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Coal Corridor in Goa

Posted by on December 14, 2017 at 6:50 AM Comments comments (9)

Coal Corridor in Goa

I remember the glorious monsoons in Goa and the River Sal overflowing with raw red spillage owing to the iron mining. I remember a time when my father met an old man who said, ‘Baab, mugelo natu poir gora ehla.’ My father said, ‘Tho boro asa mure (is he well)?’ The old man, with a certain amount of shy pride, nodded and said, ‘Thennem maka oklam hadlim, bhair san (he has brought me spectacles from abroad),’ and from his shirt pocket withdrew a pair of thick Mahatma Gandhi bifocals and put them on just for the occasion. He was too humble to wear them every day.

From our front porch, they both looked into the distance over the contrasting green fields and the overflowing river, and the old man said, ‘I have never seen the rivers run red.’ My father just nodded. ‘It reminds me of a priest's sermon once, long ago, about the blood running in the River Nile,’ the old man said. My father put his head down. I wondered as a child if he was embarrassed, as I know now that it was my mother’s properties that were being mined at the time in Betul (inlet of the River Sal), or if he was just wondering why I was listening to the ramblings of this old goat. That was then, I remember.

Today Goa faces another killer in the form of a coal hub. Coal has a long, wicked history of causing lingering painful deaths. When Margaret Thatcher shut down the coal mines (for whatever political machinations of the time), notwithstanding the disastrous economic effects on the communities involved, it resulted in a new generation that was free from the horrors of lung disease.

The World Health Organisation reports the following diseases related to air pollution:

Acute lower respiratory infections:

Household air pollution causes more than half of all deaths from pneumonia in children under five years of age.

Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD):

Household air pollution exposure is a risk factor, and possibly, the most important cause of COPD in non-smoking populations.

Lung cancer:

A consistent body of evidence shows that individuals exposed to smoke from biomass and coal fires for cooking and heating have an elevated risk of lung cancer.

Cardiovascular disease:

Fine particles (PM 2.5) can penetrate deep in the lungs and enter the blood causing cardiovascular disease such as ischaemic heart disease and stroke.


Epidemiological studies provide strong evidence that household air pollution exposure is associated with cataract formation and maybe responsible for up to one quarter of the total disease burden.

Other adverse health outcomes:

Asthma, ear and upper respiratory infections, tuberculosis, nasopharyngeal and laryngeal cancers, cervical cancers, low birthweight, and stillbirths.

Growing up in Goa in the 60s, I remember these diseases having no apparent causes, and the doctors were just as flummoxed as the afflicted individuals. People avoided marrying into those families as just as much as they avoided marrying into a family with known forms of madness (pisai/pishponn). Families virtually died out unless a girl was married off far away, or a boy was brought from far away to become a ghor zamvhoim (a son-in-law who lives in his wife’s family home) and was unknowingly strapped with the burden. The cause, as I see it today, was that people got wealthier and everybody rushed to build houses with indoor kitchens which never had enough ventilation for wood burning. The tsule (cooking area) was shown off with great pride as the ever abiding love for a mother from her hard working tarvotti (seafarer) or bhair san ehla (working abroad) son. Alas, the 70s were riddled with all of the above diseases and left people wondering, saying, ‘Baigo, ammi zalear kednaim aikom nam, esso duyence (we’ve never heard of such an illness)!’

The Scientific American published following headline ‘Coal-fired power in India may cause more than 100,000 premature deaths annually’ based on an article by Lisa Friedman (The article was reproduced from the ClimateWire, 11 March 2013).

Friedman writes: ‘…as many as 115,000 people die in India each year from coal-fired power plant pollution, costing the country about $ 4.6 billion. In addition to more than 100,000 premature deaths, it links millions of cases of asthma and respiratory ailments to coal exposure. It counts 10,000 children under the age of 5 as fatal victims...’

In 2017 an individual's (Adani) money is still more important than the nation losing billions or its children's future. I do not pretend to be in absolute command of all the figures regarding the prosperity and infrastructural needs of Goa. With that being said, Milan Kundera comes vividly to mind – ‘The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting’. I cannot help wondering that if a population decimation in proportion to the figures above does strike our island paradise, what would be the use of all the wealth in the world with no one left to enjoy it.

© Cheiron Coelho 19-11-2017

'Fatle char dis' ;Reading Ramesh Ghadi; A walk back through..... the fields of time.

Posted by A.Anthony FERNANDES on May 4, 2015 at 5:35 PM Comments comments (2)



'Fatle char dis ,amchea gavant dov podok nam.. ani dhukei podok nam.


'I just love that feeling , in the foggy wet morning ,while walking in the paddy field.......moist soil...tonnachi kudim..nostril

tickling scent of the dry grass.kapillea bhatachea mulantlean (ami taka nol mhuntat) sokali podlelea dovachi pichkari (spray)

usolta..Walking with the wet feet at the dawn in the paddy field was always great fun when we were kids...

I haven't done it for long time... may be this Sunday !'


 Italicized text above and captures by Ramesh Ghadi- Saligao via his Facebook page



Reading Ramesh almost always fans the embers of nostalgia pleasurably ;like taking a walk down an old unfailingly

evocative childhood path instinctively remembered . The familiarity of remembered footfall, long filed away in the

subconscious of nuanced smells and sights is inbuilt;However it takes the quiet humility and genius of the man himself to

capture all those mental and olfactory snapshots as simply , elegantly succinctly and exquisitely as he does.


Inevitably one feels like part of a shared narrative that appeals across demographic and social lines,of our shared soil and

history.His words revived some mental snapshots of child/youth hood. of the 1970's of no TV , social media , mobiles and sketchy

public transport let alone private transport.


In the Saligao of that era , your choices of education locally were the Aula/'Patshala' , Lourdes Convent High and Mater Dei.

or at a push if one felt or were 'steered' towards a calling ; the seminary on the Saligao-Pilerne plateau hard by the 'Ghost

of Cristalina's tree.


Most girls stayed on @ Lourdes High , ( boys were turfed out after Std VI then) and many would have already made the

move to commuting to St. Britto's, Mapusa on the bus from Calangute via Parra. Some girls also moved to St Mary's in

Mapusa and there were a few like myself who were enrolled in St Anthony's Monte de Guirim , the hillock arising hazy in the

distance. Few had access to push bikes , bus transport would have involved a convoluted trip to Mapusa and then a bus

from there to Guirim and a further long hike up the hill. Fewer still  had money for fares and heck the CHOGM road was still a

narrow dust choked 'murram' road where the very odd bus , car, scooter and bullock cart reigned supreme .


School assembly was at 8:30 if I recall rightly and those from Saligao who were not boarders at the gignormous boarding facility

on the hill (nigh on a 1000, were boarded there some years) would hoof it in all weathers from various parts of the village in

the main; Tabravaddo, Muddavaddi and Donvaddo to the 'house' on the hill.


A natural pattern developed ;where some with 'wheels' or possibly a year or so older and hence considered more

responsible would push bike, passing the long defunct Costa's school @ the Mollembhat Ximer ( where my father was once

schooled) via Sangolda cutting across to Guirim, along quiet,unsung,humble backcountry red mud roads that straddled the

fields surrounding Sangolda and Guirim.


Others would emerge around seven thirty like stray ants heading towards a promising morsel of bread, onto the 'bandhar

( raised pathways)'network, leading along the fields towards Guirim and surrounding villages.


Somewhere along the path , they would gradually meld into larger groups and then amalgamate into a single Indian file of cream

shirted/blue shorted , flip flop wearing youngsters, which were often quickly slipped off in favour of bare feet.Possibly

because it just felt better to walk, gain traction and tactility that way ! Or, perhaps reserving the rubber for a more 'formal'

setting such as the school premises itself , once the sandy loamy soils of the fields gave way to the stonier rougher

footslopes of the school grounds itself.


The fine mist and light fog of the early hours would rapidly give rise to increasing sunshine and by 9:am when classes were

underway ; the temperatures would have been rapidly heading north to sweltering.


June is the onset of the school year and simultaneously the reign of the all giving monsoon gods , when craggy, cloddy, bone dry lands would be deluged, morphing within hours into flooded fields and rivers. Wading across the 'vau' or waterway from Donvaddo to Muddavaddi (near singer Lorna's Tabravaddo family home) was always a precarious yet fun experience;the waterway now torrent swollen swift, the steps up and down slippery with moss and such;the small fingerling fry which seemed to have sprung from nowhere,nipping audaciously at ones feet and ankles.

A 'vau' at very low ebb with 'resident' egret .

Setting out from Donvaddo , I would meet up with my mate Paulo and sometimes Joachim Vaz( former Sarpanch), passing

by the homes of Espy and Mona etc.?, Mr's Joe and Bertha Lobo and family (Raymond/Edmund/Rosalind/Osmund) as

also Francis, Belinda and the matriarch.Then across the CHOGM road onto the other side of Tabravaddo. past the Felix

Godinho household and descending from the coconut tree 'bhats'/plots into the fields, proper.


More often than not ,it would be bucketing down and the 'standard issue, you can have them in any colour as long as it's.....)  black umbrellas with wooden crook/ed handles would appear . One would see and hear as today, the greyish white approaching lines of pregnant cloud, blotting out the skyline,miles before it enveloped all, in frenzied driving sheets of life giving rain.


The Indian file forming now resembled a cross between a dancing bobbing conga line and an undulating caterpillar of black

topped umbrellas, as we met up with the Muddavaddi contingent of Ignatius, Marian, Aniceto, John and others

 Narrow footfall blazed pathways crossed semi flooded rice paddies , which by tacit mutual understanding we respected

;the tillers could have so easily have grown more crops along them, thus forcing us to take the circuitous longway

around even further along the bandh works.


In retro only now do I fully savour and appreciate the simple pleasures of walking along white sandy loamy soil brushing

past dew moisture glistening -touch me nots, gracefully wrapping themselves into their folds, like shy village maidens of

yore (Goenchem manna' as the term used to be).


Striding past green to amber and then chartreuse gold paddy stalks , as they grew and ripened from June through September;occasionally there would be the rapid fire rustle of possibly a bandicoot , 'a divod' snake, a python, a cobra breaking for cover. Or perhaps even a cheeky mongoose or monkey poking it's head out , from between coconut laden , cashew and pandanus/screw pine treed 'raised bandhars' , like tropical atolls in an ocean of monsoon water and greenery


Baby python rescued and released by Ramesh Ghadi 

Ditto in the dry season with the planting of watermelons, (worsande), green beans and such , at 'porsu'market garden season;the

harvesting , transplanting etc. Still despite the insouciance of hormonal teenaged voracious appetites;the most we might have

helped ourselves to, was a pod or two of fresh beans from an open field ; touching the prized watermelons ripe for the

market was an unspoken 'no-no' and hopping over the mud barriers of enclosed ones, most definitely not ! The hard graft

digging of the wells for irrigation is a practice still time honoured, from ancient times and civilizations like the Indus ,

Nilotic,Sinotic and such ,with it's trademark long drawn out creaky yet musical sounding 'lathi', weighed down with a heavy

millstone at one end for ballast.


Finally emerging from the fields , the rough beaten foot slope tracks, gave way to steep uneven natural stone laid steps as

the Chapel at Monte loomed. However not before (in season) ,someone inevitably would have knocked down with a few well

aimed or home made 'robon' style catapulted stones;at least a couple of raw mangoes off the trees


Later , these with perhaps a little salt and chilly powder ,begged , cajoled or even importuned from Anton, a gruff, scruffy

but kindly -( 'kusner/cozinheiro'/cook), seemingly from the central casting talent bank of a Konkani movie unit, would go some ways towards

supplementing the spartan lunch 'experience' in the mini air hangar like refectory. At meal times , the clanging of knives and

forks on standard issue blue rimmed white enamel bowls ,did indeed sound like some demented cacophonia of percussion

bands run amok, wholly devoid of  talent ,tune or rhythm .


..... That's however another vignette for another rainy day .. ! 


For now my thoughts go to the four kismet winds that inevitably scatter us all to the far corners of life in adulthood , but

here in the Camelot realm of romanticism ; the mangoes are always sweeter ; the sepia film of nostalgia fades but never

really dies.


'The past is a foreign country ;they do things differently there' - L.P. Hartley


 By: a.a.fernandes


PS: Comment is free and perhaps that way, we also encourage the latent storehouse in us all to share our stories, pictures

and such; for thus is heritage preserved and enriched for us and future generations


HASHTAGS #crowdsourcing #goaheritage #goana






Touch-me-not plant (Mimosa pudica) in action


Bund/bandhar in Konkanni the vernacular


Rod brake classic Raleigh of the day


'robon' = push bike tire inner tube rubber










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Posted by on September 26, 2014 at 1:35 AM Comments comments (0)


A memory trigger musing directly below inspired by fellow villager Ramesh Ghadi's observations on life around the village Saligao ,GOA ;of yore and now


Simran noticed it, while going for her tuition class..she has inherited this inquisitive quality of mine..with an insatiable curiosity to know the answer for her questions..and till then the missiles of her questions will keep on shooting..we keep on changing our routes, just to see those old "bidi....paazi..paggar..dovornne..sankov ..hude..merro ...bandh..voshi.."...sometimes I let her click the pic from my cell and She just loves it.

Yesterday while coming from the bandh next to the St. Cajetan's chapel ,Simran saw a flock of crows hoovering over a "kond" (pond) next to the " vhal". Few "bonki and two kirkire" were also trying to join that gang ,but the crows were violently pecking and driving them away.

Simran asked me "Dada, why have they gathered ..what's going on ".

For a minute or two I couldn't guess but then suddenly 'maji tube light pettli'.

It had not rained for past one week , the water level in that small pond from the field had gone was drying. Fishes were having tough time to survive in that water ..whereas crows ,cranes and kingfishers were getting ready for the "buffet".

I explained Simran why the birds had gathered ..also took her to the field to have a closer look at the pond.

That scene brought me back to my childhood days..when Anton ..son of Kunbi Caitan along with his brother Jocklo would go to

these "kond" for "kond maarop "armed with old buckets...dhobe..spades in their hands, in the month of August -

September, when the ponds would begin to dry..

They would prepare one blockade of a bandh after digging the soil to block the water and then start emptying that water

hole. It was a tough job to empty that full "kond"

After an hour we would see "tiger, khorvo, kerri ,pittol, kurleo ,even kalundra and toppe," struggling to breath in that muddy water.

Although Anton and Joaquim were of our age, they had strength, power and quickness of an adult from all the hard work they did.

After two hours of that back breaking work, we would see them walking away with that booty of bucket full of fishes.

Anton was our childhood of the skilled coconut plucker, a best swimmer ..always he would be the one to be summoned when "kolshi" the copper pot would fall in the well...he must have done it more then hundred times...but once a freak accident took place in the well, while he was trying to remove a pot from the well and lost his life.

Those crows gathered in the field next to the bandh of St. Cajetan chapel reminded me those days of "kondi ani kond marpi

Anton"...I miss those beautiful days.



By A.Anthony Fernandes


Ramesh’s musing this time with daughter Simran more often than not ,has got me musing too … and not for the first time !

It struck a mellow chord in memory of a night in Panjim forever arrested in sepia so last century ago.

It reminds me of a poem from Goan icon Remo's first book of poems entitled 'Loads' which I've slightly tweaked here





BACKDROP: Ca.1980 A ‘Licence Raj’ pre Liberalization 1991 and leisure travel overseas was a near non concept for most.

The newly returned from ‘phoren’/'abroad' ;already a legend in the making Remo FERNANDES ,returned home to Goa from his itinerant European travels and stunned Goa with his new band 'Indiana' @ a rammed to the hilt performance in Panjim. Somehow we NON ‘inner circle’ college kids were allowed in at the very last minute and so followed the treat of a lifetime.

His band included Remo guitar flute etc.; the now legend in his own right, poly-percussion powerhouse Bondo and Abel ( on bass guitar and now deceased I’m given to understand ? ).If memory serves right perhaps even a member or two from the Amsterdam Balloon Band which Remo sometimes gigged with.?

In a renaissance of personal creativity around then was born 'Loads' with Remo’s verse , prose and beautiful sketches , one of which depicted a man ascending a stairway as also a younger man behind him carrying a suitcase .Do forgive me if I misquote from memory of yore though I'm sure someone who has a rare copy of the book will no doubt hasten to correct me and rightly so;)

From : LOADS

‘They walk one behind the other

Father and son

One carries his baggage

The other his age ‘


Re : Original watery themes continued : Fr. Nascimento in his book on Saligao makes note of the late 'Mikku' ( the ‘bebo’ frog catcher man’ who caught them with shoe flowers (hibiscus) and a strand of hair etc.) and also quietly roamed the sparsely treed hills seeking forage for his ‘bokdio’ goats. ( Frogs are a delicacy when prepared correctly i.e. perhaps marinaded in a customized masala mix and then pan fried, grilled or barbecued etc. Frogs are now I'm given to understand a protected species ;at least in name.)

One fine day my neighbours and childhood friends Alex , his younger brother Thomas and I were able to do just that with a bit of string and such necessary ingredients including a spot of beginners p/luck , trying to emulate Mikku; except we did not sell them on .

No Sir-ee !

Very Huckleberry Finn style ( we managed to cook them off sitting by the banks of the 'vau ' that ran past a then enclosed 'porsu'( vegetable market garden) and paddy field where (Arjun )Harmalkar Residency now stands.

This shallow old well painstakingly once dug out by hand aeons ago; where Mikku and us local kids often tried our luck in; now probably lies unsung and unlamented underneath concrete and rebar.

It is these small moments of bonding with friends and nature and stolen morsels of a time of childhood innocence and discovery that we shall remember and not necessarily who won ‘Kaun banega Crorepati’ or whatever ( with due respect )

For these are the micro moments that make memory and identity of place ,time and heritage .

Simran and siblings you are some lucky kids indeed to have a father like Ramesh Ghadi, leaving his imprint and legacy; one capture and musing at a time.. which is how legends evolve and heritage made.

Sometime it takes time away from home ( a good many in my case ) to fully comprehend understand and appreciate this .With the wisdom of 20:20 hindsight ;perhaps realize that whilst the grass is not always greener away ; being away does expand and enrich one’s horizons and ambitions ;making one see the possibilities of what is available to us on the ground and the rich potential and resources available to us.

If we only ask a different question with wide open eyes and minds…. !

What many in my generation and before lacked and/or were not exposed to enough for the most part then was vision, foresight /a culture of enterprise rather than job seeking , wisdom sharing / mentorship /+vity /confidence/ disposable income-cash flow and of course that great leveller of playing fields; Information is power : The Internet and the web. That being said the power of human 1:1 connectivity off line is irreplaceably invaluable .

Some notable inspirations and I only mention a few here were true mentors cut from diverse cloths ;self-starter types on the ground like Tony Noronha; father of Ricky and Rico , the late Ivan Rocha ( Parra and St.Britto’s ) , the ‘first rudimentary gym ’ initiator (Joseph ?) (next to Joe Victoria’s home where friends like Francis Barneto trained ), ex Burma ;Isa Vaz matriarch of the Vaz Clan @ Bandhar, Fr,Nascimento , the late Edwin Saldanha (artist, educator , home brewed winemaker , Scout Master etc.) Mr Saldanha possessed what seemed like miles and miles of vintage back issues of the National Geographic ;which is was gracious enough to allow us to read from ) What a Renaissance gem of a man !

I do wish now in retrospect that I had acquired Simran’s innate sense of curiosity at an earlier stage in life ; but never too late it is. Thanks to people like Ramesh and Dominic’s Goa etc. I have been lucky enough to have been able to fill in so many gaps in my own awareness of our rich Goan /Konkan etho-heritage. Knowledge, awareness and soft power-cultural capital are so interlinked .

I must here also pay tribute to my widely read , late father Lucian Fernandes ; who come rain ,blow or shine , always made it a point to pick up the Navhind Times from Casa Tipri ; the local newsagent and backroom bar where one of the then principals of the establishment himself worked at the Panjim based paper. ( Mario Cordeiro (son of the late Mr/s Martin Cordeiro ) now UAE based : once subbed on that paper if I’m not mistaken ?.Just as a few years later ,would our very own Fred Noronha ca. 1983 , en route to becoming the media maven he is today )

That and the few books available to us as kids via my alma mater Monte De Guirim , and sometimes a rare treat ; the Central Library have forged for many of my generation ; a portal into the world of reading and knowledge forever appreciated. Those Saligao Institute ‘Reading Table’ habitués like Indy cyber-journo -mediapreneur and childhood buddy Fred Noronha and others like my neighbour Annette ,Fiona etc. will well know whereof I speak .

In a then limited for us world of such cultural and other opportunities ; we cajoled , begged , borrowed , lent , salvaged ..whatever gleaning we could from any source.

Somehow that sometimes in sepia retro ,almost seems sweeter and more cherished and enjoyed than today’s information tsunami overload and multi-tasking world of attention scarcity deficit .

(The Law of Diminishing Marginal Utility comes from left field to mind ,from a dusty economics class @ St.Xavier's via Profs.Gomes and Pinheiro )

To tweak a well-known cyber quote re: Solitude and the nature around Saligao for example ; ‘There may be no Internet in the fields and forests ; but you will be sure to have a better connection ‘

Thanks Ramesh and Simran Ghadi for bringing back a little of that into our lives and constantly reminding us of what’s real and worth preserving and propagating .

Please keep on SHARING.Every little bit helps and that goes for us all and the treasures we all possess in attics, front rooms and the backs of our minds !


For the generations to come and the ones still around ..!

A Mystique Moda – Indigo Road Media Cool-aborative Production -2014


References and links


Of late August monsoon rain; fresh hot ???bhajias??? and scalding hot reviving glasses of tea.

Posted by on September 16, 2014 at 1:30 AM Comments comments (0)

Of late August monsoon rain ;fresh hot ‘bhajias’ and scalding hot reviving glasses of tea.

Capture and content immediately below via Ramesh Ghadi Of Ghadi Fitness Saligao @" target="_blank">

Posted on Monday 25th August 2014



‘After a long gap of one week we had few chilled showers...sanjechi thondai podli ani sogleanchi pavlam bhojeancho..botat vodeancho vaas kadit kadit ,Anil Parulekarachea fast food joint'ar pavli...When it comes to xacuti,bhoje, botatvodem,..Anil is the best.


Nothing like hot kodoc chav ani gorom bhoji for this particular weather..

we call it mogacho paus..zor konna'c mogan gorom bhojeanche parcel gheun gelo zalear...!!


I just had my bite.’

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Of post late monsoon rain ;fresh hot ‘bhajeas’ and scalding hot reviving glasses of tea.


I can still sense in memory the fresh post shower 'sanjechi thondai'' and smell the 'kodoc chav' and 'gorom bhaji' atmosphere.

In the 70's there were no such slick operations to speak of locally ; but perhaps the odd 'gadekar' might be found stoking his kerosene fuelled ‘Petromax’ ( not to be confused with ;’petoi’ re Max;) frying up a batch of 'bhoje, in at the time rather precious ,scarce and expensive vegetable oil with perhaps a hint of ‘til’ /mustard oil for flavour, or maybe that was just the flavour of reused oil perhaps somewhat past it’s best enjoy by days.

No matter ;It was of its time and somehow in retro added charm, in an era when cash was not flush nor flash .People simply made do, used it up , wore it out , passed it on and repurposed it long before it became fashionable argot @ gaining currency .

It simply was what most had to do . .

The batter of gram flour ( chickpea ) and thinly sliced onions etc. would most likely have been made at home by a wife or someone in the family in a nearby house and transported over on foot (atop her head ' or on the big black rear carrier of a precious pride and joy family cycle. A rare family might even have ‘Gasp’ TWO !

The rock sturdy heavy metal carrier often doubled as an additional seat for a child or heavier burdens with a strong backwards retractable spring loaded supporting framework to keep the pay load in place ( not used on the child or pillion rider as far as I’m aware :)

.Any additional children were perched astride the cross bar with one more perhaps perched across the handlebars, giving a whole new meaning to morning school runs 

No bungee cords in them days so old pieces of inner tube and rope were used instead.

Think Hindustan and Humber or Raleigh; you can have it in any colour you like as long as it’s black ( Sorry Henry Ford ) . The garish plastic flowers, fresh garlands , adorned and polished mirrors, dynamo , handlebar grip streamers and noises made by inserting a piece of paper so it struck the spokes etc. were all ' extras/accessories ;)

I seem to recall that Shree ( late ? ) who operated his ‘gado’ across from St Anne's Chapel in Tabravaddo sometimes did this as also Dilip in Arrarim ( son of Purso the school teacher ). Kids would cajole their @’mozo jhu khata’ weary folks to buy some which came wrapped in a ‘classy' old newspaper (kagot) wrapping cone (Gomatak ,Usvadd and Navhind Times branded no less ;) ,twisted off at the top to keep in the warmth , freshness and smells.

I’m convinced that the ink and paper made the wait ( if one did not dig in right away ) so much more worthwhile and tasted so much better. A bit like a curry that tastes ever so much on day two rather than fresh after its flavours have had a chance to marry. Oddly we now pay a higher price for these ‘fashun’ repurposed to become chic shopping bags that we once took for granted albeit in a much more rudimentary form ;)

*( Here I take a moment to salute those in Goa and elsewhere who strive to repurpose old newspapers etc. into more degradable and reusable bags than the lunatic scourge of irresponsibly used and tossed plastic bags)

The acrid odours of fumes from the brass/copper/alloy? Primus stove on the floor ,mixed with the smells of deep frying bhoje, chillies in gram flour batter coating, and ‘kapem’ (sliced potatoes in a batter ) were a completely different aural,visual and gustatory experience which more modern slick operations cannot replicate and come across as somehow a little bit sterile and soulless .

We often embrace ‘warp speed modernity’ rushing to meet the future whilst forgetting to savour the moment

Thanks to Ramesh Ghadi for inspiring me to pen this vignette. Long may your passion abide and hope that others will join in and share experiences , pictures etc. in whatever fashion or style works for you.

That’s also what keep heritage alive.. you . me and us together moment and memory at a time .






Via A.Anthony’Long Tony’ Fernandes of Donvaddo, Saligao and London




Links /Pictures etc.


Old style Primus stove:

‘Vintage’ Indian push bikes:



Posted by on August 20, 2014 at 3:25 AM Comments comments (0)

Along a winding, long river

Meanders a stretch long road,

You travel to a place

Where you'll never be bored.

A place of hills and valleys

Where cashew greets the nose,

Mangoes found in abundance

And coconut trees seem to pose.


Goa on the western coast land

Of India in the east,

A land once ruled by Portugal

Believes in prayers and feast.

Cashew liquor called fenni

Kingfisher beer in bars,

Sea beaches and churches

With speeding bikes and cars.


Friday-- Mapusa market is lively

Vibrant bright and teeming,

With people from all over

Life's like you are dreaming.

Fish market is very tempting

With fish prawns and all

Display of diverse sea food--

Spices in the outer stall.


Hot springs and resorts

Landscaped well and pruned,

Music in the fragrant air

Of strings so well tuned.

The beat and the rhythm

Making people dance,

Cheers with tall glasses

While temple bells entrance.


Laughter in the neighborhood,

Fenni lingering in the air

Music fills the' vados'

'Mog' and 'fog' everywhere.

On feast days its just glamour

Colour sound and food,

Mouth watering dishes

Which you cannot just elude.


Sorpotel, prawn curry and xacuti

Dodol, perad and bibinc

Come to Goa: enjoy much more

Than what I can write and think.

Holiday in luscious Goa

With family, friend and kid,

There's something for every age

That you will find amid.

Trevor D'Souza


Posted by on August 18, 2014 at 6:05 PM Comments comments (0)

For the generations to come and the ones still around.

'Ode to the flow; flow to the sea.

For fleeting is the passage of childhood FREE!

Should one tarry; an eyelid blink; one may well.....those unheralded moments of childhood freedom and bliss ....MISS!

For tempus and tide for no man, woman or child … WAIT !

CARPE DIEM aka SEIZE THE DAY ;For capricious LIFE’S tides are not always RUNNING YOUR WAY nor HERE TO STAY.

While the memories remain embedded in the subconscious..

In later life; perchance to the fore..... to come

Yet though dormant below the surface radar of consciousness' they may remain; forever and a day

Uncaptured precious moments of 'jivit' (in Konkanni) /LIFE' forever go away.

So from time to time ; drag yourself away from that 'idiot box ' and blinking hypnotic mesmerizing 'cur/se- or

The TV, Internet and Web will always be there in some form.

Yet though those fleeting golden moments, true value unbeknownst to the innocence of childhood, can be revisited after a fashion on line.......

HOWEVER those unheralded moments of cheap and cheerful innocent bliss at child's play

Well THOSE as you may well have noticed; THEY like paper boats on a roiling rushing river MONSOON … THEY do FOREVER go away....


A ‘Just in Time - Oh Captain My Captain - Carpe Diem/Ano Summer 2014 Production’ . A Tribute to Robin Williams’ character Mr.Keating in the 1989 film ‘Dead Poets Society’

(Co-inspired and catalysed by the down home musings, observations and captures of the legendary Ramesh Ghadi of Saligao, Goa (my paternal ancestral village)


‘Porot vhal vhavonk lagla

churnikeachea xetantlean

Colgot'chea aagra koden

volta gheit dhavonk laagla.

porot vhal vhavonk laagla.’


‘This vhal..or vhav..the nalla which starts from our hill of Saligao and slowly starts increasing the pace from the fields of the time it reaches Parra xim opposite Monte Guirim the vhav starts running like a new bride on her first visit to her father's house.

I grew up playing around this for "toppe..thigur..potke. .".using " faskyo for kovde" plucking medicinal plants of "sapshinn..porpato" from thorny "hanto..bodgi"..plants ..swam in that water on the wet wet monsoon days..plucked "churna ..borram" from those thorny plants ..removed honey from the honeycomb almost bitten by the snakes while cutting the grass..

My childhood days are full of memories around this vhav ...hude ..and those green paddy fields..this vhal takes me back to those beautiful day..


जेन्ना व्हाळ व्हावोंक लागता

पाडका वरी परत मन

भुरगे जावन धावोंक लागता —‘

A Ramesh Ghadi Musing /Observation and Image /Saligao –GOA - Monsoon 2014