Nana Patekar versus Saddam Hussain!

The Bulls of Panjim and all that...

The bulls race into the ring from opposite directions... catch sight of each other... and screech to a hoof-scraping halt...

Tails go up and rigid, like the banners of medieval knights going into battle... hoofs churn the hard earth into swirling dust clouds... heads lower, horns gore deep furrows into the earth...

There is no perceptible signal... no apparent spark to set off the confrontation... but suddenly, to the electrifying drum roll of hooves on hard-packed earth, two tonnes of blood and bone and gristle and plain bloody mean-mindedness hurtle towards an earth-shaking, bone-jarring clash on mid-turf...

One gives way... the other presses the attack...

The first disengages... then slyly lunges for its opponent's flank...

Like a master fencer, the other bull wheels away, then forward again to lock horns with the other...

Cut and thrust... parry and riposte... blood and gore... till finally, one of the two is down and helpless... or turns tail and flees, ceding the arena to its conqueror...

While from many hundred massed throats proceeds a primeval roar... the roar of a crowd high on the greatest emotive force on earth...

Blood lust!

It is feast day in pastoral Goa.

From morning, the build up has begun. Announcer Lucas, megaphone in hand, perches on the rumbling jeep as it judders through the roads and bylanes, trumpeting the track records of the evening's featured contenders. As he goes, he tosses pamphlets around like so much confetti - multicoloured bits of paper announcing the identities of the fighters, supplemented with photographs of the leading contenders in martial attitudes...

Meanwhile, the locals are busy with their own preparations. Mass and prayers duly over and done with, they return home to an afternoon meal - typically featuring sorpotel and bebinca washed down with a glass or three of wine or the local brew, feni. The resultant euphoria signals the start of the daily siesta - a ritual of somnolence that a Goan will not omit, no matter how pressing the emergency...

A refreshing shower later, the family attires itself in its best and steps out... to join the gaily chattering hordes heading for the amphitheatre. The mattov, in local Konkani parlance...

No Coliseum, this, but a patch of recently harvested agricultural land, with corrugated iron sheets forming an impromptu "stadium wall". Within - and to get in you fork out Rs 35 per adult head, children free - the arrangements are equally simplistic. The arena proper is demarcated by a thick rope, stretched into a rectangular ring reminiscent of, yet far larger, than the average boxing ring.

The primitive PA system kicks in with a throaty rasp..."Ladeeees and gentlemunnn.... On your right the favourite, Mohammad Aleeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!.... and on your left.... the challengerrrr, Saaaaai Babaaaaaahhhhhh!!!!"

Oh yes, the names of featured contestants oftentimes give scope for ersatz humour. Thus, a Ruud Gullitt could go up against Ram Jaane, a Nana Patekar lock horns with Dona Dolly, the King of Pandharpur forget his illustrious lineage and scrap in the dust with Number One Goonda, a Sharad Pawar engage a Saddam Hussain in a duel to the death... But hush....

The bulls race into the ring from opposite directions... catch sight of each other... and screech to a hoof-scraping halt...

One bout ends, the other begins - with the day's card of featured bouts - the dhirio providing an hour, even two, of primeval excitement to the massed crowds.

Where, the introspective soul caught up in the throng asks himself, lies the link between a religious festival in predominantly Catholic Goa, and the pagan thrills of a bullfight?

The Christian priests deny any connection, passing the buck to the minority populations of Hindus and Muslims. Who, for their part, shrug collectively and mumble that the dhirio has always been a part of life, who knows how it all began? More to the point, who cares?

A clue to the conundrum could be found in the timing of the annual dhirios. Traditionally, the first dhirio follows on the heels of the harvesting of the first konnos (sheaves of corn). The first konnos is traditionally harvested on August 10 at the village fiesta of St Lawrence Church in Agacaim, the first dhirio held on August 21 at Taleigao, suburb of Goa's capital Panaji.

There is logic, of a primitive sort, to it. Man, having slogged for three quarters of the year in his field, finally reaps the rewards of his labours. His thoughts turn to play. And what better instruments of pleasure than his newly idle field, ditto bulls?

In the event, the dhirio which begins in Taleigao gradually spans the state - Salcete taluka and Tiswadi, being important wayside halts in a carnival of violence that climaxes, some seven weeks later, in Margao. Each local dhirio boasts its own favourite contenders from among local bulls - but it is the true champions who pack them in at the turnstiles through the state.

Photograph: Allister Miranda