By Joseph Canisius Dias (JoDi)
(Originally written and published in my village Magazine)
My father was born and raised in the village of Utorda, in Salcette, Goa. During his working years as a pharmacist, he lived as a paying guest in my maternal grandmother´s house in Margao, because it was just ten minutes’ walk to his place of work. This is where he met my mom, fell in love, and married her. They continued to live in the city as my mom hated village life.
On Sunday mornings, my father and I would go for mass at the Carmelite Monastery and then go for the Sunday morning show at Vishant, Lata, or Metropole cinemas. In those days, they always screened Wild West movies which my father and I loved very much. On days when we did not go for the movies, we would reach Utorda early enough to go fishing at the ponds and river Sal behind our house. In those days, his close friend and neighbour, uncle George, would accompany us on fishing adventures. One of the things they would say was, ‘’Panttem marunk ya’ … A mode of fishing with bamboo basket pulled under the water plants, thereby catching little fish that tasted great when crisp-fried). Other times, we would go to the river, carrying watermelons to quench our thirst! Rosario uncle would always climb up coconut trees to drop down some ‘addsoram’(Tender coconuts) and Aunt Adeline would offer us ‘goddshem’. If my beloved uncle Tio Manuel was down from the ship, he would also join us for fishing. Uncle João (Adeline aunty´s husband) was also a close friend of my father, who would come down from Bombay on holidays, with ‘chikki’ for us. There are too many kind villagers to mention here but they will all get edited out for sure!
During our school holidays, my family would be joined by my cousins from Panjim. This was a time when the women of the house would get busy in the kitchen preparing meals for all of us whilst the boys would go fishing in the morning and the girls would make miniature ovens out of broken mud pots. Later in the evening, we would play football with the village boys and shake up the jambool tree and stain my gran´s saree purple! There were times when we would also go to ‘Mollar’ (A place near a crossroad) where we played carrom, challenging the village virtuosos with real money. The bar there served delicious ‘dhal bhaji’ with potatoes, which was lip-smacking!
In the early days, our village had no electricity and the light from the handmade kerosene lamps would cast eerie shadows everywhere. There were days when my creative father would cut patterns out of paper and hold shadow plays on the wall for us. As soon as the sun set, my grandfather would bring out his huge conch and blow several times on it to scare away the foxes who would be on the lookout for our chicken. The highlight of the evening (and the ‘carrot’ to get us to pray the rosary), was the story time with granmãe after which we would all be hoarded off to sleep on the huge bamboo mat that would be rolled out in the hall, under the altar. I don´t know why, but we would pester granmãe to tell us ghost stories on an old cot placed in the veranda!
Here are a few of her stories which I remember to this day:
Field Devils
Our Utorda house was situated on a higher elevation overlooking the fields and a deep dug-out (‘Gaddko’) which fell sharply away from our woodstore cum pig-toilet. Every toilet was usually separated from the main house which meant that one had to walk the distance in the night
The story was about how granmãe saw Ghosts in the field when she went to the toilet in the middle of the night with her kerosene lamp. She would see Ghosts appearing in the middle of the field after a bright spark. She recounted how she would start praying the rosary until she finished her download and rushed back to the house. Her narration accompanied by queer sounds and piercing glares, would send shudders down our spines, as we huddled even closer to her. To this day, I have desired to see these ghosts myself, although I went to the same toilet many a night, accompanied by her.
2. The Haunted ‘Gaddko’
The toilet was located a little away from the main house, where the ground fell away sharply down into the deep valley called the ‘gaddko’. I remember my grandfather forbidding us to go down there because apparently, it was haunted. On some quiet nights, we did hear sounds of crying babies from that direction, and I would pull up the bedsheet over my head to try and hide from the so-called ghosts. But it so happened that the tastiest mangoes (‘Ghonttam’) would fill the tree to the point that even the branches would fall with the weight of the fruit! When granpai was not looking, my cousins and I would slide down the slope and eat the mangoes to our heart´s content. Granmãe with her usual oratory skills, told us the story of a family who used to live in a hut down there, many years ago. Apparently, the husband used to practice black magic and the villagers would consult him for their issues of life. Many a cock was sacrificed to the devil in that valley. It so turned out that the demon´s demands became impossible to fulfil until a day came when the clairvoyant man and his whole family vanished without a trace from the village. Apparently, the demons still prowl the valley and enter even the animals who graze there. Apparently, even my father was gored by a bull and almost died from his wounds! I enquired about the haunted gaddko in the village and nobody wanted to talk about it! Sometimes I wonder if it was just some cats fighting in the night which sounded like babies crying!
3. All Souls Procession
Apparently, on All Souls Day, my granmãe heard strange sounds in the night and went out to check. It was well known that the naughty boys of the village would visit homes to wreak havoc outside the houses. They would drag chairs out into the fields, or paint skulls on the wall, or even hang dead rats outside your door! When she opened the door, what she saw was a fearful sight! There was a long procession of ghosts playing all sorts of instruments and moving across the coconut grove in front of our house. The faces looked familiar but she could see through them! Some of them even waved out to her! The whole procession went through the football field and disappeared behind a bamboo cluster!
We would ask her how to recognize ghosts, and she described them as being white clouds shaped like humans. She claimed she saw them pass through walls, with inverted feet; toes facing backward not front. Thereafter, I would look at people´s feet wondering when I would catch sight of a ghost!
4. ‘Rakhonddar’ (Protector)
Another strange but interesting story was about the protector of the village who she called “Rakhonddar” in Konkani. Apparently, there would be one in each village taking care of the villagers who inhabited it. My Grandmother explained that every time a new bride came into the village, they had to pour a bottle of cashew ‘feni’ at the boundary of the village to appease the Rankhonddar to seek his protection. Also, if anyone came late at night this Rakhonddar would follow them up to the house. With a stern voice, granmãe made us promise not to look behind us in the night or else we could land up on the top of a tree with no voice to shout for help, until the next morning when someone would spot us and bring us down. She would also say that when the Rakhonddar passed the house one would hear the distinct sound of bells… “Ching! Ching! Ching!
So, these were some of the stories which Granmãe told us. I don’t remember all of them but she did relate stories from Reginald Fernandes’ books like ‘Kalle Lobacho Padri ´ (The Priest with the Black Robe), or ‘Modientlo Rakos’ (Monster of the ring). Although these were wonderful stories which would give us bad nightmares, we loved huddling beside her as she narrated them. I even remember sleepwalking to the door and opening the latch to go out of the house and my aunt Fátima luckily woke up and grabbed me.
Much later, on the internet, I read on the internet about the ‘field devils’. The article explained that rotting hay gives out phosphorescent gases which ignite at even low temperatures, giving off a flash of fire culminating in a plume of smoke which appears like a ghostly figure. I believe this is what my granmãe saw and believed to be a ghost!
In a strange way, I remain bonded to my father´s village of Utorda, although I have been out of Goa for over 33 years now. Most assuredly, it must be the lovely memories I still hold of the place. For those of you who are Utordekars, I say: ‘’Viva Utorda!’’
