Govenkar - 1,000 KILOGRAMS OF GOA

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1,000 KILOGRAMS OF GOA (c) Copyright Rohan Govenkar

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All Rights Reserved. This is a work of fiction and all characters and incidents described in this book are the product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

The deepest thanks to my family who were totally clueless that the hours I spent daily, glued to my desk, went into writing this book; and who curbed their curiosity and didnt bother my work.

Also, I am grateful to all the people who offered their support and guidance throughout the books creation; and especially to those who accompanied me on numerous field trips to Divar Island, pretending to hunt for a treasure. I must appreciate my publisher for giving this book a platform to reach out to the world, and his editorial team for making it worthy.

A special thanks to Shefali Vaidya, Charmaine Fernandes, David Lourenco, Milind Barve, Rithika Mirchandani, Jatin Naik, Colin Coelho, Milind Sardessai, Sudeep Dalvi, Bhupesh Nagvekar, Parijat Chakraborty and late Jocelyn Pereira.

12th September 2014

I didnt care about my Honda Activa. Yes, it took me places, navigating through my citys narrow streets and bylanes in a way my car couldnt possibly match. It gave me the opportunity to feel the rejuvenating Goan breeze brush through my hair. Sometimes I feared that I was going to lose my hair like my dad did when my age. But I didnt care about my hair all that much either.

All I cared about was my manuscriptthe manuscript of 1,000 KILOGRAMS OF GOA which I had tucked in my scooters little storage space, next to the petrol tank. It was meant to have reached the hands of my publisher; not the grump who robbed my Activa.

I had a newspaper classified printed in the local dailies, requesting the (hopefully considerate) thief to return my manuscript; I even specified that he could keep the scooter. The following evening, I got a call from Mr Vikitohr Paulhou. He had mistakenly pinched my scooter thinking it was his. He sounded apologetic; he sounded strange too. He asked me to drop by his office: Aldan Estates, 3 rd floor, Viraj Commercial Centre, Panjim, Goa. For as long as I live, I am never going to forget this address. Aldan Estates was a plush office with busy clerks running with files and registers. Voices were hardly audible, just the hum of air-conditioners, printers, fax machines and coffeemakers reverbrated through the space. I headed straight for the person who seemed the least bit busy.

I want to meet Mr Vikitohr... something, I demanded breathlessly.

To your right. The woman pointed to a translucent glass cabin on her right.

I didnt pause to thank her. I knocked on the cabin door immediately. Mr Vikitohr? I asked as I peeked into his cabin.

Mr Vikktorr Paulhou, yes, spoke a white man with a thick moustache brown enough to match the dye of his receding hairline. I barged in his cabin hurriedly, and knocked down a few pencils from his desk.

Mr Vikktorr Paulhou, you phoned me this morning.

Vikktorr handed me his business card so I learnt to pronounce his name right.

Mr Viktor Pavlov, I corrected.

He was Russian, in his mid-forties, with almond eyes like a Chihuahua. He had a benign smile and a bulbous nose shone on his face like a miniature version of the CFL bulb above.

Oh, the scooter guy? Pavlov rose. Please, take a seat.

I dont mean to be rude, but I dont have time for all that. I parked in the middle of the road, I said.

No, please sit, Pavlov insisted and tapped a little steel bell.

Within seconds, a uniformed office boy stepped in.

Ashwin, I will get car parked correct for you. You sit, no worry. Pavlov stretched his tanned hand out towards me.

I handed over my car keys, somewhat restlessly, and sat on the cushioned chair. Mr Pavlov, I am here for the manuscript I left in the scooter, I said.

You here for what? Pavlov asked.

The manuscript.

What is manuskripth?

Erm...Forget it. Wheres my scooter?

The scooter is down, near little cigarette shop. But what is manuskripth?

The papers I had left inside the scooter. Theyre important, I sighed.

Very nice diary. You life has good story, Pavlov said.

What diary? Oh, you read the manuscript?

What is manuskripth?

Manuscript means... chuck it. Did you read those papers?

I no read. My English bad. My wife read and translate in Russian. Pavlov smiled at me.

You mean my manuscript is not in the scooter?

No, your scooter down. Your manuskripth with me in office. I like your manuskripth. My wife like your manuskripth, Pavlov said. He spoke slowly, caressing the armrest of his chair, as though he was speaking to a small child. Right then, I began to realise that perhaps the recovery of my manuscript was not going as planned.

Thank you, sir. Can I have it back? I requested.

Er, yes. But you have problem with Russians? Your diary says. Pavlov scratched his nose.

Its not my diary. And I dont have problems with anybody.

We Russians not bad, we nice people.

Very much so, you are the best people in the universe. Now can I have my papers? I was annoyed and did little to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

You say in diary we are bloody Russians, Pavlov kept on. I didnt know why these people settled in India without knowing a single language known to Indians.

Mr Pavlov, please let me have those papers.

Mr Ashwin Shirodkar, first I want truth.

The name is Rohan. This was correct Ashwin Shirodkar was the protagonist in my novel.

Okay, Rohan, see, there are good Indians and bad Indians. Same same, there are bad Russians and good Russians. You meet one bad Russian, does not mean all Russians bad.

I know that already. I wouldnt generalise.

Pavlov paused for a while. Where you live? He spoke, after a couple of seconds.

Taleigao, I replied.

The car key you gave me. What car is it?

Maruti WagonR.

You smoke?

Yes, I do.

Then you hate Russians also, Pavlov scoffed.

No, I dont hate Russians. Impatient now, I spoke loudly.

Pavlov laughed, and this annoyed me even more. You write half truth, half lie?

I wasnt in the mood to continue this interview any longer, especially with my manuscript nowhere in sight.

Mr Pavlov, I respect the fact that you called me to admit your mistake. I appreciate your honesty. Now, could you kindly return my belongings and let me go?

Take your scooter, I dont want.

And my manuscript?

What is a manuskripth? Pavlov asked and cackled again.

I looked at him intently, wishing that I could crack his skull.

I dont see whats funny. I need to send the manuscript... err, papers to my publisher urgently, I said.

Its a book? Like a story? Like Harry Potter? he asked.

Yes, its a book. I was glad he understood now.

But, Mr Ashwin Shirodkar, you live in Taleigao, drive Maruti WagonR, you smoke. And still you say its not real story?

First of all, Ashwin is my novels protagonist. Hes a character in the novel. So stop calling me Ashwin, I explained.

He cant be just character. He is real. He knows history of Goa. He knows geography of Goa. He know about Divar. He know about treasure in Divar. Pavlovs eyes lit up.