Bonderam is a unique festival held in Divar in the third week of August. But commercialisation has set in and threatens to destroy the traditional spirit of the event. Villagers of St Mathias are struggling hard to keep it ethnic. With no prizes and no competitions the Malar Bonderam, which will be held on Sunday, August 22 nd , is as close as one could get to this festivity of the past, writes MATHIAS XAVIER VAZ.

DOWN THE centuries, towards the end of August, the villagers of St. Mathias, Malar-Motianchem Lar, in the beautiful island of Divar, celebrate the joy of the annual harvesting season. On the eve of cutting the new season’s first golden sheaves of paddy, the people proclaim the reward of their labour, in anticipation, the joy of abundance of filled cellars and granaries, profusing for the entire year, by marching from end to end of the village boundaries, in gay abandon, sporting flags of different nations. Their mood is heightened by the lilting march of the brass band accompanying them.

PATRON SAINT: A participant dressed as St. Mathias, the saint of the village.

Recalling the olden days when there used to be fights amongst the members of the two ‘Communidades’ in re-demarcating their respective boundaries, at this particular time, the revellers engage in mock battles firing the “fottas” (toy gun made of hollow bamboo) ammuni-tioned with bullets of ripe seasonal wild fruit locally called “tefol” and gooseberries (“hansaie”), driven through forcefully by air pressure created by pushing this fruit through the fottas with a stick of the same material natively called “chicanor”, so arranged by cutting and rounding it, as to flush it through the hollow of the bamboo, pushed by a circular handle, made of the same stuff, a wee-bit bigger in diameter, so that the handle, after hitting the ‘fottas’ the “chicanor” fitted to it, stops a centimetre before the end of the “fottas”. The second seed that is dashed through it creates air pressure, albeit just across one foot, sufficient to fire the first seed, stalked at the end, with a tremendous velocity of over 60 kmph, to cover a range of 10-15 meters. The victim reels in pain on its hit, and the magnitude of impact, should it hit the eye, can temporarily blind the unwary.

In addition, the smell of “tefol”, the ammunition, leaves a trail of pungent smell, akin to the tear gas that is used by commandos to disperse a rowdy crowd. The bullets of gooseberries are much milder than those of ‘tefol’. In olden days the people were instructed to aim ‘fottas’ on the flags that flutter amongst the crowd, carried by young lads attired with colourful buntings and pinnacled hats, and the innocent generation of those yester-years reverently obeyed the command of the village Chief.

DAILY BREAD: The poder on his cycle who delivers the morning pao.

In the mod world of gay abandon, the chivalrous youth aim the fottas with frantic fury, towards the fair, disdainful dames. And with women’s liberation, the opposite also holds true. We do see elegant , burly damsels, dashing in the middle of the street, challenging their either forsaken or wooing paramours, and firing at their past/future lovers. And this mode gained momentum, so much so, that parties of the opposite faction, even invited neighbourhood support ( as far as from Merces and Santa Cruz) in their pursuit. This resulted in mock fights turning into battles of Panipat. The trail of the gloom, at the end of the evening, could be seen even at the Old Goa ferry point, where the retreating forces were ditched, into the two metres field below, vehicles and men , and broken glass bottles of over-boozed spirit, scattered on the road.

The firing of the “fottasses” across love-bands creates amity that surpasses the pain. The din and bustle of the evening quietly settles down to a more serene prospect of real enjoyment. The young lads and lasses hastily retreat to appear for the dine and dance session to follow, that is the cream of the feast. The love-buds have been looking forward to the event with more than a novenal preparation, and it’s now or never for them.

The next morning, the grannies/mothers pull the bedsheets to awaken the late-sleepers to the tune of “Alvorada”, (formerly the marching brass band, now the vehicled glaring CD music), to dress up and line the road, from the Church to the nearest paddy field, through which the Priest will walk down , in solemn procession, escorted by young lads, fluttering the delightful flags , to the tune of the brass band. Today, unlike the previous evening, playing ‘The Religious Rhythm’ that has not changed either a flat or a sharp for some hundreds of years, recalling nostalgically that it is the Bonderam Procession. Though there is no clear explanation as to why flags of different nations were carried around, but elders state that due to the absence of original designs, the villagers carried reedy-made flags. Now multi-coloured flags are used and not of countries.

TRADITIONAL TOUCH: The kunbis who toil in the fields during the harvest time.

The Priest then blesses the fields of the entire village, cuts a few sheaves, and then distributed one each amongst the faithful, who take them home and place it on the Oratory of the House. Those who carry more than one, place this blessed sheaf on top of the cellar of paddy, believing it will ward of pests “borod” from attacking it… And then the long awaited ceremony, comes to a close with vigorous handshakes of “Boas Festas” amidst the enthusing, popular tunes pealed out by the energetic brass band.

At home, the feast is celebrated with sumptuous meal which includes the ubiquitous “sorpotel” with rice-pancakes leavened with toddy, vulgarly called sannam (a dereliction of “sodam-na” i.e not made/ not found everyday, but exceptionally on auspicious occasions).

FOTTAS: The local weapon used in mock fights among members of rivals vaddos during the festivity.

To lighten the festive-laden tummy from drowsiness, the villagers converge on road-crossings at around 4 pm, the evening for another village frolic. The game is called “katodio”. It is a very simple form of entertainment. In this game, each participant has to bring a shelled coconut, although a “bhatkar” often provides the quota for all. All the participants are lined, one behind the other, at a demarcating line about five meters away from the spot where the shelled coconut is placed. He is allowed to see the target, and is then blind-folded and a “dandha” (strong bamboo stalk 1.5 m long) is given to him. The player is expected to walk the required distance and stop short to reach his “dhanda” to the target, and then hit the coconut and crush it.

The ringed spectators keep on teasing the player suggesting “a little right / a little left” on his default to hit. A nasty fellow in the erring , to entertain the onlookers at the cost of the player, fraudulently keeps on shifting the target in the opposite direction to what the crowd suggests. If within three attempts the player does not succeed in crushing the target, he is unfolded and has to retreat. Those who break the coconut at the first attempt get much applause from the onlookers. The crushed coconut kernel is shared by all, mixed with jaggery that is provided by the ward manager of the event.

This game is played almost at 10-15 crossroads of the village, and goes on upto the dusk. It is a simple , delightful frolic and is just an indicator of the innocent delights our ancestors indulged in.

The retreating festal shadows make everyone blue. All retreat to their houses to savour the remaining portion of the feast-lunch. In yesteryears, every household in the evening used to be fragrant with the aroma of “feni”, the medicinal syrup that greatly helps the ailing tummy to set itself right from the festive over-indulgences and get ready for the impending Monday’s chores. While “feni” has not lost either its aroma or its medicinal efficacy, it is losing its value by its abuse more than its use. And the usual regular “Rosary” prayer, before the supper, is dispensed this evening by the mother, to the relief of drowsy youngsters, on pretext of all having “prayed in excess today”, a possible cover-up for her fatigue in spreading the delightful ‘Bonderam’ Table.

Unlike this moment the previous day, when the whole village was agog with song and dance, now silence softly surges over the weary village and the blue mantle envelopes the snoring villagers. Tomorrow’s rising sun will awaken everybody to the hard realities of life – no excuses, no exceptions. In this small, round world of ours, time and tide waits for no man. And the world goes round and round, seasons come and go and so does Bonderam.

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