The Tiswadi ferry loaded up and moved, pulling away from the ferry point. Halfway across, it made a slow turn, and from my spot near the wooden rail post I saw Divar Island across the waters. There was a faint mist rising above the surface; the island in the river looked closed and mysterious, but somehow also inviting—it beckoned. I could see the church on the hill, white and towering above green fields surrounded by forests. The land rose upto the hillock at the centre, and a web of narrow tarred roads ascended and fell from the highest point, connecting the entire island. Rice fields spanned the lowlands, and just beyond, hugging the shores were the mangroves; the Mandovi River moved in a serpentine coil encircling the island. Turning back, I saw the silhouette of Old Goa, Panjim and Ribandar in the distance fading fast as the ferry chugged away. Legend has it that an ailing Vasco da Gama, the Portuguese explorer who paved the way for the conquest of Goa, was propped upon his bunk as his ship passed Divar on his last voyage; he wanted a last glimpse of the white church on the hill.
From my room in the Divar Island Guest House at dawn, I watched dark clouds that promised rain; by mid-morning the air was damp and clammy. Taking an umbrella, I set out to meet Jose de Albuquerque. I walked by a field with a mass of wild pink ran-til flowers, past the little bakery that sold warm pao and chicken puffs. Albuquerque, I was told, knew everything about the island and, in fact, was writing a book on the history of Divar. He is warm and courteous, old-worldly in his ways and happy to talk about his beloved island. The villagers fondly called him Albuker-kar; the appendage, he said, was added to most names here: Falcao would be Falcao-kar and Aguiar would be Aguiar-kar.
Albuquerque spoke of his ancestors. “The newly converted clans acquired their names from the Portuguese priest who converted the Divadkars and Chorãokars. My Brahmin ancestors moved to Divar from the island of Chorão nearby, in the 1700s, to escape the plague. The two ilhas were among the first areas captured by the Portuguese, and for years it would be their only foothold in the region. Divar, the smaller island with the Saptakoteshwar temple in Naroa and a smaller Ganesha temple high up on a hill in Navelim, was once a place of pilgrimage, one of the holiest places in the Konkan region.”
Its isolation had made it easy for the Portuguese to conquer the island in the 16th century; the Divadkars, mostly Brahmins of farming stock with a staunch Hindu lifestyle, were eventually subjugated and forcibly converted. Several Hindu families fled the island to escape conversion, as the Portuguese invaders made it difficult for non-believers to live there. However, as the Hindus risked losing their farmlands, many clans were forced to leave one branch of the family behind to convert to Christianity and preserve the family property.
As Portuguese and Muslim invaders repeatedly attacked the island, desecrating or destroying the temples, the idols were removed and hidden several times in paddy fields, the lingam even ingeniously disguised as a pulley in a well. The deities also made several furtive trips across the river to the mainland, where they were kept safely till they could be reinstalled. The Portuguese pragmatically incorporated sections of the ancient temples—stone pillars, doorways and arches—into the churches that replaced them. The stones were used for the buildings, the pillars used to prop up baptismal fonts, and some were even carried across the river where they were incorporated into the stately houses and churches of Old Goa. A Ganesha temple now stands next to the church on the hill, with a new idol—as the old Ganesh was installed in a temple in Ponda soon after the Portuguese invasion. The land for the new temple, the Piedade Gazette informed me, had been donated by a man named Gomes, who seemed to think it was the right thing to do. Later when I walked up to the Ganesha temple, I saw no remnants of the original structure; but the small cemetery chapel by the church has the carved stone ceiling and windows from the old temple.
Jose’s wife, Ada, told me about the Konkani ballads, the mandos and dhulpods that Divar had produced. The most famous of them, the dekhni song quoted above, ‘Geyre, Saiba’, was believed to have been sung by two temple dancers from Naroa to the boatman.
Gey gey gey, Saiba, ferry me across, for we have to perform at a wedding, / Damu’s wedding on the other side of the river. / Makanaka go, the boatman teased, no, the river is too rough.
They offer him gold, silver. But he wants more, it is implied, and they continue to negotiate and bargain, till he agrees to take them across if they dance for him. Today the catchy folk song has inadvertently become the mantra of Goa; made famous now by the Bollywood version in the movie Bobby, it is synonymous with all that the state offers—music, dance and good times.
On the fourth Saturday of August every year, the island celebrates the Bondera festival when the first paddy crop of the year is harvested. This is a rambunctious affair with two days of dancing, music and festivities. Though the harvest festival is celebrated as Konsachem throughout Goa, it is called Bondera here, and it comes with a story. In the past, the farming communities of Piedade and Malar villages had frequent land disputes over undefined boundaries or a shared road. The Portuguese or perhaps the Divadkars had come up with the idea of coloured banderas—flags to indicate boundaries and borders. Now, after the harvest each year, the two wards, Piedade and then Malar, take out a procession with costumed participants, music and elaborately decorated floats and enact a mock battle with dancing and flag waving.
There was excitement on the island on the first morning of Bondera. The weeds, overgrown and tall on the quiet country roads after the rains, were being whizzed away by men with brush cutters. Banners and flags decorated the arches built on the two ferry landings. A large stage had been constructed, on which would be seated the chief minister and other dignitaries like the sarpanch, the superintendent of police and the local bank manager. Stalls with plump ochre bananas from Moira, bottled drinks, trays of baked chicken puffs and festive sweets—neoris, bebinca and dodol—cropped up all over the town square. In the evening the square was lit up with myriads of lights, as hordes of visitors came over from the mainland for the event. We watched from the side as the merry revellers danced, sweat-soaked and bare-chested, to the catchy mandos and popular Goan melodies the band played on the makeshift stage.
The next morning, I joined the villagers in a procession with a brass band up to the Nossa Senhora da Piedade, the church on the hill; we were led by the parish priest who had ceremoniously cut the konsa—the first sheaves of the rice harvest, which is taken to the church as an offering. At the celebratory mass, the priest gave thanks for the harvest and the parishioners joined in with songs and prayer. The parishioners were a motley group, farmers, shopkeepers, restaurateurs and bar owners, retired judges and professional football players, accountants and college students; some were familiar faces already, people I had met on my walks over my two-week stay on the island. I had stopped by to chat and have a glass of feni and fruit cake at their homes where I heard tales from the days of the Portuguese, and commiserated with them over their fears about the future of the island. We discussed the mango harvest that summer and exchanged recipes.
After mass, I walked over to the walled graveyard by the church to get a closer look at the old carved temple ceiling now installed in the chapel. On the walk down to the village, I was joined by Maria, the elderly lady from the bakery off the village square… The conversation would lead to life in the old days, and often ended with a sigh. Maria spoke of the rituals and traditions associated with the harvest celebrations—the novidade. “Every farming community has their own customs. At the Raia church in Salcete, the konsa is ceremoniously cut with a silver sickle all the way from Rome. The pope sent it,” she added to emphasise the significance, though she was not sure of its antiquity. “And in Aldona, the church has a gold sickle donated by the Athaide family, an old family of the area.” The celebrations in Taleigão were elaborate; they went on for three days and were conducted with even more ceremony. In a tradition dating back 500 years, the honour of holding the celebrations was given in turn to each of nine prominent families from the area. On the first day, a male member of one of the nine vangores—Mendonca, Veiga, Martins, Luis, Gomes, Faria, Almeida, Falcao and Abreu—cuts the konsa; after the thanksgiving mass, the president of the feast leads a group with the konsa to the Governor’s Palace at nearby Dona Paula and returns home for a grand lunch with twelve dishes. “Not counting the sweets, of course,”Maria added. “Pressed rice—fove—is distributed among the villagers and Mass is celebrated in the Parish church in old Goa. In the olden days, there were bullfights—dhirios, but now they have been banned.
Tribal farmers also used to dance the addao wearing colourful costumes, but no more. We used to go to Aldona to watch, but really, our own Bondera is the best. Nothing like it anywhere, no? Do you know the harvest feast is mentioned in the Bible? In the Book of Genesis, Abel offers his best sheaves of corn to God as an offering, a sacrifice.” Then she adds, “Farmers do this everywhere, Israel or India. We must thank God for the harvest, for food.”
As I walked home mulling over our conversation, I saw the streets crowded with Divadkars, still energised and in festive spirit. Some were engaged in a mock fight with fotashes, watched indulgently by matriarchs in the balcaos. The jubilant dancers who accompanied the winning float the previous day were planning a victory march around the village of Piedade. Someone stopped me with a tray of fresh coconut slices and gur. Viva Bondera!
Dense mangroves fringe the periphery of the island, and immediately within, a thick bund of tightly packed earth was constructed thousands of years before, to prevent erosion by the Mandovi waters. The ancient wall encircles the island till the ferry points and the sluice gates, and is still partially intact. Tamba and maryada vel creepers spread across the surrounding wetlands, dotting it with white and purple flowers. The mangroves and lagoons attract water-birds to both Divar and Chorão throughout the year. Koels, drongos, herons, cormorants and the ubiquitous munia flit about the trees, diving in for the occasional fish, but mostly feasting on the riches of the mangroves.
Brahminy kites circle and survey the land below, swooping down aggressively and then abruptly taking flight.
When the Portuguese initially met with resistance to the conversions here on Divar, they tried several harsh measures. As the story goes, they cut off access to the mainland and finally even brought in crocodiles to stop the natives who had begun swimming across to get supplies. Mammoth river crocodiles still roamed the marshes and mangroves that intersect the island, and at the village I heard stories of a loner who stalked bhailos, strangers to Divar.
“There is not much farming these days,” I was told on my first day on the island, “just a tiny community of small holders who keep the tradition alive. At least there is a sheaf of paddy for the Konsachem, enough to justify the Bondera festival each year.”
I met Mario Pinto, the sarpanch of Malar village, who is also a landlord. He said, “There is an acute shortage of labour and even if I did get people to work, farming is not profitable now. I’m not farming anymore, and under the Agriculture Tenancy Act, land is given to the tiller. Much of the land I have is leased out to tenant farmers who share half the produce with me.”
The mangroves are rich in organic matter that seeps into the fields, but most farmers on Divar make their own manure with cow dung, ash, plant and fish waste. Divar’s farmers had firmly resisted the fertilisers and pesticides from government schemes, learning quickly that these methods were depleting the soil of nutrients. But there were changes in the way the government agencies were approaching the farmers in recent times.
Malar, or Sao Matias as it was once called, is where many of the smallholders farm. Little patches of land are lush with a range of vegetables, beans and gourds—quick-growing cash crops to be sold at the weekly market. Ravinder Kundekar, a farmer from Malar, informed me that ove rin Chorão, the agencies were now training local farmers to prepare organic solutions and even bokashi, made of fermented rice husk and vermicompost; he was eager to learn this, for the ingredients could all be sourced from his fields. His neighbour, who was busy sorting chillies left to dry in his yard, leant over the low brick wall to tell me about Fr Don Bosco from Loutolim, who had introduced new mechanised planting equipment to Goa and even Divar.
“It speeds up the laborious process of rice planting, increasing production by 35 per cent and also reduces the days of back-breaking work in the fields to one hour,” he marvelled. Ravinder’s mother, Meeravathi, proudly shows me her Kisan Credit Card, which entitles her to certain concessions. “We grow many varieties of rice here—Jaya, Jyothi, Annapoorna, old rice that thrives in our rain-fed field. We are Naiks,” she added, “we came here long ago, we were always farmers.”
The khazans were once an important feature of the Goan economy, providing jobs through various activities—agriculture, fisheries, food production industries, boatbuilding, horticulture, salt production, mineral extraction from shells, mud for brick production, fuel and fodder; the sluice gate auctions and continuous repairs and maintenance of the khazan systems were also vital as income generators. But many Goans were leaving farming and the state for other occupations. Goans have been migrating to other Indian states and Portuguese colonies for centuries; and after liberation from Portuguese rule in 1961, the numbers have increased. Gradually the system of voluntary community work eroded and the state of Goa’s khazans started its slow decline. The complex arrangements that covered every aspect of farming life in the khazans required the commitment of the entire community.
…
I thought of the years of work and meticulous planning and design that had gone into perfecting these ancient agricultural systems, of the community responsibilities established to support them, an entire food system that had sustained and provided work for generations of Goans for close to 3,000 years.
Like traditional fisherfolk everywhere, the Divars follow the lunar cycle, which details the different phases of the moon and its effect on marine life, waterbodies and, most importantly, the tides. The waxing and waning moon are decisive factors in fishing patterns, as much as the farming calendars in the agrarian community. Fishing depends on the tidal cycle which in turn is influenced by the lunar calendar. The resting period for fishing in the fields is from June to September, corresponding with the breeding season for fish, offering protection to the larvae and fishlings that enter estuarine waters to breed and grow. Though fishing in the khazan fields is carried out by men, the women take on the role of marketing the produce. As they also retain the returns from sales, the women control the operations at the sluice gates, ensuring their position of authority in the community.
There was a fishing competition by the river one morning and I crossed over to Tiswadi on the ferry. Down bythe waterline, about 100 amateur fishermen cast their lines, occasionally shouting out a catch.
“Is this a local tradition too?” I asked the fishermen on either side. Yes, they said; as long as they can remember, but there is no fixed date or occasion. Someone decides on a date when there is a lull in activities, and word spreads through the islands; everyone loves a fishing competition. I inquire about prevailing fishing rights and am told that islanders could make a bid for prize spots—this contract is valid for two years. Registered fishermen and residents build little wooden dams with sieves to trap fish and the island’s famous sungta prawns, the best found at the sluice gate where saline water mixes with fresh water.
“Where does the fish go?” I asked. The biggest fish and prawns are auctioned at the Mapusa or Panjim fish markets; the rest are sold locally, to the homes or bars and restaurants across the island.
The khazans represent more than the fish curry and rice that are the staple diet of every Goan; they embody the ethos of the state, and the pride and ownership of its khazan ecosystems, more than the ‘beach and susegad’ culture ever could. Agorachte niste—fish from the khazans—is still prized, and Goans speak nostalgically of the days when the khazans and not tourism were the pride of Goa. I was saddened to hear that the khazans were just that these days—a symbol of the state’s ancient agrarian tradition, now a pawn in the hands of builders and politicians.
On the walk back through the village, I met Loyola Menezes, who invited me home for tea with his wife, Angela. He was originally from Curchorem—a bhailo—and had moved to his wife’s house in Divar after an early retirement. “Earlier I was considered a bhailo, an outsider. Anyone who is not from here, even other Goans are called bhailos. But not any more, I belong here now.”
Angela showed me the deep well outside her kitchen window that she said had the sweetest water in Divar and even all of Goa. Sweet water, vegetables from the backyard and old friends she grew up with: this is what drew her back home. Loyola had a stock of raunchy stories about Divar and its inhabitants, love stories, stories of feuds and legends, and he related another version of the ‘Gey re, Saiba’ story, a darker one. The boatman in his story agrees to take the dancers across, one by one, as the river is rough, and rapes each one in turn. I told him I preferred the teasing version of the women agreeing to dance in return for a ride across.
“The Mandovi is closed to all but the shallowest draught vessel between June and September, when the southwest monsoon drags up sandbars at its mouth, the stormy water completing its maritime seclusion,” I read from an old copy of the Piedade Gazette I had borrowed from Jose de Albuquerque. In July, the river barges, smaller fishing boats and ferries continue to ply the waters, ferrying people and commodities across. On Divar, time is measured by the timetables of the two ferries, the lifelines of the riverine islands. The Tiswadi ferry leaves at an interval of 35 minutes and meets its twin midway with a toot of acknowledgement. Then they drift past each other, with the passengers waving at familiar faces. Farmers discuss their crops; some take their tools across to the mainland for repairs. I had heard that many a Divar romance starts on the ferry, and later I even met a young football player who had wooed his wife on the crossing.
There are concerns that the proposed bridge would change life on the island; the old houses waiting for someone to return to their roots would perhaps be sold to builders and developers offering attractive prices. Divar has no beach, the magnet that attracts visitors to Goa, and the island has stayed relatively unscathed. There are no large hotels and resorts, or the myriads of shops selling sarongs and beachwear, hats and beads, no sign of the touristy Goa on the island— the Goa of hippies, drugs, raves, beach parties and gypsy markets, shacks and cafes with fake cheer, the utopian Goa created for tourists. Or of the darker side of Goa—the rapes, the murders, the Russian and Israeli drug lords, the mining barons. Divar still lies hidden in the mangroves, a land of lagoons, marshes of pink ran-til, churches, music, Bondera, football in the rice fields and rocking bars.
Mornings and afternoons are mild and sultry in July, at the end of monsoons. Evenings, when a fine drizzle spots the road, are cooler. I took long walks around the village of Piedade and then beyond to the rice fields and even down to the sluice gate looking out for the old crocodile by the mangroves.
…
One evening, my walk took me past a large banyan tree at the bottom of the hill. The trunk of the sprawling tree has a plethora of strings tied around, enclosing the trailing arms as if to restrain it. A passer-by stopped to inform me: “This is an old ritual that continues to this day; farmers pray for a good harvest, a suitable match for their daughters, a lost hen returned.” And, I hoped, a magic spell for Divar’s khazans, to keep them safe for eternity.