MJ Akbar
THE joy of faith is alive on every face, in the ecstasy of eyes, in the rhythm of hands, in the shared music of Konkani bhajans praising Lord Ganesha at the afternoon aarti ceremony in the beautifully scenic and cheerfully warm Goan home of our friends Gauri and Atul Kane.
It is a family celebration: the priest is at home, relatives play the ghumot, a clay vessel drum that is one of Goa’s oldest percussion instruments, and the dholak with infectious enthusiasm and impressive skill, as all together seek the blessings of the formidable elephant god with a quiet twinkle above his trunk on his birthday, praying for benevolence from this deity of wisdom and fortune for yet another year in life’s complex journey.
It is, of course, raining. It always rains in Goa on the Lord’s birthday. Cascading grey falls upon the lush green of plants, trees and the exotic wild grass that fills the marshy banks between the verandah of our home in Ucassaim where I sit at my desk and the little river that expands or narrows upon dictation from the skies. Occasional gusts sweep through which turn the slanting raindrops into glistening dots of mist spray around my computer and notepads and books; we are sheltered above but open to nature’s gifts in front and on a side.
Wild life never wild
When the sun returns in a while maybe the monitor lizard with a heavy tail longer than the slim body will also pass by as it did this morning, never more than a couple of feet from my legs, although it once came very close to investigate my reaction to its presence. Its pace is too fast for creep and too slow for run, as it heads towards the coconut tree to my left. It will clamber up to the roof for a proper sunbath. Its home is in the long grass; its leisure is on the rooftop. Life is good. Wild life is never wild if you let it live. Animals have no vested interest in a quarrel, let alone war. Fear makes them fearsome. We provoke that fear. There are accidents. But exceptions prove the rule.
Change of seasons
The rains will go after visarjan, the farewell immersion as joyful as the welcome aarti was beseeching. The season will change, not once but twice. October will be sultry for Indians but delightful for tourists from the lands dark with winter for nine months of the year. They will arrive in charter loads that land in and leave from Goa without interfering with the rest of India. From November the calm of a cooler sun will bring the temperature down in graded degrees. There will be gasps if it falls below 20 degrees Celsius in December, but only laughter from visitors who treat ice cream as a hot drink since it is minus 30 degrees in the open. Do the math. Ice cream is 30 degrees hotter than the December air in their country.
Goa’s beaches will be soaked in both sun and sea. Hotels and airlines will raise their tariffs and blame avarice on something deceptive called dynamic pricing. The exquisite churches of Goa will be emblazoned by the light of nativity and luminosity of a heavenly messiah born to a virgin mother in a stable to save the world. Cathedrals will echo with choirs praising the Lord. Christmas will be here.
The joy and ecstasy of religion will once again be with us.
