SAMRUDHI KERKAR
Sao Joao is one of the most beloved festivals of Goa. It is celebrated to welcome the monsoon and express gratitude for the life-giving rains. More than just a festival, it is also a beautiful reflection of the communal harmony that has long flourished in Goa.
Most people are familiar with the grand Sao Joao celebrations in the cities, where the festivities unfold with great pomp and revelry. But beyond the bustling towns, the villages of Goa celebrate the festival with a charm that is simpler, and deeply rooted in tradition.
To experience this beautiful side of Sao Joao, we often go to Sonarbag, a tranquil hamlet in Usgao. Resting peacefully on the serene banks of the Khandepar River, this little hamlet is home to Hindu and Christian families who have lived together in harmony for generations. It is truly a treat to witness their bonding, especially on the occasion of this heartwarming festival.
The people of this hamlet were once skilled toddy tappers (rendeirs), who climbed towering coconut palms to extract the sweet sap (sur), from which they prepared toddy, feni, and jaggery as sweet as their hearts.
As we entered the hamlet, we passed houses that quietly reflected the diversity of its people. Some had a tulsi pedestal standing gracefully in the courtyard, while others bore a holy cross. Yet, behind every doorway lived people with their welcoming smiles and benevolent hearts.
We reached the Saint Sebastian Chapel, from where the festival begins. The celebrations had not yet started. The lanes were calm, the houses wore a peaceful silence, but the air itself seemed to hum with anticipation.
Everyone eagerly awaited the Sao Joao celebrations, ready to embrace the rains with childlike joy. What touched us the most was that it wasn’t just the youngsters. The elders, too, were equally excited, carrying the same sparkle in their eyes.
One of the uncles was in his garden, plucking flowers and leaves to weave a beautiful flower crown (kopel), a traditional headgear adorned with seasonal flowers, fruits, and leaves. Curious to witness the process, we stood watching. Sensing our interest, he warmly invited us into his home.
As he patiently crafted the kopel, I asked him about the materials he was using. Smiling, he showed us the base ring, made from ‘amrutvel’ (Tinospora cordifolia). He explained that this vine had become familiar to many during the COVID pandemic, when it was widely used to prepare medicinal concoctions. Usually, a coconut frond serves as the base, but sometimes these wild forest vines find their place in the celebration as well.
He recalled how, in earlier days, they would venture into the forests to gather native flowers, leaves, and vines to make their kopel.
How beautiful it was to know that our people preserved and nurtured their bond with nature through festivals and rituals. Such traditions gently teach each generation to recognise the seasons, cherish native plants, and remain connected to the landscapes that sustain them. But today, as times have changed, the exotic flowers too have found their way into the kopel.
The festival began at the Saint Sebastian Chapel with a prayer. Singing songs that welcomed the rain, to the rhythm of ghumot as the procession then made its way to the Hindu Gawda homes, where they were lovingly served homemade delicacies such as patoleo and other sweet treats.
The procession then continued from house to house, and every home welcomed everyone with its own traditional delicacies such as pinac, sanna, cakes, fruits, dates, boiled eggs, and steaming cups of tea that felt especially comforting in the cold rain.
Soon, we too became part of the procession, getting drenched in the rain while soaking in every moment of the celebration. Every doorstep greeted us with warmth, everyone was eager to share their stories and welcome us into their homes.
As the festival drew to a close and we were about to leave, an elderly lady asked me in Konkani “How are you going?” I told her that we were travelling by car. She fondly advised us to drive safely. Though her dialect was different, her caring words reminded me of my own grandmother.
At that moment, I wondered, what truly separates people of different religions? Their dialects may be different. Their prayers and faiths may be different. Yet, in Sonarbag, all those differences quietly faded away. What remained was the beautiful bond between people, united by the same shared landscape, same rivers and forests and, above all, the same human emotions.
