My Wonderland: Madgaon, Goa

​Today I recall wistful memories ( with a soft chuckle) of the place where everything for me was my “ first” experience. Obviously, I get emotionally charged up reminiscing the purity and innocence of those times. Margaon (Goa) has a very special place in my heart—- where I started my life on a clean canvas (in the early 1970s ). I was blissfully unaware neither of the historical facts or the current situation — that Portuguese had liberated Goa precisely a decade back and Hippie Trance Culture was at its peak. It was my wonderland— somewhat similar to “ Alice in Wonderland” situation ( Lewis Carroll admired the unprejudiced and innocent way young children approach the world with an open mind and lot of curiosity).My “first” home ( junta quarters, Monte Hill, Margaon) was built on Monte “hillock”. I vividly remember walking the steep, winding uphill path ( my 4 year old tiny limbs would get easily tired).

The building was definitely “cosmopolitan” in every sense of the word— amalgam of religions and states— diaspora world. Being a Hindu Brahmin girl ( luckily from not-so- conservative family), my trysts with Anglo – Indian community had been interesting and special. My “ first” best friend was Brenda ( a Christian Catholic girl ). Nevertheless, my friendship with her thrived despite minor hurdles — it was enticing to see food at her Sunday family lunch table without even taking a bite. As a God fearing girl, I followed my mother’s strict injunctions —so I shook my head vigorously ( though I innocently confessed to them that my mother forbade me to eat prohibited meat or wine) whenever Brenda’s family offered me —I remained her playmate only.   

     At the foot of the hillock, there was a beautiful children’s park which frequently screened in open air ( the silent movie of legendary comedy duo— Stan Laurel & Oliver Hardy). The boisterous laughs and clapping of children chimed in the air ( seeing how simple situations spiralled into chaos yet both lead characters were seen together through thick and thin).

My “ first” memory of formal primary education ( at Presentation Convent School, Margaon) — I was taught by nuns/ sisters who were exceptionally strict and they appeared to me austerely simple. More than studies, the school helped me being multilingual— I learnt to speak/ understand English, Hindi & Konkani. Bang on the other side of the school was a road which led to Holy Christ Church ( so I frequently sighted mourners and pilgrims on my way back home). Simply staring at the architectural structure of the church from outside was a tranquil experience to cherish for a long long time. In the close proximity of the church were a few palatial Portuguese – old- charm- homes ( painted in different colours as rainbow hue). The walking trail in and around the church was so beautiful and the best in Margaon ( still today it’s heritage walking trail). The Churches and Goan homes invoked the trope of Portuguese colonial era.

My favourite memories are of lazy Sundays on the Colva beach ( which was around 8 miles from my building) frolicking in the warm ocean— an experience that exemplifies “Susegad”, a Goan term to describe an easy going attitude and contentment in life. The scintillating, pristine Colva beach lined by palm trees along its shore— so chilling on the beach was favourite pastime—sunbathing/ building sand castles/ enjoying warm ocean breeze on my face( my innocent eyes were not bothered by hippies scantily clad roaming on the beach). Full Moon parties on the beach was typically Goan— beach games/dance/music/ Goan Sea food in beach hut restaurants. To my memory, Colva beach was long white sand beach stretches— an endless vista of sea and sand.

Goan life is all about— fairs/ fests/ fetes / festivals/ festive. Incidentally, I attended a few Goan Christian wedding receptions ( relying on my “ Proustian” memory) — ballroom dancing, cutting of three / four-tiered wedding cake and live Goan music ( Ghe Ghe re sahiba popular song from Raj Kapoor’s film “ Bobby” was adapted from Konkani song). On various festivities, I had this navy blue frock with “ Bobby” embroidered on it — which I happily flaunted.

Goan Christmas those days was totally Christmassy— nativity scene everywhere/ Baby Jesus in straw manger/ paper stars hanging from balcony beams/Christmas tree decorations/ midnight masses/ melodious carols/ costumed Santa/ Christmas pudding and cakes. Open air dancing ( I learnt few steps at ballroom dancing and beach shows) on western music/ Bollywood hits /Goan song (Lorna was a popular dominant singer those times) was part of merrymaking. The Feast of Saint Francis Xavier was another festive experience for me ( the decennial exposition of the Saints body at the Basilica of Bom Jesus) when almost the entire Goan population (people of all faith) congregated. Lighting the candle at the altar / kneeling and praying and the fetes was all part of the experience— which was definitely “ first”.

Growing up in Margaon of the 1970s was incredibly memorable— a kaleidoscopic blend of Indian and remnants of Portuguese culture. Although I was merely a sojourner, still I gladly embraced the diaspora culture — the impact was long-lasting. No wonder— I still enjoy my afternoon siesta ( which is so Goan), sea beaches, eating cakes, movies, dance and music— I reckon that there is still traces of Bohemian lifestyle in me. I have visited and revisited Margao, Goa — I don’t recognise it — those people are not there— the easy-going lassitude of Goan life and open-mindedness of people missing— Goa is no longer a laid back enclave for outsiders. MY WONDERLAND IS LOST.