I thought crowns were all about baubles. Big fat diamonds sewn in platinum sitting atop a princess’ bouffant. Gold crowns crowded with ruby and emeralds. Or, the sacrificial crown of thorns that Jesus wore.
Then, it changed. My idea of a crown! By a well in Goa’s Campal, there he stood. A toddler with guava in his crown. Yes, guava, the fruit. A sprig of mint. A bunch of grapes. A banana. Two green bell peppers. All plaited into a crown with palm leaves. He was no prince. That day was not his coronation. Not too far was a man. Dressed in red; a dark carnation red that even a vampire would spurn. As if that red was not shocking enough, the man wore a garden on his head. Literally. A crown of hibiscus. Palm leaves. Pink roses. White champa . Ornamental foliage draping his forehead.
That wet June afternoon, everyone in Goa was wearing a kopel (crown). No finery. Men in shorts and vests. Women in skirts and pyjamas. Flip-flops. No make-up. Everyone gathered around a well or rivulet. With a song in the heart and a feni /coconut in hand.
June 24 is the Sao Joao Festival — the feast of St John, the Baptist. In Campal, even before I could count the crowns in the crowd, the toddler hung on precariously to his father’s hand and the two jumped into the well. A bald man with roses covering his mowed scalp screaming ‘Viva Sao Joao’ followed suit. A young girl, dangling in her boyfriend’s arms, was splashing water. A couple in Mr. Awesome and Ms. Awesome tees held hands. Suddenly, everyone leapt head first into the well. The crowd cheered. The music grew louder. Camera shutters went berserk.
I stood astounded. My jaw dropped. Until I dug into the Biblical leap of joy. The well-jumpers were not loony merrymakers. They were mimicking a saint. As the story goes, St John leapt in joy inside his mother Elizabeth’s womb when Virgin Mary came visiting. Jumping into wells is symbolic of St John’s still-in-the-womb leap of joy. The saint jumped in the womb, the pious in wells. And the crown? Curiosity was killing me. That’s to remind revellers of the crown of thorns that Jesus wore.
Merrymakers were picking fruits off each other’s crown as I stepped on board the Santa Monica. The Goa Tourism Development Corporation has been organising Sao Joao celebrations on this boat for over a decade now. No buntings and gig lights to welcome the guests. Banana bunches hung at the entrance and pineapples doubled up as chandeliers. As the boat cruised on the Mandovi, the emcee coaxed everyone to leap. “Not in the river. On the deck, please.” A girl in Portuguese costume put a wreath on my head. And I stood on the deck feeling a little like Jesus.
This unique Goan festival is celebrated across the State but nothing beats the celebrations at Siolim. I joined the crowd gaping at the decked boats. On one boat lay a fibre-glass crocodile with his mouth agape. Another had peacocks and mushrooms atop an anthill while a papier-mâché girl in an itsy-bitsy green dress was sprawled in a flower forest. Cardboard musical notes swayed in the breeze and a mermaid drowned in the muddy water. The fairground was slippery and dotted with puddles. One misstep and I could have been the drowning mermaid. Red slush was caught like stickum on my sole. Wisdom prevailed. I took the mules off and walked barefoot with two cameras slung in one hand and shoes in the other. I must have been a silly spectacle but, on Sao Joao, every quirk is forgiven.
Sao Joao is never complete without pataleo , a traditional sweetmeat made of ground rice mixed with palm jaggery, grated coconut and cardamom powder; the mixture wrapped in turmeric leaf and steamed. On the way from Siolim to Miramar, I peeped into every sweet shop for a piece of pataleo . Forget the sweet, all I got was a sour ‘no’ for an answer. The night was getting dark and my pataleo yearning bigger. A knock on my door and my friend Astrid Monteiro stood smiling with a basket of pataleos . Happy, I leapt. Not in a river. Just with joy.
That rainy June day in Goa, I wore a crown, unwrapped a pataleo , sat by the Mandovi and scraped the slushy loam off my pricey mules. My crown had no diamonds. Merely yellow and purple flowers. I am no princess. But, on Sao Joao, the crown sat pretty on my long hair.
