Konsachem Fest or Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Milagrin is full of laughter as usual and says, ‘Tuk anv kitem borem dakoitam’(I am going to show you something)

‘Dakoi mugo, I say with tones of bravado. (Then show me)

‘Atam nhui, ani tôhre dissanim’ (Not right now, in another couple of days)

‘Borem,’ I echo’ Milagrin just loves surprises, the thought of one keeps her in a good mood for long...

So in the wee hours of the morning of 15^th August, just as I burrow myself deeper in my bed, make myself really comfortable, with a thick bed sheet, eyes heavy with sleep, I hear the strident ring of the doorbell, 

‘What??? Who is the f@#$%k is here at this hour? It is 4.30 in the morning, I rush to the door who could it be?’ 

‘Konn?’ I say in a brave voice and then I hear that unmistakable giggle,

‘Tum ghô pixea’ (oh you mad girl) and I open the door, there stands Milagrin huge grin plastered on her chubby face, decked in tights, heavy sweater and a scarf.

‘Khuim oit ghô tum?’ (Where are you going?)

More laughter, ‘Tuk orpak eilam’. Choll nés, borem kitem gall’(I have come to take you, get dressed, wear something nice)

I hurriedly fling some clothes, a hot cup of tea and we are off.

Surprisingly Milagrin is quiet, as I start talking she utters,‘Shoo, ôghi rav’’Borem konn aik’. (Shoo keep quiet, listen carefully)

I marvel, Milagrin and quiet, surprises never cease...

But then I sense something, a something fills the air this morning, suppressed champagne bubbles waiting to burst, the air has moisture, and yet... 

The wind beckons us towards the fields, 

‘Ieo, ieo, samadunn ieo, (Come on, come on, careful) says Milagrin, it is dark but I listen and I follow the rustle of the rice plants, it excites me.

‘What are these small rice plants saying?’ These little plants which keep us fed throughout the year, these little plants that keep us from starving, these miraculous plants.

They talk, come they say bottled-up excitement, laughing, whispering to each other;

Milagrin is quiet, taken up in the moment, blindly we move towards the nodding rice plants, they gesture their welcome...

And then I see in the corner of a field, a specially prepared plot with rice stalks standing proudly.

‘Choi, choi, (Look, look) Milagrin utters reverently...

Through the gloom an elderly priest approaches, a small golden sickle in his hand, much like Getafix the Druid. 

A group of Confrades wearing their opa e mursa surround the priest. 

‘Kit kotai ghô Milagrin? ‘What’s he doing’ I wonder.

‘Choi, borem konn choi, kottolem’ (Pay attention, you will realise) she says in awe...

With delicate and loving touch, the priest cuts off a single stalk of rice, the Confrades cut a whole batch of rice stalks. 

Everywhere, the rice plants bursts into applause, there is a cheer, it is their day, and they are dedicating themselves to the ‘Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary’.

Strangely they have not forgotten us, they urge us to follow the Confrades with their batches of rice plants back to the Church, but I have other plans.

‘Ienam tum missak? (Aren't you coming for Mass?) asks Milagrin

‘Nam, mak anim khuim ospak zai’ (No, no I have to be elsewhere) I say and smile, she leaves me and hurries after the Confrades and their sheaves of rice stalks.

 I want to savour my village when it is quiet, where I can walk around the bandhs much as I did in my childhood.

I take in the sights, every blade of grass has a sheen of its own, droplets of moisture cling to them, the air laden with dampness, and I love and delight in everything I see.

And then I see Avila, Benita, Viola full of chatter, clean well pressed uniforms with huge bows in their hair much like huge butterflies.

‘Where to?’ I ask.

‘School’ they say

‘School?’ They glance at me,

‘What’s wrong with this woman?’ is the unspoken thought. They burst into laughter.

‘Independence Day...’

Oh.

I walk around aimlessly.

The fields are now far behind, in my purposeless wanderings I stumble upon a massive clearing under a gigantic mango tree.

Anticipation fills the air, the periphery of the clearing is dotted with heaps of coconuts; hard medium sized coconuts, flexing their muscles, showing off.

Agnel the padekar, is slowly building the heap, waiting for buyers, he has been collecting this pile meticulously, hoping it will fetch him a good price.

Ana Maria and Josefina yell out loudly from across the clearing, come for breakfast they shout.

I demure, is it good manners just to barge in for breakfast? Just then Josefina’s toddlers drag me to their house.

 Mama said, ‘there are patoleo and you love patoleos,’ ‘Io, io’ they clamor, ‘tuk  borem kit dakoitam’ 

And they bring out their trucks of various colours.

‘Borem disnai?' (Aren't they beautiful)

‘Oi bôre distai’ (yes they are pretty) But my mind is on the patoleo

Yes, I love patoleos’.

These delicious steamed packets cooked once a year on Khonsachem Fest. Delicious.

Parcels of turmeric leaves coated with rice flour and stuffed with a mixture of coconut and jaggery. Patoleos steamed in the wee hours of the morning, away from toddlers and their prying fingers.

Every woman in the house, Ana Maria, Josefina, Manisha and even the older Coinsão wear clothes of an identical pattern and color, it screams ‘we are Family’ ties of closeness, love and friendship.

Take a look at the dress and you know who is related to whom and most importantly who are friends with whom.

A burst of music gets me and the toddlers outside; ‘Bhair iea, bhair iea’ (Let's go out) they clamor and holding my hand drag me out into the open space.

A portable music system has been hooked on.

There are other distractions too;

Emiliano’s Guerrancho Bôil, is being gently coaxed out onto the open space by Xavier.

No particular reason for the Guerrancho Bôil to be out there but well... 

it adds to the merriment and everyone is now aware that Emiliano owns a Guerrancho Bôil And Guerranche Bôil don’t come cheap.

Then in no time at all the open space is besieged by men from all the wards of my village and a fearsome and a complicated procedure of breaking the coconuts begins.

There is fierce betting too, aw come now what’s a little betting once a year.

The player selects a hard coconut placing it in the cup of his palm; the opponent lifts his coconut to a height and brings it down with great speed, dexterity and strength on to the coconut in the cupped palm.

Pain shoots up my arm, how do these men do it, surely it must be painful and nerve jarring.

The winner of course is the person whose coconut remains intact. 

But the frenzied zing is missing, coconuts are being smashed everywhere, hep and zingy music is being played, but what the hell is missing?

Yes, there is the palpable feeling of something-is-missing.

And then Emiliano enters the space with a huge laugh, his Rod Steward gravelly voice, his attitude of I-am- going-to-win every contest here.

After that everything takes on an air of gaiety, the betting is fast and furious; the music seems louder, the arguments shriller, the laughter more boisterous.

Children munch on discarded coconut, by midday the heap of broken coconuts is large but there are better things to eat. Time for lunch and patoleo.

Come evening and the women are out enjoying themselves after a hard day’s work.

Teams are selected for a complicated game of Mitam, involving ‘guarding the boundaries’ and ‘catching the opponent.'

Laughter, shrill arguments and flying skirts fill the air.

But as we all know every good thing has to come to an end...

At 7 everyone is back home, on the morrow a long day in the fields awaits everyone...