In Memory Of My Old Goan House

Just listening to the tunes of a mando are enough to submerge Pantaleo Fernandes into a cloud of nostalgia…

THE setting sun extends its golden fingers to caress the lofty roof of the majestic church one last time. As if in response, the old bell tolls a good bye to the mellow sun while inviting the faithful to pause for a moment and thank God for the blessings of the day gone by. And before the resonance of the bell fades away, Papa sounds his clap – a summons for his brood to gather for the ammori – the evening angelus.

As the dusk embraces the village in its cool hug Papa brings out his violin and settles at his favourite perch in the balcão and immediately begins tuning the strings. My sister is already there on the wooden bench striking up chords on the guitar while I sit on the cemented red stone chair and try to work up a beat on the monitor lizard skin of the Gumot. When Mãe, Avo and the other sisters settle in their own corners of the balcão, the first mando of the evening fills the air. Soon the tempo picks up with a few Portuguese numbers followed by a Spanish oldie and the family ensemble gets submerged in an aura of its own...a magical experience that can be lived only on the Goan family balcão!