“A sudden hush descended upon the audience. Shambu Gaonkar, a Hindu boy…. participating in their live crib competition! This was something new and the crowd stirred uneasily in their chairs. ”
By Pantaleao Fernandes
“Last Sunday’s collection was rupees—,” announced the parish priest from the lectern, just before the final blessing of the Sunday Mass. The small group of teenagers listened eagerly, awaiting the announcement of the crib competition…the category, and, of course, the prize. “This year we are deviating from the traditional crib contest in your homes. We have decided to have a live crib competition which will be held on our stage here. Any youth from our village can lead a group. And the prize—,” at this the youngsters pricked up their ears, “will not be given in cash, but will be in the form of a scholarship given to the leader to pursue his or her studies up to graduation level.”
Even before the hymn ended, the youngsters bounded out of the church, disappointment writ large on their face. As there was hardly any place for them to discuss in the tiny church quadrangle, they made their way to the village temple, which had a huge sabamandapa (outer chamber) and settled on the red cement seats that bound the hall.
“No cash prize this year…so no party. How disappointing,” began Peter. He had to literally shout, to make himself audible above the din of the bells and drumbeats that accompanied an arti (worship ritual) going in the grabha graha (sanctum sanctorum). Jason echoed his sentiments, “After taking all the trouble, no cash to spend on a Christmas outing. Who wants a scholarship?” Most of the young held similar views and voiced their dissent loudly. Reena, however, was quiet as she knew her parents couldn’t afford college and the thought of a scholarship appealed to her. Just then their friend Shambu bounded towards them, his hands laden with prasad. He passed the plantains and sugar-sprinkled coconut kernel around and said, “Here, have the prasad of devi. What’s going on? What’s the buzz about?”
As they trudged out of the temple to their homes, Peter poured out his heart. “Bad news for you. No Christmas picnic and party this year, as the prize for the crib competition has been scrapped. Instead, a scholarship up to graduation is being offered. Awful, isn’t it?” Peter then filled him in with the details.
As they trooped along the narrow potholed road each dropped off to his or her home. This was a village in the hinterland of Goa, at the foothills of the Sahyadri mountain range, in a remote taluka. The village had a tiny church, parish to the miniscule Catholic population while many temples dotted the green landscape to serve the large number of Hindu families.
Shambu hailed from a poor family which worked extra hard in their tiny patch of field to send him to school. He was due to give his tenth standard examination this year after which he would be forced to drop out and help his father in the fields. Being a brilliant student, Shambu nurtured a dream of studying medicine and helping to save lives in the village as many of his relatives had died due to the lack of any medical practitioner in the locality. But his family’s poverty loomed large and stifled his ambitions. His Catholic friends were lucky as the church came up with novel schemes to help the underprivileged and gave them a chance to win scholarships. His own temple committee preferred to squander the funds by way of fanfare of fireworks and huge lunches and dinners for the entire village. A sigh escaped along with his sentiments.
On Sunday, Shambu caught up with his friends again at the temple. Each one of them was engrossed with their own discussion about the live crib competition. Since only one week remained for the same, their preparations were nearing completion. Peter turned to Shambu and asked mockingly, “Hey Shambu, are your arrangements underway? We are busy today, don’t disturb us.”
On an impulse, Shambu went to the church and waited for his turn to meet the busy parish priest who was interacting with his parishioners. Finally, when everyone had left, Shambu greeted him and continued, “Father, tell me, can I participate in the live crib competition?” The priest was taken aback as in the history of the parish, no non-Catholic had ever participated in the church activities. But he replied, “Of course, Shambu, you can take part, you are after all a son of our village.” Shambu’s excitement knew no bounds. He asked the priest whether he could borrow a bible and requested that the passages which mentioned the birth of Christ be marked. Carefully cuddling the Bible in his arms, Shambu ran all the way home.
*
The small churchyard wore a festive ambience, and the air was thick with excitement. The mist hovered above like a veil, lending the stars hanging from trees a magical glow. The pikpik (flickering) lights danced to the tune of the carols. A rolly jolly Christmas Father shook hands with every child and handed them sweets and gifts from his deep red sack. The rows of chairs were packed with villagers. Happy chatter intermingled with the shrieks from children enthralled by the portly man in red.
When the anticipation reached almost to a bursting point, the curtains parted, and the spectacle began. A donkey slowly hobbled on the stage, carrying a heavily pregnant Mary. Joseph with his staff and Middle Eastern attire helped her along - they went off stage and the stage darkened. The stage lit again to show a hut and cardboard cutouts of cattle. Mary and Joseph went into the hut and squatted. The lights dimmed briefly, and cries of a newborn were heard. And lo! The spotlight showed Mary with her newborn babe! The carol, “Little baby Jesus, born in Bethlehem” played on the system. Shepherds dressed in spotless clothes, holding crooks appeared and prostrated before the babe. After they exited, men dressed as kings appeared on stage. They bowed low before the babe and offered their gifts as another carol “We three kings of Orient are,” filled the air. The props were well designed, the costumes clean and neat and in tune with the theme! Everything was spot on…the applause thunderous…!
The second and third group appeared and performed the nativity scene just as the first one had albeit with minor differences with the costumes and the props and different hymns. The kids were having a gala time, as they watched the Christmas story come alive for the first time ever!
The crowd stood up to leave, with only the participants waiting patiently to claim their prize! But then the compere hurriedly came on the stage and requested the people to remain seated. Another spot entry had just turned up. Shambu Gaonkar and his team were all set to present their live crib.
A sudden hush descended upon the audience. Shambu Gaonkar, a Hindu boy…. participating in their live crib competition! This was something new and the crowd stirred uneasily in their chairs.
Unexpectedly a group of dhangars (traditional shepherds) from Dhangarwadi appeared amongst the rows, with a couple of sheep in tow. “Hey you, what are you doing here? Can’t you see that our Christmas program is in progress? Get lost from here, hurry up,” somebody yelled. But the dhangars paid them no heed and instead hurried up the aisle. As they mounted the stage the spectators were aghast! The dhangars hadn’t even bothered to change! They were there in their langotti (loincloth), and their kamod (wollen shawl), flutes in hand, sheep in tow!
There was another flurry in the crowd as a pari (fairy), a young maid with long braided hair, decked with fragrant, freshly plucked mogrim (local flowers), attired with a choli (blouse) and long flowing gagra (skirt), danced her way to the stage. She approached the dhangars and announced in the refrain of the Konkani carol penned by a famed local poet Manoharrai Sardessai, “Marie Matek ballok zala, Marie Matek balok zala.”
After her rendition, the lights dimmed. A commotion in the crowd indicated that someone was moving down the aisle…it was a couple with a babe. A prop showing a hut was arranged on the stage and the kastti (loincloth) clad man lead the way followed by his wife wearing a kapod (sari worn by tribal women), with the pallav wrapped around the chest and secured firmly by a dentli (knot). There was no blouse worn. The tiny babe was wrapped in swaddling clothes. They settled there among props of cattle. Suddenly the tiny babe began squealing and the mother immediately covered her with a towel and began breastfeeding it. Comforted the babe stopped wailing. Just then the pari materialized followed by the dhangars. They all prostrated before the small family. The dhangar woman opened a small parcel of pure ghee and presented it to the mother, while her langotti clad husband gifted the man a freshly woven kamod. Their child handed over a small lamb he carried on his shoulder to the man. Then the two dhangars took their flutes and once again played the tune of the carol “Marie Matek ballok zala.” As the serene musical strains floated down on the crowd, a hush descended upon them. Everyone was mesmerized!
Sudden drumbeats broke the serenity of the night as three ghodemondi (men attired with hobbyhorses) pranced and approached the stage in rhythm with the drumbeats. They wore dazzling costumes which made them look like men mounted on horseback. They took their time and finally reached the stage. One by one they stepped off the hobbyhorse, bowed low before the family and gave gifts. Then they trouped back down the stage, dancing to the beat, followed by the dhangars playing their flutes, the couple with the babe in tow, and the pari bringing up the rear. They walked down the aisle, and disappeared out of sight, into the darkness behind the church. As the noise died down, the hush of the crowd seemed too loud to bear. The parish priest went up on the stage and began clapping – and after an initial hesitation, the crowd too joined and soon turned euphoric with applause.
Shambu, who was dressed as a pari, hung around behind the gathering. The thunderous applause had kindled, a faint spark of hope in his heart — at least for the third place. Maybe…just maybe he could continue with his studies next year… “And the third prize goes to….” Shambu’s heart sank. “The second winner is…” His heart nearly stopped beating…did he bag the first place then? “And the winner is…” Shambu felt numb. The applause was deafening…he joined in because the first place had gone to his friend Reena. His legs felt weak but he hurried home, disappointment dampening his spirit.
The next morning as he sipped hot tea, seated on the dung covered sopo (seat), he spotted the parish priest, also the principal of his school opening his rickety gate and entering the yard. He ran towards the gate and greeted, “Good morning father. Father, maji chuk zali? (Did I make a mistake?) Maka maff kor (Please forgive me). The priest came in and hugged the boy saying, “My son, what are you talking about? Come I want to share some great news.” “What great news can there be father? I lost in the competition.”
“Shambu a representative from the Bishop’s House had come to watch the competition. He has been going all around the state to check out a suitable item to be featured on Christmas evening at the Bishop’s quadrangle where he will host all important officials of Goa including the chief minister and the governor. He wants you to enact the live crib on that day. He says that your play is a good example of syncretism. Shambu, it means that yours was the best item in Goa. Congratulation! And as a token of appreciation, you will be given a scholarship after your schooling to pursue any field you choose, up to Master’s degree level.”
A bewildered Shambu, fell on his knees and touched the feet of the priest, while a tear or two gleamed like diamonds on his cheeks. The parish priest immediately bent down and lifted him up and hugged him tightly, saying, “Thank you Shambu, you have made us proud. This tiny village lost in the hinterlands of Goa will now be recognized for its youngsters with extraordinary talent.”
Pantaleão Fernandes is a writer, photographer and ethnographer. Passionate about Goa and its vibrant culture, he spends most of his time exploring villages in the deep hinterlands, to experience firsthand the warm spirit and culture of the villagers and document these experiences. These excursions have resulted in several books including 100 Goan Experiences, Goa Remembered, Traditional Occupations of Goa, Goa –Rare Portraits and Outdoor Museums of Goa. Once Upon a Time in Goa, and Ful – A story, are children’s books. In his spare time, he curates cultural experiences to discerning visitors to Goa, enabling them to have an authentic experience of the real Goa. Fernandes’ book 100 Goan experiences can be purchased here.
Banner image is by Al Elmes and downloaded from Unsplash.com