I am not a thief!: A true story

I am not a thief!

Necio D’Souza

It was 7.30 in the evening. Suddenly sharp sounds came to his ears. Thinking there must be fireworks, daddy ran to the verandah. He craned his neck in the direction of the sound and saw smoke rising in the air. What are these firecrackers for, he wondered.

“Hey, Annie, come outside, did you hear the fireworks?” he called out.

On hearing this, mummy came running out of the hall and stood in the verandah. She gazed at the smoke and said, “Those fireworks are above Bombi’s house.”

“Were they expecting a baby or something?” Daddy asked, surprised.

“I heard the Saibinn was to be brought to their house. It must have come today,” Mummy replied, and returned to her unfinished work. Daddy kept quiet. His face grew grim. He sat on a chair, lost in thought. I gradually understood the reason for his state of mind.

Bombi is the family name of my friend. Folks from near and far knew them by that name. My school mate Carlos was born into this family. The cluster has four houses where five to six families live. The houses stand at the outskirts of our ward. When the Saibinn comes visiting, theirs are the first houses encountered. Then one after another each house in the village is visited.

The Saibinn is a little statuette of Mother Mary venerated as the Miraculous Rose. It is traditionally worshipped at each house for a day. The veneration of the Saibinn brings an atmosphere of happiness to the entire Catholic community. Both young and old are filled with delight. After the prayers, it was fun to stand in the queue for boiled gram. It didn’t even matter if one didn’t get the cake, patties and juice that came later.

All the children of the village are lucky to enjoy these few days. Even the children from Hindu and other faiths turn up at the neighbours’ Saibinn. Only I was unfortunate. I and my two sisters don’t go to anyone’s house. We usually attend other functions, but we never attend Saibinn. Our parents just don’t allow us to go. They are actually very loving. If we ask for anything they always oblige. But if we raise the topic of Saibinn Mummy falls absolutely quiet. And Daddy quivers with anger.

I met Carlos the next day at school. We would both sit on the same bench in the Sixth B class. In a free moment I mentioned the Saibinn. He beamed and told me that the Saibinn was coming to his house in another two days. You must come, he pleaded. I will ask daddy and come, I replied.

Daddy, of course, refused. How would he allow me! The wound that had befallen him because of that Saibinn was still fresh. I have seen how much daddy had suffered, how badly he had been shamed. Every day he bears the taunts of his foes. He has lost his peace of mind. His face is always clouded with despair. He doesn’t eat well. Mummy is even worse off. Her withered body is a bag of bones. She walks like one who is dead. The villagers have branded them as criminals. When speaking to relatives or friends, mummy weeps her heart out. I live only for these children of my blood, she says, else I would have been dust in my grave long back.

Yes, she is right. She is hospitalised very often. She is being treated for depression. Daddy suffers from blood pressure problems, he too lives on medicines. He is only forty, but he looks like he has reached sixty. Thinking of this I would be filled with fear. But I could do nothing.

The events that took place two years ago would loom before me. It was the month of October. The paddy fields were being harvested. Many villagers own fields here, some large, some small. If one didn’t have one’s own field, another’s could be cultivated. Seeing everyone busy, our enemies plotted against us, to cast false allegations on us.

The Saibinn had entered the village, up to our neighbour’s house, which was about twenty metres from ours. Three independent families live within this abode. Our house and this neighbouring house never got along well. The elders don’t talk to each other. Only their children talk and play together. The first day the Saibinn was brought to one family and then to the other the next day. There is a tradition that family members stay home during the Virgin’s visit. Most families say the Rosary thrice that day.

Those being harvest days, the folks of that family must have gone out. Even so, at least one member must stay home. That is to ensure that the oil lamp in front of the statuette never goes out. The cotton wick has to be tweaked and the oil has to be topped up regularly.

In the afternoon the children returned from school to their respective homes. It was lunch time. Suddenly a commotion could be heard by all. The Saibinn’s gold has been stolen, cried the neighbour. Within a few moments the villagers, young and old, gathered in their compound. They rushed into the room where the Saibinn was kept. I too went in and was shocked. The two tiny shutters of the Saibinn’s altar hung open. The tiny locks within dangled loose. The gold that adorned the statuette was gone.

Hearing that the Saibinn’s gold had been stolen, passersby on the street stopped. This was the Phonda-Margao highway. People came especially to see the bare statuette. Who was the thief? How did the thief get in? What kind of a wicked thief was this? These questions troubled the people.

A large crowd had gathered as dusk fell, like in a festival melee. They were folks who had returned from their work in the fields and other places. My daddy too reached there. Mummy had already seen the place.  They would usually never enter here. They too joined the debate. What a crooked man he must be, to steal the Saibinn’s gold, everyone felt. What was to be done now? How was the thief to be caught? There was a discussion on this. Some felt the police should be called; others said the Vicar should be told. Finally someone went to the church and fetched the Vicar.

“Since this is a religious matter it doesn’t feel good to call the police. You sort it out within yourselves or if needed inform the police,” said the Vicar and fled. It was the vigars duty to ensure trust and peace among parishioners. But he failed to do so. The priest felt that no one in particular had a right to the Saibinn’s gold. Every item on the statuette had been bestowed by some devotee or the other from the village. No one kept track of the numerous offerings that had adorned the image over the years. When a devotee’s vow has been fulfilled, it’s a tradition to offer a gift to the Pilgrim Virgin. There must have been about 300 to 500 grams of gold there.

The family did not register a case with the police. As the night advanced the crowd dispersed. That evening the Saibinn was not taken to the next house as usual. After another day the last family in that house venerated the Saibinn. The next day the image was brought to our house as we did every year. And so it moved on from house to house and eventually left our ward.

The issue of the theft grew larger with every passing day. How dare someone pull off such a theft, everyone around pondered! The wise ones of the village opined that someone from that house itself must have robbed it. The family members of that house figured that the entire village was badmouthing them. They hit upon a plan.

A few days later those family members circulated an invitation to all their neighbours in the ward. “This evening the village witchdoctor will come to our house, he will reveal the identity of the thief, you are all welcome,” the village crier called out all morning.

That evening many gathered to await the arrival of the shaman. Men, women, children, they were all there. All were curious to hear the name of the thief. The shaman who seemed middle aged entered at the exact hour. He spread his mat on the platform readied for him. His long robe was gathered and knotted above his knee. The villagers began to murmur. What mockery was this? The witchdoctor is Hindu, what business does he have here?

“Arre, they say he has the power to identify the thief,” said old Forsu. 

“Is he God or what,” said Johnny, who had passed his matric examination.

“You are still young,” said Manuel. “You won’t understand this.”

Just then the shaman opened his sack and took out the items from within. He placed a large board in front of him. He lit up a brass lamp with five wicks and kept it to his right. He propped up a picture of some goddess and spread out other objects – a cage, incense sticks, a coconut, etc – all placed according to his whims.

Now there were gods aplenty. The walls were adorned with images of Christ and various saints and now numerous icons of Hindu gods and goddesses squatted on the floor. Everyone reckoned that the thief would be soon exposed. And they would then catch him, beat him up and throw him into jail. The anticipation among the villagers peaked. Everyone stared at the shaman.

Oooohhhhhhh …Shu … ta …

The shaman’s rituals began. He moaned and groaned out loud, chanting some mantras. No one understood anything. But they understood he was uttering the names of some deities.

“Come forth, those who live in this house… prostrate yourself to the deity…” the shaman ordered. The family members did as they were told.

The shaman placed a fistful of grain at a corner of the board. Then he picked a few grains from there and placed them in the middle of the board. He mumbled his verses again. Those gathered were still focused on him. With his eyes closed he took a pinch of grains and kept them aside again.

“The Sateri deity has spoken. The theft has been committed by a woman… She has taken the gold and given it to her husband.” As he spoke the people began whispering to each other.

“Quiet… quiet, let us question the witchdoctor further. Let us find out who this woman is,” said a lady from that house, rising to her feet.

“The woman who has stolen this gold lives in this very property,” the shaman declared.

“That means a woman from this house itself has stolen the gold,” said some of the villagers.

“She is from the house next to this house,” added the shaman.

The next house is Joklu’s house. There are only two houses on this property. Voices rose from the crowd naming Joklu as the thief. Joklu is my father. He got enraged and charged at the shaman, who took fright and fled. Some villagers stopped him.

“Is God telling you this or have you been put up by someone to say this?” asked the people of the village.

“I swear on my mother, this is the judgment of the goddess…” as he shivered and spoke Daddy gave him three to four slaps. The villagers intervened and separated them.

“You bastard, swear on this coconut… swear that all you are saying is true. Then let us break it at the Damodar shrine…” daddy yelled at him.

“Who are you, you bloody thief, to make him swear…” the family of that house now accosted my father.

“Joklu cannot be the thief. All this has been cooked up by you all…” spoke some among the crowd. Two rival groups formed and began arguing loudly. A fight was about to break out. The shaman took advantage of the ruckus and escaped.

When the crowd realised the shaman had fled, they concluded that it was all a conspiracy. The real thief is hiding and trying to spoil Joklu’s name, they declared openly. The people tried to pacify my father. The villagers respected Joklu as a good man. He is poor, yes, he may starve of hunger, but he will not steal, they asserted. The fact that these people stood by them was heartening to my parents.

When the family of that house sensed that the villagers had turned against them, they fell quiet. They began avoiding the gaze of those present. The crowd gradually dispersed.

There was a lull for a week. Then slowly rumours spread in the village and all over Goa, that the robber had been found, and that Joklu was the thief.

From that time, we stopped bringing the Saibinn to our house. No one had ordered that the Saibinn not be taken to our house. We did want the tradition to continue. But Daddy was so traumatised that he would get angry at the mere sight of the statuette. The Saibinn will never be brought into our house, he insisted, and none of us will go for the Saibinn at any other villager’s house. This very Saibinn must show and declare who the real thief is, he declared.

On and off we could hear rumours calling us thieves. We young ones too were teased as children of thieves. Our reputations at school were also affected. The schoolmates would look for silly excuses to tease me. Life became miserable.

Years passed by. My parents worked hard to prove that they were not thieves. Many people accepted that they were innocent. But our enemies never hesitated to say, “You are a robber.” My mother passed away. A few years later she was followed by my father. My sisters and I were left behind. They endured the name calling for a while and then got married far away. They did well for themselves and lived happily. I too eventually got married and settled down.

I longed for the day when someone would own up and say, “I am the thief.” And then I realised – the Saibinn that we revere is a hollow belief. If that faith had been true, the items on the statuette would not have been stolen. If the Virgin Mother had been embodied in that statuette she would have revealed who that thief was. I understood the difference between true and hollow faith, and that the true God does not swell in statues. Where the genuinely faithful gather, there God performs great miracles, I have seen this with my own eyes. I arrived at this profound conclusion that the true God lives in the hearts of true believers.

If venerating the Saibinn has become a fashion or tradition, why shouldn’t we join in too? Why should my children stay away from this tradition?

I resumed bringing the Saibinn to our house. Every year my children celebrate the visit of the Pilgrim Virgin. The habit of calling someone else a thief when oneself is a thief is very prevalent among Christians. That is why we often have to declare, “My mummy is not a thief, my daddy is not a thief.”

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     (It’s a prize winning short-story narrated about true incidents. Originally written in Konkani. Later published by BROADWAY PUBLISHERS.  The compiled book is available across the world.)