Age of Frenzy

by Mahabaleshwar Sail

  ‘You’re lame and won’t be called upon to fight, that’s why you say all this.’

  Ghana Shenai decided to intervene. ‘What are you two up to? Have you come here to fight?’

  ‘Let us go away, then. We’ll wrap the gods up in a kambli, take our wives and children and in the middle of the night, start walking. Haven’t other villages been abandoned like this?’ Mhablu Nayak suggested sorrowfully.

  Everyone fell silent as the gravity of the situation seemed to sink in for the first time.

  ‘Where will we go, leaving our land? Why should we lose our way in barren places, why should our families be exiled from the homes inherited from our forefathers? Whether we live or die, let’s face the calamity right here,’ Mangru Shenai said.

  Guna Nayak sprang to his feet all of a sudden. ‘You said we should stay here and, if necessary, die. Why should we die slowly, like fish and other creatures do when the water in the lake dries up? Let us all get together, Brahmins and Khatris, priests and carpenters and everyone from the lower castes too. Let us pick up whatever weapon we can and attack them at once. Let there be a bloodbath. Even if we kill four of their people, our deaths will not go in vain.’

  The villagers whispered amongst themselves and gradually the whispers became louder. ‘Why should we get into fights with them? Why cause bloodshed? Won’t we starve if we leave the village?’

  ‘They are the outsiders. They’ll threaten us and get drunk with power and after some time they’ll go away. Let them do what they want. If they destroy the temples, we’ll carry our gods out into the forest and worship them there. If they force us to become Christians we’ll return home, bathe in cold water and then worship our own gods again.’

  ‘We men seem quite ready to die. But what of our wives and children? What will they do?’

  The noise made by the villagers carried to the Betaal shrine. The captain picked up his gun and his sword and set off, followed by the shef, a constable and five soldiers. He stopped beneath the peepal tree and glared at the villagers. They stared back in shock and bewilderment, like oxen when confronted by a tiger.

  ‘Who is the mhal gaonkar?’ the captain roared.

  Ghana Shenai rose from his seat.

  ‘How many people have converted to Christianity here?’

  ‘Four people.’

  ‘Did they get their share of the yield from the land owned by the village council, this year?’

  ‘No. We don’t recognize them as part of our society or our village any longer,’ Ghana Shenai said with conviction.

  ‘You will have to give them their share.’

  Ghana Shenai remained silent.

  ‘How many of those new converts were gaonkars in the old days?’

  ‘Two. Manju Nayak and Khemu Patkar.’

  ‘Where are they today?’

  ‘We’ve stripped them of their rights. They’re outcastes.’

  The captain stepped forward, stomping his feet. ‘You can’t hold a meeting without them. That is against the rules. The King of Portugal has declared that Christian converts will be the most important members of the gaonki system. Who is the village kulkarni? Let me see your list of accounts.’

  Bala Shenai, who maintained the village accounts, handed over his list.

  ‘The names of Christian villagers must be on top of the list. Their opinion must be sought first. Their houses must be re-thatched and repaired before the other houses. No Hindu may bid higher than a Christian in an auction. Only another Christian can increase the bid,’ the captain declared.

  Ghana Shenai was furious. ‘That’s impossible. This is our village, we will administer it in whichever way we choose. Who are you to interfere in our affairs? No ruler has ever interfered in village administration before.’

  ‘Ghana Shenai, don’t talk too much. It’s not your village. It belongs to the King of Portugal.’

  ‘What King? We don’t recognize him.’

  The captain was enraged. He shoved Ghana Shenai back with the butt of his gun and the old man almost lost his balance. Guna rushed forward in consternation, ‘See! He’s hit our chief! Get up, all of you. Thrash them! Drive them away!’ Guna pulled the sickle out of his belt, but one of the constables hit him with his staff before he could attack. The sickle fell to the ground. The shef drew his whip and lashed at Guna’s back and legs and face. Guna didn’t utter a sound, merely turning this way and that in agony.

  No one came to his aid. Each man stood there trembling in fear. When the lashing stopped, Rama Bhoi from the Deulvaddo rushed forward, threw his arms around Guna and dragged him away.

  ‘Cowards! One man falls to the ground and the lot of you rush away in fright! What use do you have for God and religion?’ Shef Ribeir sneered.

  The captain turned to the villagers, and said sternly, ‘The King of Portugal is your ruler. His God is your God. His religion is your religion. All his subjects must become Christians. Anyone who practises another religion will be regarded as a traitor and expelled from his empire. We will build a church here. Meanwhile, the two padres will set up a cross for worship and take you to the church at Kalapur to be baptized,’ he said.

  ‘No! We won’t become Christians!’ Ghana Shenai said angrily. A few nervous voices piped in from the back, ‘We won’t convert. We revere our faith!’

  ‘If you don’t convert of your own will, we’ll have to use force. Become Christians. Or leave the village,’ saying so the captain and his soldiers walked away.

  No one said a word. Each man was concerned about his own future. A chilly silence settled on the village even at the height of noon.

  Ravlu Mirashi had been sitting quietly on the stretch of broken wall during the gaonki. His family had conducted the Jogvani rituals at the Betaal, Barmo and Vagro shrines from time immemorial. Betaal protects the village, Barmo creates and nurtures life and Vagro destroys. All three are powerful deities and must be treated with respect, his grandfather used to say.

  Ravlu Mirashi was filled with despair. He sprang to his feet, his frail body trembling as though some external power was drawing him towards the Betaal shrine. The captain, the shef, the priests and all the soldiers stared at him, amazed, as Ravlu Mirashi staggered into the shrine.

  Only a small pit in the ground marked the spot where the Betaal image used to stand. The Mirashi’s hair stood on their ends and he broke into a sweat as he stared at the pit. They had installed a cross on the temple roof and had stuck a large wooden one into the earth, but the image of Betaal was nowhere to be seen … until his eyes fell on the idol in a clump of bushes. ‘Wretched sinners! Why did you lay hands on my God? Why did you tear Him out? You will come to no good!’ he shrieked.

  It seemed as if this weak, defenceless creature had gone insane. Then, without the thumping of drums or the shrill sound of pipes and without any invocatory rituals, an external spirit seemed to enter the Mirashi’s body. He pulled the cross out of the ground and flung it away. He rushed into the thicket and hoisted the massive image of Betaal on to his shoulder. Leaping around wildly, as though in a trance, he rushed through the fields towards the stream.

  Ravlu Mirashi plunged headlong with the deity into the deep pool at the bend in the stream. Nobody knew if Ravlu had meant to leave the idol on the bank and end his life in the pool. Or if he had meant to fling the idol in and save himself.

  Several days passed. Fires were lit in front of the Betaal temple. Food was cooked. Sometimes the soldier would go into Goapattana and bring back fresh rottya, meat, spices and tobacco. They obtained rice from the villagers. They would throw down a cruzado and demand a khandi of rice to be delivered to their camp. The villagers preferred the smaller currency seraphim, riya or taank because they got everything on barter from the local Patkar’s shop.

  One day the captain was standing on the hillside staring down at the fields where some men were scooping up wet mud and building bunds. He knew that Padre Simao Peres believed that these people would not convert to Christianity on their own. In tha
t case, he thought, strong measures will have to be used. They will need to be bullied and beaten, he mused. He turned around to look at the Ramnath temple. What a magnificent structure this is! These people’s religious fervour is deep and their faith rests on the solid foundation of this temple, built by who knows who and when. Unless the temple itself is destroyed, their faith won’t be shaken. But that’s not so easy to do. I saw what happened in Nevri village. The temple was desecrated, demolished and the people were threatened and even deceived into becoming Christians, but not even half the village accepted the new faith. The others gathered whatever they could carry and slipped out of Goa in the darkness of the night. So many settlements were deserted, so many fields lay fallow. That mustn’t happen here. Every man must convert to Christianity, he must continue to live here, cultivate the lands and harvest his crops, just like before…

  His train of thought was interrupted when he heard loud voices from the field below. Two men were shouting at each other, with spades raised. Captain Barrett was amused. They’ll attack each other with their spades, he thought as he leapt on to his horse and trotted towards them. The men were taken aback to see the captain, and then one of them, who was covered with sweat and mud, began to complain, ‘This man has encroached on my land. And now he says the ridge collapsed!’

  The other man seemed to lose his nerve on seeing the captain. He quietly moved away to the other side of the field. ‘Build that ridge wherever you want,’ he muttered, ‘and if you starve tomorrow take some more of my land. But you won’t be able to digest what you’ve taken.’

  The captain didn’t intervene in their quarrel. After a few moments he turned and went away. But one thing he had realized. Land was everything to these people. Besides the thin loincloth they were wearing, they possessed nothing. He looked back and saw that the men had gone back to their work of slapping the wet mud in piles and patting it into bunds. They were the children of the earth and their roots went deep into the soil, and the living sap that nurtured the many trees and plants seemed to mingle with their blood and sustain them.

  ‘There must be quite a bit of land that belongs to the village council,’ the captain said to the shef that afternoon.

  ‘Yes. These affairs are decided at the council meetings, like in other villages. Bids are placed for the right to cultivate this land. They pay their taxes regularly.’

  ‘If we take control of the land that belongs to the village council, we can give it to those who convert.’

  ‘That has been tried in other villages too, senor. Unless the land is surrendered voluntarily after the members hold a gaonki, we cannot take it over. It is against the law.’

  ‘Forget the council meeting. We’ll catch hold of the mhal gaonkar, Ghana Shenai, and force him to sign the papers.’

  The next morning the captain sent a soldier to Goapattana to fetch the revenue clerk to the village. The following day the captain, the shef, the revenue clerk and a few soldiers made their way to Raigali. The clerk carried some papers and a pen in the pocket of his coat and an inkpot swung from his hand. He also had a sword strapped to his waist. The group stopped in front of Ghana Shenai’s house and the captain sent a local soldier to summon the chief gaonkar and the kulkarni, Balu Shenai, who came bearing the ledger of village accounts. Bala Shenai went up to the captain and with his hand on his heart, bowed low before him. Ghana Shenai, however, stood erect, fuming.

  The captain said, ‘Ghana Shenai, you didn’t show me any respect, but I’m not angry with you. You are the chief gaonkar, the head of the village. Just remember Joav III, King of Portugal, is much bigger than you. He owns this village and all this land. His law is absolute. The viceroy’s soldiers massacred six thousand Moors. You know what the King of Portugal’s soldiers can do.’

  Ghana Shenai was uneasy. He realized that the captain was trying to intimidate him. For a moment he thought of turning around and walking away, but the soldiers had surrounded him.

  The captain then turned to Bala Shenai. ‘How much land belongs to the council in this village?’ he asked.

  Bala Shenai glanced at Ghana Shenai, then began to recite the figures as though by rote. ‘There are fertile fields where thirty-six khandis of paddy seedlings can be sown, upland fields that can take forty-seven khandis. And sixteen khandis can be sown in the low lying fields by the river.’

  The captain turned to Ghana Shenai and stared into his eyes. ‘The King wants the fertile tract of land. The revenue clerk has come to take it over,’ he said.

  ‘No! We shall certainly not give up the land that belongs to the whole village,’ Ghana Shenai declared loudly. ‘Your King needs to grab our lands because he is surviving on payz? Or is he begging for alms?’

  The captain pulled out his whip in anger, but Shef Camil Ribeir quickly stepped forward to stop him. The soldiers closed in and Ghana Shenai, felt as though he was trapped in a dense thorny thicket and two hundred wild boars with pointed tusks were rushing towards him. Yet he stood his ground.

  ‘This land has belonged to the village council for fifty-six generations, how dare you try to acquire it? We will not give it away.’

  Now the shef was enraged. ‘You will have to give it up’ he shouted. ‘You have no choice. The clerk will draw up an agreement, just sign it quietly. Remember, the King has asked for that tract of land. It will be given back to your people some day.’

  Ghana Shenai’s head was reeling, but he remained calm. ‘We will have to have a gaonki and get everyone’s opinion at the meeting. The land belongs to everybody,’ he said.

  ‘The last meeting went against the rules, Ghana Shenai. From now on, primary importance will be given to the Christian villagers. Their opinion and their decision will be final. At the meeting tomorrow, if the Christian members say that the land should be given to the King, you can do nothing about it. One Christian vote is worth more than a hundred others. What they say will be accepted. Henceforth, you will have a say in the gaonki only if you become a Christian,’ the captain said. He turned to the revenue clerk, ‘Senor Viador de Fazde, get the agreement ready. He’ll sign it. Just leave some space above his signature for a Christian member to sign it too. We need his signature only because he is the mhal gaonkar of the village.’

  The shef drew out his sword. Sticking its tip into Ghana Shenai, he pushed him towards the rumada tree and made him sit by its roots. The other soldiers too had naked swords in their hands. The revenue clerk sat under the tree with one leg outstretched before him. Bala Shenai was very distressed to see his shoe resting against the little stone shrine that housed a god, a stone naga, but couldn’t say a word.

  The clerk kept dipping the pen into the inkwell and with scratching sounds wrote out the agreement in Portuguese, then read it out aloud. Ghana Shenai and Bala Shenai didn’t understand a word, but what they did understand was that the foreigners had treacherously appropriated the land that belonged to the village.

  The shef and a few other soldiers prodded Ghana Shenai with their swords. ‘Sign it,’ the shef said.

  Ghana Shenai picked up the pen with trembling hands, and dipped it into the ink. For a moment he thought he should break the pen and risk getting pierced by their swords, but the feeling passed swiftly and he wrote his name crookedly on the sheet. Bala Shenai also signed his name as a witness.

  Ghana Shenai wept uncontrollably as he turned away after signing the document.

  ‘You elder gaonkara,’ the captain said to him, ‘there’s nothing to be sorry about. Listen to me. We’ve acquired this land, no doubt, but we are going to distribute it amongst those who become Christians. You command respect in this village, no one goes against your word. Explain this to the people, persuade them to convert. Think about it, Shenai. Land where you can sow eighteen khandis of paddy will be yours if you bring fifty or hundred people to get baptized. Moreover you are free to do what you want with it.’

  ‘I don’t want that land. I will not become a Christian!’ Ghana Shenai declared.

  ‘W
hy? Christianity is a great religion, Ghana Shenai.’

  ‘Every man believes his religion is the greatest.’

  ‘But our religion is greater than yours.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because it is the religion of the King of this land, of the viceroy, of those who conquered you. The religion of those who have been vanquished, is cowardly and weak. Even their gods are powerless.’

  Some men, women and children from Raigali were watching everything from behind a large mango tree. Ghana Shenai saw them and began to beat his breast and cry, ‘I have tossed the wealth acquired by fifty-six generations into their hands. The village will never forgive me now, Deva!’

  ‘Let them write whatever they want. Can they just pick up the land and walk away? The fields will still be here, of no use to anyone. Whoever sets foot in them will vomit blood and die,’ Bala Shenai warned.

  One night, a Portuguese soldier, who stepped out of the sleeping quarters, was bitten by a snake. The local soldiers summoned Kusta, the medicine man, who stroked the soldier’s body with some leaves and twigs muttering incantations to remove the poison. His efforts were in vain. By morning, the soldier was dead. The captain had gone to Goapattana and Shef Camil Ribeir, who was in charge, was in a quandary. He himself was a local who had converted to Christianity, while the dead soldier was Portuguese. If the dead soldier was a local, the matter could have been hushed up, but now the authorities would have to be informed. Reports of the investigations would be sent to Portugal.

  Kusta in the meantime was muttering, ‘He should have been taken to the temple and laid beneath the large bell before the rituals were performed, but he belonged to another faith…’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?’ Shef Ribeir shouted. ‘Why the temple, I would have taken him into the sanctum itself, if necessary. Tell me, what rituals did you perform, what plants and leaves did you use? I want all the details. I must report the matter to the authorities.’

  ‘I can’t do that, hodda mansha, big man ga, the guru who taught me this told me not to reveal the names to anyone. If I do, the medicine won’t be effective any more and I will lose my power,’ Kusta pleaded.