“Consciously or unconsciously, we are searching for God” Carl Jung.
In India, thanks to the tolerance to faiths in the country, there are millions of Gods. Representatives of all confessions of the world coexist together. But Goa is a predominantly Catholic state, since the Portuguese brought and forcibly imposed Christianity.
We got to Old Goa. The mass of parishioners in the church was the first thing that struck me in Goa. Crowds of dark-skinned people flashily appearing in bright satin shirts and dresses, branded shoes, carrying shiny bags and haughtily marching along the dusty roads cutting through the resting cows and the chaotic movement of everything that can move. Mario Miranda, a local cartoonist, became the most popular for the accuracy of the displayed farce. Even without comments.
To my surprise, Goa turned out to be an Asian Vatican, the center of Catholicism throughout Asia.
But in the churches, garlands of fresh orange flowers were hanging on the statues of saints and near the entrance you can see dozens of pairs of slippers lined up by pure memory, Indians tourists, entering any temple, take off their shoes or footwear, be it Hindu temple, Sikh gurudwara or Muslim mosque and, according to their usual customs, go inside barefoot. Therefore, there is synthesis of religions at every step. Despite the pathos and the endeavor of the Goans to look Christians, they are more like Mario Miranda’s parody of believers, masquerades, clowns. The fragile Christian traditions of 451 years of colonization, imbibed historical Vedic roots.
Comicality began with the naming of the Basilica of Bom Jesus and ended with Saint Ignatius of Loyola, a holy libertine, to whom the phrase “the end justifies the means” belongs. It is enough anecdotal. It seems that this is the Russian 101st-kilometer, where all the “undesirable elements” were exiled, or Portuguese Australia, where the condemned Englishmen served their sentence. However, the city of Tula is famous not only for samovars, gingerbread, gunsmiths and harmonics. Here, 101st km from Moscow, Peter the Great sent the famous Lefty, “who nailed the flea”. I’m used to it. But the analogies amused me.
Goans give away the satanically suspended upside down five-pointed stars, for the Bethlehem star, indicating the birthplace of Jesus. Christmas installations on dirty dusty roads and in the doorways don’t go well with the widespread signs of Swastika and Om. It reminds the Catholics that there is no need to wait for the judgment day, it takes place every day.
Darwin discovered that the plant and animal world does not exist by themselves but adapt to each other. St. Francis Xavier, and then the Inquisition converted the heathens into Christianity, not hesitating in the means as long as the goal was justified. Likewise, the Goans, opportunists, took the European names for themselves and decided that this was enough for a demonstrative change of faith in order to get their privileges from the colonialists.
Before the arrival of righteous Catholics, local residents of Goa managed to live peacefully under the Islamic Sultanate of Yusuf Adil Shah. Local residents since 1510 migrated, others died, while others descended from barren money trees, like the Darwinian dryopithecines, and adapted to life on earth under the names of others. It is not surprising that now Muslims, in particular, have fun at the expense of modern local Catholics.
Catholic Goans funnily, they look like colonial atavists. After all, in Goa, no one speaks and more so does not think in Portuguese. And the native language is considered the one in which you can think. By the way, the services in the temples are held according to the schedule: either in Konkani, local Goan language, or in Marathi, the language of the state of Maharashtra, or in Kannada, the language of the neighboring state of Karnataka, and even in English.
In fact, the first visit to Goa, apart from delight, surprises and a lot ofimpressions, brought me the first scars on the body. One of our Indian acquaintances, speaking fluently in Russian, volunteered to show us the northern beaches of Goa. We were delighted and agreed.
In the darkness, the full moon was shining brightly diluting the darkness so that one could feel like a cat, since visibility remained good for the human eye. We bewitchingly looked at the moon. Suddenly something like a black velvet curtain blocked the moonlight along with the moon itself. Eclipse. It was a bad sign, so I felt. Polia did not attach much importance to this. But I became anxious for some reason. The moon had nowhere failed to influence me.
Suddenly the Russian-speaking Indian returned, but not alone. Explaining to us that we will go on two motorcycles, so he had invited a friend. Polia liked the friend – big-eyed, with long thick black eyelashes. And she jumped decisively on the seat behind him: “Excellent! Let’s Go! A new adventure! The northern beaches of Goa in the night”.
I agreed in silence. Where? Who cares! This was an opportunity to see something new. On the way we came across a Hindu temple, where the service was going on. This I could not miss: “Stop-stop. Give me some time. I want to see this pooja”.
For the first time, I actually saw the Hindu temple from inside. There were people sitting on the floor, a pleasant aroma from the visible smoke swirled from the entrance doors into the night, the brahmin was at the center, the only person facing the entrance. I sat down next to everyone on the floor. I caught the sounds of pleasant meditative and at the same rhythmic music and started swinging alone everyone to its beat. I wanted to mew, like a valerian cat, inhaling the aromas of incense. I did not understand a single word, just got some information from outside. Well, sound waves and aromas do not need a sense or translation. I was always very perceptive to such rhythmic streams of sounds.
For the mystic, the world has two grades: the sacred (sacral) space and the space of everyday life. The mystic connects these two worlds with some sacred action. He is between these worlds, at the crossroads of two worlds. I got there where I had longed to be.
But then Polia appeared in the doorway, started to grimace and waving her hands at the exit. I had to obey again.
It happened on the way back, somewhere in Anjuna. Already considerably high on the Old Monk rum, I insisted on driving the motorcycle. As a result, my speed did not go well with the turn and I left imprints of half of my face and part of the right side of the body on the lateritic sidewall. My passenger, the Russian-speaking Indian, who was sitting behind me, jumped in time, unhurt. My friend Polina with the second guy stopped dumbstruck. While I was lying unconscious, my co-passenger panicked and went hysterical with flabbergasted eyes and waving his hands like a propeller: “Everything is over. We need to scoot, urgently! We have to get out of the scene, otherwise we will be in a lot of trouble, problems with the police. I can lose my job and respect. Let’s just sit on the bike and get out of here! Someone will soon notice her, identify her and deal with her. We cannot stay here, they will drag us to the police. This is a huuge problem!”
Polina, standing in a silent stupor, at this time was having other thoughts. How will she tell my mother and son about what happened, how will she take my coffin, or will I be cremated according to Indian tradition? And only the second friend turned out to be sane and adequate. He came up to me and began to feel my pulse. And when I opened my eyes and even stirred a little, then Polya calmed down and exhaled: “We take her with us, – she decisively gave orders to her friend. – We are going straight to the hotel”. The driver and Polina’s hands encircled me so that I would not fall along the road like a roly-poly. My co-passenger was still a bit upset about the scratches on the motorcycle, shaking his head, clucking, lamenting, and after calculating how much repairs would cost him, he followed us.
I was lucky. I just lost a little blood. Shattered, but not broken, I laughed at myself and my recklessness. Well, for the first time in my life I had sat on the pillion seat of a motorcycle, without a helmet, drunk, in the night,