By Caroline de Souza
Antonio sat on the edge of his canoe, grey, grizzled and tired from the day’s fishing. He had been at it all morning and the noon-day sun beat down upon him relentlessly. Sweat glistened and shone and poured down his forehead and arms as he wiped himself with his bare clothing. He gazed far out at an endless grey ocean and an endless grey sky that hovered just above it and at a grey line that divided the two. Sometimes, the sea was blueand the sky would change its mood to match the new hue. Sometimes, there would be other canoes out there in the deep, the fishermen at the helm, casting their nets, bare-shouldered as they struggled to find a good catch.
Antonio had been fishing ever since he could remember. His father had been fishing before him. And his father before him. They were called ramponnkars in the local language. They loved their trade. It was a trade handed down from father to son. They were doing well enough. They caught bright silver-scaled fish, gutted them and divided some of it amongst themselves and sold the rest at the village tinto. It was a good living until the trawlers came along and cast their mechanised equipment into the deep blue sea. The fish knew no better and jumped at the bait being proffered. Antonio’s fortunes and those of the other ramponnkars steadily declined. There was no one to fight for them. The big trawlers, owned by even bigger folks, had mastery over the seas and the fishes. And perhaps they were lord of the skies too… for it never rained when the trawlers put out to sea. Not just that, the weather held and the fishes obeyed and somehow landed into the waiting nets. Big fish like the barramundi and the visvon and the chonak went to the trawlers. With their large nets and high-speed powerful motors, the trawlers could catch anything. But Antonio and his amig were happy with the xinaneo, tisryo, kalvam that they caught in their simple nets. They marinated these with traditional Goan spices and fried them in rawa. With xitt-koddi and a swig of feni, the company of family, and the stars shining down from above, no meal could have been more satisfying.
And so, Antonio sat by the sea, each morning and each night, cradling his canoe and his oar. His source of joy was the sound of the ocean, and the cry of the sea-gull, and the crawl of little crabs and pearly shells that swept up at his feet each time the sea receded. Antonio thought many-a-times that he too should go back with the waves into the sea. Ah! Where would he reach? That place called Eternity?
But Antonio was not interested in Eternity. At least, not just yet! Antonio had only two interests in life. And he remained faithful to both. One was the sea, which he loved more dearly than words can say and the other was the village where he lived, ate, slept and spent his days with friends and family. It was a beautiful village and Antonio was convinced it was paradise on earth.
Small white lime-painted houses dotted each side of the road. Two lion statues stood sentinel at the entrance to the lush-green village fed by the waters of the Sal. The lions seemed to adopt a fierce demeanor at the sight of an intruder. But had a gentleness all of their own when villagers strolled by. The church, which stood opposite, was white and small, with a belfry. The pews were carved from ancient wood. The pulpit, from which, priests at various times through two centuries, had preached to the congregation, still stood in its original position: dead center of the length of the church nave, and to the left, with stone-steps to ascend. Its intricate carving and gold-leaf paint left one gasping for breath. The altar was a marvel. It exuded an aura of sanctity. It housed the sacred wooden cross, which was deemed miraculous. Legend had it, that many years ago, when the waters covered the sea, the cross had been seen floating upon the waters. Fishermen from the neighbouring villages tried to lift it and carry it to their own village church. But the cross would not yield. Finally it was the fishermen of Antonio’s village, who scooped the cross out of the waters and brought it to the little chapel. From there, its fame spread far and wide.
*
One day, as Antonio was walking by the sea with the wind behind him, and miles of sand before him, he heard light footsteps…there was a soft sound to them and he couldn’t but help feel, they belonged to a girl, or perhaps a woman. Antonio felt the urge to look back, but carried on, face resolutely turned to the sun, which was shining into his face.
Sweat poured down Antonio’s back, as the sun beat down…he kept walking...and the footsteps followed. He was suddenly conscious of the faint fishy smell that lingered about him and he felt embarrassed. Antonio was blessed with good looks and a physique to match. But he was just a simple fisherman. Not a film star! Now, why was he thinking like that? He was a good man, faithful to his wife, loyal to his family. Yet, sometimes, when tourists came to this pristine beach, unspoiled by man, Antonio couldn’t help but steal a glance.
Even as he was lost in thought, the footsteps had come abreast. He turned to look. It was a young girl, barely out of school, so much like his own little Manuela at home. She had a bewitching smile, all pearly-white teeth, like the pearly shells upon the shore. She seemed vaguely familiar… but he couldn’t quite place her.
“Hello,” he said, “are you new here?”
“No!” she said, “I am from the village. But we live in Bombay”
Antonio was intrigued: “Where’s your home?” he asked, unconsciously slipping into his native Konkani.
Surprisingly, the girl answered in Konkani.
“I live near the Church,” she said.
And Antonio did what most Goans do or don’t do when confronted with introductions. He didn’t ask her name. Instead, he asked:
“Which house do you belong to?”
And she proudly answered,“I’m from Bab-Francis’s house.”
A smile flitted across Antonio’s face and disappeared as swiftly as it had appeared.
*
By and by, the girl and Antonio became friends. Both had a deep and abiding love of the sea. After fishing, Antonio would wipe his hands on his waist-cloth, don a shirt and sit by his boat, waiting. The girl liked this gentle fisherman with lines on his face, who had ridden the waters, climbed rocky mountain shelters, and weathered many storms. He told the girl that she must not enter the cashew groves, for snakes lurked there. He told her, she must leave the beach by sundown, for it soon grew dark, and you couldn’t see anything. Even your shadow didn’t dare follow you. The girl listened intently to his every word and paid heed. She avoided the beach after dark but lingered on till dusk, to watch the sun go down and the waters turn liquid gold. She came every morning to find a million shells all strewn across the ocean shining in the sun like pearls. In the afternoon, she stayed home or swung on the rope-swing tied to a tree-branch. But in the evening, she was back on the beach again, running across cashew groves and swaying coconut palms, finding shorter paths, until she heard the roar of the ocean and came upon the sea.
What was it that fascinated her so much about the sea? She did not know. All she knew was that the sea held mystery, beauty and a thousand secrets. Sometimes the waves crashed upon the shore, and sometimes they came gently rolling in on a low tide, carrying its treasures of creamy sea-shells and an occasional crab or two.
If the sea beckoned with its mist and spume and spray, so did Antonio with his fishing tales and ramponnkar woes. His earnings and those of the other ramponnkars were dwindling, whilst those of the trawler-owners were rising. It worried Antonio his brow creasing with frustration and despair. His only solace was his family, and the peace and serenity of the village below. And the often wordless companionship of the girl. He did not even know her name! Only that she belonged to the house of Bab Francis. But what did it matter? She understood him so well, and she was as concerned as he was about the endangered traditional occupation of the ramponnkar. Did the powers-that-be not realise that mechanized trawlers were polluting the waters with diesel spillage and the roar of the engines was disturbing the fish and perhaps preventing them from breeding? How could one be so disrespectful of the environment? Soon sea-turtles and sea-gulls would stop coming to the shores of this once-beautiful, once-pristine, once-safe abode.
*
When least expected, Murphy’s law can have a nasty habit of kicking into action. One day, Antonio did not see the girl. He was filled with anxiety. Had he perchance said something to her? Made her angry? She was just a child, whilst he carried the weight of many seasons upon his shoulder. True, life had not been easy, but that was no reason for him to be rough and lacking in etiquette. He told himself he would not grumble but only speak of nice things to the girl. She was young! Why burden her with the weight of his thoughts. He prayed to his patron saint and namesake that he see the girl just one more time. He looked past the coconut grove and at the sandy path beyond, hoping she would appear, cheerful and brimming with stories to tell.
He looked for her each evening, for many evenings. The other ramponnkars left him to his watch, as they struggled home with their catch. Antonio felt his world was slowly unraveling, and he suddenly remembered the thoughts he had once harboured.
One evening the girl returned. She looked crestfallen. Antonio rushed to meet her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m going home! Back to Bombay. My holidays are over!”
“But surely, you will come again? The sea beckons, does it not?”
“Yes!” she replied, quietly. “But I have studies to tend to. I plan to be a Marine Scientist. I need to study hard. It may not be possible to return to Goa for a while.” Her eyes filled with tears as she cast her gaze to the ground.
“Thank you for this friendship,” she said, gently, “I shall remember it as long as I live. One day, I will fight for the traditional trades of Goa, and people will hear my voice.”
“Thank you,” said Antonio, and he gazed into the distance, where the sun hovered over the waters and turned them to liquid-gold. Pink clouds floated by like handkerchiefs. Grown men do not cry. Wasn’t that what his mother had told him?
“Open your palm,” said the girl.
Antonio meekly obeyed, too caught up in emotion to say anything. The girl placed a pearly shell on to his palm, and wrapped his fingers around it. It was exquisite, a treasure from the sea.
The sea with its treasures and its changing features had drawn the girl and Antonio into a circle of friendship. Antonio knew that no matter where the girl went, she was inextricably bound by the sea and the sky of this simple village. She would always feel its white sand under her feet. Just as he did. She would hear the splash of the oars as they dipped into the waters. No trawler, no mechanised fishing, no amount of lucre and power and pelf could ever take that sound away either from the girl’s heart, or from Antonio’s. And if it was necessary, she would fight for the ramponnkars and the fishing village and for tradition to be kept alive. What more could he ask for? He had been given much. His life had purpose and meaning…he wasn’t drifting…he wasn’t a mere fisherman searching the sea.
Antonio looked towards the sea and the sky and bits of pink clouds floating by. And he looked at the millions and millions of grains of sand upon the shore. Soon the stars would be coming out, one by one. Countless stars…filling the universe…A universe in which a simple ramponnkar had his place.
Caroline de Souza is a medical writer and associate editor of “La Médecine en France.” A linguist, she speaks French, Italian, German and is currently studying Portuguese. She writes on various human interest issues, and is the recipient of various journalism awards including the Examiner Silver Pen Award, the ICPA (Rev. Fr. Louis Careno) Award, and the International Prize of Medical Ethics and Deontology, Joao XXI.
Cover picture by Frank Mckenna from Unsplash.com