By Felicio Cardoso
Translated from the Original Konkani by Augusto Pinto
It was raining in torrents. It wasn’t all that late in the night but outside, it was pitch dark. At most it must have been about 8 o’clock and the frogs and the crickets had already begun singing their songs.
As usual, Caetano, Lawrence, Squinty Jose, and Ram were sitting with a bottle of feni at Pedro’s place chatting away.
At one time Pedro was a seaman. About thirty-odd years ago he had a small hut in the property of Morgado-bhatkar, as the landlord was called because he was the morgado or first born, who inherited the properties or bhats of his father. In that hut, his father, grandfather and his great-grandfather had been born, brought up and even breathed their last.
Pedro had from his childhood tasted a number of bitter and sweet experiences in the house of Morgado-bhatkar. He used to feel that to be born poor, born a mundkar, as Goan tenants were known, and on top of that to be a shudra was a horrible fate.
The bhatkar’s children, other children of the bhatkar-class - the bab-class - used to call him ‘Sukk’do Pedro’, meaning Skinny Pedro, and these included children who were younger to him by four or five years, whereas if he ever dared call them solely by name, he would immediately get reprimanded by the landlady (who old as she was, was still called the bhatkar’s bride - Okolbai): “If I ever again hear you call our children by name, I’ll slap your face! Our children are not like you. They must be called Alexbab, Fanchicobab, Mariebai, Filubai…”
He often used to wonder about these rules where, when they wanted, they could address you by name, whereas when you had to address the landlord’s children one had to affix terms like bab and bai that somehow suggested that you were their inferior. Similar was the case with a’go and go, typical Konkani words reserved to call the attention of girls. He could use them when talking to his sister but if he dared use them to address Maribai or Filubai..., Okolbai would blow her top. She would warn him: “Sukk’do if I hear you say a’go or go when addressing my daughters, I’ll break your teeth. You have to say a’re or re when addressing them.” This used to make Pedro wonder: a’re and re are meant to be used when talking to boys while a’go and go are meant for talking to girls. So why am I supposed to say a’re or re when speaking to Mariebai or Filubai? One day Pedro actually asked of Okolbai, innocently using the word cheddum to mean ‘girl’: “Okolbai, don’t we have to address girls using a’go and go?” And Okolbai snapped back angrily: “Don’t you dare use the word cheddum. Brahmin girls are cholis, not cheddums!”
It’s said that a worm in a dungheap doesn’t stay in it forever. In the same way, as Sukk’do Pedro grew up he learnt how to work on a farm. By the time he was eighteen, he was a strapping young man, who would earn his living by working in fields and orchards. Later after a lot of effort, he managed to earn a seaman’s certificate and he went to work on board a ship. After a good many years and many voyages, he earned a lot of money. Finally he built his own house on a plot of land of the same Morgado-bhatkar which had been put up for auction on account of litigation.
Pedro was treated like a god by the poor of the village. He would never hesitate to give help to those who were in need. Just because he was now rich and well-to-do he didn’t turn arrogant. He would treat everybody equally and behaved humanely towards everyone.
Pedro used to drink cashew urraca in the summer and coconut feni in the rains. He could do without eating at night but if he didn’t have a few tots he found that he couldn’t sleep.
In the past he used to buy a bottle of feni everyday from the tavern. But now that Goa was liberated he was afraid that Prohibition might be imposed at any time so he used to buy big vats of liquor which he would store at home.
The other day Squinty Jose warned him that according to the new excise laws if one got caught with a lot of liquor in the house he could get a big fine. However Pedro wasn’t too bothered by this: “Grease the Excise Officer’s palm a little and you’ll be able to store as much liquor as you want,” he said.
Because one could cadge a drink for free at Pedro’s house many a Tom, Dick and Harry would drop in. However Caetano, Lawrence, Squinty Jose, and Ram weren’t like them. They didn’t go to Pedro’s place just for the booze. They were there because they were good neighbours and friends who liked to chat. They’d talk about the Regedor, who represented the village to the government, the Chief Minister, national and world news and issues of international importance. Sometimes they’d sit down to play cards and often they’d continue even if it was midnight and sometimes even till the cock crowed at break of dawn, and only then would they go home.
Among them Caetano was particularly smart. He had studied at Rachol Seminary for about twelve years and had even begun wearing a cross and donning a cassock. But there he began to observe a number of injustices being committed which mentally upset him. Seeing the casteism that occurred within the holy walls of the seminary, he began to feel disgusted. There was one particular senior priest who let alone choosing to speak to him with dignity, would theatrically address him as the Chardo baker-boy, it seems! One day when his superiors committed a particularly nasty act of discrimination towards Caetano, a few days before he was to be ordained, he threw away his cassock and quit the seminary.
That night Pedro’s dogs began to howl agitatedly. Pedro pushed aside the addambo, the wooden door cross-bar and he saw what appeared to be a black ghost hovering underneath the canopy. He was a little unnerved but mustering up courage he said, “Who are you?”
“I’m Father Rebello.”
“Reverend Father! Why are you outside Father? Do please come in,” said Pedro. Fr. Rebello entered carrying a tattered umbrella in his hand. The rain had leaked through the holes in the umbrella and had totally drenched his black cassock. When he entered Caetano and the others wished him a good evening in Portuguese, Boas noites, to which Fr. Rebello replied, Boas noites.
Because Fr. Rebello’s cassock was drenched Pedro asked him to take it off. But Fr. Rebello wasn’t willing to do that. Pedro entreated him to do so, “Reverend Father, you are now seventy years old and wearing this wet cassock is highly inadvisable. You might catch a cold. Stay here till the rain subsides. I’ll put your cassock to dry.
That’s when Fr. Rebello took off the cassock and after going through the pockets, he handed it over to Pedro to dry it. Pedro kept it hanging on a peg near the fireplace.
After offering the priest a chair Ram asked him, “Reverend Father, where had you been at this hour of the night?”
“I had gone to Lanky Luis’s place. Last year he celebrated the feast of Our Lady. I had delivered the sermons during the novenas and had even celebrated the feast mass. He told me that he would pay me my fees in a week’s time but now it’s past a year and he keeps telling me fibs saying he’ll give it this day and when the day comes he says he’ll give it some other day. Yesterday he told me that he would give me a promissory note. So I stayed at home but that Lanky Luis didn’t come and neither did he send his promissory note. So at dusk I went to his house but his wife told me that he had gone out in the morning and hadn’t yet come back. Still I waited for a while but finding that there was no sign of him I turned back. But by the time I reached the cross at the mandd, the village meeting place, the rain started coming down in gusts. I still wanted to carry on, but seeing that the rain started getting even heavier I thought of taking shelter here for a while.
“Is it a lot of money, Father?” asked Squinty Jose.
“The money that Lanky Luis owes me, you mean? Well, including the interest, it amounts to a hundred and ten rupees.”
“Reverend Father Rebello, your family stinks of money. Luis is a poor fellow. You wouldn’t die of starvation if you waived off the money, would you?” slipped in Caetano.
“Is Lanky Luis poor? If he’s poor how did he manage to make his son a priest? And how could he get his two other children admitted in college?”
“The poor fellow slogs day and night to make ends meet, and God alone knows how he manages to get his children educated. But Fr Rebello, you religious people only care for money. Where will you go with that money?” asked Caetano.
“Where will I go with money, you ask? Do you think priests don’t have stomachs?”
“Sure, priests have stomachs, but I’ve heard that you brought back about fifty thousand rupees from Angola, which you give out for interest.”
“So what? Do you think I stole that money? Como eu era único missionário Goês o Governo Portugues pagava-me bem!,” said the priest in Portuguese.
“Do you mean to say that just because you were the only Goan missionary priest the Portuguese government paid you so well—to the extent that you could amass fifty thousand rupees in five years?”
“What do you think? Além de pregar as missões eu tambem fazia outros negócios muito rendosos…” said the priest indicating that he ran profitable businesses besides his missionary duties.
“Fazia outros negócios? Being a priest did you carry out business? Ha! Ha! Ha!…” Caetano guffawed loudly.
“Why are you laughing like a monkey?” asked the annoyed priest.
“Jesus Christ said, “Freely have you received, freely give! Yet I say, you priests have the right to earn your daily bread by doing your priestly duties. But it made me laugh to hear that when priests like you carry out other business and hunger for money when yoked to the plough of Christ.”
“Don’t make me lose my temper!” said Fr Rebello in anger. His blood had begun to race around his veins. Thats when Pedro brought an empty glass and kept it before Fr. Rebello. He poured a little feni into the glass and offered it to Fr Rebello. But the priest didn’t touch the glass. His eyes were staring at something and he was deep in thought. It appeared that the anger that Caetano had aroused in him was going to increase seeing which Pedro poured a little more feni in the glass.
“Reverend Father, have a little of this tikki.”
“Let it be… It’s all right…”
After a little while Fr. Rebello lifted that glass to his mouth and took a big sip of the cinnamon flavoured feni and then letting out a couple of coughs said, “Pedro, this tikki’s of good coconut feni isn’t it? From whom did you buy it?”
“It’s from our own coconut plantation, Reverend Father.”
“From your trees? Who looks after your coconut trees?”
“Bomber Paulo’s son.”
“Really? The liquor is quite good. Our trees are looked after by Sole-fish Sebestian’s son. But he’s a damn idiot. God alone knows whether the liquor he gives me is mixed with water or not.”
“Yes Reverend Father, these toddy-tappers have now become fatted. Even the feni that is mixed with water is priced like gold,” said Lawrence.
“Damn it, since becoming Indian, everything has become expensive,” said Fr. Rebello with a crooked face.
“Fr Rebello did you ever hear of a coconut being sold for fourteen annas before India took over Goa? Given that every time your coconuts are plucked, you get at least twenty thousand coconuts, surely ‘becoming Indian’ has been good for you, isn’t it?” asked Caetano.
“But who says that coconuts are expensive? The price of coconuts are going down all the time, but other things keep going up. Nowadays do you know how much the labourers’ wages have gone up? The men demand five and six rupees for six hours work and the women between two and two and a half rupees. At this rate it’s impossible to sell a coconut for less than eight to ten annas. You say that the bhatkars are selling their coconuts for a higher price but why don’t you say anything about the labourers who have raised their wages?”
“They say that the coconut-tree owners weep and the coconut-oil sellers cry, don’t they Ram?” said Caetano.
“Yes, that’s true. When something as essential to all Goans as the coconut is sold at the rate of eight and ten annas, it’s daylight robbery!” said Ram.
“Why robbery?” replied Fr. Rebello, “for us priests what we need most is red wine - Vinho branco! Once it was available for one rupee, now they sell it for eight rupees. Isn’t this robbery?”
“Why do you only use red wine? Isn’t any other liquor acceptable?” asked Caetano.
“You rogue, can you have a Mass without red wine?” said Fr. Rebello testily.
“Instead of red wine use coconut toddy!”
“Use coconut toddy! Diabolical! What sacrilege this is!”
“The first Christian missionaries in Goa had used coconut toddy instead of wine and san’na, steamed rice-cakes instead of bread.”
“Oh my God! Who told you this? Your father!?”
“Fr. Rebello why are you getting so angry? That the first Christian missionaries used toddy and san’nas is not something I made up, but it is recorded in one of the books of history of the renowned Fr. Mascarenhas.”
“Who is this Fr. Mascarenhas? Who knows what a fool he is!”
“Fool? Till today he says Mass.”
Fr. Rebello’s bile had begun to rise to dangerous levels. Rather than stay there he decided that it was time for him go his way. And he called out to Pedro: “Pedro, get me my cassock!”
“Reverend Father let it dry a little more. And it’s still raining heavily. Sit down for a while,” said Pedro, pouring a little more tikki into his glass.
Father Rebello who had stood up sat down again and lifted his glass to his lips. Caetano, turning towards Lawrence winked. Lawrence, a smile on his face, winked back.
“Pedro, don’t you have any foreign liquor left?”
“No, Reverend Father.”
“Sad! Earlier we used to get such good things and now everything is…”
“Those bakers are dead and with them has gone their bread!” Lawrence quoted this popular saying before Fr. Rebello could complete his sentence.
“That’s true…
“Yes… and now they’ve even stopped our stipends.”
“Reverend Father,” interjected Caetano, “Don’t forget that our nation of Bharat is a pluralistic country.”
“What do you mean by pluralistic?” asked Fr. Rebello.
“Pluralistic means secular. In a country like our Bharat with many religions, all religions have the same rights, the same dignity. The government can’t support any one single religion.”
“Caetano, what was this stipend supposed to be?” asked Ram.
“You know, the Portuguese government used to every month pay a certain amount like a salary to the vicars of the churches. This money is called a stipend.”
“Did the Portuguese government give money to our bhats the same way they gave the Catholic vicars?”
“No. The Portuguese government would have nothing to do with the bhats. On the contrary they, at one time, went around chopping off their xenddi, hair-tufts of the Brahmin priests.”
“Really? How could they only give money to the Catholic vicars? If the government gave money to the vicars then they should have given it to our bhats and to other religious leaders as well,” opined Ram.
“Rambab, when priests and religious gurus have the keys of heaven in their hands, why would they need to accept the government’s money? It would be better if instead of giving to priests like Fr. Rebello who are awash with money, if that same money was donated to those who were really needy,” said Caetano in jest.
“Caetano, don’t make me angry! You talk too much! Você é Comunista!,” said Fr. Rebello to him, accusing him of being a Communist.
“Infelizmente não sou comunista, mas tambem, felizmente não sou comodista ó Senhor Padre,” retorted Caetano, denying the charge and at the same time slyly accusing the priest of being a greedy materialist.
“Caetano, explain to us what you’re saying. We get lost in the forest when you begin speaking in this foreigner’s language,” said Ram.
“Caetano, what are you trying to suggest?” Fr. Rebello asked with an angry snort.
Even as the situation began getting more tense, Pedro served everyone with a little more liquor. At which point Squinty Jose turned towards Fr. Rebello and said, “Congratulations Reverend Father!”
“For what?”
“I heard that your niece is going to get married to Francisco Antonio’s son.”
“Have you gone mad? We will never be willing to give our girl to that son of a carpenter!” said an agitated Fr. Rebello.
“Reverend Father, what if he is a carpenter? The son’s studying to be a doctor. Besides one of his brothers has become a priest and the other is studying to become a lawyer,” said Lawrence.
“Talking about priests: if one has to become a priest then one should become a priest like Francisco Antonio’s son,” said Caetano.
“Jose, what’s the name of that priest?” asked Lawrence.
“Who? Francisco Antonio’s son? He’s Valerian,” replied Jose.
“I’ve heard a lot about him and having observed some of his qualities I’m sure he’ll bring a lot of honour to the Pilar Society,” said Caetano.
“Do you know Caetano,” began Ram, “Last June, Manuel the mahar tenant of the Church, was angrily evicted by the Church Committee. Even the poor fellow’s hut was destroyed by the Committee members. On the one hand it was raining and on the other hand Manuel’s wife was heavily pregnant. At that time poor Manuel went to all the bhatkar houses asking for shelter but nobody was willing to give him any. Finally Fr. Valerian gave Manuel and his wife and children shelter in a room of his and even gave him money for expenses.”
“Shabash! If anyone has to become a priest then this is the kind of priest he should become. A true follower of Christ!” exclaimed Caetano.
“And he’s likely to become a Bishop as well, I think,” said Squinty Jose appreciatively.
“Isn’t our Cardinal Gracias a Valerian too?” said Lawrence.
“Yes. He might even become the Pope!” said Fr. Rebello sarcastically with an expression of distaste because it was well known that Cardinal Gracias wasn’t of the Brahmin caste.
Ram recognised that along with the liquor, his caste prejudices were also beginning to go to the priest’s head. He asked Fr. Rebello this question, “Father, even being a Hindu, I don’t appreciate these caste sentiments. But you after having four and a half centuries of Christian traditions behind you and on top of that being a priest, how is it that you still support these caste divisions? I find it strange that a Christian should have these caste prejudices and look upon his fellows on that basis as being high and low, important and unimportant.”
“Ram, you’ve brought up a good point. Now allow Fr. Rebello to eat your pancakes!” Caetano said with a smile on his face.
“What is he saying?” asked Fr. Rebello looking discomfited.
“He’s asking how it is that being Christian, we still have castes.”
“Even among the souls in heaven there are castes of angels, archangels, cherubim, seraphim… Among the saints too, there are saints of the first, second and third classes. And among us religious too, there are priests, monsignors, bishops, archbishops, patriarchs, cardinals and the Pope, isn’t it?” replied Fr. Rebello muddying the waters.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!…” cackled Caetano, as he asked: “if there are caste differences among the souls in heaven and among the saints too, His will is being done on earth as it is in heaven, I assume! Ha! Ha! Ha! Tell me what is the caste of Jesus Christ?”
“Jesus Christ must have been a Brahmin. That’s because whatever scripture came to his head, no other caste could possibly have conceived of. Only what comes out of the head of Brahma can possibly spread wisdom around!” Fr. Rebello opined.
“Jesus Christ can never have been a Brahmin. He has to have been a Chardo, a Kshatriya. Jesus Christ was a great revolutionary. He had created a revolution among the Jews who were his co-religionists and began a movement against the Roman Empire which was ruling over his nation. Only the brave blood of a Chardo could flow in the veins of a revolutionary.” This was spoken with a raised voice by Lawrence who had been calm all this while.
“No! No! Jesus Christ was neither a Brahmin nor a Chardo! He must have been a Shudra for he was a carpenter’s son. Jesus Christ came from humble folk and is it now just because he has become great, that all of you want to appropriate him to your own castes? I won’t allow you to do that. That’s my firm resolution.” Squinty Jose said loudly, banging his fist on the table.
Caetano, Pedro and Ram began to laugh to themselves watching the game that was playing out. After a while Caetano started, “Fr. Rebello, let’s not quarrel any longer about Jesus’s caste. I have a proposal.”
“What’s that?” said Fr. Rebello looking at him with narrowed eyes.
“Let’s form a three member committee to decide what Jesus Christ’s caste was. Let whatever is decided by this committee be accepted by the rest of us. What do you think of this idea?”
“Fine,” said Fr. Rebello and along with him everyone else agreed too.
“In that case Reverend Father, you suggest the names of the committee members.”
“You want me to suggest three names? All right. Write this down.”
Caetano took a piece of paper and began to write.
“Write,” said Fr. Rebello, “ Monsignor Circuncisao Bambino de Bom Parto Coutinho, Canon Sacra Familia Ave Maria das Dores Colaço and Advocate Longuinhos Judas Tadeu Espirito Santo Rebelo.”
“These names won’t do. All three members of the committee you named happen to be Brahmins: are you intending to cheat? Obviously they would decide that Christ was a Brahmin,” said Squinty Jose.
Lawrence began to speak: “No, these names won’t do. I will tell you the names: Mr. Antonio de Loiola Furtado, Mr. Francisco Luis de Menezes Braganza and Mr. Dattaram Atmaram Dessai.”
“No, these names won’t do either,” said Squinty Jose losing his temper, “as all of them are Chardos. Are you intending to get the committee to announce that Christ was a Chardo by naming all three members as Chardos?”
“Yes, all of these are Chardos. This can’t be allowed,” added Fr. Rebello.
“Caetano,” Squinty Jose started, “write the three names that I tell you: Francisco Antonio’s son, Fr. Valerian Fernandes, Paulo the Grinder’s son, Doctor Leão Rato and Maria Joaquina’s niece, Professor Maria Dolorosa Dias.”
“All Shudras! These names won’t do either,” objected Fr. Rebello and Lawrence.
“I think that the committee should be enlarged and in it there should be representatives of all the different castes, both Hindu and Christian,” suggested Ram mischievously.
Lawrence and Squinty Jose agreed to this but Fr. Rebello was completely against the idea, “A big committee won’t do as too many cooks spoil the broth,” he said.
“And we don’t want Hindus in it,” added Lawrence and Squinty Jose testily.
By now the liquor had gone to everyone’s head. Only Caetano and Ram were sober. Outside the rain was still falling. While the discussion regarding the formation of the committee to decide the caste of Christ was going on, somebody knocked on the door. Pedro staggered towards the door and opened it. Wearing a kond’do rain-covering, made of palm leaves, Alex Piedade stepped in and began to request Pedro for dried palm leaves in order to make a fire-torch of them. He said that Lanky Luis’s blood pressure had gone up and so he was going to fetch a doctor.
Hearing the news that Lanky Luis’s blood pressure had gone up Fr. Rebello got a shock. Afraid that if Lanky Luis died then his money would have gone down the drain. In a few giant strides he got to the door and asked, “Who’s this - Alex Piedade?”
“Yes Father.”
“Tell me this: what’s happened to Lanky Luis?”
“He’s got something like congestion. People say his blood pressure has gone up. He had gone to Margao and he came back alright, but then he started saying that he wasn’t feeling well and then he suddenly collapsed on the floor.”
“How is he now?”
“Now he’s a little better.”
“Can he recognise people?”
“Yes, but…”
“But what? Can he speak?”
“He can speak a little. A while back our Fr. Vicar gave him the last sacraments.”
Pedro brought palm leaves and gave them to Alex Piedade and lit them up for him after which he left.
“Pedro bring me my cassock and please get some palm leaves for me as well,” said Fr. Rebello.
Fr. Rebello put his cassock on in distress and with his left hand held the lit fire-torch and with his right hand held his tattered umbrella and went out. It was still raining and a strong wind had started to blow. But Fr. Rebello wasn’t bothered about this. He was worried that Lanky Luis would die and he wouldn’t be able to collect his money.
He said one Our Father and one Hail Mary for Lanky Luis… And he prayed to God that Lanky Luis would keep well so that he could get the money owed to him on account of the sermons he had delivered and the novenas he had conducted.
Felicio Cardoso was born on 30 August 1932. An eminent Konkani journalist and freedom fighter, he was the editor and publisher of Sot, the Konkani daily in the Roman script which began publication soon after Goa’s liberation. It later merged with the Portuguese daily A Vida and transformed itself into a new Konkani daily called Divtti where he served as its associate editor. He was also the editor of Novem Goem, another daily in the Roman script. In recognition of his immense contribution to Konkani journalism, Felicio Cardoso-che Pattlavdar Trust (FCP Trust) was established in the recent past. The Trust honours every year a journalist with the Felicio Cardoso Potrkarita Puroskar. He died, along with Fr. Freddy J Da Costa, in a tragic car accident in 2004.
Augusto Pinto is a senior Associate Professor at S. S. Dempo College of Commerce and Economics' Department of English, Goa. Since 1986 he has been a translator from Konkani into English, his most recent work being a translation of Dr. Jayanti Naik's stories The Salt of the Earth (Goa 1556, 2017). He is currently translating the plays of the eminent Konkani playwright Pundalik Naik. He is also a freelance essayist, middle writer and book reviewer.
Banner image is by Allef Vinicius and downloaded from unsplash.com