THE SHENANIGANS of lil’ Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn sprang to mind as we travelled down to the ole’ riverside of Ilha De Rachol, located a stone’s throw away from my native village Raia in Goa.
“In the 1600s, our ancestors who lived here, ran away to escape the plague,” my father shared as we stood on the banks, water gushing furiously.
Overcast skies, leaves quivering in the breeze, a drizzle and a curtain of green – it took my breath away.
As a barge sailed across to the other side of the river, I visualised Tom and Finn dunking themselves in the water at any minute.
If they made it to the other dock, they would have reached Shiroda; a trip that takes 30 min by road took around 7 and some, by barge.
My mother shared that, as a child she and her mom, travelled across the river, not on a barge but a tiny boat.
A storm rocked it so badly, and so shaken by fear were they, that they jumped out of the boat before it could reach the shore!
One gets a sense that in this island – a slice of heaven on earth in the monsoons – time has stood still (a positive thing). The real estate sharks wanted to replace these lush green fields with swanky housing societies, until the local folks protested with a vengeance.
And kudos to them.
As for the ancestors, they pitched their tents here, where this ole’ house stands. Decades ago it was full of life, an ancestral Goan villa in full bloom. A furry brown canine (one of my favourites) would prance across the maroon tiles in the sala, kids played while a their grandmother indulged them, a sexy looking gramophone belted out records. Now, an ugly wall slices through, and one side remains unoccupied, and perhaps shall be for posterity. The fields in front are no more. A bungalow has sprung up in its place, and another is under construction.
The village is a quiet place, but the local church is the height of activity – novena, followed by a game of housie and homemade Chow Chow. The parish priest is the star of the show, doubling up as both preacher and compere during leisure activities.
We went to the ole’ marketplace, where our grandmother indulged us with bajas from the local mill. Now, there are no bajas. Am not even sure if the mill is still functional. Loads of men sauntered around, some lounging in the local icecream parlour, some inside a bar.
There’s a stillness in the air, as if the winds of change never blew, and development (of the progressive kind) never came. Save for concrete of forgettable character.
This isn’t the Goa people light up about. This is the side where nothing seems to have moved, it reeks of a land in decay. It filled me with nostalgia, a tinge of sadness…











