Age of Frenzy

by Mahabaleshwar Sail

  The boatman set the boat afloat and Durga felt that she was lost. Above her was the crescent moon, on this fifth day in Magh, a tiny sliver in the dark dome of the sky, spangled with countless stars. Below her was this vast expanse of water, an ocean without end. They had set out on what appeared to be their final journey.

  They didn’t know where they were going, they had no concrete plans. Durga hadn’t informed her parents or her siblings so they wouldn’t know where she had gone. Would this plant, uprooted from its native soil, find sustenance and take root again on some distant shore, or would it wither and die? Today, there is darkness without end on all four sides. Who knows, the bright light of morning may reveal a new shore where their tiny footprints may eventually leave mighty impressions on the land.

  The people of this region had great faith in Lord Ramnath and would often visit the temple in Adolshi to seek His blessings. During the temple festival in Magh, Brahmins and Kunbis, fishermen and agricultural workers from surrounding towns and villages would make their way to Adolshi. Some thirty or forty makeshift stalls selling an assortment of sweetmeats and spices, ornaments and trinkets, toys and articles of daily use would spring up around the temple. But that year, an eclipse seemed to have cast a shadow on the festival.

  There was no formal meeting to discuss the arrangements for the festival, no traders from Bardes and Sashti were coming to display their wares, but still a few villagers got together and decided to conduct the jatra as best as they could. Everyone knew that this would probably be the last time they’d celebrate the festival, that it ought to be done on a grand scale yet there was little enthusiasm.

  There were only seven stalls at the jatra that year. The sun shone feebly through dark clouds. Fear, worry and regret at their own cowardice were writ large on the faces of the devotees. The thought that it was the last time they would take part in this festival which had been celebrated annually for hundreds of years was more than they could bear. What a great tragedy it was! Like the great flood which had marked the end of an age!

  By the evening, the sky had cleared and the bright light of the full moon fell on the earth. The rag that had muffled the gong of one of the temple bells fell away and a devotee began to ring it with all his might. Someone else removed the cover that muffled another bell and began to ring it too. Padre Colaso, heard the bells and became restive, but the shef calmed him down.

  ‘Forgive them, Padre. This is the last time. The final throes of a dying man,’ he said.

  A huge crowd gathered in front of the temple when it was time to draw the chariot. It was almost like the earlier years. The chariot, which stood tall as a coconut palm, was decorated with flags of multicoloured cloth. Its wheels were as high as a man and the ropes tied to it, as thick as his arm.

  Many new converts huddled on the fringes of the crowd, their hands itching to grasp the chariot ropes as they had in the past. Some fifty or sixty young men grasped the rope eagerly, waiting for the gaonkar’s permission to draw it forward. Ventu Nayak broke five coconuts, to mark the five settlements that made up Adolshi village. Just then an insane looking young man rushed up and grabbed the rope, but the others shoved him away. Ventu Nayak raised his hand and the chariot trundled forward to cries of ‘Har Har Mahadev! ’

  The air throbbed with sound and music as the temple dancers twirled about with flaming oil lamps balanced on their heads. The chariot moved around the temple and came to a halt at the door where a pancharati with five-wick lamps was performed. Then the chariot moved towards the little shrine of the Paikdev, after which it would move to the Rudradev shrine.

  The air resounded with cries of ‘Har Har Mahadev! ’, the musicians played without pause, and devotees rushed behind the chariot with their arms upraised. It was as though the people who had been silent and depressed all morning, had suddenly been consumed by an extraordinary frenzy to keep these final moments alive for all time, to atone for their lapses and shortcomings.

  The Rudradev shrine stood on an incline and the ropes strained to almost breaking point as the devotees drew the chariot up the slope. People said that Rudradev was angry because Lord Ramnath had defeated him in battle and the groaning and creaking of the chariot wheels was actually Rudradev gnashing his teeth in fury at the indignity he had suffered so many centuries ago!

  The rituals were done and it was time for the chariot to return to the temple. The men drawing the chariot began to rush down the slope with the chariot trundling behind them when suddenly a frail, emaciated youth threw himself in its path. The right wheel struck his side, smashing his ribs, and the chariot came to a halt. It was Kantu’s son Savlo – Salvador Dias – driven to madness by his love.

  Savlo, who was about nineteen years old, was to marry Bhagi, the daughter of one of his mother’s cousins. He would often go to his uncle’s house to meet Bhagi and they would slip away into the hills. Suddenly, two months before the wedding, Bhagi’s family converted to Christianity. Savlo roamed around like a mad man for two months. Then, without saying a word to his family, he went to the church at Nevre and got baptized.

  ‘I’m a Christian now, I can enter your home,’ he said to Bhagi’s father.

  ‘Come inside. You can’t marry Bhagi, though. We’ve fixed her marriage with Mingel Curreiya of Goapattana. He’s a government official. You’re just a farmer’s son.’

  The men who were drawing the chariot dropped the ropes. They set their shoulders to the wheels and freed Savlo’s body before drawing the chariot slowly to its resting place beside the temple. The right wheel of the chariot was splattered with blood. The final jatra at Lord Ramnath’s temple had come to an end.

  Padre Simao Peres lay in profound darkness in the dungeon for three days. There was not a sound to be heard, just this impenetrable darkness and a damp, rotten smell. The guard had said that there was a pot of water in the cell. He’d felt his way around till he found it, and drank a few mouthfuls. Yesterday, or was it the day before? Or perhaps today. He couldn’t remember. How long had he been languishing here? Since they nailed Jesus to the cross? Or as soon as he descended the hill after the Last Supper? He had to carry Jesus’s teachings to the whole world or the Jews would become drunk on their power!

  Strange thoughts whirled about in Padre Simao’s head. He suddenly remembered that he hadn’t said his prayers, so he sank down on his knees, and chanted, ‘Lord Jesus, Son of God, Protector of the universe! Lead me from darkness into light. Lead me into the world of men, let me hear their voices, fill my heart with love. I will bear no anger, no ill-will towards anyone. Like you, I shall pray to God to forgive them!’

  A little window creaked open on the third afternoon and a beam of light, like God Himself, entered the cell, almost blinding the priest. A sense of joy and energy replaced the gloom of death. A long stick with a cloth bundle tied to it was lowered into the cell. The smell of food aroused hunger pangs in the priest’s belly and he realized that he didn’t want to die so soon. He opened the cloth bundle and found a pot of soup and four pieces of bread.

  ‘How are you, traitor to the faith?’ a voice asked.

  The priest didn’t like to be addressed in this manner, so he remained silent. Yet he was delighted to hear a human voice after such a long time.

  ‘How are you?’ the voice persisted and the priest swallowed rapidly, as though testing his vocal chords.

  ‘I’m well,’ he finally said.

  ‘The Chief Officer of the Inquisition in Goa is very kind. I ask, on his behalf, is there anything you need?’

  ‘They took away the crucifix I wore. I want it back.’

  ‘You can’t get that. You have been divested of your faith. Till such time as you are proved not guilty, you may not get it. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  The voice moved away but the little window remained open. That evening the latch was unfastened and the wooden door as well as the one with iron bars swung open. A guard and a constable beckoned to the priest, and once he had climbed th
e six narrow steps, they offered him a hand and hauled him out. They fastened a chain about his waist and led him past a series of little cells. Unlike the three or four dungeons they were clean and well lit.

  The guard opened the door to a little room, six feet long and six feet broad, with two raised platforms on either side that served as beds. A white-skinned prisoner was lying on one bed, but he didn’t open his eyes. The guard gave the priest a water pot, a small earthen tumbler, a broom and a wooden commode. He locked the door, which had iron bars, and moved away.

  The priest sat on the reed mat, drawing strength and comfort from the sunshine that he was seeing after three days. And from the fact that a live human being lay on the other bed. There must have been a hundred and seventy five cells housing many prisoners, but everything was quiet and still. It was like the uneasy calm that hangs over the cremation ground once the flaming pyres are stilled.

  Suddenly the white-skinned prisoner began to weep and as his wails cut through the still atmosphere, the guard and another soldier rushed into the cell.

  They punched and kicked the prisoner till the emaciated creature collapsed face down on his bed. Padre Simao watched this in silence. He was upset that he had witnessed such injustice without protest because he wanted to save his own skin. The prisoner and I are in the same predicament, Simao said to himself. He weeps openly, but I weep deep within. All that I was in the past, all my intelligence, experience and knowledge, everything that made me function as a priest … it is all irrelevant today. I am merely an innocent man accused of committing a crime. I had confronted a hardened criminal and grabbed his sword, preventing him from shedding someone’s blood, back in Greece. Where is that strength, now? Where is that confidence? Today, I am just a convict accused by the Inquisition of being a traitor to my faith. I have no other identity.

  The prisoner was weeping silently now. Simao Peres went up to him, ‘Brother, I feel sorry for you. Your troubles are now mine. Tell me, how did you get to this place?’

  In a voice choked with emotion the man, whose name was Timothy, began his tale…

  He was born in Pinto, in northern Portugal, and when he was eighteen years old, his father became bed-ridden and the family couldn’t make both ends meet. The Portuguese government needed soldiers for their forces in Africa and India, but people were reluctant to join because of the dangers involved. One day Timothy ran away to Lisbon and joined the army. Before setting sail for India, he ensured that his salary would be sent to his family.

  The soldiers, who had been promised that they would return to Portugal after five years, remained in Goa even after seventeen years. The officials, including the viceroy, asked them to marry local women and settle down in Goa. They would be given fields and orchards and money and would be discharged from the army if they did so, but Timothy yearned to go back home.

  He began to drink and visit the prostitute colony at Brahmapur where he fell in love with a prostitute called Nagi and abducted her from her home. Nagi was baptized and they got married in church the same day. He was discharged from the army and was given money and a house in Goapattana where he set up a bakery.

  Nagi was a pretty, affectionate woman who loved him dearly and bore him a child very soon. Timothy took ill one day and though they tried different medications, there was no relief. Nagi took her husband to Bombo, the medicine man, who tied an amulet about Timothy’s arm and made him drink some leaf extract and sure enough, in a week Timothy felt better. Timothy and Nagi knew that it was wrong to consult Hindu priests and medicine men, but the amulet seemed an insignificant matter and so they didn’t tell anyone about their visit. That Sunday, when Timothy was at the marketplace, a priest came up to him.

  ‘You are a nobre from Portugal, married to a Goan woman,’ he said.

  Timothy nodded.

  ‘Your children are mesticos. You’ve ruined the purity of Portuguese blood.’ He stared closely at Timothy for a while. ‘I must inform them about what I’ve seen. It would be a sin to keep silent about this,’ he said as he limped away.

  The next morning an official of the Inquisition arrived at Timothy’s house. Tongues of fire were painted across the front of his official robes. The old priest had complained to the Inquisition about Timothy. He was charged with worshipping an alien god, of wearing an amulet, of going against the tenets of Christianity and of being a traitor to his faith.

  As the Shigmo festival drew near, the tension in the village began to mount. People went about their work fearfully and then remained cowering within their homes. Some of them went to Nilu Nayak. ‘Nilu bhavo, do something to save our gods,’ they pleaded.

  Nilu called some of the villagers to his house. There were twelve gaonkars present, of which Jana Nayak now Joav Dias, Mungru Shenai now Mingel Gracias and Demu Gurav now Dominic Soz were new converts.

  ‘The idol of Lord Ramnath has to be removed from the temple by the third day after the full moon. We will give our support to any brave man who will take the deity out of Goa,’ Nilu Nayak said.

  Jana Nayak was furious. ‘We were tricked and forced to become Christians. Now you want to take our gods away! No. Our gods will not leave Goa. Take the deity to some secluded spot in the forest and worship Him there,’ he cried.

  ‘We are Christians now. If you are confident of taking the deity away, do so. Or immerse the gods in some pool. Everything is uncertain these days,’ Mungru Shenai said.

  Old man Ventu Nayak couldn’t control his agitation. ‘Shenai, you Brahmins have done nothing for the gods or for the village. You have only worked for your own ends. Now, as Christians, you will curry favour with them and strut about as important people. You don’t care whether the idols are destroyed or immersed. You’ve forsaken your faith … but that doesn’t matter. You’re important people. You’re Brahmins!’

  ‘Yes. We’re Brahmins by birth. Not because of our faith. That cannot change.’

  Demu Gurav, now Dominic Soz, wiped his tears. ‘I’ve lost everything. I’m a murderer. Killed my son because of my faith. Now I have nothing – no son, no religion. Do whatever you want.’

  ‘What has God done for us that we should try to save these idols? Let’s just wait and watch,’ Lavu Nayak declared.

  ‘You bastard!’ Dattu Nayak grabbed a stout stick. ‘Let them destroy the idols, you say! You’ve sinned so much, that’s why the gods have withdrawn their mercy. The Lord is testing us. That’s why He is silent. If He gets angry, they will be destroyed. And so will we.’

  This was a group of people whose mental faculties were on the verge of collapse. They pounced on each other at every word, writhed in pain and remorse like a serpent in its dying throes. These were a people caught in that troubled half-light between two religions, seeking to quench their spiritual hunger and conquer the fear in their souls.

  ‘There’s no point in quarrelling like this. The deity and the village belong to all of us, whether we are Hindus or Christians. Each man must help in taking the gods out of Goa,’ Nilu Nayak said at last.

  They didn’t come to any decision and one by one, the men slipped away.

  ‘The deity will be carried away on the day after the night of the full moon. If you want to come along, be there with your families,’ Nilu Nayak called after them.

  Adolshi’s troupe of dancers and musicians was famous in all the surrounding villages. Their colourful costumes, their songs and rhythmic movements with twirling wooden batons were highly appreciated by the people when they performed at the Shigmo festival.

  The origins of this festival are lost in the annals of time. The story goes that Shivnu of Shirvaddo in Adolshi, had a rare penchant for dance. Crops swaying in the breeze, trees in the forest as they burst into bloom, cows as they pranced about, all made him break into a dance and the trilling of birds provided music to his movements.

  One afternoon while Shivnu was tending his cattle, he felt thirsty and went to the lake to drink some water. As he cupped his palms to scoop the water, a tiny seed fell into the
hollow – red, like mud, elongated, conch-shaped.

  ‘Avo, god has dropped a seed into my palm. Can you tell me what it is?’ he asked his mother.

  ‘Go ask the earth. And ask the rain. Let it rest deep in fertile soil and wait for the first showers. The seed will sprout and you will get your answer,’ she said.

  Shivnu kept constant watch on the tiny seed like the oil lamp that glows steadfastly before the household gods, his hands gently patted down the earth where it was laid, he lavished care and love on the seed and sure enough, a tiny shoot emerged from the ground. He spared no effort in tending the plant which grew bigger and taller with branches sprouting on all sides, and in a few years the tree seemed to touch the sky.

  Suddenly one night the Holiye Naas, the spirit that protects the village, as magnificent as a palm laden with nuts, appeared in Shivnu’s dream. ‘Worship the tree with flowers and sandalwood paste, then cut it down and make musical instruments out of the wood. Fashion pipes with the wood from the lower part of the trunk. Use the wood from the middle portion to make drums. Whittle the wood from the upper part into twelve pairs of batons. Select twelve young men from your village and teach them to dance with these batons in their hands. Take my name and visit ten surrounding villages with your troupe of dancers and musicians,’ it said to Shivnu.

  ‘But I don’t know this dance’ Shivnu protested, in his dream.

  ‘You are a gifted dancer. And I shall extend all support.’

  Shivnu’s devotion to this powerful spirit led to the birth of a popular new dance form. He took his troupe to village after village every year. As the story about the naas and the baton dance spread people began to believe that the naas had infinite powers.

  When a fire was lit at the end of the Shigmo festival, people made offerings of goats and coconuts in thanksgiving. The goat meat curry with coconut was distributed to the people in leaf cup as prasad.