There’s more to Life than a House in Goa

As fate would have it, Goa drew me in more than two decades ago but it took a blessing from the gods for me to find a home. Mum knew that I would have enough houses to live in after she had gone. She still wanted me to have a house of my own. “If your heart is set on Goa,” she said, “you need a house here.” After so many years in Goa, perhaps it was time to drop anchor, I thought. For those of us who believe it, everything in life is pre-ordained. Why else would I have been caught in the 1993 communal riots in Mumbai, been terrified of being asked if I was Hindu or Muslim (I am neither and I am both) from that year onwards and decide to move out of Mumbai supposedly never to return? “The personality of the metropolis has changed,” I told my friends and family when I left. “I am going to a place where I can be closer to nature,” I told them, “away from the bestial expressions of the building burning and decapitating desires of men and women.” After years of allowing destiny to lead me by the hand (and head) I thought I was the mistress of my own destiny finally. A year and a half after being close to nature in the tea gardens of Munnar, Kerala, I found myself upside-down on its precipitous mountain tracks, hit by a jeep packed to the floorboards with people, a goat and a few sacks of tamarind. My motorcycle made it without so much as a scratch but I had to undergo surgery, have a bag strapped on my leg to collect fluid and bear the scars of 24 stitches (I was sewn up with ordinary black sewing thread in India’s best industrial hospital) for the rest of my life. Never quite sure if Goa would be a permanent house, my cousin Mahrukh and I lived at a friend’s flat in Colva, then rented a one room terrace flat at Varca, then a single-bedroom apartment in Mapusa, then a farmhouse in Guirim, a 500 square foot basement flat with seven windows in Porvorim, all completely and totally diverse from the beautiful historic heritage houses in Goa that I was writing about. ‘‘You’re taking vicarious pleasure in other people’s houses because you don’t have a home of your own here in Goa” came from a prominent Goan writer who I visited one afternoon. The comment hit home where it came to rest but was not at peace. After 11 years of being a guest in Goa, I now wanted a home of my own. My family owned a heritage house in Bandra. It completed its 101st year in 2015. Mum went to school in Panchgani, for which her father bought her a house just across the school gates. The bungalow and cottage will complete a century in a year from now. Then there is the ancestral house (built in 1903) in Gujarat built single handedly by my mother’s paternal aunt in the absence of the men away on business. Why would I want to add to this collection of houses? As they say common sense is a beast. An unreasonable desire made me begin my search for a house in Goa. I called in a broker and expected him to produce a house for me. Eleven years in Goa and with all the work I had done on houses, it shouldn’t have been difficult. A whole year and 24 houses viewed and nothing really suitable turned up. If the houses were there, there were no staff quarters. If the garage and garden were perfect, the house was loopy. If everything was perfect there was no access road to the house. If house, garden and garage, the lions on the gateposts were perfect, the papers were not. It was time to burst into tears of frustration and that’s exactly what I did. “Goa does not want me to have a house here. I am now sure of it.” I cried to a friend. “Listen,” he said. “I know you don’t believe in these things but there is a priest that I consult before taking important business decisions. Will you take this one last shot at it before you call it quits?” There was at least one Goan in Goa who was keen that I have a house here. I decided to give it a try and went off on this long and windy journey to a remote temple in Ponda. I met the soothsayer trying very hard to hide my cynicism. The soothsayer asked me what my date of birth was, stationed me on a wooden bench in the temple and went for a long walk. Bewildered and certain that this wild goose chase would get me nowhere, I waited with the car keys ready for a quick flight. The old priest came back from his round of the temple grounds and asked rather absently, “Uh, what was it that you had come for? Marriage is not on the cards.” I had known that a long time ago I told him, now really annoyed. I told him I had come to ask him if I would ever find a house. “Oh? House?” he asked, “What was your date of birth again?” I gave it to him in a loud impatient voice. “1954”. He snapped his fingers, turned around and began to hum. I couldn’t believe my ears. The temple priest was singing to the temple walls. “Number 54… house with a bamboo door…House of Bamboo…” Things could certainly get interesting around here, I thought. He came back, patted me on the head and said, “You’ll get your house on your birthday”. I thanked him, left a token in the temple box and made my way back to Porvorim, as depressed as before or even more so. My birthday was ten days away. I was enjoying a leisurely birthday breakfast with some friends when I got a call from my broker Sanjiv who said, “Drop anything you are doing and come to Saligao. I have got you your house.” I literally dropped my fork, dashed into the car and drove to Saligao where Sanjiv was waiting for me. I only had to open the car door and I knew. I knew I had found my house. In retrospect, I think the house found me. It did not matter that I did not have the keys to the house. It did not matter that I had to stand on my toes on the moulding and look through the chinks to see the flooring. It did not matter that the living room corner of the house jutted out on the road at a crazy angle. It did not matter that the village road had sliced the house, garage and staff room into two unequal halves. It just did not matter.