Photo Essay: In a visit to the Serendipity Arts Festival in Panjim, Goa, Deekshith Pai explored the political complexities of contemporary art, while rediscovering his own ancestral lands.

- Deekshith Pai

I’m a from Kochi, Kerala. But in many ways than one, I have built my connection with Goa. Coming from the Gouda Saraswat Brahmin community, prior to the Portuguese conquest of Goa, my ancestors were all Goans, running their businesses, working for the Deccani Sultans or the vassal of the Vijayanagara empire, and engaged in religious activities around the nine family gods. Many of our Anglo-Indian neighbours and acquaintances in Kochi too trace their roots to Goa, similar to ours.

About 500 years later, today, many of us do not have any relations with Goa. Our food has absorbed the tastes of Kerala, our Konkani dialect has adapted Malayalam influences for convenience, and we love wearing the traditional Kerala mund (dhoti) to our occasions. Hence, developing a connection with Goa was a deeply personal pursuit to understand the history of this transition. For me, Goa has always held a position of a second-home (or rather a lost-home?). ‘Goan plans’ were not exotic anymore—rather, they were a voyage to an ancestral land.

And on this voyage, I planned to explore a very niche space in Goa: The Serendipity Arts Festival—held from December 15-23, 2023—an interdisciplinary event that invited artist from across the globe to showcase their work and discuss sensitive topics through the diverse forms of their art.

The trip was also an exploration of our ancestral land of Theesvadi, today’s state capital of Panjim, where 30 families who started my family’s lineage were settled by the mythical god and the architect of our philosophy: Bhargavarama, popularly called Parashurama. From the Kadambas to the Portuguese, Goa, and specifically Panjim, had a niche importance, given its strategic location on the banks of the river Mandovi. Hence, both culturally and politically, Panjim encapsulated the essence of each of its patrons, redefining itself each time, to become one of the culturally diverse places in India.

I was dropped at the Panjim bus stop on the Kochi-Mumbai NH 66, hardly a kilometre and a half from Fontainhas, where I was headed. I crossed the Rio de Ourѐm, the creek that separated the erstwhile Portuguese quarters from the Indian settlements, and, lo and behold, que vista! How truly they had spoken when they said Panjim encapsulated the essence of each of its patrons. William Dalrymple, in The Age of Kali: Indian Travels & Encounters, described Fontainhas in Panjim as a “small chunk of Portugal washed up on the shores of the Indian Ocean.” One could see rows of building blocks as colourful as a Lego set but in their regal outlook. Fontainhas was meant to house the Portuguese authorities and their families and still retains the signature they had etched. Probably somewhere in here is where my ancestors too lived. Today, I walked on their path.

Colonial history runs in the veins of Panjim city even today. Given that it was the very first land to become a European colony in the Indian subcontinent and the last to get its independence, Goa’s culture was redefined as an interesting mix of Portuguese as well as equal measures of indigenous Goan values. From the buildings to the food to the language to the culture, Panjim’s heart still beats to the tune of this diversity it beholds. As one walked across the MG road on the neatly paved footpath, adorned by the copper pod trees, it was hard to miss the distinctive architectural styles. A typical Indo-Portuguese approach in their bright pastel shades of greens, reds, and blues, with their quintessential intricate iron grill windows, red tiled roofs, the Portuguese balcaos adorned with elegantly groomed tropical plants in vintage style pots, welcoming visitors with their Azulejo hand-painted colourful ceramic tiles. Hence, the locations of the Seredipity Arts Festival became a study of the city, where sometimes one walked through the ever-winding narrow lanes or sometimes by the creek, and sometimes along the river front.

Both culturally and politically, Panjim encapsulated the essence of each of its patrons, redefining itself each time, to become one of the culturally diverse places in India.

The quiet yet elegant Old Excise building sat coyly behind young copper pods on one side. On the other was the imposing Old Goa Medical College building, or the erstwhile Palace of Maquineses, outshining the gigantic copper pods flanking its sides. Then there was the Old PWD Building to the Art Park to Azad Maidan and even a Multi-Level Car Parking as a venue. These structures were all connected by the purpose: They were hosting not only one of the biggest interdisciplinary arts festivals in India, but also celebrating a community of like-minded people gathered to appreciate, discuss, and support art and artists of the world. The grand stairs led to the palatial corridors of the GMC or Excise building, with each of the rooms hosting a microcosm of different cultures and stories. It was an experience of learning and unlearning, with a community who gathered to support the process.

Thus started my festival morning in Theesvadi.

This is the The Last Aviary on Earth
And you are witnessing the last Dawn Chorus

Out came the words in robotic tune as I entered a pitch-dark room. As the screen illuminated on one wall, the voice returned. It is the year 2409. The machines who were meant to mitigate climate change have taken over the world. Along with humans, they have enslaved other organisms of the world, including birds. Considering birds as redundant species, the machines terminated the species, leaving behind a few imprisoned in aviaries.

I entered the adjacent room, The Last Aviary on Earth, by Surbhi Mittal. Perched atop a dead tree was a metal framed bird. Lone and lifeless. The exhibit was a reminder of our present autocratic regimes picking senseless wars for land, resources, and power. Our ignorance and silence on these gross violations of not just human rights but also of ecological balance was even more threatening. I was struck by a moment of clairvoyance. Is this just the planet’s last aviary? Or could it be a representation of the last human on Earth?

The faint voices of women talking in Hindi whispered through the corridor of the Excise Building. Near the room at the end of the corridor, the voices became clearer. There were two magnificent installations on both ends of the door. On the one side, there was a 15-foot installation of a woman carrying a large bundle which masked her head. On the other, there were two women engaged in cutting textiles, giving an illusion of motion with a smart play of light. These, along with other similar exhibits, formed Richa Arya’s I Sew My Life Against My Own, a tale of the exploitative lives that the migrant women workers endure in the textile recycling factories of Panipat, Haryana.

These garments are the ones we wear. They are here because we assumed that recycling was the key to reducing our carbon footprint. But we should be worried: Our sense of sustainability disproportionately affects the women workers who are overworked, underpaid and face grave health issues in these factories. Even the ‘good cause’ of recycling garments is a business run by profit-greedy lobbies, who maximize their profits by underpaying the women, restricting any kinds of benefits for them, and invisibilizing their work by not maintaining any registers of them.

They, too, are part of the nature that must be saved.

Dark Waters by Munem Wasif took the audience through the haunting experience of the Rohingya refugees, many of whom crossed the Bay of Bengal to reach Bangladesh, only to lead another life of neglect, humiliation, and tragedy. What seemed as a dark image with gradations of grey transpired into the dark waters of the sea, echoing the screams of those millions of displaced persons.

The installation was accompanied by Wasif’s poetry; a Bangladeshi photographer and writer, Wasif has documented the harrowing tales of the refugees in their camps and their dreams of a life in their own land. The exhibit was a part of Shalmali Shetty’s curatorial work The Nights Will Follow The Days.

When I mentioned that the Goan heart still beats to a diverse set of música, I was not being poetic. This exhibition by Goa Familia welcomed you to a room full of Goan theatre, art, and music. It was not only about looking at the art forms, but also understanding the artists, their background, and their inspirations. The walls were adorned with their pictures on and off the stage, generously contributed by their family and well-wishers.

The exhibition was, in many ways, also breaking the stereotypical notions of Goa as a hipster’s paradise grooving to psytrance. It was tracing the roots of the beautiful Goan music, a criss-cross of western and indie classical music, with generous mix of Konkani and folk rhythms with Portuguese influence. It was never this or that, it was a fusion of all. And that made it all the more beautiful.

Crafted Expressions: Embodied Traditions In The Indian Performing Arts, was an experience of understanding the diverse forms of traditional performative arts that narrated the tales from the great Indian epic of Ramayana to the stories of the emergence of local deities. The richness of the arts not only came from the performance, but also from the various accompaniments, including elaborate costumes, body paintings, and musical instruments. While on one hand, the performance celebrated the beliefs and culture of the communities; on the other, it was also honouring the skilled artistry innate to the region. The exhibition was a visual treat, including pictures of the Chamdyacha Bahulya, a form of shadow theatre in Maharashtra, Theyyam, a practice of ancient folk worship of regional gods in Northern Kerala, and the Cham dance, celebrating Buddhism in Ladakh and other parts. The walls were also decorated with head gear, face masks, ornaments, puppets, and musical instruments used in each of the art forms.

As I stood looking at the exhibit with numerous palm-sized terracotta pots stacked neatly on four layers and many more shattered on the floor, a couple brushed past and began to smash a couple of pots. Then they giggled while murmuring something to each other, smashed a last one and swiftly moved to the next room. Before I could comprehend the chain of events, a volunteer kindly offered me a pot. “Smash the Brahminical patriarchy within you. You break a pot and you are step closer,” she said.

The exhibit was a reminder of our present autocratic regimes picking senseless wars for land, resources, and power. Our ignorance and silence on these gross violations of not just human rights but also of ecological balance was even more threatening. Is this just the planet’s last aviary? Or could it be a representation of the last human on Earth?

Smita Urmila Rajmane, whose brainchild I had been admiring, also believed so. The exhibit was reflecting on the actions of Radhika Vemula, an anti-caste activist and the mother of the late Dalit scholar Rohit Vemula, who inaugurated the Elgar Parishad at Bhima Koregaon by smashing pots, a symbol of caste hierarchy. It was a choice for everyone: You either maintain the structurally rigid caste system or choose to break the hierarchy and smash the pots.

I smashed a couple, too: For Rohit, for Dr Ambedkar, for Madhu, and for a million others who fight their everyday battles against the caste system.

Walking outside the GMC complex I suddenly halted at a footstep sign on the cobblestones. I aligned my foot accordingly and had this interesting series of “Did You Know?” boards on both my sides. Team Locavore led by Chef Thomas Zacharias, as a part of their Culinary Arts curation, had developed a set of interactive activities with the people. And the theme? Food! From knowing about your vegetables to cooking the best dishes out of them to pickling the leftover vegetables to discussions over food, they had it all. Their workshops innovatively discussed about indigenous food stories and inclusion of it in one’s daily diet.

Back to the footsteps, I was asked to walk the path with each of boards holding a surprise activity. One had me identifying some vegetables and another had me guessing the dish by its aroma. One discussed about discrimination based on what one eats and another discussed issues of overfishing.

This wall was the finale of my ‘food path’, featuring participants’ answers to various activities of the walk. What piqued my interest were the answers to the discrimination one faced around food. In a country that has a diverse population and food culture, one is bound to come across people with different tastes. Yet, here I was, reading everything opposite to it. An anonymous person wrote that they faced discrimination because they ate pork, and another wrote about how they were harassed for eating beef. Yet another note described a girl who was excluded from groups because she was from the Northeast, and they believed that she ate all kinds of animals.

One’s choice of food also has a connection with their socio-economic background and their upbringing and hence, such discriminations question one’s identity, causing traumatizing wounds to their self-respect. It’s these comments and individual discrimination that later becomes a mob and leads to lynching based on mere assumptions and stereotypes. People dying for food—and people dying over food.

Serendipity was also an experience of experiments in performing arts. From treating the viewers to the classics of Zakir Hussain to highly experimental works of The Pineapple Orchestra—where each instrument is operated using a fresh pineapple head that tunes the strings—the festival ensured that the audience was not only entertained, but also made aware of the musical heritage and culture of the world. The Pineapple Orchestra, for instance, was not just a musical experiment, but also the tale of pineapple’s colonial history and its greater acceptance in today’s contemporary world. Such meaning-making through musical medium connected better with people who turned up in big numbers for the performances. The Art Park was also the centre for some fusion experiments with bands playing music influenced from Indian classical, American jazz, Bollywood of the 60s, and European classics.

Sitting cozy on the comfortable beds spread on the sands under the canopy of trees, enjoying a drink of choice in the warm Goan afternoon, cooled by the breeze from the Mandovi, the audience grooved and danced and whistled to the fusion extravaganza of the bands.

As I walked back to my room, from a day filled with conversations around art, I was trying to comprehend it all. Some of the installations were relatable, some could be understood, some could be located in the political climate we live in, while some were also difficult to make meaning of. But all of it was art.

These works of art were a word of caution. Addressing pressing issues like climate change, gender politics, and the exploitation of the marginalized, the festival had brought together pertinent stories from across the world to a common platform.

I was standing at the old bridge over the Rio de Ourѐm creek, from where I could see the new illuminated suspension bridge at a distance. The bridge overlooked the confluence of the creek with the river Mandovi. From the myths to the history of contemporary Goa, in various forms, Mandovi has held a special place in giving Goa its cultural richness.

Modern art experimented with forms and expressed itself through different mediums. Many a time it breaks all the resemblance it has with traditional art forms creating cognitive dissonance in the viewer. I was at such junctures today. Yet, I could sense a common thread that highlighted some pertinent questions about our world. These works of art were a word of caution. Addressing pressing issues like climate change, gender politics, and the exploitation of the marginalized, the festival had brought together pertinent stories from across the world to a common platform. It had built an environment of like-minded people, who were connecting with these stories, otherwise divided by geographical boundaries. The artists were only a medium, the voices belonged to every community that have been silenced for generations. Modern art, hence was becoming a tool to express stories that couldn’t be contained in traditional art.

Nemiraj Shetty, an artist, curator, and my mentor, laughed at my dilemma of not being able to engage well with modern art. “It is not about understanding art anymore, Deekshith,” he said. “It is about the lengths you will go to make the meaning. The more you engage with it, you discover its multi-faceted nature; you make multiple meanings. It is infinite. There lies the beauty of modern art and not in its form.”

On the one hand, I was still contemplating over many things as I walked, with the Mandovi in full view. On the other, I was also content with my exploration of Theesvadi. I was proud that my ancestral home was incubating a new culture of festivals where people were understanding the city as a liberal space to discuss, understand and encourage different ideas through arts. Whether it was the International Film Festival of India or now the Serendipity Arts Festival, Panjim was yet again redefining its culture, inviting artists and non-artists to engage and contribute to this transformation. Imagine how proud all our ancestors would be to know that their land is today a microcosm of global ideas and culture.

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Deekshith R Pai is a freelance documentary photographer and writer, with a primary interest in the development sector especially communities, gender, livelihoods, and ecology. He is also a film enthusiast and loves analysing films through various social lenses. You can find him on Instagram: @dr.pai98 and Twitter: DRPai98.

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