The Wise Fools of Moira...and Other Goan Folk Tales A Collection by Prof Lucio Rodrigues
August 2020 [This edition is released under the Creative Commons. Some rights reserved. This ebook may be copied and shared for non-commercial purposes, with due acknowledgements to the author and publisher. For a copy of the book WhatsApp +91-9822122436 or email goa1...@gmail.com mention PLS SEND FOLK TALES] * * * Is there a contradiction between wisdom and folly? An English proverb says: "The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool." Is the dividing line between wisdom and folly so thin that it is almost imperceptible? James of England was described as the wisest fool in Christendom. The inhabitants of an insignificant English village have been immortalised in folk lore as the wise fools of Gotham. This is so not only in England but also in India. Moira is a village in the district of Bardez in Goa. It lies a few miles away from Mapuça, the capital of the district, and the river of Mapuça flows along its southern, western and northern sides, making its soil very fertile. The village is famous for many things, among others for its banana plantations, which yield big, long bananas, called munnouchinz kellim in Konkani, and each fruit is equal to a square meal. Each grows to the length of nearly a foot with a diameter of about two and a half to three inches; the skin turns from green to yellow as it matures, and then as it ripens, the skin becomes soft and darkish brown and thin, which is a sign that it is ready to be eaten in all its glory. But the bananas are not Moira’s chief claim to fame among Goan villages. The people are as famous, if not more than their kellim, so famous indeed that they have passed into simile and proverb and legend. They are among the most industrious people of Goa. Blessed as they are with fertile land, they have used Nature’s gift to raise many crops -- rice, chillies, vegetables, bananas. Every Friday will see them wending their way with their produce on their head to the weekly fair at Mapuça. But it is not their industriousness that signals them out for unique honour among their Goan fellows. It is for a legacy that they have inherited from their forefathers -- a wisdom that is traditional. This wisdom has a stamp of its own which defies definition. Perhaps you have heard of the wise men of Gotham, and of their ingenious feats. The wise men of Moira of old were as ingenious. There is only one other village in Goa which rivals Moira in this characteristic and that is Benaulim in Salcete. Even in Konkani it has not been possible to give this baffling quality an appropriate term. This is how the people of Bardez describe the indefinite trait. To moiddekar num re, he is a guy from Moira, sar-koch moiddekar, every inch like a guy from Moira; take matxem moiddechem assa, he's got a bit of it from Moira. That it is the thing. Imagine a people as simple as simplicity itself, with an innocence and faith that belonged to the ancient world, disarming in their naïveté, winning in their irrationality, and you will have some faint idea of the people and their capacity for illogic. But it is best to let their ancient adventures speak of their ancient wisdom. * * * As their numbers increased from year to year, the people of Moira found that the village church was not big enough to contain the growing population. They called up a meeting to consider the problem. "Let us have an extension," said one of the elders. "It is better that we break down the old structure and erect a new and bigger one," said one of the younger ones, who believed in new things. "To break it down and reconstruct another will be very expensive," said a grey-haired elder. "We have no funds for it." "Why break it down at all?" said the most wizened of them. He was easily the eldest Moiddekar alive. "When a coconut tree or a mango tree is stunted, what do we do? We loosen the soil at the base, dig it up, and lay manure. Everything in nature grows. Why not a church?" and he looked round to the nodding heads, and repeated, "Why not a church?" "Yes, why shouldn't the laws of nutrition and growth apply to the church?" chirped one of the younger men who had learnt to read and write. "Manure quickens growth!" the elder continued. "Let's manure the church," he concluded. "A small church today will grow big tomorrow." "Let's manure the church," the whole gathering echoed approval. The solution appealed to the assembly. It had the irresistible logic of two plus two makes four. So said, so done. The four sides of the church on the outside were vigorously dug up, and cart-loads of manure poured in. * * * Some years later it was found that there was far too much space in front of the church, and too little at the back. It was necessary to bring the whole structure forward. A meeting of the gaumkars, that is, the owners of the land, was called, in order to decide how to adjust the space. The sacristan of the church was invited to attend the proceedings, though he was from the neighbouring village of Aldona. The discussion went far into the night, and no conclusion could be arrived at. They were baffled by the problem, though each of the gaumkars took part in the debate. At last the sacristan stood up and with the permission of the elders suggested a way out. "What do we do when we want to bring a huge stone forward?" he posed the question. "We simply push it," the others answered. "A thing moves when it is pushed." "A body at rest continues to be at rest until an external force is applied to it," said one of the youngsters who had been to the parish school. "The church must be brought ahead," the sacristan continued. "Let's push it from the rear. Yes, friends, let us push it from the rear." All heads began to nod approval. "Let's push it from the rear," said everyone. But the sacristan had not finished. "But how far ahead should we bring the church?" he asked. The elders pointed the exact spot. "Thus far," they said, "near this tree." "But there is one more point to be settled," the shrewd sacristan continued. "If everyone pushed from the rear, the church might be pushed far beyond the limit, and even out of the compound. This must be prevented." The sacristan had a plan. "I will stand in front of the church and give the signal to stop." The members agreed. But the sacristan went on, "There must be no doubt about it." And he asked them to spread their woolen blankets in front of the church right up to the marked limit, the tree. The woolen blankets were spread as directed, right up to the tree. The men rushed to the rear of the church and pushed it with all the faith of their fathers. The clever sacristan in the meanwhile rolled up all the woolen blankets, and kept them in his room. When the men were sufficiently exhausted, he shouted a lusty Halt! Halt! With aching bodies but beaming faces the men rushed to the front of the church. The woolen blankets had disappeared, yes, under the church! They were full of praise for the sacristan who had such wonderful ideas. * * * The people of Moira are fine cultivators. One day, a youngster critical of the old methods of farming said to this father, "The man who sows tramples on the seed he scatters. This must be prevented in the interests of a richer harvest." "We must summon a meeting," his father replied. "It's a problem which has to be discussed and solved." Accordingly, a conclave of the gaumkars was held. The wisest brains struggled with the difficulty, and the discussion went far into the night. If only the sower could have wings, he would fly over the field and scatter the seed, and there would be no trampling. But how could they give him wings? Then, like a sudden illumination it came to one of the octogenarians. "Why, the sower must be placed on a cot. Then his feet will not touch the ground and trample the seed." "Excellent!. Excellent!" cried the others, with hearty approval. When seed-time came, a cot was brought into the fields and the sower stood upon it with the basket of seed. Four men had to hold the four corners of the cot, and move the sower from place to place. The eight feet of the four men trampled the seed. But the feet of the sower were far above the ground, and did not trample the seed. * * * Loyalty to one's ruler comes next to loyalty to one's God. The Rajah of Goa, it is said, once gave the people of Moira a special grant of land. It was a reward for their loyalty and for their industry. The people accepted it with great joy and were proud that they had won favour in the eyes of the Rajah. The land donations were a challenge to their sense of gratitude and everyone felt that a suitable return gift should be made to the Rajah. "Let's send our Rajah one hundred of the best picked mangoes from our trees," said one elder. It was the mango season, and the crop that year was excellent. "Let each bring the best from his trees." Every loyal and grateful son of Moira brought the best fruit, and the assembly hall was covered with heaps of different varieties and the air was filled with their sweet smell. There were Malcorado, Affonso, Pairri, Fernandina, Bism, Colaco. The selection of the best, however, was not easy. To choose the biggest in size was simple enough; but how to judge the most ripe and luscious fruit? They were all sunset-coloured, some light in shade, others of a deep golden hue. The shades were a feast to the eye. "Colour betrays," said an elder. "The sourest are often of the most fascinating hue." "Yes," agreed another, "we cannot go by colour only. It must smell ripe." "But how can just colour and smell tell us that the fruit is ripe?" said a third. "It must feel full and taut in the skin." "The final test of ripeness, dear brethren, does not lie in colour or smell or feel," said the first. "The proof of a ripe mango lies in the eating. We must taste each of the mangoes, just a nibble and a suck, and then there can be no mistake in our selection of the ripest and sweetest of the fruit." The suggestion was accepted, and there was no mistake in the choice of the sweetest hundred mangoes. * * * It was Holy Saturday, and the church of Moira was crowded with the faithful. The men had shaved their heads smooth and massaged them with oil, so that the light of the candles was reflected on their bald, round tops. The Mass was in progress, and the congregation knelt devoutly and prayed with folded hands. Suddenly, the priest intoned the Allelujah, and the choir burst forth into a series of Alleulujahs. The men pricked their ears and looked at each other as the whole church resounded with "Allemlum-yah! Allem-lumyah! Allem-lum-yah!" In the green gardens the ginger crop was ready. Ginger is called allem in Konkani. And here was an order to bring it in! For priest and choirmaster sang, "lum-yah," which means "let's bring it in." "Let's go and bring in the ginger crop," shouted one of the men below the choir. "Let's go and bring in the ginger crop," echoed the others. There was an immediate rush out of the church to the green gardens, and the ginger crop was brought in. * * * Old Salu, Pedro's neighbour, was celebrating the feast of the patron saint of Moira. It was a grand feast. For seven days there were novenas in the morning, and salves in the evening. The most famous preacher from Old Goa preached in the morning and in the evening and the band played old waltzes and marches outside the church. For seven days the village resounded with the blasts of petards (khozne), while after the salve, the night was lit up by fire-works. The vespers was the grandest ever celebrated. The pomp and splendour reached its climax on the day of the feast, Sunday, when the choir rendered the most solemn of masses, and the preacher preached his most edifying sermon. During the procession, Old Salu, clad in a white surplice and red cape, walked proudly, and Pedro looked at him with admiration. When the priest began the O Salutaris, Pedro pricked his ears and said to himself. "What a great honour to have his name thus sung in praise by the choir and the faithful. I will celebrate the feast next year," he decided on the spot. The next year, Pedro spared no expenses to have the best preacher, the best band, the best choir, the best cook. Pedro was congratulated and praised by one and all. They had never seen such a celebration. But Pedro waited for the climax of his ambition. He has ready with the white surplice and the red cape, ready for the procession. He knew the exact moment when the celebrant would begin with his name. The priest began, O Salutaris. He could not believe his ears. He turned round with shock. "It's most insulting," he cried, "I Pedro, spend all the money for the feast, and Salu gets the credit. O Salu-taris! I must speak to the vicar, it must be some trick of Salu." * * * The people of Moira rarely went beyond Mapuça, which they had to visit every Friday in order to sell the produce of the land. They met the people of the other villages at the weekly fair in Mapuça and heard many a tale of their adventures in the Ghats. The people of Arpora, Calangute and Anjuna carried salt and dried fish and exchanged them for grain from the Ghats. One day, some Moiddekars decided that they would also go to the Ghats. Twelve of them set out early at dawn. But before they left, the elders warned them about the dangers of the journey. "Be always together. If you halt for rest, and then proceed, count the number, in order to see that no one is missing. Remember you are twelve in number." The party set out promising to hang together and have a regular check on their number. Towards nightfall they rested under a large banyan tree, and ate what they had brought from home. They were very tired and slept soundly. Early at cockcrow the next morning they rose and prepared themselves to proceed on their journey. "Let me count if all are present or not," said one of them. He began to count, one, two, three, and so on till eleven. "Eleven only!" he cried out in surprise. "There is one missing." There was a general alarm "Who is missing?" one shouted. "Is it Forsu?" asked another, and was promptly assured that Forsu was present. "Let me count," said an elder, and he began to count. One, two, three, four.... He stopped at eleven. "Yes, there's one missing," he said, "Who can it be?" Another of the travellers said that he could count, but it was the same. Eleven! "Ha! Ha! Ha!", suddenly laughed one who had been watching the counting from a distance. "Have you counted yourself, each of you?" he asked. It was only then that the mystery of the twelfth man dawned on them. The one who counted was the twelfth man and he left himself out each time! ###