The strong smell of cashew feni permeates the air these days. Even the cows stand around looking a little more dazed than usual, if not positively drunk. Must be all the cashew fruit fermenting in their stomachs.
While children go around with plastic bags, eagerly gathering the cashew nuts and tossing away the fruit, the adults are more keen on the rotting fruit, which is transformed into a potent alcoholic drink at home. Free booze!
But cashew feni stinks. What is much nicer is urak. This is a drink made from the first distillation of the fruit (or something like that). It's much less potent than feni. And really quite an exotic drink in its way.
If there is a problem it's only that everyone is making urak, and not everyone's urak tastes good. Also, since most people sell it on the sly so that they don't have to pay excise duty, you really don't know what you're getting in all those old Bisleri bottles.
I had my first taste of urak at Longuinhos, an old-time restaurant in Margao. A small shot cost four rupees. I like to buy the bottled stuff from them because – though it's a little more expensive – the stuff is more reliable since Longuinhos has been buying it from the same old supplier for donkey's years. The owner of the restaurant even told me what was the best way to drink it.
Add a few drops of lime juice and a dash of cold water and sip it slowly. There's a faint whiff of cashews, which is quite pleasant. And you get a nice, light buzz. Some people like to drink it with Sprite or some other lemony drink, but that would be like drinking Scotch with cola.
Like grappa in Italy, ouzo in Greece, schnapps in Germany and absinthe in the old days in France, urak is typically Goan. But sadly, the rich Goans don't take much pride in it. What it needs is a campaign to improve its image and promote it as an exotic, upmarket, lightly alcoholic drink.
The thing with urak is that it must always be drunk fresh, though it stays for a few days in the fridge. Once the cashew season is over, with the arrival of the Monsoons, it's not available at all. Until the next year.
The cows look sadder without it.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
The curious sounds of silence
The other night the electricity failed and I went out onto the veranda and looked about me.
It was very quiet. The small garden seemed to be fast asleep. The trees that surround this place seemed very tall and still and silent in the half-light filtering from the hidden moon.
Somewhere an insect was making a soft whirring sound. Yet I was aware only of an absolute, perfect silence.
And I thought how curious it was that silence should not be just the absence of sound. On this beautiful night it had an aura, a hypnotic quality that was strangely calming.
But there are silences and silences. And some silences are more terrible than the most terrible noise.
Think of the silence of animosity, as between a warring couple who declare an uneasy truce. Or the pregnant silence, a silence so uncomfortable that even the inane chatter that might follow it is welcomed with relief. Think of the solitary silence of despair, which is no silence at all but pure war, a cacophony of words and pain ricocheting in one's brain.
The best silences are those in which there is harmony. But this must be a very rare and delicate harmony, one that is not so easily achieved. Does it happen because of the absence of noises in one's own head? Is it a balance between the inner self and the outer world?
How does one experiences this perfect silence other than by chance, on a rare and magical night?
It was very quiet. The small garden seemed to be fast asleep. The trees that surround this place seemed very tall and still and silent in the half-light filtering from the hidden moon.
Somewhere an insect was making a soft whirring sound. Yet I was aware only of an absolute, perfect silence.
And I thought how curious it was that silence should not be just the absence of sound. On this beautiful night it had an aura, a hypnotic quality that was strangely calming.
But there are silences and silences. And some silences are more terrible than the most terrible noise.
Think of the silence of animosity, as between a warring couple who declare an uneasy truce. Or the pregnant silence, a silence so uncomfortable that even the inane chatter that might follow it is welcomed with relief. Think of the solitary silence of despair, which is no silence at all but pure war, a cacophony of words and pain ricocheting in one's brain.
The best silences are those in which there is harmony. But this must be a very rare and delicate harmony, one that is not so easily achieved. Does it happen because of the absence of noises in one's own head? Is it a balance between the inner self and the outer world?
How does one experiences this perfect silence other than by chance, on a rare and magical night?
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
With the cunning of flowers
The humble bougainvillea flower is generally not thought to be particularly beautiful. People love roses, orchids, tulips: flowers that are mysterious and exotic and fragrant.
But the thick clusters of pinkish-orange bougainvillea flowers that fill my living-room window these days give me immense pleasure. Strictly speaking, what we think of as the "flowers" of the bougainvillea are not even flowers, but something called bracts. It is these papery-thin bracts that are brilliantly coloured, and within them can be found the tiny white delicate flower of the bougainvillea.
In his fascinating book, The Botany of Desire, Michel Pollan suggests that flowers – which existed on earth long before humans did - use their beauty as a cunning survival strategy to make us desire them, and so help to propagate the plant.
Without flowers [writes Pollan], the reptiles, which had gotten along fine in a leafy, fruitless world, would probably still rule. Without flowers we would not be. . . So the flowers begot us, their greatest admirers. In time human desire entered into the natural history of the flower, and the flower did what it has always done: made itself still more beautiful in the eyes of this animal, folding into its very being even the most improbable of our notions and tropes. Now came roses that resembled aroused nymphs, tulip petals in the shape of daggers, peonies bearing the scent of a woman. We in turn did our part, multiplying the flowers beyond reason, moving their seeds around the planet, writing books to spread their fame and ensure their happiness. For the flower it was the same old story, another grand co-evolutionary bargain with a willing, slightly credulous animal –
I have a strange fascination for the bougainvillea. And nowhere else have I seen it grow in such profusion as in Goa, or in such a profusion of fantastic colours: from crimson and orange, to mauve and even purple. In most cases it is just allowed to grow wild, often entwining itself into an an existing gigantic tree, offering its own flowers to make the tree more beautiful. Some bougainvillea plants themselves grow tall as trees. Bougainvillea growing near the beach has almost no leaves, but only cluster of flowers. Flowers and yet more flowers. Perhaps to teach us something about the deeper mysteries of beauty.
But the thick clusters of pinkish-orange bougainvillea flowers that fill my living-room window these days give me immense pleasure. Strictly speaking, what we think of as the "flowers" of the bougainvillea are not even flowers, but something called bracts. It is these papery-thin bracts that are brilliantly coloured, and within them can be found the tiny white delicate flower of the bougainvillea.
In his fascinating book, The Botany of Desire, Michel Pollan suggests that flowers – which existed on earth long before humans did - use their beauty as a cunning survival strategy to make us desire them, and so help to propagate the plant.
Without flowers [writes Pollan], the reptiles, which had gotten along fine in a leafy, fruitless world, would probably still rule. Without flowers we would not be. . . So the flowers begot us, their greatest admirers. In time human desire entered into the natural history of the flower, and the flower did what it has always done: made itself still more beautiful in the eyes of this animal, folding into its very being even the most improbable of our notions and tropes. Now came roses that resembled aroused nymphs, tulip petals in the shape of daggers, peonies bearing the scent of a woman. We in turn did our part, multiplying the flowers beyond reason, moving their seeds around the planet, writing books to spread their fame and ensure their happiness. For the flower it was the same old story, another grand co-evolutionary bargain with a willing, slightly credulous animal –
I have a strange fascination for the bougainvillea. And nowhere else have I seen it grow in such profusion as in Goa, or in such a profusion of fantastic colours: from crimson and orange, to mauve and even purple. In most cases it is just allowed to grow wild, often entwining itself into an an existing gigantic tree, offering its own flowers to make the tree more beautiful. Some bougainvillea plants themselves grow tall as trees. Bougainvillea growing near the beach has almost no leaves, but only cluster of flowers. Flowers and yet more flowers. Perhaps to teach us something about the deeper mysteries of beauty.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Tomorrow is another day
Phale is one of the Konkani words I've picked up from Babuli, the strange, sweet, maddening creature who brings fresh milk for me every morning, and whom strangers might call the village idiot.
'Babuli,' I say, 'will you dig a small hole for me? I want to plant something.'
Phale, he replies. Tomorrow.
The next day I ask again.
Phale, he says again.
When the dialogue continues in this vein over several days, I stop asking.
Then one day Babuli turns up and gives me one of his pleading smiles, showing tobacco-stained buck teeth. 'Give me 10 rupees,' he says coaxingly in Marathi. 'I want to cut my hair.'
'Dig a small hole for me,' I say immediately. 'I want to plant something.'
So Babuli at last gets down to digging a small hole. Picking up the pickaxe (pickass, he calls it) he throws it into the soil with enthusiasm. Soon he hits a stone. Paathar, he says, looking less enthusiastic. Stone.
'Just take it out, Babuli,' I say.
He smokes a beedi. He attacks the soil again. He stops. Pura, he says. Enough.
'Little more, Babuli,' I coax.
'Pura, he says again, more crossly.
Suddenly he remembers that he has to go into the fields. He'll come again, he tells me, to finish the job. Phale.
Ten rupees are gently extracted from me for his haircut.
The next day he appears looking bleary-eyed, as if he's been up drinking.
'You didn't cut your hair, Babuli,' I say.
'Phale,' he replies. I'll cut it tomorrow.
'Babuli,' I say, 'will you dig a small hole for me? I want to plant something.'
Phale, he replies. Tomorrow.
The next day I ask again.
Phale, he says again.
When the dialogue continues in this vein over several days, I stop asking.
Then one day Babuli turns up and gives me one of his pleading smiles, showing tobacco-stained buck teeth. 'Give me 10 rupees,' he says coaxingly in Marathi. 'I want to cut my hair.'
'Dig a small hole for me,' I say immediately. 'I want to plant something.'
So Babuli at last gets down to digging a small hole. Picking up the pickaxe (pickass, he calls it) he throws it into the soil with enthusiasm. Soon he hits a stone. Paathar, he says, looking less enthusiastic. Stone.
'Just take it out, Babuli,' I say.
He smokes a beedi. He attacks the soil again. He stops. Pura, he says. Enough.
'Little more, Babuli,' I coax.
'Pura, he says again, more crossly.
Suddenly he remembers that he has to go into the fields. He'll come again, he tells me, to finish the job. Phale.
Ten rupees are gently extracted from me for his haircut.
The next day he appears looking bleary-eyed, as if he's been up drinking.
'You didn't cut your hair, Babuli,' I say.
'Phale,' he replies. I'll cut it tomorrow.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Feasting, feni and firecrackers
The sound of firecrackers going off at any time is very common out here. In fact, whenever Goans are feeling uncommonly happy or have something to celebrate, they'll burst crackers to show their joy.
For the last couple of days, firecrackers have been going off to celebrate Shigmo, a grand festival spread out over several days.
Troupes of performers from the temple (as well as local villagers), dressed colourfully in exotic headgear and costumes, beating the dhol and playing other musical instruments, go slowly from house to house, dancing and singing in each courtyard. It begins in the morning, and continues through the day and late into the night. For the pleasure of seeing and hearing these folk dancers and singers – uncorrupted by any filmi influence - you must make a token offering of a little cash or at least a coconut.
Shigmo is a happy time. Apart from all the song and dance, it's a time for feasting. Every large household in turn provides a feast to which half the village is invited. I was lucky to be invited to one such lavish meal by the woman who provides me with fresh buffalo milk every morning. Fish was bought specially from the big market of Karwar, 35 km away in Karnataka, and four different kinds of fish were cooked. There was chicken curry and dry masala chicken. All cooked slowly on a wood fire in the backyard by the women of the house. The men got very merry with beer and feni.
More firecrackers explode in the evening. But this time it's not for reasons of joy, but only to frighten away the monkeys.
For the last couple of days, firecrackers have been going off to celebrate Shigmo, a grand festival spread out over several days.
Troupes of performers from the temple (as well as local villagers), dressed colourfully in exotic headgear and costumes, beating the dhol and playing other musical instruments, go slowly from house to house, dancing and singing in each courtyard. It begins in the morning, and continues through the day and late into the night. For the pleasure of seeing and hearing these folk dancers and singers – uncorrupted by any filmi influence - you must make a token offering of a little cash or at least a coconut.
Shigmo is a happy time. Apart from all the song and dance, it's a time for feasting. Every large household in turn provides a feast to which half the village is invited. I was lucky to be invited to one such lavish meal by the woman who provides me with fresh buffalo milk every morning. Fish was bought specially from the big market of Karwar, 35 km away in Karnataka, and four different kinds of fish were cooked. There was chicken curry and dry masala chicken. All cooked slowly on a wood fire in the backyard by the women of the house. The men got very merry with beer and feni.
More firecrackers explode in the evening. But this time it's not for reasons of joy, but only to frighten away the monkeys.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The great cashew wars
Spring is in the air, the cashew fruit is ripening on trees, and war clouds have already gathered.
The fighting is an annual village ritual.
Blame it on the cashew tree, which must be the most untidy tree in the world, sprawling all over the place so that very often though the tree itself may be on one person's property, the branches dangle the cashews over someone else's land.
The fiercest warrior in this war, at least in my neighborhood, is a toothless old woman with bow legs who owns much land and most of the cashew trees.
Five and six times a day she'll appear, waddling among the trees, with a long stick attached to a hook to pull down as much of the ripe fruit as she can before the looters swing into action. Very often she's too late. When she arrives the ground is already littered with the discarded fruit, the looters having seized the precious cashew nut and run off. Many times she catches them red-handed – men, women and children – and then a war of words breaks out.
My cashews, the old woman screeches. Mine!
My property, the other shouts in turn. Mine!
Get off my cashews!
Get off my property!
The children run when they see her because she's a cranky old lady, at her crankiest during the cashew season.
The monkeys don't care. They'll sit high on the trees and eat the fruit while she shakes her fist at them. Unlike most of my neighbors, she doesn't throw away the fruit when she gathers the nut because the fruit is used to make kaju feni and urak. All over Goa at this time of year people are gathering the fruit and the nut, because cashew trees grow wild. They're everywhere.
When all the cashews have fallen from the trees and you think peace will descend at last, a different kind of war breaks out.
Drunk on cashew feni, which is prepared by many at home, men totter in the middle of the road, in the hot sun, and shout drunkenly at each other.
And cityfolk who go quietly to a dry fruit shop and pay good money for cashew nuts know nothing of the drama that goes on behind the scenes.
The fighting is an annual village ritual.
Blame it on the cashew tree, which must be the most untidy tree in the world, sprawling all over the place so that very often though the tree itself may be on one person's property, the branches dangle the cashews over someone else's land.
The fiercest warrior in this war, at least in my neighborhood, is a toothless old woman with bow legs who owns much land and most of the cashew trees.
Five and six times a day she'll appear, waddling among the trees, with a long stick attached to a hook to pull down as much of the ripe fruit as she can before the looters swing into action. Very often she's too late. When she arrives the ground is already littered with the discarded fruit, the looters having seized the precious cashew nut and run off. Many times she catches them red-handed – men, women and children – and then a war of words breaks out.
My cashews, the old woman screeches. Mine!
My property, the other shouts in turn. Mine!
Get off my cashews!
Get off my property!
The children run when they see her because she's a cranky old lady, at her crankiest during the cashew season.
The monkeys don't care. They'll sit high on the trees and eat the fruit while she shakes her fist at them. Unlike most of my neighbors, she doesn't throw away the fruit when she gathers the nut because the fruit is used to make kaju feni and urak. All over Goa at this time of year people are gathering the fruit and the nut, because cashew trees grow wild. They're everywhere.
When all the cashews have fallen from the trees and you think peace will descend at last, a different kind of war breaks out.
Drunk on cashew feni, which is prepared by many at home, men totter in the middle of the road, in the hot sun, and shout drunkenly at each other.
And cityfolk who go quietly to a dry fruit shop and pay good money for cashew nuts know nothing of the drama that goes on behind the scenes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
