his post.” “(12) Chapel of the Cross of Miracles.”
“The enemy at first attempted to board, but was so bravely resisted that he adapted the more cautious method of keeping at a distance and pouring in his shot.” “The main altar is dedicated to St. Catherine.” “Lorenzo, having been struck by a ball, which broke his thigh, ordered himself to be placed against the main mast.” “The richly gilded panel shows the martyrdom of the saint.” “And remained there, encouraging his men, till another ball broke his back and killed him.” “On either side of the nave are wooden statues of St. Paul and St. Peter.” “The ship sunk shortly afterward.” “The projecting gallery to the right accommodates an organ.”
“Of its crew of 100 men only nineteen escaped.” “Below the projecting gallery are the seats for the canon and a throne for the archbishop.” “According to Fariay Sousa, the whole loss of the Portuguese amounted to but eighty-one men, while the enemy lost 600.” “Besides the large painting of St. Christopher hung beneath the choir are several painted and gilded episodes over the walls which draw attention.” (Narrative from Beveridge).
Down road, through massive laterite portal, to present-day ferry dock. The light treads of a Goan woman, 25 years old, salmon sari, white choli, her travel bag atop her head, umbrella stuck through it. A cream, light blue and red bus is parked at the dock, now joined by a black, yellow-topped cab. The waters of the river splash against the wharf, the leaves of a peepul dipping into the river’s surface. The ferry has just reached the river’s opposite shore. Sky clearing, grays, light grays, shadowy whites scumble and mound above its gently sloped horizon. The ferry approaches, its engine increasingly audible. Pink doughnut-shaped lifesavers present themselves to the viewer as, at mid-river, the boat turns about to land with its stern to the dock. Its engine cut, the ferry’s rusted blue sides drift toward us. At dockside a man in a red cap, seated atop his bike, nervously rings his bell.
“The Muhammedan account given by Ferishta is very different. After mentioning that the Portuguese flag-ship, valued at a crore of rupees (a million sterling), was sunk, and every man on board perished, he adds that the Muhammedan fleet returned victoriously; for although 400 Turks were honored with the crown of martyrdom, no fewer than 3,000 or 4,000 Portuguese infidels were at the same time sent to the infernal regions.”
Sanjay Café, Old Goa, roadside institution, up red laterite sidewalk to double hut, benches looking outward through narrow portal, flies coating table top. Author slaps surface to disperse them, getting more than his share of attention. Gorgeous grandmother, gray-topped, sari rose-striped, yellow-bordered, enters with grandson; together they drink their tea, regarding author warmly. Calendars fill the café’s back wall: Krishna in full form, blue skin, flute almost to lips; Ganesh in regal disposition; Krishna and Radha in sensuous pose, clothing, skin in uniform almond pink. The café’s ceiling, walls and furniture all in lemon, the cashier’s stand in a darker yellow, bordered with red. The flies return, again, again.
A yellow-topped, blue-and-orange bus passes, visible through fluorescent over-lit portal of the café’s front door. A yellow-shirted boy arrives with order of coffee, 2 bread rolls. Over the orange, white and green bands of a Nehru Centenary calendar hang the yellow and orange blossoms of a propitiary garland, patron’s photo similarly treated. A fan goes on. From out the kitchen steps the owner to join clientele in regarding author. His gray shirt melds him into the gray kitchen revealed behind him. A red-and-white bus passes. A man in a bright blue fedora leans against the red laterite wall at the roadway’s edge, awaiting another bus’s arrival. Sun out, a girl in a white sari opens a salmon-colored umbrella.
Author stands before nunnery, where a woman in orange sari passes beneath a tree, followed by gray-habited, white-hooded nun with a black umbrella, who exits the court, making her splay-footed way out into the light of day. Above, the convent’s vast 3-story facade, its windows 10 feet high, 6 feet wide. On the third floor, cut in the creamy wall, a black space of open fenestration, 3 darling girls of 11, 12, 13 looking down into the courtyard below. “The Father seeks worshippers.” Entrance to Bom Jesus. “Who will reverence him in spirit and truth.” Author through portal. “This is a house of prayer and demands respectful silence and modesty.”
Bom Jesus interior. “Photography is not permitted inside the basilica.” Indian with guided tour taking snapshot of heavily gilt altar (Christ and the 12 disciples), church warden noisily preventing another tourist from taking a flash photo, thereby distracting the rest of the tour, disrupting 2 old women at prayer, diverting author’s attention. “The Main Altar” (tourist literature): “The whole wall is designed, alike the facade, in numerous carvings of wood, of pillars, friezes and arabesques.” A white-on-black sign to the left of the 12 disciples identifies St. Francis Xavier. “Above the Altar and Tabernacle rises a giant statue, nearly 3 meters high, of Ignatius of Loyola.” A guardian angel reposed in a gold niche. “His gaze is fixed upon a medallion containing the Greek characters ‘IHS.’” Gold wings, gold cap, gold garb. “This attitude of St. Loyola is symbolic.” Before him assemble Indian tourists, in purple smock top, white blouse, bright yellow sari. “He is the founder of the Society of Jesus.” A matron in black, a matron in rust-red sari, follow. “Above the monogram of Jesus stands the Trinity ─ Father, Son, and Holy Spirit ─ in glory: the ultimate object of contemplation, the aspiration and love of St. Ignatius.”
Author turns to right to confront the sanctuary of Francis Xavier: spangles of silver stars overhead, a black box lettered “Your Petitions,” its bottom drawer filled with refuse. The tomb of St. Francis in black marble, 2 white putti slipping off it. A breeze picks up, almost clearing author’s writing arm of sweat, which drips instead onto notebook page. An older Indian woman steps to the tomb, standing in awe before it. Lights encrust its silver coffer. Carefully placing the point of her umbrella on the marble floor, she taps with it twice, an empty translucent shopping bag in her other hand.
“The Silver Casket” (tourist literature). “Here rest the Venerable Last Relics of St. Francis Xavier.” An Indian father, his 2 reverent daughters, approaching. “It is a work of art initiated under an Italian Father Mastrelli, completed in 1637.” Both girls lovely, demure. “The Mausoleum” (tourist literature) “is the work of the famous Florentine sculptor Giovanni Batista Foggini, a magnificent gift of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Cosima III.” The first girl stands serenely, the other with hands in prayerful peace.