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.”
****************************
(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.)
