In the velvet darkness of Goa’s sultry night, the moon softly glowed through the woolly clouds. His white Kurta also glowed against the silhouette of houses and palm trees as he trundled down the gentle gradient of the dimly lit street.
He struggled to walk straight with the weight of the Dhol pulling down his right shoulder and its thick rope digging into his shoulder skin. He clutched onto the Dhol sticks in his left hand.
He was looking forward to beating the drums with its thick and rounded knob to whip up a thunderous sound to match up with the Goddess’ aggression while slaying the Mahishasura.
Outside the temple, he slid his feet out of his footwear and ran up the steps as sharp pebbles stabbed them. Inside, the smell of marigold and incense gave him the dopamine or happy hormone rush.
The wooden Makhar (swing) was placed at the entrance of the temple’s sanctum with the Goddess mounted on a horse inside it. The temple was quickly filling up with devotees, dressed in silk and gold.
Over a dozen other drummers were seated on the floor, ready with their round-flat drums and thin drumming sticks.
The wooden Makhar (swing) was placed at the entrance of the temple’s sanctum with the Goddess mounted on a horse inside it. The temple was quickly filling up with devotees, dressed in silk and gold.
At the auspicious hour, rhythmic drumbeats erupted – first with a low intensity and then reaching a crescendo. The Makhar kept pace with it, swinging in tandem.
The boy in the white Kurta hit the Dhol with all his might. He felt sweat trickle down his forehead and back, and his arm and palm muscles tightened. He fought back his tears as the pain of sores in his palms became unbearable.
There was no way he could fail the Goddess in her conquest against the Mahishasura. His beats were adding to her strength and dimming the might of her opponent. He felt an adrenaline surge as his Dhol thundered every time he banged his drumsticks against it.
The Makhar was now swinging in swift, almost violent, motion, denoting that the Goddess had intensified her fight and was nearing her conquest.
The Makhar was now swinging in swift, almost violent, motion, denoting that the Goddess had intensified her fight and was nearing her conquest.
Soon, his drumbeat reached a feverish pitch and the temple was choked with the sounds of temple bells and drums. The Makhar furiously swung along with the sounds. And then, the sound died with the final cry of victory.
For a split second, everybody heard the deadly silence descend in the temple. The boy in white kurta dropped his Dhol and sticks and nursed his sore palm and looked around jubilantly.
He had won the battle. He had stood up for something worthwhile. He was victorious. He gloated with a sense of achievement. These moments had detached him from his stark reality. His worries of a gainful job were drowned in the glorious myths of the past.
The 12 days without water supply from the Public Works Department (PWD), a few months back, was so trivial a matter or the potholes on the road, and the garbage dump mounting round the corner should be par for the course when urgent issues of preservation of heritage and culture and reinstatement of our golden past were to be addressed.
How can you think of saving Goa’s forests and hills, which were being systematically destroyed, when your religion and culture were at stake?
All atrocities borne by our ancestors from the Portuguese also have to be avenged by wiping out the systems and institutions erected by them and reimposing the old systems or new systems in favour of capitalists. Decolonisation would be complete only with destruction of everything Portuguese, even if they serve a good purpose.
The boy in white Kurta trudged down the dimly lit quiet street, lost in reverie. In the distance, he saw an apparition of a Rakhandar, (Goa’s folklore has it that Rakhandars are the guardian spirits who protect the people in villages and cities) mounted on a chariot approaching him.
It glowed brighter than the moon. As the chariot drew closer, his heartbeat raced with excitement. He was completely swallowed by the luminous aura of the Rakhandar.
The two looked into each other’s eyes. The Rakhandar faded away but he had lifted the veil of the past over the eyes of the boy in the white Kurta, who could now look beyond the past, into the present and the future too.