Heartbeatgoa.memories -PODER, PODER PAO - By: Bennet Paes

The aroma that whiffed out of a bottle of Evening in Paris might still bring to a Goan socialite, romantic memories of the evenings long gone by. But the simple pleasures of life that enthralled Goans of every hue, have their roots right inside the village bakery. Because that’s where the most enduring aroma came from out of the freshly baked village pao. And the producer of that masterpiece was none other than the village poder. Few other sounds, too, were so joyous as the jingle that came out of his club, as he struck it hard on the ground while striding through the dusty village lanes. He wore a cabai, a vestment almost competing with the cassock of the village clergy. A large basket of wares magically balanced on his head, also added to his theatrics. Children would be seen clustering around, as the poder approached their neighbourhoods and as the jingle grew in intensity. They were all familiar faces to the poder and indeed, harbingers of the guiraik to follow. The benevolent poder would oftentimes reward the children with a khankonn, which gesture would send the children ecstatically chanting the popular lyric of those days: Poder, poder pao ducra boncant dao. Those were the days of the 30’, 40’ and perhaps 50?, when Goans of all faiths used to be more sussegad and less ambitious than they are now. That included the poder, too. His morning calls were not early enough to get the freshly baked pao on time to our breakfast tables. As a result, calcho pao used to be toasted on the kitchen fire, to go along with the next morning’s cup of coffee. But, on the other hand, the day’s fresh pao was seen as a perfect match for yesterday’s atoiloli coddi. It was a make-shift affair of sorts, but it worked magic on our die-hard palates. Admittedly, changing times also brought about a change in customs. The poder of today has shed the traditional cabai. He no longer balances the basket on his head. Instead, he navigates on a pao-laden bicycle through narrow lanes, made even narrower by a serpentine chain of durgam. The old jingle no longer heralds his morning chore. Instead, a diminutive form of that ancient motor-horn ponk-ponks menacingly to wake up even the neighbourhood’s kingfisher. He no longer has access to doorsteps, but transacts business over the durig tops. The transactions are still conducted in Konkani, but with a sprinkling of Hinglish to curry favour with the growing number of migrant house-wives. And if truth be told, the variety of his wares has somewhat shrunk, too. The kankhon that used to be the children’s delight at one time has receded into history, and the bakri has surfaced as a worthy successor . Moreover, the heavenly aroma that used to be the hallmark of the sur-blended-pao is drastically diluted due to a shortage of Goan renders who have chosen to slog it out in Arab lands, rather than climb up to a sur-filled damonem. All said and done, it bakes down to an uneasy feeling - that the traditional poder too will some day ease out of the scene, leaving behind the already diluted pao to be eventually replaced by a chapatti.