An Angel on My Shoulder

by David Callinan

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Swami and the tailor

  The road from Vasco da Gama to Panaji passes through the Mormugao peninsula, a district of dismal industrial buildings and tangles of electrical cables tumbling from ancient telegraph poles, before it heads north across the bridge over the Zuari estuary.

  Annie pressed her nose to the grimy window of Banji’s rattling taxi: ‘luxury travel on wheels’ as was proudly announced on the smiling Goan’s placard at Dabolin airport.

  Kate and Paul were equally fascinated by the sights and sounds of India’s smallest state. They had arrived in Goa early and joined the queues for visa stamps, sweating and sticky in the humidity and thankful for the one working fan that creaked painfully high above them.

  Paul was used to waiting for his luggage to appear and fetching it himself but was as surprised as other visitors to note that here in Goa, presumably to keep the employment figures at a reasonable level, gangs of luggage-men wearing armbands proudly held the crowd at bay while they personally stacked luggage into long parallel lines, moving cases around until they were satisfied with the artistic merits of their leather and plastic creation. They hovered expectantly as the tourists surged forward pointing out their bags and cases. With immense charm, the luggage-men pounced on each case, delivering it to the mesmerised customer while holding a trembling hand outstretched to receive their tips.

  As soon as the hapless tourists turned, having parted with an unknown quantity of rupees, their luggage was seized by a second army – the battalion of porters who ignored protestations that they were not required but sped away with luggage piled on trolleys, through a crowd log-jammed with bewildered Europeans, shouting and screaming for all they were worth until they reached the phalanx of tourist buses parked outside.

  Paul made sure to rescue their luggage so that he, Kate and Annie could manage for themselves despite soft hands trying to entice their suitcases from them. Annie loved it all, the aromatic smell of spices coming from somewhere mixed with the hot and dusty smell of people on the move.

  Outside the terminal it was chaotic and yet a strange order prevailed. Most of the tourists were heading for buses to take them to their package tour hotels. Paul and Kate looked for a taxi, but Annie wanted to travel by bus.

  “It’s twenty miles away to where we’re staying,” Kate told her, “I’m not spending two hours on an Indian bus with all our luggage. Later, when we’ve settled in, we’ll go places by bus.” She didn’t sound too convincing as far as Annie was concerned.

  That’s when Banji arrived. He was part of a cohort of taxi drivers baying at potential passengers and smiling for all they were worthwhile they shook their little placards enticingly. Paul, Kate and Annie were surrounded by Goans, Kashmiris and Rajasthanis imploring them to examine their taxis all of which had new tyres and new upholstery.

  Paul asked who had the best price to Fort Aguada and was not surprised to find that every cabbie was the cheapest, no question about it, sir.

  Banji was a little more reticent than the others, or maybe he was just a better psychologist. He held his placard up to Kate, ignoring Paul and smiled. His teeth gleamed.

  “Lucky lady,” he crooned. “My taxi awaits you.”

  Kate was instantly charmed.

  “Come on,” she instructed Paul and Annie. “I’ve found our taxi.”

  The old beaten up Mercedes had seen better days, but it was relatively comfortable. Inside, prayer beads, ribbons and glittering beaded trimming decorated the dashboard and a large nodding dog sat patiently on the parcel shelf at the back.

  “First time in Goa?” Banji began his tourist banter.

  “My husband was here many years ago,” Kate told him. “But,” she indicated Annie, “this is our first time.”

  “You will love Goa,” Banji promised as he negotiated his way out of the airport precinct and onto the dusty road to the peninsula without appearing to brake.

  The road was crammed with carts loaded with goods of every description including fruit and vegetables – bananas, mangoes, potatoes, sacks of rice and spices. Ramshackle buildings looking as though they could collapse in a strong wind housed shops and garages, cafés and opticians and weaving in and out of the carts was an endless stream of young men on mopeds, motor cycles and bicycles. To complete the traffic chaos came garishly decorated buses crammed with passengers seemingly clinging to the outside by their fingers and toes, beat up cars and taxis. And every one drove with its horn blaring while pedestrians totally ignored the cacophony.

  Banji proved himself to be an expert at negotiating the traffic, which appeared not to obey any rules of the road known to most countries. Smoothly, with one hand on the wheel and the other now banging his horn, now making rude signs out of his rolled down window, he got through the meleé intact and with only a slight rise in blood pressure for his passengers.

  “Fort Aguada is beautiful,” he told them. “Built by the Portuguese. You will love Fort Aguada.”

  Once over the long bridge that spanned the Zuari, the road left the town behind and they drove through fields of young rice and sugar cane interspersed with roadside cafés.

  “Dad, this is great,” breathed Annie. “I’ve never seen anywhere like this except in books.”

  “There is a strong Portuguese heritage in Goa and that’s why it’s such a mixture of races and religions,” Paul told her.

  “What’s your name?” Kate asked Banji.

  “I am called Banji,” he laughed. “Like banjo but with no strings attached.”

  They laughed.

  “And where are you from?” asked Paul.

  “Ponjee,” he replied. “Not far now.”

  “Oh, Panaji,” said Paul. “Used to be called Panjim.”

  “That is right,” an excited Banji cried.

  “I used to come here for the full moon parties,” said Paul.

  “Ah!’ exclaimed Banji with knowing intimacy. “Anjuna, yes?”

  “Yes, they were great days.”

  “All gone now. Parties all gone. Police stopped them. Too many hippies and drugs. ”

  “Yes,” sighed Paul with a degree of regret.

  “There are still parties there,” explained Banji, “but no more hippies.”

  They had reached the outskirts of Panaji.

  “Will we see much of the town?” asked Kate.

  “No, no, no,” laughed Banji. “You must come back to Ponjee and then go to the old town known as Old Goa. You must not worry. Banji will take you wherever you want to go. I will be your tour guide. We will cross the river soon. Ponjee is over there,” he waved vaguely to his left as they came onto the broad avenue that headed for the bridge over the Mandovi river.

  “I will take you to Map’sa market when you want to go. You can buy everything you want at Map’sa market.”

  They headed out on the road to Mapusa then turned left along a neglected road through fields of sugar cane more rice plantations.

  It was early afternoon and the heat was torrid. Kate sat fanning herself in the back seat while Annie had nodded off to sleep with her head bobbing on Kate’s arm. Paul sipped water as he sat in the front passenger seat gazing into the dusty distance.

  They came to the outskirts of the strip that runs from Fort Aguada on the tip of the Nerul river all the way to Baga further north. Paul was astonished at the changes that had taken place since he had last been in this area. But, he shouldn’t have been? It was inevitable. Tourism had arrived with a vengeance and from the old Portuguese fortress all the way along through Candolim and Calangute to Baga and Anjuna, hotels, bars, internet cafés and restaurants had sprung up.

  Kate had woken up and leaned forward putting her hand on his arm. Paul was surprised and pleased at this little touch of intimacy. It was rare these days. Perhaps this trip would rekindle some of the romance they used to share.

  “Strange to think Rory was here only a few months ago,” she said.

  “Then h
e went to Thailand and Vietnam before Australia, didn’t he?” asked Annie. “I wish I could go travelling like that,” she said without waiting for an answer.

  “He headed on down to South Goa first,” said Paul. “I think we’ll probably follow in his footsteps. How would you to like ride on the Konkan express next week? We could just go down south and find somewhere to stay. It would be an adventure.”

  “Sounds great,” said Kate. “A week of five star rest and recuperation here and then, let’s take our chances.”

  “Yeah!” cried Annie. “Cool.”

  Banji took the narrow road that led down towards Sinquerim beach and their hotel. He slowed on the speed bumps along the drive through waving palms till he pulled up outside the hotel entrance, set well back from the road.

  The gardens were extensive and well watered. Interspersed amongst the palm and ashok trees were discreetly positioned villas nestling within the shade of bougainvillea and jacaranda.

  Banji took his time about taking their luggage out of the boot. Immediately, three white dhobied bellboys descended upon their cases and whisked them inside. Banji looked disappointed. He rummaged in his back pocket and handed his card to Paul.

  “You do not need to worry about other taxis,” he smiled. “Banji will take you wherever you want to go at a very good price. The more places we go, the cheaper I get,” he giggled. “You will love the way I drive you everywhere.”

  “I’m sure we will, Banji,” Paul promised unsurely as he paid him off. “Have a nice day.”

  Inside the vast piazza it was cool with marble floors and bamboo trees surrounding a central fountain burbling over stones and fronds. Large fans hummed above them and the staff was immediately attentive.

  They had booked a villa with a view of the Arabian sea and the beach. To the left rose the remains of Fort Aguada and the old lighthouse. The fort had been built in 1612 and in its prime contained 200-guns pointing out to sea and its own source of clean mineral water. It was probably the strongest coastal garrison built by Portuguese. Now, warm waves washed against its red stone walls and dark skinned boys splashed in the shallows in the shade.

  Kate began to unwind as they divided their days into relaxing by the pool, strolls along the beach and enjoying cold beers and seafood at one of the many beach shacks. Annie met some people of her own age and spent a lot of time hanging out with them. But Paul and Kate had promised Annie to have some clothes made for her at one of the numerous tailoring shops that were dotted around the area. Prices were dirt cheap and the quality was reasonable. Paul decided to get some shirts a new pair of spectacles made.

  Further up the beach and inland the place was busier with Kashmiris on every corner peddling tourist trinkets from market stalls. In the evening, local Indian families came out to promenade along the sand and dip their feet into the sea.

  Paul was happy to see that Kate was beginning to soften under the Goan sun. He felt closer to her than he had for some time.

  It had been six months since the incident with the angels and the denizens of the spiritual world. Paul didn’t think much about it now and when he did he was still unsure, still unconvinced one way or another if he had been going through some kind of mental breakdown.

  Sitting at a bar with Kate watching the sunset turn the sea purple and gold and the sounds of the street market hagglers, beggars, peddlers, and restaurant touts as an exotic backdrop, it was easy to dismiss the whole experience as just that, some kind of unexplainable aberration. And yet, it was remarkable that in such a short space of time so much had happened, so much had been revealed including a fabulous tale about the coming of a new Light of the World and Paul’s small part in the transformation of the planet. Watching the flickering and unpredictable but dull, low intensity street lights and the crowds milling together in such a spiritual country as India it was just possible to believe there was some truth in it all.

  “Happy,” he asked Kate.

  “Yes, you?”

  “Very,” he replied. “Annie’s having a great time.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  They watched their daughter laughing on the beach with a group of young tourists, bargaining with the fluttering circle of local women and girls who had gathered around them, saris and silk scarves flapping in the sea breeze, showing off their wares, offering massage and sepia tattoos.

  “Tomorrow I’ll take you up to Anjuna,” he told Kate. “I think it’s pretty spoiled now, but back in the old days it was liberation beach.”

  “Full moon parties sound so romantic, were they?”

  “I don’t remember,” he laughed. “I think they were. We thought we were the new chosen people: the generation with the inside track on the destiny of the human race. Now most of us are accountants or journalists.”

  “It would be wonderful to have the inside track on destiny,” mused Kate. She sipped at her gin and lime,

  Paul glanced at her. Kate was a scientist by training and disposition. Anything that could not be proven or demonstrated tended to be dismissed as fanciful, although she did have a sneaking respect for the paranormal.

  “There are those who believe they have, of course,” he said. “The hard part is to distinguish between the charlatans and the genuine.”

  “Hard to prove anything like that,” she said.

  “Sure is. But, then again, all science is doing is discovering what is already there. You could say that it has not found the means to discover and quantify mystical experiences. There are probably an overwhelming number of false prophets, psychobabble merchants and sheer chicanery artists because it is so easy to fake and to delude susceptible people. On the other hand, what if now and again, the real deal comes along?”

  “The jury’s out on all that stuff,” she said. “But you’re right in one sense. You can’t just dismiss everything out of hand. It’s not scientific. Come on, let’s eat. I’m hungry.”

  They left the bar and waved to Annie who immediately left her new found friends scribbling something on a piece of paper.

  They wandered through the throng of people surging along Calangute’s main street.

  “We could always eat in the hotel,” Paul said.

  “This has more atmosphere,” smiled Kate.

  “When are we going to get my clothes made?” asked Annie. “I’d like a new riding outfit.”

  “There’s a tailor in the hotel but he looks expensive,” Paul said. “I’ve asked around and been recommended a little guy close to here. He might even be open when we’ve finished eating.”

  At that moment the street was plunged into darkness. The electricity supply was notoriously unstable. Within a few seconds, lamps and candles were being lit and torches switched on. Annie laughed as they stumbled over rough paving stones and tripped over rubbish whilst being carried along by the noisy crowd. Paul pulled them both into a nearby restaurant that had already placed lighted candles on its tables.

  “Come on,” he cried. “This looks fine.”

  As they made their way up the narrow wooden steps into the restaurant, a dirty hand plucked at Kate’s dress. The figure was hard to discern in the dim light, but it resembled a bundle of rags with a head buried within them.

  The beggar muttered something incomprehensible and Kate recoiled. Annie darted past her mother to avoid coming into contact with this downtrodden wretch. Paul started to follow then looked down. A pair of eyes glittered, reflecting the waxy candlelight from within. The eyes were sharp, intelligent and knowing. Paul was taken aback. There was something familiar about the expression in those eyes, something he could not place. It was more the expression of deep knowledge and wisdom and of something shared with Paul that connected.

  He pulled out some coins from his pocket and thrust them into the beggar’s outstretched hand. The beggar’s eyes never deviated from Paul’s. The hand withdrew into the dirty blanket covering the beggar’s body. Paul could not tell if it was a man or a woman.

  “Come on, Dad,” called Annie.


  Just as Paul started to move away, the beggar’s arm moved with the speed of a black mamba and took hold of Paul’s wrist. The strength of the grip surprised Paul, who stood momentarily watching and waiting. The beggar’s eyes continued to communicate something intangible to Paul, something he could not fully understand. Then, suddenly, the grip unhooked itself and the arm was gone. Paul took a couple of steps into the restaurant just as the electricity supply lurched back on. He looked at the street, searching for the beggar but the figure had vanished.

  Slowly and with a disturbing feeling he could not rationalize, he joined his family just as the beaming waiter arrived. The meal was slow and leisurely. Kate smiled at Paul clearly relaxed and enjoying herself while Annie dissected her food clinically, searching for anything suspicious. They decided to visit the tailor’s shop next day.

  The little tailor’s business premises did not appear inviting. It was essentially a tin roofed shack with living quarters at the back and various worktables, stockpiles of material, yarns and cottons and sewing machines all of which must have been fifty years old.

  It was situated half way along a dusty street that led from the main road through Calangute to the beach. Paul, Kate and Annie stood across the street at first just looking at the place. Eventually a little man of indeterminate age chased a couple of laughing, barefoot children out of the house. He was laughing too, a high-pitched giggle that was infectious. Somewhere in the shadows within the shack his wife could be seen moving and talking to the tailor who shrugged and walked over to his worktable.

  “This is the guy,” Paul told them. “They say he’s the best tailor in town.”