Reminiscences of Goa’s monsoons

The Goan monsoon has inspired artists and wordsmiths galore. It has a beauty dark and menacing at times, and yet soothes the battered soul, worn out by the gruelling summer sun.

It is life, and births anew, a vibrancy of green hues that invigorate the tired, dusty land. Being away from the homeland triggers nostalgia and longing for the past, harkening back to a Goan monsoon from childhood.

The first rains hit the parched earth, and all the neighbourhood children would rush outside to soak in the rain, singing and dancing without a hint of self-consciousness or regard for the dressing down that would follow predictably.

Mothers would soon arrive at the scene, brandishing weapons of punishment, a boddi (a hardy wooden stick) usually, making threats and chiding the young ones.

“Malcriado! Loz disna tumkam?” and “Tughe daddy sangtho oan” were heard as the children squealed with laughter and sometimes pain for being whacked with the aforementioned boddi.

The new school year began just as the rainfall grew steadier. The doyens of academia had ascertained this cool season to be the right time to jumpstart the brain and grow those fresh neural pathways.

Nearly every student had new school shoes. Those ever-growing pesky feet made sure of it. Sometimes, there would be a new school bag or shiny stationery to show off. It was foren, you know.

One monsoon, a classmate who had been about five foot tall before the summer vacation returned to school towering over the rest of us. His mother had, unfortunately, not been able to get to a tailor in time and the poor fellow arrived at school in short pants that resembled underwear and a too-tight school shirt.

He had no clue what to do with the lanky limbs that took his clumsiness a few notches too high. That sure was a funny sight!

While it was the end of the rambunctious enjoyment of summer holidays, and school beckoned with its lure of new books and attire, and the humdrum routine of the scholastic schedule, the one thing that made our evenings enjoyable were hot bhajjias and tea. This was a special treat, and something the incessant rains added flavour and zest to.

There was another Goan favourite to look forward to savouring during those days when the sun rarely made an appearance. Blackened bananas that had passed that eat-by date were whipped into scrumptious fritters.

Siblings and cousins fighting over who should have the crunchy bits at the bottom of the vessel was a standard occurrence.

After completing the homework for the day and praying the Rosary, Granny promised a khanni (story). This was our reward for being good children. She understood that there was not much we could do to entertain ourselves, and idle minds and bodies would inevitably lead to squabbling and fist fights.

We did often play with cards and board games, but when you have wretched siblings that cheat to win, Granny’s stories would definitely trump any such games.

She would regale us with fantastical tales of princes and princesses, and the most preposterous scenarios, that the undiscerning immature mind relished. Granny was adept at pulling elaborate sagas out of her proverbial hat.

The rain would descend in a steady patter outside, setting a rhythmic background theme to these stories which would eventually make their way into my dreams.

When the monsoon storms caused blackouts, the ghost stories would emerge. Everyone huddled together, with candles lit, trying to outdo each other with the creepiest, goriest tale they could conjure up.

During one session of weekend storytelling, one particularly mischievous cousin decided to run his fingers lightly along the nape of his sister’s neck, causing her to leap 3 feet into the air, yelling that the bogeyman was out to get her!

There was much hilarity all around to her embarrassment as she realised what exactly had happened.

Monsoon storms brought hope to the young minds, already burdened with detestable schoolwork, assignments and irksome ‘surprise’ tests (the resulting marks were never a surprise, nor were the parents’ reactions).

The flooding that the incessant rains would bring forced schools to shut down for at least a day. An impromptu holiday was always a jolly welcome.

There is a calm the monsoons bring, as tempestuous as they may grow and wane. It is a calm of familiarity, of home, of a sense of security, warmly enveloped in familial love.

The Goan diaspora will always long for the charm of Goa, especially in her monsoon avatar. And, a bit of Goa will always live on in them. Perhaps that longing will one day motivate them to return to their homeland and endeavour to usher in better times for Goa and her people.