by Riddhima Basiya

I decided to travel solo this time, yearning to get acquainted with the character of a place and its people rather than instant gratification in a grandiose resort stuffed with superficial objects, but lacking in soul. The web advertisement for mansão de Babolim or Babolim Mansion could not have appeared at a better time. Showing impressive pictures of the mansion’s facades surrounded by lush trees and trimmed hedges, the advert described the place as a ‘heritage homestay with complimentary breakfast and free wi-fi’. However, upon my arrival, I learned that this now common label had been a gross injustice to the 400-year old Portuguese mansão steeped in history.

Over the centuries, the ravages of time had engulfed Mansão de Babolim — once home to a burly and gregarious Portuguese governor. Mother Nature had cruelly furrowed its painted walls and majestic facades; wild creepers had grabbed whatever they could, insects had made their conquests, and eventually, Babolim Mansion succumbed to the abyss of time culminating into a decrepit haunt of wood, bricks, glass, porcelain and forgotten memories.

“Thanks to the good Mr Singh, big man from Delhi, you know, Babolim Mansion was restored to its glory!” With a tone of finality, Mr Albert ended his tale much to my childlike disappointment. I enjoyed spending my evenings with Albert, the cheerful and pot-bellied caretaker of the mansão who talked endlessly with his guests. Sadly, my short vacation was coming to an end and I was flooded with calls from family and friends to bring their favourite Goan souvenirs and goodies on my return. On Mr Albert’s recommendation, I decided to start my shopping trip the next morning.

It was a warm, sunny day in the Sunshine State. In Babolim, the folks were up and about, carrying on the tasks their morning demanded. The service had just ended in the old chapel behind Babolim Mansion and a few churchgoers could be seen walking out. A light breeze made the coconut trees sway. All in all, it seemed like it was going to be a fine morning. I stepped out excitedly to pick my stock of freshly prepared Brie cheese, from Babolim's famous cheese maker; the cashew nuts and ‘I love Goa’ t-shirts for my nieces were reserved for the evening.

I was walking along the quiet and dusty path from the mansão to the village square when a football rolled down and stopped at my feet. I picked it up and looked around expecting to see a bunch of young boys running up to me to collect it. "Goa's religion," said a gruff voice from behind me. Startled, I turned around and saw a man smiling. He had arresting features; clear black eyes set in dusky skin, and a stout but striking nose. His oiled hair was combed neatly to the side, and large teeth were showing under a thick mustache. He was dressed in the classic t-shirt and shorts so familiar in Goa, and his toned legs donned modest chappals. “Ah yea, I guess, Goans love their football," I said. “Umm is this… yours?" I asked him, feeling my face tighten with awkwardness. “It used to be," the man replied. “Not anymore." “Oh, ok…so, I guess I'll just leave it here," I responded, confused. “I'll take it," said the man stretching out his muscular arm. “Oh sure, please," I said with an awkward smile.

He slowly cupped his left hand with the football resting on his large palm. With a fixed smile, he looked right into my eyes and said in a commanding voice, “Alfonso Viegas,'' and stretched out his right hand for a handshake. Thankfully, his introduction broke the strangeness of the situation we found ourselves in. “Oh, hello," I responded, returning the favour. His grip was strong. In his heydays, Viegas must have been an accomplished sportsman, I thought to myself. “I'm Nandini, Nandini Kapoor... staying at Babolim mansion, right behind you," I grinned, realizing I had overdone my introduction. “Very nice to meet you," said Viegas. “Same here," I said. After exchanging pleasantries, Viegas concluded the conversation by saying, enjoy your day, with his immobile smile and turned around to be on his way. “Oh, you too, bye," I said, walking away. As I turned around for one last look, I saw Viegas make a right turn into a lane and disappear. It was a strange interaction, but I didn't make much of it. Still, I did think about the football appearing out of nowhere.

I greeted Ms Welle, the friendly Swiss-German owner of the cheese shop and her courteous staff, and bought the Brie from them. I couldn't wait to have it for breakfast with Mr Albert that morning as promised. Returning to Babolim Mansion, I saw him sitting in front of the television. “Not keen on breakfast, Mr Albert?” I asked him, showing him the fresh cheese I'd just bought. “Coming in a minute! Just checked the score. I must say these buggers don't play like the champs of our day. Barretto! Alfred Mascarenhas! And the great Alfonso Viegas! What days those were!" Albert said, shaking his head. “Alfonso Viegas? You know him?" I asked incredulously. “Who doesn't? said Mr Albert. “His statue still stands in Babolim's market—a fitting tribute to a hero. We lost him twenty years ago, God bless his soul."

That evening, I made my way to the market square seeking the statue of Alfonso Viegas. It was placed two blocks away from the Church of St. Anthony as Mr Albert said it would be. I looked up at the statue to find a wide smile under a bushy mustache on a face that topped a muscular body. The right arm was made into a fist and placed on the waist. And the other was stretched out holding a familiar-looking football on a gigantic palm.

Riddhima Basiya works as a corporate communications professional in a biotechnology firm. Born and brought up in Mumbai, she has always had a great love for history; literature, photography, and travel. Her favourite writing genres are short stories and horror fiction, and she also aspires to be a children’s writer. Her first short story ‘A bittersweet Christmas’ was published by the Indian Periodical.

Banner image is by Chystiakov and is downloaded from unsplash.com