Rosalyn D'Mello: A feast for the artist's soul

Artist Orijit Senrsquos interpretation of the Mapusa Market Pic courtesyKochi Biennale FoundationLast evening during our return from Redi beach that lies 912 km past the Terekhol river the geographic border that separates Goa from Maharashtra Tsohil my fellow resident at HH Art Spaces and I decided to break the bike journey by stopping at a modest roadside bar for a swig of caju It was then that I saw Irsquod missed a call from Vally I knew why he was trying to get in touch and so immediately called back I was right Hersquod bought bangda mackerel from the Mapusa market in the morning and could cook it for me the way Irsquod requested the trueblooded Goan way with slits on both sides so it could be stuffed with reshad and fried Wersquod take another forty minutes to get back to Arpora I told him but I definitely wanted the bangdaIt was 9pm by the time we returned Soon after I took the bike out to the junction right after the chapel and despite my best intentions returned only by midnight When I arrived Vally was about to cook oysters I couldnrsquot but watch The two Goan men from the day before were there too and before I knew it I was sampling their plate of oysters lightly fried in chilli powder lime salt and breadcrumbs and was being offered pork chilly fry even as the three fried bangdas Irsquod asked for sat in a sheet of aluminium waiting to be devoured later with my fellow residentsWe stumbled into conversation Interrupted only by flashy Indian tourists on bikes and in cars asking for the way to Baga beach and an offering of whiskey in steel tumblers Like me both Akshay and Sylvester were Bombay Goans Akshay grew up in Dhobi Talao while Sylvester was from Mahim Unlike me they knew Konkani but the language we chose to engage in was a form of English specific to maka paos It was exquisite the rush from talking about our collective passion mdash food My wild explanation detailing how I am able to feel at home in three places mdash Bombay Goa and Delhi but how despite not having lived here long enough Goa was the site of my roots where I felt most like I belonged How the swell of the River Sal could evoke in me something ancestral I told them about my first successful conversation in Konkani with an old woman at the Mapusa market who was selling edible flowers and how I was able to decipher the recipe to cook them but didnrsquot know their provenance Vally then informed me they were from the drumstick tree It all fell into place I told them Irsquod been drying the leftover flowers and fossilizing them in the candles I was making for my performance at HH on Friday They spoke of Mahim and Dadar and their childhood nostalgia and how food was central to their existence and they told me of a little joint near the Calungute police station that makes the best xit kodi fish curryrice It all made perfect sense given that the title of my performative piece and my next book is ldquoThe Miracle of the Loaves and the Fishrdquo the idea being to emphasise the multiplication of grace and the act of cooking and feeding as something beatific that can institute a munificence of emotionGiven that I am currently on the brink of my departure from Goa back to Delhi the whole accidental rendezvous assumed poetic proportions I had already begun to list the many things I knew I would miss about the ad hoc routine Irsquod established for myself which revolved so intensely around the foraging for produce I confessed to all three of my interlocutors that I had a weakness for buying vegetables from the old ladies at the market because at the end of the transaction they would always say ldquoDeo bore karrdquo which translates to something like ldquoGod Bless Yourdquo but which I choose to read more as ldquoMay God do well by yourdquo because it seems closer to the subject of graceIt makes me almost weep to think of the freshness of ingredients the noticeable smell of iron in the water as I bathe baptizing all of me with its earthiness the old woman who sold me the toddy that I used to knead the dough for bread that I then baked in a woodfired stone oven in the garden of the HH compound And that full moon night when Tsohil and I closed all the doors in his studio so that the slat of moonlight on the floor was the only luminous source and I stood within that patch and sought out the body of earthrsquos only natural satellite and found it framed in the center of the glass showering its light on me And so I find myself asking earnestly how do I return after all of this has come to pass upon my soul I came here expecting only to feed my artistic consciousness and instead I ended up with a feastDeliberating on the life and times of Everywoman Rosalyn DrsquoMello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover She tweets RosaParx Send your feedback to mailbagmiddaycom