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Caetano stepped onto the track that wound up the hill. This stony track led to the Cowherd’s Cross that could be reached in about fifteen minutes if one moved away from the village. The rainy season was almost over, but the clear sky was suddenly filled with dark clouds and it began to rain. The whole area was overgrown with wild grass, and much of the track was hidden by the long blades that had fallen across it. Caetano hacked at the undergrowth with his scythe and carefully cleared the small branches that blocked his path.
In the old days cows would follow this track as they moved up the hill in search of pasture, so the cowherds of the village were quite familiar with this route. Caetano had used this track since the time he was a child and had wandered all over the hill with his herd of cows. But the villagers do not rear cows any longer. There are no cows in Caetano’s cattle shed these days.
He was halfway up the hill when he paused and looked back as the sound of the dhol fell upon his ears. He peered in the direction of the village but it was hidden by tree tops and palm fronds. The Konkani Hindus would be celebrating Dussehra the next day. He had seen some youngsters by the Sree Ravalnath temple, perhaps one of them was beating on the drum. He stopped there only for a moment and then set off again.
Caetano reached the banyan tree at the top of the slope, from where the land spread evenly on all sides. Silk cotton trees of different sizes, bushes of wild berries like kanna and churnam and medicinal plants like the pongra stuck out of the undergrowth around the banyan. The whole area was covered with tall grass that grew wild all around. The Cowherd’s Cross stood under this banyan … Caetano stepped forward and his eyes fell on the Cross that was almost hidden by the tall grass.
Caetano’s childhood memories were awakened as he thought of how the cowherds would swing on the aerial roots that dangled from the banyan, how some of them would scramble up these dangling roots, swing from the branches and slide down to the ground. And then they would play marbles till the sun was high up in the sky … He made his way towards the Cross hacking at the tall grass with his sickle. The structure was encrusted with moss and this gave it a dark greenish, blackish hue. Caetano was filled with dismay.
The villagers did not know who had set up this Cross or when it had been built, but everyone referred to it as the Cowherd’s Cross. The first wild berries that ripened on the bushes in the hills were always set aside as an offering to the Cross; women, who went into the hills in search of firewood, placed wild flowers before the structure. Cowherds would light cotton wicks and offer prayers exhorting the Cross to cure the cows of their afflictions and to ensure that an animal that had strayed from the herd would find its way safely, back to its shed. But all this was a thing of the past. No one bothered to climb the hill or to make his way to the Cross these days.
Only Caetano continued to do so whenever he was troubled or his spirits were low. He placed flaming wicks at the foot of the structure and prayed to it, his faith in the power of the Cross remained unshaken. He had come here today to bare his heart before the Cross, to tell it what he had decided …
Caetano glanced towards the west where the sun was hidden behind pale pink clouds and the sky displayed a rosy tinge. A layer of darkness had descended on the hill slopes and valleys to the east. Caetano picked up his sickle and cleared the wild grass around the Cross. He scraped the thick moss encrusted on the structure and swept it clean with a leafy twig.
He drew some cotton wicks and a matchbox out of his pocket and lit them at the foot of the Cross, setting the whole structure awash with light. He fell to his knees and made the sign of the Cross on his forehead, crying out to it from the depths of his heart. Clasping his palms together so that his interlaced fingers were close to his chest, Caetano bowed his head and addressed the Cross, laying his heart bare. Tears welled up in his eyes, a few drops flowed on to his cheeks, pausing momentarily before they turned into a continuous stream …
Caetano would come up to the Cross, light a few wicks, offer prayers and return home before darkness fell. But he was in no hurry to get back home today. He wanted it to get dark first. He glanced at the half-burnt wicks, and the tears dried on his face. He picked up the sickle and set off down the slope in the growing darkness.
This had happened eight days ago. It was late in the evening and Caetano had just finished reciting the rosary. He was lighting a fire in the hearth when his titeev Simao, walked onto the porch. “Come here, Caetano, I want to talk to you,” his uncle said.
Caetano emerged from the house and seated himself on the mud seat beside his uncle.
“Caetano, I’m thinking of becoming a Konknno, a Konkani Hindu; of converting back into our old faith. You’ll do the same, won’t you?” Simao said everything he wanted to convey without pausing for breath.
“I? Become a Hindu?” Caetano’s words betrayed his astonishment, his lips trembled and his voice was tinged with fear. The next moment he lapsed into a shocked silence.
“We were Konkani Hindus in the past. The Portuguese converted us, they made us Christians. You will get fields and orchards if you convert to Christianity, they said to our ancestors … many Konkani Hindus joined the Christian faith at that time … But the Portuguese didn’t give everyone land. They tricked them …” Simao titeev continued passionately as Caetano listened to him in shocked silence. He couldn’t understand what his uncle was trying to say.
This was something new. He couldn’t come to terms with the thought that they were Konkani Hindus in the past. I am a Christian. I’ve been baptised by the priest, in church. I wear this crucifix on a chain around my neck. I go to mass every Sunday. I recite the rosary without fail, every evening. How can I be a Hindu, then? What does he mean when he talks of becoming a Konknno all over again?
“Look here, Caetano. My family will convert to Hinduism on Dussehra. I’ve come to tell you this because you are my brother’s son. If you don’t join us you will remain the only Christian in Ganvshi village. No one will step into your house. No one will come to your aid if you are in trouble. Think about this and let me know …” Caetano didn’t say a word, so Simao got up from his seat and set off home.
Caetano didn’t sleep a wink that night. He lay in bed, thinking deeply, then he sat up for a while. He got to his feet and stepped out into the courtyard, then he came back and lay down again.
Ganvshi is a small village of twenty-one households, of which nineteen are Hindu families and two are Christian ones. The Santeri and the Ravalnath temples are in the open space to the east of the village and the jagor or temple festival is celebrated here in May. The Christians do not have a church here, they go to the church in the neighbouring village for mass. The two Christian families can only turn to the Cowherd’s Cross on the hilltop if they seek a symbol of their faith.
These two households were part of a single family, that of Costa Fernandes, fifty years ago. Costa had two sons and a daughter, Agnel, Simao and Christalin. Christalin got married and moved away. Simao built a new house for his family when he got married, too. Agnel had only one son, Caetano, who was four years old when his mother passed away. Agnel, who was a coconut plucker, fell off a coconut palm and died soon after that, and Caetano was all alone. It was his titeev Simao who took the boy under his wing and brought him up after that.
Excerpted with permission from ‘The Crucifix on a Chain’ in The Bitter Fruit Tree and Other Stories, Prakash Parienkar, translated from the Konkani by Vidya Pai, Thornbird/Niyogi Books.
This article first appeared on Scroll.in
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