And then the phone never rang again....

The first time we got a telephone was in 1993. More than two decades back. We placed her on a small glass table. The phone was black in colour. She was the most modern and glamorous show piece we had in our house then. The phone rang for the first time sometime in a hot and humid afternoon in June 1993. The telephone operator from the junction box called,
"Are you able to hear?"
"Yes", I said excitedly.
"There you are! Congratulations on getting the connection. Keep a box of rasgollas ready...I am coming"
My brother was standing behind me with a broad smile.
My mother said she was very nervous talking over the phone. She felt she couldn't hear the feeble sound.
When my father returned from the office, we gave him the "news  of the day" even before he entered the house properly.
It was not that we were late comers to the party of landline connection. Around that time telephone was installed in a number of houses around us. We were riding on the telephone revolution that had taken India by storm in the early 90s.
That was the beginning of a long association with the number that we could have said even in our dreams - 26838651.

                                                                  ***

Since then there has been no letting down to the "tringgg tringgg" of the phone, only occasionally paused by the "line problem", "technical faults" and stormy nights. Initially, it was used more of a formal way of communication, wherein the call would last only for a few seconds - barely a minute. Then we gradually became more comfortable to use it. My mother would be able to hold the receiver firmly and talk to her parents and brother without sparing a thought about the audio quality. Father used the phone more for official purposes. We used to call our friends in colleges, enquiring about the homework. I used to sneak in and talk "sweet nothings" for hours with my girl friend, who is now my wife (today we hardly talk more than 3 minutes a day over the phone!). But, you know, those days are romantic and you are on cloud nine.
My grandparents used the phone to call their daughter and some other relatives. Then one day my grandparents died one by one. We used that very phone to communicate the news to our relatives. Incoming calls came and the phone went on ringing. She did not stop. The black box gave way to a glamourous white cordless gadget. But she never got the attention of her predecessor. She lay on the table that was pushed towards a corner of the room. The glass-top has been replaced by a wooden one. It was no more the-talked-about-gadget.
Then we left home, for studies and then work. The usage of phone became more prominent with the constant communication that we maintained with our parents. Good news, bad news, news of no importance, just chit-chats, news that brought smile, news that brought tears....we all have experienced that. Then the mobile revolution came. Sidelined, but not forgotten, the sound of the the landline still echoed within the walls of the empty house which was now occupied only by my parents. At times from the market, my father used to call using his mobile phone to the landline which my mother would pick up leaving all her domestic work.
"Shall I bring a small hilsa? It seems very fresh." Typical husband. Decision already taken, now completing the formality.
"Hope its not that expensive." The home-maker gives her two cents, knowing the format of the question doesnt leave much room for negotiation.
But that was it. Again the phone would fall back on her hibernation.
Day by day, she was becoming less important a member in the house. She has definitely passed her heydays. She reminded me of the heroines in their old ages, once glamourous and now "Nemo!". In the age of mobile phones, where you dont have to memorise numbers, even we faultered a couple of times to get the landline number correct the first time.

                                                                  ***

This January my mother disconnected the telephone line. The lady who first held the receiver nervously, then steadily, finally decided to call it a day. From being sparsely used, she had become a mere show piece. So, without any tears or thoughts, she surrendered her to the telephone company. I am sure in some dark corners of the telephone office among a heap of old discarded dusty telephones, our one has found her place and is into a deep sleep. They all have been redundant in the age of mobile phones. No phones around will ever ring to disturb their sleep.
There lies a graveyard of phones!

                                                               ***

I dial my old number as my heart skips a beat.
"Please check the number you have dialed!, is all I hear.
A part of my days of growing up has disappeared into oblivion.
Suddenly, my mobile phone rings.
"Hello!"
 My mother. She has a mobile now.
"Today I checked my bank account. The telephone exchange refunded the deposit amount. That deposit amount which they took in 1993!".
This was the last bit of "due" from our old friend.
The final rites have been completed without any fuss.

May her soul rest in peace!

Go...Goa...Gone!!!

When I thought of writing about our short weekend trip to Goa, this was the only title I could think of. Its a title of a Hindi movie released a couple of years back. In fact, after visiting Goa I never thought of writing about the trip. After all, it was a weekend trip.

First time in Goa = "Lets GO!"

Lets go to Goa this Christmas,', said my father.

Goa in my teenage eyes

That was way back in early nineties, when the Indian economy was closed and the word Goa had the fragrance of foreign brands and foreigners. My eyes lighted up. Just entering into my teens those were the topics we discussed during class breaks in hushed voices.That time Goa meant gypsies and hippies to us, though not all correct. I remember the North Goa and South day tours with parents, staying in a hotel on the river Mandovi and eating in a restaurant called Gay Lord (quite a controversial name by today's standard). It was Christmas time. The sky was dark blue with no clouds, the beaches were clean, the water was clean and the churches were decorated like the brides. It had the "foreign" touch. Unfortunately don't remember seeing any "worth-mentioning" foreigners, though I am sure my teanage eyes must have frantically searched for them on those golden beaches of South Goa and Portuguese lanes  of  Panaji.
The trip had its own charm which did not fade even today. It was one of those trips with parents which remain evergreen and always fresh in mind.

The next two times - "It's GOA, man!"

Goa was fun

The next two times were on similar lines. Two consecutive Diwalis in Goa. After I got married and was staying in Bangalore. My brother joined us. It was fun. None of us drink, but we loved the Goan dishes - the vindaloos and the xacutis and bathing in the sea for hours. I remember in one of the Goa sight-seeings in hot and humid October my brother and I were dressed in the choicest Indian ethnic wear - sherwanis and kurtas, whereas the rest of the passengers in the bus were in their Hawaiian casuals. By afternoon we were sweating through our underwears when we arrived at the famous Basilica of Bom Jesus where the famous mummy of St. Francis Xavier was kept. Wearing a completely out-of-occasion dress and sweating profusely I ran through the corridors of the church and the first brother I met I shot  bluntly, "Where is the body?" Totally confused, he had the most horrific expression as if he has bumped into a mentally challenged person in the middle of the Kalahari desert. Fortunately, my brother arrived just in time to quip "Holy body...Holy body...!!" That was the closest he can get to make the other person understand in such a short time what we are exactly looking for.
Apart from the "holy body" incident those two times we explored Goan cuisines and a sunny Goa, where we could just freak out and have fun. We fell in love with the place. I remember when we were walking away from the Candolim beach we saw aged foreigners relaxing on those beach beds, sipping red wine and looking at the setting sun. "In my old age I am thinking of buying a house in Goa and settling here", I had proudly announced my retirement plans then.  That was 2005.

Goa. January, 2015.

From going to Goa with parents and brother, then with wife and brother and now with wife and daughter. She loves water.  So, we told her how she would enjoy the beaches and water of Goa. I did not need to plan elaborately. It was more of booking the train tickets and a good hotel. "Goa has changed a lot since we went in 2005", my brother had warned me who went to go as recently as October, 2014.

The train journey:

When I booked the train to Madgaon (railway station for Goa, apart from Vasco) from Bangalore I did not know it was passing through the famous Dudhsagar water falls. When I discovered it just a few weeks prior to departure we got excited. My daughter loves the movie Chennai Express and God know how many times she had watched it. Its hero, Shah Rukh Khan, is her favourite (leave age five, even in class five I confused between Bollywood stars Rajesh  Khanna and Dharmendra., Sharmila Tagore and Tanjua!). We boarded the train and had a peaceful sleep that night. The next day morning I was sleeping peacefully, when someone from the next cubicle craned his neck and asked the chaiwala "When is Dudhsagar Falls coming?"  I looked at my watch. It was around 8 AM. "After sometime", was the reply. This  word "sometime" is a very misleading one. Just like the distance you ask to any passerby. I often end up asking people "How far is the hotel from here?" "How far is the xyz road?"

The lazy ride through tunnels and over bridges

etc etc. I get answer like 2 kilometers, 10 minutes walk. We all have heard that. But then, thinking logically, how can we expect any person to know how much is exactly 2 kilometer. Because after going 2 kilometres you again get the same reply, "2 kilometres, may be 3!"...From my experience, "10 minutes from here" is comfortably 20, if not more!
So, the "sometime" that I heard at 8 AM was actually, believe  it or not, more than 3 hours! And in that 3 hours, the vendors and passengers who are used to travel through this route kept on giving "phokat-ka" information on the Dudhsagar Falls.
"It will fall on the left."
"Take a place on the left door as soon as the train leaves Castle Rock station. It takes around 30-40 minutes from there"
"There is a railway station called Dudhsagar Station. The train wont stop there. The falls is 10 mins from the station"
"You say the movie "Chennai Express"? Remember the scene where the hero meets the heroine's father. That scene was shot in the Dudhsagar railway station"
When the  train stopped at Castle Rock station people gathered in clusters and the same discussion, same topic run over and over again.
"More people have started pouring in after the movie Chennai Express". I looked back. It was the guard of the train himself who chipped in with his expert comment.
Dont they get bored saying the same thing over and over again to every passenger they meet? But, again, this is might be their moment of glory and they relish it. We all like to feel important. In this route nobody would have listened to what the tea seller said, apart from selling tea. The guard of the train was the most neglected person. Occupying the last coach of the train throughout the journey should be one of the most monotonous and depressing job. Only flash the green light and blow the whistle when the train should leave the station. They must have some other important jobs, I am sure. But the world talks a lot about the train driver, not his guard. So, talking about Dudhsagar here he feels good as people take notice of him. He basks in its glory.

January's water-deprived Dudhsagar Falls from train

After Castle Rock the train meanders through tunnels - long and short, whistles over bridges. In the uphill picturesque Konkan route, there is a stony wall on one side and green plantation on the other. And through that, the train lazily whistles by. It crosses small bridges and makes unschedule stops on the way. We see a goods trains coming from the opposite direction. the distant mountains are covered with green trees, which look like the fur of a sheep. We cross the Dudhsagar railway station. "Any moment now!", said an elderly person who went into the washroom. We took our positions, as if ready to fight the opposition army. Then comes the much-talked Dudhsagar. On the left. From the cliff of the mountains it channelises in multiple streams and flows under the railways bridge and then disappears through the forest on the right. During the month of January, the volume of water has reduced, but the majestic look is worth noting. During the monsoon it should be a spectacular sight, watching the fall in full flow. The word "dudh", means milk; during monsoons the waterfall would surely resemble more of a "milkfall". The train makes a horse-shoe type turn here, so that after another 10-15 minutes we can see it again, far off and  this time to the right.
The excitement of seeing the dudhsagar that began since morning meant that time passed by very fast. And now the "event" was over and the adrenaline rush subsided it was difficult to pass the next hour or so before we reached our destination.

The first shock

Stepping out the station, routine followed - hiring an auto that drove for more than one hour, then off-loading our luggage in hotel and then having lunch in a near-by restaurant. The Goanese cuisine, that we were looking forward to was not 100% authentic cuisine. But when the hunger pangs bite, the plates get cleaned in no time. The weather was on the hotter side. And then we found what was non-existent the last times. And it was so obvious that we can't ignore. The mass use of hired 2-wheelers. Previously you would catch one or two bare-chested sun-tanned foreigners riding in bullets through the narrow roads of the countryside in Goa with ear-splitting sound. But now every tourist was riding those 2-wheelers, not necessarily motor-cycles. We hired one. When in Goa, be like the Goan tourists! The deal was lucrative for the customers. Daily around R. 150-200 for the scooter, depending on how much you can bargain. Plus you pay for the petrol. No wonder, our scooter did not have any legal papers.
"What if the police catches?"
"Just call me!"

My daughter was sitting in front, I was driving and wife was the pillion rider. Helmet not required. The scooter business was a run-away success in Goa. Every now and then on the roadside we caught sight of boards displaying "2-wheelers on hire" and a man or a couple of them sitting on a chair or gossiping under a tree. I got to know the history of the 2-wheeler business and businessmen. And the history  was depressing.
Fishing in Goa had been on the decline. In fact, most of the fishes now com from neighbouring states of Karnataka and Maharastra and as far as Kerala and Tamil Nadu. The ever increasing mushrooming of shacks on the sea beaches and the huge tonnes of wastage that they throw in the Arabian sea have ensured that the fishes dont come in the vicinity of the Goan coastline. That means the poor fishermen who went out to the sea in dingis and canoes were soon out of business. That leaves the trailers who go deep into the sea for fishing. But not everybody can afford to buy the trailers  So, a bulk of the once-fisherman community now relocated to the tourism business, of which the 2-wheeler hiring business is hot and lucrative. And its more relaxing. You just sit on a chair with scooters displayed and customers will come to you. In fishing, you actually had to wake up early in the morning, sail with the nets, catch the fish, sell them to the dealers or in the market. It so much complex.
So, while the tourists are happy and dont have to depend on the auto-rickshaws any more to beach-hop and even the next generation of fisherman dont have to venture out in the sea, an age-old profession of the people of this region is dying a slow death. The auto drivers are also only concentrated in the railway stations and city places and have lost a chunk of the business. But none seems to be complaining.
So, we joined the crowd, hired a scooter and visited the Vagator beach, the one nearest to our hotel. And then to the Anjuna for the sunset. Both the beaches were crowded. The 26th January Republic Day holiday brought in swarms of tourists from neighbouring states.

Enjoying sunset

The colourful flee market

I have never been to a flea market before. We reached on a Saturday and my wife found that there is a flea market in Arpora that starts from around 7 PM. Somehow , in the evening, we dropped the plan as we were hungry and followed the thumb rule of not staying too late in any unknown place. We did not find any restaurant that served the authentic Goanese cuisine that we have been so desperately looking for. So, even the evening snacks was chicken sausage! We thought the areas towards Baga and Calengute might have those shacks. So we started towards them. We got stuck in a huge traffic jam. Plenty of cars, scooters and motor-cycle. It seemed a carnival of sorts. Who will tell its 8 PM. Soon, we found it was the flea market and people are pouring in it. We decided to sneak in to get a glimpse of the animal that flea market was. Locals said that due to recession in the Russian economy there is a huge reduction in the Russian population, who constitute a major chunk of the foreigners here. There was fact to prove it and news also appeared in the newspaper. But seeing the flea market one can never say so. We found a parking place in the jam-packed parking lot.
"There is nothing to see in Goa. Our local beaches in West Bengal are much better", said the security guard there, who happened to be a Bengali. Obviously, he was bored seeing the same thing day after day and so have come to this type of conclusion. "I work as a full-time waiter. This is my extra income", he said with a broad smile. He informed us that it would be open till 2 PM or so.

The most happening place on Saturday

The market  was colourful, with colourful lights and colourful people all around. Drinks flowed. There was a stage set up in the middle and some singers, hoping to make it big one day, tried their best to draw the crowd. People were bargaining for shoes, for clothes, handicrafts, for lamp shades, for drums and what not!
After driving till around 10:30, we stopped at a restaurant that played a loud music and was crowded. It was a fairly big one and we thought of not going further ahead through the dimly-lit streets. The food was good, but that authenticity was still missing. When we were returning the flea market was in full swing. The cool breeze made my daughter fall asleep.So we placed her between us. To add to our woes, I lost my way in those dark roads. Both of our phone batteries were dead, so we cant use the navigation facility. Only the area around Arapora was crowded. The rest of the population was indoors. So, we didnt find anybody on the road to ask for directions. Thankfully we recognised a sign board and then found our way to our hotel.

"Tomorrow we will find an authentic Goanese restaurant. I am sure the shacks of Calangute and Candolim will serve the vindaloos and xacutis we have come for", my wife sounded hopeful.
"Keeping fingers crossed..."

The second shock

Early morning we went to the Agoda Fort. On the way we passed the place where the flea market had been set up the previous night. It was almost empty. Who will tell that just a few hours ago this place was the most happening place in Goa. Almost all the temporary structures that served as shops have been wound up. The rest were being pulled down by a few men - here and there. Some bamboo remained poled in the ground with tarpauline hanging from them.
We were sweating profusely as he walked over the stones and rocks of Fort Agoda. No, we were not wearing any sherwanis or ghaghras this time! Just the casual T-shirts. While returning we found an anaconda of vehicles, stretching for a few kilometres. Thank God, we had the scooter which helped us glide through the narrow gaps between two vehicles. We reached Candolim and rested on a beach-bed in front of a shack. After playing in the sand and beach, we ordered food. I looked  at my wife. She had high hopes about the food in the shacks. They were dashed. First of all in the menu card there were more of british and continental food.  In one corner we found xacutis and vindaloos, as if they have been sidelined owning to the market demand of the foreign clients. The taste of the prawn xacuti was far from original.
We drove to  Candolim. As we watched the setting sun, we ordered one more plate from the shacks. No luck even here. It was disappointing to see a great genre of cuisine getting such treatment. I  am sure that there are some restaurants in some corner of the beaches and city which make those authentic dishes we are looking for. And you may say, its our bad luck that we hadnt found it. While that may be true, what can't be denied is that a traditional food which was supposed to be the main dishes served across the region has completely disappeared from the menu items. The chefs and restaurant owners have been playing to the gallery. There is no harm in changing with the times. But there is no greatness in losing the identity. In Goa we felt the identity crisis of a place. Or may be its just natural that in the age of fast food of burgers and fried chickens there is that cosmopolitan environment which the businessmen can't avoid. The market pressure has moulded the menus this way, just like the business of 2-wheeler renting has flooded the area.
After sunset we tried to go to Calangute beach. But the maddening crowd proved too much for us. Even with the 2-wheeler I found it impossible to drive through. We headed home. The place where last night the flea market was set up was motionless, dark...dead!
Dinner was okay.
This time I did not lose my way.

End of Day 2

Something fishy in the fish market:

With no fish in the fish market, how about some photography?

The third day was the final day. Our train was in the late afternoon. I woke up early in the morning. Not knowing what to do, I thought of visiting the fish market and place where fishes are caught and brought on shore.On the way I found the relics of Fort Chapora. There were a few early risers and enthusiasts like me, busy taking photos and trying to explore the ill-maintained fort. Then I went to the place where fishes is suppossedly brought by the trailers. I was disappointed to find the area completely deserted. Only one person sat with some fish. A couple of trailers were around and I expected a lot of them. I expected the area to be a fish market in the true sense of the word. And how wrong I was. Many many years ago for some reason, my father and I were walking past the Eden Gardens cricket stadium, when to our surprise we found the gates of the stadium open. I had not seen , in real life, how a stadium looks from inside. So, we crept in. There were used empty water bottles on the seats, some newspapers scattered here and some tickets there. There was every indication that a match was being played here and it got over just some time back. Problem with this fish market in Goa was that the match got over a few years back! What remains here are the memories of it. While the smell of fish still lingers in the area, its more of a fishy smell that draws your attention!

Go...Goa..GONE...!!!

I read a story long back which somehow got stuck with me. It goes something like this: one afternoon the author was waiting in a railway station to catch a train to his home. He found a book in the book shop of the station. He started reading it casually and soon found it extremely intriguing.He didnt have enough money to buy, so he kept reading it uninterruptedly to the extent that he managed to catch the last train, around midnight, to his home.Later he searched a lot for the book, but never found a copy of it. Years later, to much of his delight he found it. He purchased it. Took home. Started reading it. After reading a few pages he threw away the book in disgust "How can anyone read such a trash!", was his reaction.
Decades ago the word "Goa" seemed like a place out of India - a place with clear skies and blue waters. And, of course, foreigners! When we went from Bangalore in 2005 and 2006, Goa was a place which had all we wanted - great food, lazy life and vast oceans. I even proposed the idea of buying some real estate property here and settling on some beach side houses post retirement from work. And then this time.

Changing times

All the dreams about Goa are gone! Perhaps we were expecting too much from the place and got none. We expected solitude, got crowd; expected xacuti, got sausage; expected fish market, found super market. Will I go to Goa again? Not sure. Perhaps yes, since its just a night away from Bangalore. But this time I would know what to expect, until some more changes tide over Goa.
To be practical, everything has changed in the last few decades, starting from India's economy  and GDP, to my native Chandannagore (where I see apartments coming up where I used to play) to childhood friends (all in their own world) to my family and relatives (father, who was an integral part of Goa - Part I now smiles at me from the garlanded photo placed in our drawing room - he is no more: surely has found a better place) to me (my wife keeps telling me  this and without that also I know I have changed a lot). So its only natural that a tourist spot will change with times. I have seen it happen with Darjeeling, with Simla...with the world around.

PS: Readers will be glad to know that eventually we did find a great Goanese cuisine - not in those shacks, not in one of those cornered old-looking thatched roofed restaurants, but in the most unexpected of the places. We reached the Vasco station around lunch time. My wife and daughter were guarding the luggage while I set out in search of a "decent" restaurant, without any expectation (already having lost hope in finding authentic Goanese cuisine). Just a few metres from the railway station, I find a restaurant that says it can make the food ready in 20 minutes. Thats all the time we had. We ordered the food. And walla! They served the food that we have been frantically searching for the last three days.
As I licked my finger till the last grain of the food, I was reminded of a very important lesson in life.
Sometimes we desperately want some things to happen and it never does. And then suddenly, one fine day it happens, when we least expected it to. As we walk in life, we just have to keep trying and keep faith in ourselves. After all, even in that restaurant in Vasco we ordered prawn xacuti and mutton vindaloo. True, we  least expected the authencity, but then we kept trying and pushing our luck till the last time. And we were rewarded! We even parceled our dinner from that restaurant.

It might seem impossible, but there is no harm trying - that life!