Age of Frenzy

by Mahabaleshwar Sail

  Dugga Mhar, who was now called Domingo, carried the news about the meeting to all parts of the village. Some twenty-five or thirty-men gathered at the appointed time. There were eleven Nayaks from Shirvaddo, seven Brahmins from Raigali and a few others from the village. The good news was that Nilu Nayak and Ranu Kenkre, two men who wielded some influence over the outsiders and who were treated respectfully by Shef Ribeir, were part of the group. The shef, who was lounging on his leather armchair, leapt up like a tiger and stared at them steadily. ‘What’s the matter? Why are you here?’ he growled.

  Kenkre stepped forward. ‘What are you up to? Why do you want to pull the temple down?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. What will you gain by destroying our temple? Who gave you the right, anyway?’

  The shef turned his gaze on to Ventu Nayak. ‘Coward! You dare ask who gave me the right? The island of Goa and all this territory belongs to the King of Portugal now. He can do what he wants. Who gave us the right to destroy temples in Tiswadi and Bardes? Did anyone stop us? The King wants to convert everyone in this territory. No Hindu can live here. And you, honourable Kenkre, it’s been fifty-two years since the Portuguese conquered Goa, but no one has touched you till now. The King has been magnanimous. Senor Alphonso Albuquerque had promised the Hindus that their interests would be protected, so this process of conversion was delayed. But now, you cannot remain a Hindu on this island. Not for another day.’

  Everyone was stunned. Finally, Nilu Nayak said, ‘We’ll see what can be done. We’ll leave Goa, or we’ll go and jump into the sea. Don’t touch the temple, it has been revered by a hundred generations. It doesn’t matter if no one is allowed to worship that deity, just let the temple remain.’

  Suddenly the senior priest, Paulo Colaso, emerged from the camp. ‘You talk of jumping into the sea. Why utter such evil words when Christianity, this vast kingdom of Lord Jesus, lies before you? This faith offers love and compassion and is so much greater than yours.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Jhulo Devli burst out.

  ‘Do you worship cows?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Snakes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Elephant-heads?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You worship rats and dogs. Even stones.’

  ‘You know nothing about our faith,’ Bhadra Shenai retorted. ‘Our religion does not claim that god is manifested in just one form. We see god in animals. In fire and in water. In everything that exists. This entire universe and everything in it is a manifestation of the divine. Which is why we have thirty-three crore gods.’

  ‘Thirty-three crore!’ The priest smiled scornfully. ‘There is only one God. In heaven. He sent His son Jesus to earth with His message of love and compassion – that is what Christianity is all about. Our Jesus died on the cross to free men from sorrow. Embrace this faith of Jesus and earn the protection of the King.’

  ‘We have our own gods. Do you know of the mother earth, Santeri? She has protected and nourished us for centuries. We do not look to the heavens, it is the earth that we consider divine.’

  The priest was furious. ‘You are a primitive, uncivilized race. We have strength. We have guns and swords. We have Jesus and His love. If you do not become Christians peacefully, we shall use force, or drive you out.’

  Everyone was silent.

  ‘A temple and a church cannot exist in the same village. Come, join the church. You can continue with your village meetings. Your fields and orchards will be safe,’ the shef added.

  ‘Wait for some time. Let the annual festivals in the Ramnath temple and the other shrines get over. This year’s rituals will end with the traditional bonfire to appease the Holiye Naas after the Shigmo festival. We’ll let you know what we decide by then,’ Bhadra Shenai said.

  ‘That’s not possible senor Ribeir, don’t agree to this,’ the priest declared.

  ‘Let us worship our gods till the Shigmo festival. Do what you want after that,’ Nilu Nayak pleaded.

  ‘Padre, let us give them three months’ time. Our crowbars and pickaxes will be ready by then. I shall bring hundreds of these people to be baptized together at a single Mass after that. Or, they’ll face my sword.’

  The priest wasn’t happy, but he had to agree. ‘The temple rituals may continue for three months. But you must not ring the temple bell. You may not perform rituals in public places. There shall be no weddings outside your houses, no playing of musical instruments. No bhat or joish may conduct ceremonies. Nothing should mark this village as one with Hindu residents. If you go against these orders you will be driven out of Goa.’

  It was as though a thunder bolt had fallen on the congregation, their backbones seemed to cave in and they turned away. That evening, no one lit lamps before the household deities. Their stomachs churned in fear. If the light seeped out, someone might come to punish them. The soldiers had declared that no Hindu rituals were to be performed in the village.

  The festival marking the wedding of the tulsi plant was just three days away. How would they perform the rituals? A century-old tradition would be broken, the holy tulsi in their courtyard would curse them. When the groups of people gathered in courtyards, they felt that they were being watched. They stuck ceremonial twigs into the earth beside the tulsi and strung silk cotton garlands. All this was done in secret. There were no oil lamps in the courtyard, there was no beating of drums. When they returned home, they lit a lamp and ate the sweetened beaten rice as was tradition.

  Sukhdo Nayak and Jana Nayak had been at each other’s throats for over four years, but of late things had got worse… If one spat, the other would believe he was spitting at him; if the other one laughed or cursed, the first one was convinced that he was being mocked or sworn at.

  Sukhdo and his family were a confused lot these days. They felt pangs of guilt and Sukhdo’s wife, Mhalkum, took to her bed moaning and groaning all day. Jana had treated Sukhdo with great disdain after he became a Christian. He would stand at the window and abuse Sukhdo, call him an outcaste who had desecrated his family and his village and forsaken his religion.

  One day, Jana’s wife looked at Ramkustha’s wife, Parvati, and exclaimed, ‘Wretched creatures! Roaming about like widows even though their husbands are alive!’ She said this in a low tone but Parvati was quick to respond. ‘Yes. We roam like widows, but our husbands are beside us. Just wait. Your husband will die and you’ll become a real widow.’

  The men in Sukhdo’s house came out and the quarrel intensified. Sukhdo was tired of listening to their taunts. ‘Yes, we’ll forsake our religion. We’ll eat cow flesh. Another word from you and I’ll summon the soldiers. They’ll beat the skin off your back and leave you to die,’ he raged.

  ‘Selfish creature! Traitor to your race! Sold your faith for a strip of land. Sold your daughters-in-law … see how they roam like widows!’

  Sukhdo was so furious that he lost control. Grabbing the pot of cooked rice in the kitchen, he rushed into Jana’s courtyard. He stuffed some rice into his mouth, spat it back into the pot and then tossed the half-chewed grains on to the tulsi plant in Jana’s courtyard. He rushed into Jana’s house and scattered some more half-eaten rice on the hearth and on the gods in their shrine. Jana ran after him, but all this was done in just a few minutes. Finally, Sukhdo had smashed the earthen pot at their door.

  Jana’s wife, Saitri sank to the ground, wailing as though someone were dead. Jana cursed and abused Sukhdo through his tears, but there was no strength in his voice. The purity of their home had been sullied. An eerie silence of a cremation ground descended on both homes.

  ‘It’s all over. The enemy has ruined us. He’ll tell everyone very proudly that we are outcastes,’ Jana’s wife wailed. By evening, she had swept the floor and sprinkled the purificatory mixture of cow dung and water all over the house a number of times. She had also poured ten pots of water on the tulsi in the courtyard, but she wasn’t satisfied. The sanctity of the home had been ruined forever by the half-eaten rice that
the filthy Christian had spat out.

  The news that Jana Nayak and his family had become outcastes spread through the village. Janaki, who came every morning to grind rice flour, didn’t come that day. The other Nayaks of Shirvaddo often cut through Jana’s courtyard on their way to the temple, but it was evident that they had changed their route.

  Jana decided to consult Narhar Joish. ‘Shiva, Shiva, Shiva! This is a grievous sin! There is no remedy for it. You will have to burn to ashes to become pure again!’ the joish exclaimed.

  ‘Do you suggest that we become Christians, then?’

  ‘I don’t say that. But your family will remain suspended in sin for six generations. The seventh one will be redeemed.’

  ‘You mean we can’t perform religious ceremonies for six generations?’

  ‘You have no choice. King Chandrashish stepped on the half eaten food of chandals so he and his family were sent into exile. He stayed there for six generations and then returned to his kingdom.’

  Jana got up silently and returned home. Four days passed. No one came to their house. They did not visit anyone because they were scared of being turned away. It was obvious that they were being shunned by the other villagers. Sukhdo had converted to Christianity of his own free will, so the Hindu villagers treated him as a social outcaste. But Jana and his household had been defiled by Sukhdo’s actions. It is unfortunate, but what can we do, the villagers said.

  The Nayaks of Shirvaddo belonged to the warrior caste, but there was nothing particularly brave about them. They couldn’t mount an attack. They didn’t support Guna when he protested against the atrocities, they merely stood at a distance and watched everything. So Jana went to Raigali to seek advice from the Brahmins, but each of them had a different view.

  ‘Wait for a few days, let’s see which way the wind blows,’ Indra Shenai advised.

  ‘Leave Goa. Settle down somewhere far away as a member of the Nayak community. No one has seen what happened, who will know the difference?’ Bhadra Shenai said.

  ‘I’ll feel guilty. I’ll feel scared to touch the gods,’ Jana protested.

  ‘What sort of behaviour is this?’ Subrai Shenai exclaimed on hearing of Sukhdo’s misdeeds. ‘Complain to the soldiers. Tell them he is a Christian, is this what Christians do? He is spoiling their reputation. Tell them to punish him for it.’

  Jana returned home fired by the need to take revenge. Eight days passed and it was time for the wedding ceremony of the sacred tulsi plant. Jana’s house was dark, but the others had to perform the rituals in darkness, too. We’re all in the same predicament, he laughed to himself.

  Jana stood before the Ramnath temple the next morning. He had never taken any step in life without seeking the Lord’s blessings. If he wanted to buy an ox, or if he planned to journey across the hillock, he always sought divine permission first. Devotees could seek the Lord’s blessings on Mondays and Saturdays, and this was a Saturday. He called the priest out of the temple and said, ‘I need the Lord’s permission. Must ask Him if I may convert to Christianity along with the others in my home.’

  ‘That’s madness! How can you do that?’ the priest exclaimed.

  ‘Bhatto. You’ve given me a flower as the Lord’s blessings all these years. This is the last time. Don’t refuse me, please. I belong to this faith as of now.’ Jana dropped three coins into the priest’s palm. The priest went into the temple and set the blossoms on the devrath waiting for an indication from the Lord. Jana squatted outside the temple, his heart full of worry. What would the Lord decree? What would he do if the Lord refused permission? That traitor Sukhdo had forced him into this unnatural situation!

  The priest emerged after a while. ‘The blossom on the right side has fallen. The Lord gives you permission,’ he said dropping a flower into Jana’s outstretched palm. Jana felt that the priest should have said, ‘Jana papya, don’t give up this religion and ritual to become a Christian, our religion is very special to us.’ But no. This priest didn’t have the slightest regret that he was losing one of his flock. And those people – they were bent on getting as many as they could into their fold.

  Every year, on Kartick punav, the full moon night, the idol of Lord Ramnath was carried around the village in a palanquin. It was a time of great rejoicing with musicians playing all kinds of instruments, kalavants dancing in front of the palanquin, holding aloft tiers of oil lamps. Chants of ‘Har Har Mahadev! ’ filled the air. All along the route, people gathered in groups to worship the deity, affectionately called Chinna Ramnath. At break of dawn, the procession would move to the anval grove between Shirvaddo and Raigali, where the Brahmin families would perform a puja.

  This year, however, there was no joy in the festival. People’s voices seemed to stick in their throats and they seemed to drag their feet. Everyone who came and touched the palanquin reverently prayed, ‘Lord! Keep this festival alive. We are helpless!’

  When the procession passed the soldiers’ camp, the musicians fell silent. No one said a word, but there was the unspoken fear that the soldiers might swoop down with naked swords and halt their progress. People had lit lamps on their doorsteps to honour the Lord in the palanquin, perhaps for the very last time, for who could say what the next year would bring…

  Her name was Aprupe, but people called her Apu. Short and fair with a good figure, Apu was a prostitute. Her amber eyes were framed by thick, dark lashes. She had been symbolically married to a peepal tree and wore the black beads in its name, like a married woman. She wore her saree wrapped tightly around her hips and drawn between her legs. The choli came down to her waist and its sleeves reached the wrists. If someone said to her, ‘Apu, why do you cover yourself up like this?’ she would retort, ‘My body is not cheap like that of your women, to expose it to everyone’s gaze.’ Apu lived with her mother in a house on the slope just beyond the temple. Shivanna’s toddy shack was a short distance away. Apu’s mother would sit at the door with a mortar and pestle and some areca nuts. Whenever a wealthy man passed by, she would call out to Apu, ‘Ago Appu, come outside,’ and start pounding the nuts furiously.

  Demu Gurav was the only member of the gaonki who did not hail from the Brahmin or the Nayak communities. He owned extensive fields, some of which belonged to the family, others belonged to the temple, but remained in his care. ‘Our family traces its roots back to when this temple’s foundations were laid. The bhats and other priests came later…’ he often said. ‘They were brought here to work for the Lord. We were the original inhabitants of this land.’

  Demu Gurav had three sons. The eldest was a simple fellow, and the youngest was a skilled artisan. But Dasu the second son had got used to a life of pleasure and was now beyond anyone’s control. He’d carry off sacks of paddy from the house and sell them at Kashi’s or Patkar’s shop. Coconuts, areca nuts, nothing escaped him. He didn’t spare even the chillies and pulses. His father would beat him at first, but this had no effect for he was tall and strong and would often charge at the old man. He was addicted to toddy and was besotted by Apu. The mother and daughter were delighted that Demu Gurav’s son frequented their home.

  One day, Dasu came home drunk. ‘Bappa, you think you are the king of this village, but you’ve thrown your son out on the street. I can barely feed myself!’ he slurred.

  ‘You loot the house and go sniffing about the village, and yet you have the face to eat our food?’ his father scolded while his mother remained silent.

  ‘Avo! Aiy Avo! You too have joined him? Your heart won’t melt if I die, it seems. Tell my father to throw me my share of the property. I will go where I choose, do what I will. Won’t come back to your door to trouble you.’

  His father spluttered with rage. ‘Share of the property, he says! Whose property? Did you earn any of it?’

  ‘It belonged to my ancestors, Bappo! The field by the banyan tree that takes four khandis of paddy seedlings, that’s mine, from now on.’

  ‘Why? To squander it on that prostitute or at that toddy shack?
Demands a share of property while his father is alive! You won’t get anything as long as I’m around!’

  ‘I’ll show you! I’ll take my share before you die!’ Dasu shrieked as the liquor took over.

  The next evening, Ganpat Devli told Demu Gurav, ‘Your second son was seen at the soldier’s camp. No one knows what he was doing there.’ Demu Gurav was filled with foreboding. He knew that if Dasu converted to Christianity, he would automatically get a share of the ancestral property even while he was alive.

  There was no sign of Dasu for two days. Demu Gurav summoned all his courage and went to Apu’s house that evening. ‘Is Dasu here?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Haven’t seen him for two days.’

  ‘Don’t let him stay here. He has ruined his life. You want to stay in this village or not?’ Demu threatened.

  Apu’s mother was a woman of experience who had entertained men in her youth. ‘We are prostitutes who serve this village. Whoever stops by for a night, is treated as a husband. We cannot refuse anyone. As for Dasu, he’s the son of an important village elder,’ she said.

  Dasu came home drunk on the third evening. He stood by the gate and shouted, ‘Bappa, give me my share. I’m a Christian, the King of Portugal’s subject. All these constables and soldiers are here to protect me.’

  Demu Gurav flew into such a rage that he was barely conscious of his surroundings. ‘Don’t you dare enter this house, Dasu!’ he yelled. ‘You are a Christian now. We worship our gods here, we perform rituals in this house!’

  ‘This is my house. I’ll go in and take my share.’ Dasu was in a stupor. ‘Let me see who will stop me, let’s see who dares!’

  Demu Gurav stepped forward. ‘Stop. Don’t come in. I won’t let you in.’