‘I’m your godfather. I’ve come from the city, of my own free will, to take part in this ceremony. I will be by your side throughout the proceedings.’
‘What do the prisoners sentenced to death wear?’ he asked the man.
‘Their smock bears tongues of fire on one side and a picture of Satan on the other.’
One by one, all the prisoners came out of their cells and stood in a line on the verandah. Simao Peres stared at them in amazement. There were at least a hundred and fifty of them looking like some prehistoric creatures that had emerged from a deep dungeon below the earth. Where had they been all this while? How was it that no one even knew they existed?
Only three of the prisoners wore the smock with the tongues of fire on it. One of them had been pardoned and set free, but he had gone back and criticized the Inquisition. The officials had arrested him again and condemned him to death. The second prisoner had been sent to the torture chamber twice, but he stuck to his stand that he was innocent. However the people who testified against him were thirsting for his blood and persisted with their accusations. The third man said he preferred to be burnt at the stake and would not confess or seek pardon. At one time he must have been tall and well-built, but now he was so emaciated that he seemed even taller, though his neck could barely support the weight of his head that lolled from side to side.
As dawn broke, seven workers trooped in carrying seven boxes in their hands. They each bore a long pole with a man’s image attached to the top. The names of the men were inscribed below each image. The boxes contained the bones of those prisoners who had died during the trial or after they had been found guilty. The bones had been exhumed from their graves and were to be burnt to complete the punishment. The Inquisition believed that by doing this the souls of the guilty would be kept out of heaven, forcing them to wander about on earth. It did not let go of the hapless creatures even after death.
Padre Simao Peres read the names. One of them, Sukhdo – Salvador Dias seemed familiar. Only after a while did he realize that it was Sukhdo Nayak of Shirvaddo in Adolshi, who was the first to convert to Christianity along with his three sons, ignoring the mandate of the village. And now his bones lay in that box awaiting judgement! What had happened to his land? Where were his sons now? Who was it who had complained against him and led him to this final resting place, this box?
The procession, of around a hundred and fifty men, about fifty women, and their godfathers, wound out of the building at seven in the morning. After the service at St Catherine’s Church, it would make its way to the clearing in the marketplace. Stakes had been set into the ground and wood had been piled at the site. The viceroy and the Archbishop would be present during the proceedings.
Thousands of people had abandoned their homes and fields and livestock as they moved out of Goa. Their cattle roamed about like stray animals, and vast tracts of land remained uncultivated. Rice and paddy were brought to Goa from the Canara region in large boats, and still this was not enough to feed the people. The government coffers were almost empty. The fields belonging to the temple and taken over by the church remained fallow. The viceroy passed a decree that no one was to be driven out of Goa, nor would anyone be allowed to leave of his own free will. Those who had abandoned their homes and land, could return to their villages without fear of prosecution. They could take possession of their fields and orchards if they agreed to become Christians.
But those who had fled their homes did not return. Who knows where the little groups of refugees had reached? It was the ones who had stayed back, the new converts, who were now feeling the heat. It was not enough to be baptized and to become a Christian. They had to learn to live like the Europeans, to wear their clothes and eat their food. They had to forsake all that they had done in the past, and if they committed a mistake, the threat of the Inquisition loomed large. Two people from Adolshi had been ensnared in their web. And everyone knew about Padre Simao Peres.
Difficult times brewed all over Goa. The gaonki system of administration continued to exist, but it was in shambles. In the old days the various Hindu caste groups and classes followed a strict hierarchical pattern, but when the gaonki was held in the church all the Christian villagers were considered equals. Yet, no man was willing to give up the privileges of his caste and class. This led to fights between the new converts who were originally Brahmins, and those who had converted from a lower caste group. The European officials did nothing to erase these class distinctions that were dividing the new converts. They continued to mark the old castes before their new Christian names. They had become Christians, but they couldn’t get rid of their caste.
The new converts were a confused lot. They knew nothing about their new religion, they couldn’t understand the language and there was no way to gain spiritual succour for they were forbidden to practise the rituals of their old faith. The new culture and language were proving to be major hurdles in their path. They were filled with remorse at having forsaken their old faith; they felt that they were cowards, that they had sinned…
The lesser gods and deities still remained in their tiny shrines, but no one performed any rituals or worshipped them. Many of the new converts were disturbed by this neglect. If someone fell ill or some unfortunate incident occurred in the village they felt that it was because the lesser gods and spirits were angry.
There were three little shrines housing the deities Agyo, Barmo and Vagro at the edge of the village, beyond which was the thick forest. The villagers had a lot of faith in the powers of these deities and took care to ensure that they were not disturbed or enraged.
One day Santan Dias Nayak and Joav Dias Nayak, formerly known as Puttu and Lavu Nayak of Shirvaddo, dropped in at Surya Gurav’s house. ‘You belong to a family of priests, your father performed the rituals in the village shrines. Conduct the ceremonies in honour of the lesser gods and spirits, we will assist you,’ they said.
‘What are you saying, Puttu mama? None of that matters today!’ Surya Gurav exclaimed.
‘The three deities on the border of the village are angry. The annual ceremonies in their honour have not been performed for two years. They must be pacified, or death will stalk this village!’
Surya Gurav, now known as Louis Miranda, was struck with fear. ‘They keep a watch on everything. If they get to know this, we’ll be thrown into jail,’ he said.
On Wednesday afternoon, seven Nayak gaonkars, a Gurav and a Mirashi, assembled furtively at the Vagro shrine. Jiblo Nayak Dias carried a basket on his head. It contained a small pitcher, a new earthen pot, some steamed cakes or sannas, rice, flour and salt. The basket also contained flowers and a cock with its legs bound together. They quickly performed the traditional rituals, sacrificed the cock at the Vagro shrine, offered the sannas to Agyo and also placed the choru and ront in front of Barmo as offerings. They broke the earthen pot right there and tossed the shards to one side, but Jiblo took the pitcher and the basket back and hid them in the loft above Saba Gurav’s cowshed.
There were some villagers who tried to prove that they were very good Christians, that they belonged to a class that was on par with the European rulers, so they often visited the soldier’s camp. The officials fed them information that was designed to spread fear in people’s hearts.
Who knows who turned traitor and carried the news of the religious ceremony to Padre Colaso. The villagers believed that the old faith and gods had a special place in each of their hearts so no one would betray them, but there was a traitor in their midst who gave their names to the priest and to the shef.
‘Shef Ribeir, do you see what they’ve done? What’s the point in teaching them anything? I’ll complain to the Inquisition and have them locked up!’ the priest raged.
‘Bad. Very bad!’ the shef agreed tiredly. ‘But Padre, if all these people are arrested there will be very few left in the village. The officials want us to ensure that people remain here, don’t they?’
‘Are you suggesting that we ignore these s
inful deeds? It’s a crime to withold information about acts that go against the Christian faith. The fifty-fifth column in the rule book of the Inquisition states that whoever fails to report what he has seen or heard is guilty of acting against Christianity and must be punished too.’
The next day Padre Colaso and some soldiers went to the edge of the forest. They saw the ashes in the makeshift hearth, the crimson flowers and the cock’s blood stained feathers strewn about the Vagro shrine. They noticed the bundle of steamed cakes slung on a stick by the Agyo shrine. There were half-burnt flowers and plantain leaves, shards of a broken mud pot and vermilion powder near the Barmo shrine. The priest told the soldiers to observe everything carefully.
The villagers were beside themselves with fear when they heard this news. The men crouched in their houses while the women went in and out of their houses not knowing what to do. Mad Nanu clutched his stomach and laughed uproariously. ‘Those three gods sit there, stripped of their powers. Do you think your cattle will be saved if you rely on them? I tell you, all your cows will die, not a single calf will remain in your shed!’
Ventu Nayak Dias went to Babli’s house as soon as it grew dark. ‘I’m an old man, worn down by life. I didn’t attend the ceremony yesterday, but all of you mustn’t sit here as though waiting for the end. They have decreed that no one must leave the village. But they’ll arrest all of you tomorrow. So, Babli, leave this village right now. If you wait for daybreak you might be thrown into their dungeons,’ he said.
The gravity of the situation slowly sank into their minds. They packed rice, a few clothes and vessels, money and gold ornaments and were ready to leave by ten that night. Surya Gurav and Abu Mirashi arrived with their families as well as the cattle in their cowsheds. The sound of hooves seemed even louder in the stillness of the night.
‘We must rush away in whichever direction we can. We might have to cross the river in boats, what will we do with the cattle then?’ someone asked.
Their brothers and cousins and other members of their families stood in their doorways and watched in silence as the little group set off. ‘Tend to our cows and calves. Who knows if we’ll ever return,’ they said in low tones. These were people who had once fought over the dung that their animals dropped in the fields. And here they were, leaving sheds full of cattle as they moved away!
It was a group of about fifty people, belonging to nine families, that hurtled through the darkness. Some of them carried infants in their arms, others held on to their bundles. They clenched their teeth and panted with the effort as they hurried towards the river in Shirdone, trying to increase the distance between themselves and disaster and death.
The boatmen were making a lot of money these days taking people across the river as they moved out of Goa for various reasons, the chief one being the fear of the Inquisition. These boatmen loitered on the bank or floated mid-stream posing as fishermen during the day. At night they demanded two gold coins or sixty xerafins to ferry a boat full of people from Shirdone to Karwar. There was not much danger once they crossed the mouth of the Aghnashini river for the soldiers rarely intercepted boats at night. But if they were caught on the river bank or while boarding the boats, they were sure to be killed. It was easier to move out of Goa using the Aghnashini route than it was to sail down the Mandvi. The Mandvi river, with the Adil Shahi palace and the flourishing settlements of Raibandar and Goapattana on its banks, hummed with activity throughout the day and even during night. But once one crossed the Chikhli settlement, one wouldn’t encounter any traffic on the Aghnashini river till it reached the sea.
Jiblo Nayak Dias was a tall, slim man, about thirty years old. He wore a brief loincloth, a red kerchief wrapped about his head and a strip of blanket hung from one shoulder. These were the clothes he wore even after he became a Christian. He had an eight-year-old daughter and an infant son who was in Jiblo’s elder sister’s arms. This sister had returned to her parents’ home after being widowed and though Jiblo had asked her to stay back in the village, she had insisted on accompanying them.
‘Would the troubles in the Big House have been more than what we’re suffering now?’ Purso Dias remarked as they rushed along.
‘We’d have to leave our homes and the village in any case. But at least we’ll die as free men now, under the open sky!’ Lavu Dias exclaimed.
They reached the river bank at Shirdone after an hour and a half. There were two boats moored on one side while another one, partly filled with people, was a short distance away.
‘Take us somewhere far away. Don’t worry about money, what’s the use of money if we’re not alive? We’ll give as much as you want,’ Babli addressed the three boatmen huddled in the boat’s dark confines. Each boat had a short mast with a tightly furled sail. How will these vessels carry us across this vast expanse of water, they wondered.
‘Get in,’ a boatman said as two of them moved to the ends of the boat while another grabbed the edge of the sail. ‘Get in quickly. We must leave at once. If we’re caught, they’ll shoot us first of all.’
The people realized that these boatmen spoke a strange language. They were outsiders who had merely come here to earn money. But that didn’t matter really, for all they wanted was to get away from Goa as soon as possible. Their legs sank knee-deep into the slush as they waded through the shallow water to get on to the boat. Their hearts fluttered in fear, beneath them was the slush and the swiftly flowing water and all around was an impenetrable darkness.
Each person struggled through the slush and hauled himself on to the boat before looking around for the other members of his family. In the pitch dark they had to guess at their identities since no features were visible. They felt as though a knife would land on their necks if they didn’t hurry. The two boats were soon filled with people and only four or five persons remained on the bank. Jiblo was moving up and down helping with other people’s sacks and bundles and loading them on to the boats. His wife, Gaura, waited on the bank with their bags. Lavu had come back to collect his last bundle and Surya Gurav’s wife, who was unwell, clutched her infant as she waited for her husband to help her wade to the boat.
Suddenly one of the boatmen noticed some ten or fifteen dark shapes rushing down the slope. He could barely see the caps on their heads and weapons sticking out from their bodies. ‘They’ve come! The soldiers … set sail!’ he shouted and the boatmen dug their long poles deep into the slush and pushed with all their might to set the boats afloat on the strong tide.
‘No one must go forward … stop!’ the soldiers screamed but Surya’s wife was struggling through the slush with her infant in her arms. Surya was caught with one leg in the boat and the other in the water clinging precariously to its side. ‘Bhagi! Come quick!’ he screamed but he dared not let go of the boat as it moved away. Bhagi lost her footing and fell into the water. Surya wailed loudly as his wife and child drowned before his eyes.
Lavu rushed forward to grab hold of the boat but the boatmen were moving so fast that he couldn’t do so and the air resounded with the wails of his wife and children as he was caught by the soldiers when he scrambled back to the bank. Jiblo, however, grabbed his wife’s hand and slipped into the dark shadows of trees and bushes.
The soldiers ordered the boatmen to return but the three boats moved swiftly with the current and were soon lost to sight. Only the wails and cries of the members of the three families could still be heard on the bank. Lavu Nayak’s wife threatened to jump into the water along with her four children, Jiblo’s sister was beside herself with grief.
Jiblo’s wife clung to her husband sobbing inconsolably as he pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle her cries. They crept over an embankment and across a stream before stopping to rest under a tree.
‘Tomorrow we’ll take some other route, maybe we’ll sail down the coast towards Canara …we’ll look for them. I will not rest till I find my sister and my children,’ he whispered.
Demu Gurav Ferrao’s younger brother, Bamu Gurav Ferrao,
had spent his childhood in the temple precincts, playing hide and seek with his friends amidst the trees by the sacred pool. He’d remained immersed in the rituals of worship, the sacred chants and hymns and festivals that were an intrinsic part of the temple routine. He enjoyed all these activities and had great faith in the Lord. He was always taken aback when people questioned the existence of god.
The sight of forty or fifty people demolishing the temple had rendered him speechless with horror and he’d remained withdrawn and silent ever since. His family didn’t know what to do. The ghadi and the joish who could drive away evil spirits were too scared to practise their art on him.
When it was time for the Shigmo festival, the sound of cymbals and pipes and the traditional songs began to resound in Bamu’s ears and he seemed to stir out of his habitual stupor. He’d set off into the hills every morning and return in the afternoon, exhausted and dirty. His family was quite relieved that he was taking an interest in something, that he was venturing out of the house at least. One day, much to everyone’s surprise, he took a crowbar along with his sickle when he set off for the hills. He returned in the afternoon and maintained the same routine for the next eighteen days. And then, one day, he declared, ‘Everything will be fine now. All our troubles will pass. The Lord stands again, we’ll celebrate the Shigmo this year.’
The next day he bathed early and placed some flowers and vermilion, a piece of sandalwood, a small pot of water and a bell in a basket and set off into the hills. His family was quite alarmed. They informed his brother, Demu Gurav, who followed him into the hills.
Bamu stopped in a clearing deep in the forest where he had built a little temple four feet tall and about three feet wide. It was built on six stakes that had been pushed into the ground and had a thatched roof of golden wild grass. A tiny sanctum made of woven strips of bamboo stood in the centre and within it was a large black stone with a face and eyes etched on its surface. A small peepal sapling had been planted outside the temple and a stone platform erected around its base.
Age of Frenzy Page 26
