Age of Frenzy

by Mahabaleshwar Sail

  Soon Tima, or Timothy, was part of the band that had demolished temples and shrines in Tiswadi, Bardez and Sashti. Soon he was pulling down buildings and setting fire to them without a second thought. Even when it was the temple in his own village, he didn’t hesitate for a moment.

  The padre and the captain exhorted the workers to be careful since they would use the stones and wooden beams from the temple to build the church. The noise carried all over the village and into people’s hearts. Full of fear, they whispered that ghosts and evil spirits would wander through the village, destroying everything in sight. Epidemics would strike and people would vomit blood and die. It is the temple that protects us all, it is the foundation on which the well-being of the village rests. Lured by the promise of tracts of land, these people have tied themselves to the yoke and as a result, everyone must suffer! Their anger was directed at Tima Chari. Traitor! One who had betrayed his clan!

  The tiles from the roof were removed and stacked neatly on one side. Bamboo poles and cross beams on the scaffolding of the roof were taken down. Then they started chipping the top of the stone walls. By evening the whole structure stood bare – twelve pillars and six rafters, each one of immense girth, ranged in a row. The first two rafters had ten or twelve large bells suspended from them. With no temple or deity in sight, the bells looked like large cadavers hanging from the beams.

  At the end of the day, the workers and soldiers bathed in the temple pool and drank from the large pot of liquor set out for them. The captain, the shef and the priest, ignored the shouts revelry as the men gorged on rice, curry, maize-flour rotis and salted preserves. Satiated, they lay sprawled around in a drunken stupor.

  Timothy Moraes hadn’t gone home for six years. His first wife lived in the old house with his mother, his younger brother and family, all of whom were Christians now. Timothy was overcome by lust as he thought of his first wife. He got up quietly and set off through the darkness, intoxicated by drink.

  The house lay steeped in darkness and everything was still. He banged on the door and his mother’s tired voice carried to his ears. ‘Ramu! What evil spirit is it that comes through the darkness at this time of night?’

  Kasturi, who lay beside her mother-in-law, shivered in fear. Ramu picked up a live coal from the embers and opened the door. He could barely discern the shape of the man standing outside, but as the glow from the coal fell on his face, Ramu recognized his brother and was filled with fear. He had seen him perched on the temple roof that afternoon, prising out bamboo poles from the scaffolding. He shut the door quietly and went inside, ‘Vhanni, it’s Tima. Your husband,’ he said.

  Kasturi’s heart beat rapidly, like a bell rung without pause, but she was also curious. Why had he come? What would he say? He had forsaken her and taken another wife. She didn’t mind that any longer, but the wretch had destroyed the temple today!

  Her mother-in-law slowly came to her senses. ‘Why has he come here? After destroying the temple, now does he want to destroy the house? Blacken his face and drive him away!’ the old woman screamed.

  ‘Ai bodku mhatare, you shaven old widow! Want to blacken my face, do you? This is my house. I have a share in this property. I’ll complain to the viceroy and half of it will be mine. I’m the viceroy’s man now,’ Timothy shouted in a drunken haze.

  People emerged from their houses when they heard the loud voices. Those who were guzzling coconut toddy in Shivanna’s shack perked up their ears. Though it was dark, everyone knew that it was Tima wandering about in the village, cursing his family and abusing the gods. There was a sudden flurry … a scream … something was struck … someone ran … The noise came from somewhere near the edge of Deulvaddo. And then everything fell silent. The atmosphere was calm for a long while. And then, with a tremendous fluttering of wings a giant vulture swooped towards the Sinteri slope just as the wolves began to howl.

  The terrible night came to an end, revealing the row of upright pillars and horizontal beams no longer bearing the weight of the roof they had carried for hundreds of years. They had never buckled under that weight, but now that it had been removed, they seemed broken. But that night, one weight too heavy to bear had attached itself to the cross-beam. Rayanna Bhat’s brother, Timanna, had hanged himself on the first cross-beam. His corpse dangled amidst the bells.

  Timanna Bhat used to recite prayers in a soft, melodious voice, each word clear and precise, like grains of washed rice. He was a calm, patient man who didn’t rush through the rituals in a hurry. He had surrendered himself totally to the acquisition of knowledge and to his gods. But when the temples were gone, what use was his knowledge of the scriptures and the rituals and the prayers? In a state of despair he had grabbed the rope dangling in the well and hanged himself.

  A cowherd passing by the temple early in the morning spotted the body. ‘Someone has hanged himself in the temple! Come here! Quick!’ he screamed. People rushed out of their homes. Rayanna’s wife took one look and let out a scream. ‘My brother! O my brother!’ Rayanna wailed in grief. The soldiers quickly lowered Timanna’s body as they would one of the bells, and laid it at Rayanna’s feet.

  The demolition of the temple continued.

  ‘What should we do with this wretched cross-beam on which that fellow hanged himself? We can’t use it in the church. Ask the priest,’ a worker called out.

  ‘That young bhat has made sure that at least one beam from the temple will rot and decay…’ someone else remarked.

  The priest and the captain arrived at the spot. ‘He hanged himself right here. We can’t build a church at this spot,’ the priest said in a low voice.

  Shef Ribeir was irritated by the priest’s words. ‘Hindus go to the temple to seek the deity’s blessings before they build their homes. If they get a favourable sign from their gods, they go ahead with their plan. Perhaps we should visit some Hindu temple to check if we should build a church at this spot. They claim that their gods are never wrong,’ he said.

  Padre Colaso was furious. ‘Are you making fun of the church and the Christian religion? You have spoken against our faith by praising their customs. You must be punished. I will go to Goapattana and inform the Inquisition,’ he declared.

  The shef was terrified. His careless words had got him into this mess! ‘Forgive me, Padre, I spoke in jest. I am a devout Christian,’ he pleaded.

  ‘You cannot be forgiven. You are an insignificant, local Christian convert from the lower classes. You must be taught a lesson!’ The priest stomped off.

  The shef sidled up to the captain in remorse. The captain was aware of the influence exercised by the Jesuits. There was no hope of pardon if they lodged a complaint. They drew their authority from the King of Portugal who had decreed that all the captains, the shefs and the viceroy should help them spread the Christian faith. Captain Diego Barrett had come across different types of Jesuits in Goapattana. Some were surrounded by slave women and led hedonistic lives in palatial mansions. Others tramped barefoot through the villages, carrying the teachings of Jesus to the people.

  There was a simmering conflict between the faith based on love, compassion and forgiveness that Jesus had taught, and the religion of force propagated by the Jesuits in Goa. This conflict remained hidden under the surface because of the climate of fear generated by the Inquisition. If this had not been the case, the tenets of Christianity would have been discussed and deliberated upon in great detail by the various factions. It would have been purged of much of its dross and emerged as a mature and profound religion that people would willingly embrace and it would have spread beyond the frontiers of Goa. Those who recognized this truth remained slightly withdrawn from the mainstream for they didn’t have the strength to combat the Jesuits. They tried to help in whatever way they could, or ordered the shef and police forces to help the Jesuits.

  And now Shef Ribeir was trapped in their clutches. The captain went up to the priest, ‘Padre, Shef Ribeir and I are always at your service. The King of Portugal wants to spre
ad Christianity in Goa, so it is our job to do so. Shef Ribeir has been doing this very well. Just the other day, he ensured that four hundred and twenty-two people were baptized at the same time. This is a great achievement and he deserves to be forgiven for his lapse.’

  Padre Colaso was silent for a while. ‘I won’t forgive him. But I will not complain to the Inquisition this time. I cannot promise that I will not do so in future, though,’ he said.

  Shef Ribeir must be shifted out of Adolshi at the earliest, the captain said to himself.

  ‘Padre, decide where you want to build the church, and how big it must be,’ said the captain. ‘Come with me to Goapattana. Bring the mhal gaonkar with you and we will meet the Archbishop and the Viceroy. This is a poor village. Tell the villagers to ask for a church and for financial help to build it. They can provide the labour, but the engineers and masons will come from Goapattana. The construction of the church can start in a year’s time,’ he said.

  ‘Can we not sell the land to raise money?’

  ‘No, we cannot. The land belongs to the temple. The revenue officials will transfer the land deeds to the church and church expenses will have to be borne by revenue generated from that land. The King has decreed that the village administration will continue as before. Last year, we forced the mhal gaonkar to sign away some of the village lands to us. Some of it was given to new converts, but there are still large tracts that we can sell.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Land prices have fallen in recent times. No one wants land or cattle these days.’

  ‘Whatever happens, we must build the church as soon as possible.’

  ‘Of course, we must, Padre. It will be built at once.’ The captain leapt on to his horse and galloped away.

  As they began to dig up the foundation of the temple, one of the labourers realized that Timothy Moraes had not come to work. Where was he? Had anyone seen him that morning? Where did he sleep last night? No one knew anything. Someone had seen him rushing around in a drunken haze, but no one knew where he’d gone. Most of the workers in these demolition bands were Portuguese soldiers and Moors who had converted to Christianity. Very few Hindu converts volunteered to destroy the temples and when one such person appeared on the scene, he was treated with scorn and disdain.

  On one side, large stone slabs were being prised out of the temple walls. On the other, a flock of vultures was circling Timothy Moraes’s corpse on the Sinteri slope. A few foxes lurked in the shadows sniffing the air, ready to pounce. Who had killed the man? Was he knocked down with a club or did someone stick a knife into him? Did someone bash his head with a rock? No one knew.

  People were saying all sorts of things in the village. Some said that the Holiye Naas was enraged and had led Timothy down a crooked path into the Sinteri valley. Others felt that some devotee, distraught on seeing Timothy perched on the temple roof, had killed him. Abu Mirashi insisted that human sacrifice was necessary before a temple could be razed. The deity had extracted what was His due. Sandalwood paste and flowers are offered to the gods when the temple foundation is laid. Human blood must be offered when the structure is destroyed.

  ‘Didn’t the young bhat sacrifice himself?’

  ‘The young bhat died because of you, wretched creatures! He was a priest. It was his job to conduct prayers, not to protect the temple. That was the job of the Khatris in the village. When you surrendered meekly, like oxen, what could he do?’

  People huddled fearfully in their homes ever since the demolition of the temple began. They felt that some great catastrophe was about to happen … children would die, people would get paralysed and infectious diseases would rage in the village. The crops in the fields would be destroyed and men would attack each other as the Evil Spirit swept into the village which was no longer under the protection of the temple deity. They lit oil lamps furtively as evening fell and prayed to their gods in low voices.

  The temple was completely demolished by the fourth day. They had even dug out the foundation stones and piled them up in a heap. On one side lay beams and wooden fixtures. On the other side was a pile of stone slabs. A vibrant temple alive with devotees and rituals was now reduced to a heap of stones. People stared at the rubble in dismay. Where did God vanish, what happened to His power? Did He withdraw His powers and move away quietly because we are all sinners? Or was His presence just an illusion created by this magnificent structure built of stone? No! It was our faith, our devotion, our worship that caused God to be present in every slab.

  There was neither a church nor a temple in the village now. They had destroyed many of the little shrines as well as the Ravalnath temple where the Shenai families used to worship. A strange sense of emptiness settled over the village, yet life went on. People felt hungry and thirsty. Dew fell. So did the rain. Mango blossoms appeared, then the trees were laden with fruit. Cows calved. What did one need a God for, then?

  It’s true the villagers were bathed in holy water and cleansed of all that was old when they were baptized and made Christians. But in their minds and in their behaviour, they remained Hindus. A whole group had been compelled to convert at the same time. Its collective strength was struggling to express itself against Christianity, its sense of being Hindu was rising to the fore. When Sukhdo was the only convert in the area, he’d been quiet and obedient. But now, as part of the larger group he, too, seemed to sprout horns. Turning these new converts into good Christians was the biggest challenge before the Church, the Inquisition and the administration. The new converts were penalized and faced the prospect of being thrown into prison and being burnt to death. On the one hand were the principles of love, compassion and forgiveness as taught by Jesus, on the other was this cruel travesty of faith that was coming to the fore.

  Now that they had become Christians the villagers were becoming defiant, and despite several warnings, they grew tulsi plants by their houses and their courtyards were edged by a decorative ridge, typical of Hindu homes. Married women continued to wear the symbols of their status like the Hindus. They didn’t invite Hindu priests home, but they sent rice and other gifts at funerals and on death anniversaries, and placed ritual offerings before crows.

  The padre was very angry at this and often rebuked the shef. ‘Yes, Padre, we must teach them a lesson. They’re foolish and ignorant. But how many people can we complain against?’ The shef was so afraid of Padre Colaso now that he was quick to nod his head at whatever the padre said.

  Sixty-year-old Nilu Nayak, along with Mhablu Nayak and Murari Nayak and their families, were taking their god out of Adolshi. Nilu Nayak marched at the head of the group, the sword firmly in his grasp. Murari’s seventeen-year-old son followed carrying Lord Ramnath on his head. They had set out for Antruz, but when they came to the Pilar embankment, they saw a man striding along with a huge bundle on his head, wiping the sweat from his face with the loose end of the cloth hanging down across his shoulder. ‘Who are you? From which village? Where are you headed?’ the man asked.

  ‘We’re from Adolshi, a rich flourishing village, struck now by the evil eye. We’re taking our gods with us. We’ll drive a stake into the ground and set up new homes at some favourable spot, our gods will be with us,’ Nilu Nayak replied.

  ‘Don’t step into Antruz,’ the man said, ‘it’s dangerous. Full of Moors and Muslims and people from eighteen different communities who fled the Goan islands. Fights break out, looting takes place. You said you were from Adolshi, didn’t you? A Brahmin family from your village had crossed over by boat and was trudging from one village to another when they were attacked. The man was beaten up and the young wife was raped by some Chandals. She was a very religious woman, they say. She jumped into a well and killed herself.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘I don’t know her name. She was from some Shenai family of Adolshi.’

  Everyone was lost in deep thought. Finally Murari asked, ‘Where are you going with that bundle on your head?’

  ‘I was the jalmi at the Khe
trapal shrine in Agashe. Three years ago, I uprooted the idol and set it down at a new site in Antruz, where I conduct the rituals as in the past. The Lord’s spirit takes possession of my body. We celebrated the jogavani festival just the other day. I’m taking the prasad and Lord Khetrapal’s blessings to the Christian devotees in Agashe. They continue to contribute to the temple fund every year even after they became Christians. How will they feel if they don’t receive the Lord’s blessings and the prasad?’ The man set off again. Suddenly he turned back and called out, ‘Don’t go to Antruz. Take the river route or sail down the coast to Shinvesar instead.’

  Murari’s son, Shambhu, slung the cloth bundle bearing the gods on a low branch. The others flopped down on the embankment in dismay. A load of worry descended on their heads – they were stuck in the middle – they couldn’t move forward and there was no going back. There was fear and worry in the women’s expressions. Murari’s wife kept mumbling to herself … who could that Brahmin woman be … not Rudra Shenai’s wife Sumitra, I hope … Such a pious woman, like a goddess herself!

  They put three stones together and placed a pot of rice and water on them. Then they lit a fire under it. They ate the payz with salted mangoes. Just then a man came up to them with a large watermelon and stalks of sugarcane.

  ‘These things cannot be defiled by my touch. Accept them. My elder brother was like a father to me. He took his wife and children and went away without telling anyone, the night before we were to be baptized. They say he crossed the river … who knows where he is.’

  The group picked up their gods and set off in the direction of the river at Agashe. Nilu Nayak was familiar with this region and had some idea about which villages could be safe and which direction people who were trying to escape conversion were headed. He had been to Antruz and Sashti in the past and had heard of Shinvesar and Canara.