Tears rushed into Kenkre’s eyes as he went into the house.
Bhaskar Shenai and Rudra Shenai had assured Durga that they would wait for her, but bad news began trickling into the village over the next couple of days. The Portuguese had destroyed the temple of Lord Mangesh, just across the river. No one knew whether the idol had been saved or whether it too had been destroyed. A boatman who was taking people across from Old Goa noticed the commotion on the other side, and brought his boat back without touching the bank.
This Mangesh temple was a very ancient one and people believed that the deity had very strong powers, so it had become an important place of pilgrimage. Since Adolshi was a remote village it took a long time for news to filter into the village. As the news was relayed by many tongues, it was often exaggerated or had lost touch with what had actually happened. People said that a captain, who looked like a demon, was leading a band of three hundred soldiers, converting people and destroying temples that were on his route. He’d cross the river and arrive in Adolshi in a couple of days and then he’d destroy the temples and force everyone to become Christians.
Subrai Shenai was terrified. ‘Let’s leave at once. Gather what you have. If we delay any longer, that demon will attack us!’ he said. He went to Durga’s house and told her that they were leaving that night. Durga didn’t know what to do. She could see her husband breaking down, but she also knew that he couldn’t take a single step without a support.
‘Do you want to go or shall we stay here and become Christians?’ she asked him.
‘I can’t get up from my bed and you want to take me to some unknown land! I’ll collapse on the way.’
‘Shall we stay here and become Christians, then?’
‘If that is in our fate, we can’t avoid it. Durga, let us stay here for some time. Let me get a bit stronger. If you are by my side, what does it matter whether we are Hindus or Christians?’
Bhadra, Rudra and Subrai Shenai packed clothes and bedding, copper and brass utensils, money and jewellery, and bags of rice. They discarded the farm implements and set the cattle loose. The farm hands who had worked for them all these years arrived at sunset to carry their belongings and escort them to the river.
‘We’ll take the gods to a safe site,’ they said to everyone they met.
The new converts Mungru and Devrai and their family members stood a little distance away from the temple. Everyone was in tears. ‘Deva, forgive us … we have done wrong. Save the others. I shall come to see you some day, Deva, and throw myself at your feet!’ old man Mungru sobbed, crouching on the ground. The deity’s gold ornaments and the copper vessels that belonged to the temple were stored in Mungru Shenai’s house. He was a Christian now, but he offered to keep these articles safely. Who knew what dangers the travellers would have to face.
Krishna Shenai came out of his house spewing vile abuse. ‘Let me see which son of a whore dares to touch the Lord! I’ll throw his carcass right here,’ he screeched, standing at the temple door.
Bhadra Shenai was the eldest of the three. ‘What are you up to, Krishna? When they arrive with their sledgehammers and crowbars, will the temple be safe? Will the deity remain intact? They’re coming very soon … I beg you, don’t stop us. Let us take the deity away.’
Krishna pranced about as if possessed. ‘Traitors! Cheats! Want to make off with the Lord! I won’t let you. Whatever happens to the village, will happen to the temple, too. Do you think the deity belongs to just the three of you? If the Lord is so powerful, He will save Himself. If we die, our God will die too. I won’t let you take Him away!’
Subrai lost control of himself. He grabbed a stout stick and started beating Krishna on his back and shoulders. ‘Wretched creature! Sinner! Do you mean to destroy the gods?’ he screamed. ‘Come. Let us invoke the Lord,’ he said, as if he was in a trance.
The members of the three families gathered outside the sanctum and Bhadra Shenai addressed the deity, ‘We are taking you out of Goa, Deva, to free you from the clutches of these impure, depraved creatures. Do not be angry with us, do not curse us, Deva! Visit us in a dream and tell us where we should set you down, or we shall, with our limited intelligence, decide on a suitable spot and build a new shrine. Bless us so that we may prosper in a new land and achieve success in our endeavours. Give our families good health and long life. Look after our brothers, who have fallen victim to these people’s ploys and been forced to forsake our faith, let them prosper, too!’
There was a loud chorus of ‘Hayee Deva, yes, Deva!’ from all those assembled there. Subrai Shenai looked possessed. He rushed into the sanctum and hoisted the murti of Ravalnath and set it on a red silken cloth spread on the floor. He placed the five flaming wicks from the oil lamp at the spot where the idol had stood in the sanctum, and placed the lamp on the silk cloth. He ran out of the temple to another tiny shrine and picked up the idol of Siddhanath, one of the lesser gods in the pantheon. He tossed five sone-chafa flowers on to the silk cloth and knotted the ends to make a loose bundle, ‘These flowers will not wither and die before we set you down and worship you again, Lord. They will remain fresh and fragrant, by your infinite grace!’
An unmarried youth would have to carry the holy bundle on his head. The image could only be set down on the ground at the spot where a new shrine would be built and consecrated. When the youth needed to rest or perform his ablutions, he could sling the bundle from the branch of a tree. Rudra’s elder son who was sixteen years old, was chosen for this task. He hoisted the bundle on his head and the farm hands picked up the other boxes and bundles as they set off for the river bank.
The Brahmin families who had become Christians stood on one side with tears in their eyes. A flood of sorrow swept through people’s hearts, yet no one wept. ‘The Lord’s gold ornaments and copper vessels remain in my care. Let us know where you build a new shrine. I shall bring everything there,’ Mungru Shenai assured them yet again.
And so they set out with their earthly possessions loaded on their heads, this little group that knew not which way to go. Behind them were their homes, nestled in cool shady groves, and lush orchards watered by gushing streams – before them lay an unfamiliar, rocky plateau … a stony path without end. It was an umbilical tie that bound them to this soil, pulling out their roots and moving on was such a difficult task. They had tended these coconut palms with such care, now that they were laden with nuts, why were they forsaking them, why did they take such a suicidal step? Man dwells at once in the concrete physical world around him, as well as in the abstract world of faith, thoughts and beliefs. It is this world of the mind that gains precedence when he is forced to make a choice.
They trudged through low-lying fields and cut across hillocks for an hour and a half before they got to the river. They could see three empty boats, but there was no boatman in sight. Bhadra Shenai called out softly and a couple of boatmen emerged with oars and bamboo poles.
‘Crossing the river and going out of Goa has become very dangerous these days. They swoop out of the darkness and loot the passengers on the boat. If anyone resists, they kill him and throw him into the river. Sometimes they take everyone away and force them to become Christians, or accuse them falsely,’ one of the boatmen said.
‘We’ve set out with our gods. We cannot go back now. If it comes to that, we’ll immerse our gods in the water and jump in after them. Just take us across somehow,’ Subrai Shenai said.
‘It’s at your risk. You’ll have to pay forty xerafins to get to Dwarbhati.’
‘What do you mean? We used to pay five xerafins to go to Dwarbhati and then return with provisions needed for the whole year!’ Bhadra Shenai exclaimed.
‘Those days are gone, ga.’
‘We’re Brahmins from Adolshi, the whole village was under our control. Now we have fallen on bad times. We can only give twenty-five xerafins,’ Subrai Shenai declared.
‘Thirty xerafins. Only for you.’
No one said another word. They threw their belonging
s into the boat and clambered in as the boatmen struck at the bank with their long poles and pushed the boat away. The boatmen plied their oars and used the bamboo poles to steer the boat, keeping the sail tightly furled. Enveloped by darkness and crouched among their bundles, they could see no horizon, no river bank, no end to the expanse of water on all sides.
It was almost a month since Subrai Shenai and Rudra Shenai left Goa. Within a week of their departure, Krishna Shenai began to encroach on their holdings. He uprooted the stakes and hedges that marked the limits of Rudra’s orchards and added them to his own, setting aside only that patch of land on which Rudra’s house stood. He smashed the boundary stones that separated his fields from those that belonged to Subrai and claimed ownership of the entire stretch. There were no written records of ownership, nor had the holdings ever been measured. People guarded the boundary stones that marked their own plots, but there was no one to watch over the land that belonged to those who had left the village.
Durga was very upset by this. ‘The land belonged to their forefathers. We must guard their property. What if they run into some misfortune and are forced to return?’ she asked Krishna Shenai.
‘Don’t talk of their returning, Durga, why would anyone come back to this wretched place? Those who have gone away are fortunate, they’ll prosper in new lands. Who knows what will become of us! Durga, we must safeguard these fields and orchards that belong to the Brahmins. If some low caste Christian convert appropriates this land, he might enter one of these houses and settle in our midst!’
‘But you are a Brahmin, Krishna bhaya, you’ll have to become a Christian if you want to retain this land. They’re targeting the Brahmins now.’
‘Do you think I’m going to forsake all this and leave the village? I’ll see which way the wind blows. I tell you, Durga, don’t leave the village. Let’s get together and go to them one of these days. Pour water on our heads, we’ll say. Look after your husband, let him get strong soon.’
Durga didn’t reply. A strange picture swam up before her eyes. She was leaving the village along with her family and people were grabbing bits of her orchard and fields. Her house had collapsed in the rain. Some strangers were living there now. She shook herself out of that reverie, but knew they would have to leave soon. How could they continue to stay?
One day, Krishna Shenai and his family got baptized and became Christians. He hired labourers and set them to work in his fields. He could usurp other people’s land and livestock without fear of punishment now.
Durga’s was the only Hindu family left in Raigali. And it was only her field that remained fallow with no sign of activity. Her husband had recovered, but it was too late to sow the autumn crop. Perhaps they could grow the monsoon crop and try to make both ends meet…
The revenue collector arrived in the settlement one day. He was a new convert and known to be a cruel, hard-hearted man. He would take the oxen from the cattle shed or carry away the brass and copper vessels if the taxes were not paid in time. He turned up at Durga’s door and demanded thirty xerafins as the first instalment.
‘I don’t have thirty xerafins. The monsoon crop was destroyed in the floods. We can’t make both ends meet, where will we get thirty xerafins from?’
‘You will have to pay that amount. All Brahmin landowners must pay a hundred xerafins every year or go to jail.’
‘Give me eight days’ time. I’ll get the money…’
‘Or you’ll become Christians, no?’
A veil of silence settled over the household. They were all too scared to say anything. They could pay the thirty xerafins required in this instalment, but that would not solve the problem. The demand would be repeated. Why should they pay a hundred xerafins to these people? What if they were forced to leave the village at a later date?
Durga couldn’t make up her mind about becoming a Christian. Her husband and father-in-law shook their hands vehemently when she asked them what should be done. ‘If we don’t convert, what should we do? What will we eat once our savings run out? We’ll have to sell the children as slaves,’ she snapped.
‘Why do you say that, daughter-in-law?’ the old man said in a small voice. ‘He who has given us life has made arrangements to fill our bellies. So many families have left Goa. We’re not destitute, are we?’
‘You are almost blind. How will you trudge through unfamiliar forests and strange lands?’
Durga was in tears. They should have left the village along with the others. Who would guide them now? She was a practical woman who had about three hundred xerafins and some gold jewellery hidden away, but she didn’t want to draw on those reserves.
Two soldiers stopped by their courtyard that evening.
‘What do you want?’ Chintaman asked.
‘Nothing. This is the only Brahmin household in this settlement. The shef and Padre Colaso sent us to check if you are hiring labourers to work in your fields and orchards.’
‘Did you hear what happened in Keloshe? The captain of the soldiers in Sashti stabbed the members of three Brahmin families and threw the bodies into the river,’ one of the soldiers said.
Chintaman’s stomach turned cold. ‘Why?’ he stammered.
‘They must have committed some crime against Christianity.’
‘Someone threw a pig’s carcass into a Brahmin’s well at Panel, the other day. The family couldn’t use the water from their own well. Since their house was surrounded by the houses of newly converted Christians, they couldn’t use their water either,’ the other soldier remarked.
‘A pig’s carcass there. It might be a dead cow here. These are bad times.’
Chintaman broke into a cold sweat at their words. Durga realized that the vultures had started to hover above their roof.
Padre Paulo Colaso summoned all the new converts of Adolshi village to Mass at the Kalapur church on Sunday. Some three hundred and forty villagers gathered in front of the temple. Dugga Mhar and his brother’s family were in the throng. As was Ranu Kenkre, now known as Henrik Kaisure, and his family. Ranu and his wife were carried there in a palanquin. They had been forbidden this privilege as Hindus, but now that they were Christians they could continue the practice. The men drew the white shirts that they had been given at their baptism, over their workday clothes. The women wrapped the white lengths of cloth about their bodies.
The settlement at Raigali was deserted and Durga’s family realized how isolated they had become. We cannot go to anyone’s house, nor can anyone visit our home. We may not partake of food that has been touched by anyone; our neighbours may not touch our foreheads to check if we have fever, they will not lend a shoulder to the bier when we are gone! So many people living in such proximity, yet how distant we have become!
Durga went to Ranu Kenkre’s house that evening. She’d come here on various festive occasions and had helped with the arrangements at Puru’s wedding. She’d eaten the ritual meal when Ranu’s mother passed away. She had often sold her small stock of coconuts and areca nuts to the traders who came to Ranu Kenkre’s house to buy what his orchards produced. But today, her legs were trembling as she sent a servant to tell the bhatkar that Durga was here.
Ranu emerged in a little while. He was dressed as usual, but there was no smear of sandalwood paste on his brow. Durga’s eyes shifted to the courtyard where the tulsi plant had been uprooted and a wooden cross stuck into the ground.
‘What do you want?’ Ranu asked. ‘You’re a very brave woman. The only Brahmin woman left in Raigali.’
‘God knows how long that can continue,’ Durga’s voice was steeped in worry.
‘Why? Do you plan to convert too?’
‘No. But I have three young children to think about.’
‘Durga, you are a brave, capable woman. Your husband is a simpleton, but he is a good man. Your father-in-law has been decent and upright throughout his life. Don’t force these people to convert. I’m not saying this because I regret becoming a Christian. But I feel you should leave Goa and
set up a new Raigali somewhere far away.’
‘I don’t know where to go.’
‘Don’t go to Antruz, there are bands of robbers looting people in those parts. Much of the fertile land has already been occupied. You will have to clear forests if you choose to settle there. You can take the foot tracks to Kusman, Sange or Shinvesar if you like. I hear that boats are sailing down the rivers from Goa to Canara every night. They take people to those parts, and when they return, they are loaded with rice and paddy. People from Kalapur, Raibandar, Chimbal, Bamboli and Palem are taking this route out of Goa. They say there are large tracts of farm land lying fallow in Canara.’
‘We have a few oxen, Tato. Let them work in your fields. Give me what you will … the money will be useful on the way.’
‘I’m not going to buy your oxen. Let them be in my shed, the cowherds will tend to them, along with our animals. If you return some day, you can sell them or take them away. If you need money, I’ll give you some.’
Ranu went into the house and came back with a small bag. ‘There are forty xerafins in this. You should be able to reach Honnavar in Canara with this money.’
Durga spent the next day tying whatever they would take with them in small cloth bundles. Her husband, who had gone to check the boats, returned to say that four boats would sail that night and each person would have to pay ten xerafins for the trip.
Durga’s innards seemed to be tearing into shreds and her heart was fit to burst in a flood of tears, but she controlled herself. They left their home at sunset but it was dinner time when they reached the river. Her father-in-law trudged along as fast as he could with a hand on his grandson’s shoulder, breathing rapidly with the exertion. They were six people in all – the husband, the wife, the father-in-law and three children. Two sons and a daughter.
Age of Frenzy Page 16