I lived in Goa for perhaps ten years, I didn’t keep track. I became so “Goanized” that I even wore those pretty six piece fitted dresses from the tailor. We lived in the fishing village of Saunta Vaddo and were there straight through the “seasons” and the monsoons. Saunta Vaddo, which has been so sadly maimed and dissected by the development on Baga beach. My three children were born in Mapusa and my oldest spoke Konkani like a fisherperson.

By the time I left Goa I had come to understand much of its culture: who are the fisherfolk, what is their relationship to the “batcars” or landlord class; where are the property lines drawn, and who owns what? I learned about controversies over wells, feuds that went back decades and why this person does not “talk” to which other neighbor. I learned about the arrangement of marriages and witnessed shenanigans involving weddings and dowries. What secret what are the fishermen doing up on the hill at night before fishing season was revealed and which controversies are acted out each year at the “theatr” on the beach to the sound of the drums. What bus goes where? How do group taxis work? Which shop in Mapusa is the best for stainless steel cooking utensils; which goldsmith is the best to buy gold jewelry; where and when to get the garlands of onions which you hang on a bamboo over the fire; the best place to buy feni; the best place to buy toddy vinegar and jaggery; what are the different kinds of bananas; how much things should cost. I learned the life history of everybody on the beach. I heard about what it was like when there was a smallpox epidemic. I heard about hunger and the mysterious and unhealthy habit of chewing on raw rice. I got to understand what it was like before tourism when everybody was so poor.

In order to learn all this and the little Konkani I mastered, I needed an interpreter and an ambassador. That was this lady pictured here: Carmeline. Look at her face! What a complicated and dare I say difficult person. She was my ayah and indispensable to my life. For a while there, we were joined at the hip.

When I returned to Goa after 30 years the first thing she showed me was the evidence of her son, Ulysses’ cruelty preserved on the cement walkway behind her house. I guess he had got so fed up he trialed getting drunk and breaking windows as a tactic. It was a complicated story. She had scrounged and scrimped and saved to build this nice little house, “God’s Gift.” She was supposed to live there with Ulysses and the wife she had found for him. But things hadn’t worked out….as they often don’t.

Ulysses dramatically showed me the room he had prepared for her and in which, against all reason, she refused to live: the nice tile floor, the beautiful wood door with the lock, the bed and dresser.

“She is a difficult person,” I told him, and I think that afforded him some comfort. “Yes, she is a difficult person” he repeated as though trying the idea on for size.

Later, I congratulated her on the excellent wife she had found for her son. “She is a wonderful girl. Congratulations on finding her!” She was palpably pleased. I hope I sowed a little harmony.

I didn’t keep in touch and afterwards, I heard from my friend, Noorel, that Carmeline had died. She never moved back into God’s Gift but stayed on in her brother, Jose’s house next door. Jose had some kind of neurological problem and I suppose he has died, too. I certainly heard about his sad story often enough. His mother hadn’t done a good job of vetting his fiancée. After it was too late, she turned out to be a slovenly harridan who only produced daughters who she neglected and beat.

So thank you Carmeline, you clever and hard-working lady! Thank you for all the help and instruction you afforded me. I hope that in your next incarnation you wind up in some fortunate family and have a much easier life.