ROOTS - 1
Her parents’ marriage was
arranged. Her paternal grandmother approached the parents of her mother and
inquired if it would be agreeable to them and to their daughter for her son to
visit their home, and she stated the purpose. After their inquiries confirmed a
previous good opinion of the young man’s family and of himself, the visit was
welcomed.
According to Portuguese law her mother would have inherited an equal portion with her siblings of the paternal property – small as that was. But she was going to marry an Indian and become an Indian citizen. Although at the time relations between India and Portugal had not reached the pitch of hostility that was to come, with her new status she would not be permitted – from the Portuguese point of view - to own ‘Portuguese’ property, even theoretically. As for her husband, he had not asked for her hand because it would hold a money-bag. Nor, as an Indian civil servant whose patriotism would be under scrutiny because he was also a Goan Catholic, did he want his wife to have any claims on her inheritance. So she willingly signed a legal renunciation of her claim.
Thus it happened that these two persons of deep religious faith and a strong sense of honour, but absolutely no monetary resources, started married life together. The husband had a job which paid a pittance and had very strict rules of conduct (in those far-off days), but a job which only the most serious misconduct would have deprived him of. A job which commanded respect if performed well, and offered scope for doing a world of good to fellow citizens, if the authority which vested in him were rightly exercised.
All this he did, and was long remembered wherever he worked, but that is matter for another tale. Here is the tiny story which remained the foundation of hope for herself and her sister in hard times.
Once a month, on a Friday morning, the beggars of the tiny town of Kaira (now Kheda) gathered in the compound of the Collector-saheb’s bungalow. Awaiting them were the memsaheb and her daughter, with a bag of rice and another of dhal. The mother would measure out a cigarette tin full of raw rice, and after that a half tin of raw dhal. Each time she handed the measure to her daughter, who gravely poured out the contents into a corner of a saree or a piece of cloth held out to her. The recipient would knot up the rice and the dhal, speak a word of thanks and blessing, and move on. This continued until the bags were empty.
Did the mother think of this when she stood in tears one morning before her oratory, because there was no money to buy food and the month was not yet over? There had been extraordinary expenses. She had given birth to a son only a few weeks earlier. Whatever she thought, a knock interrupted her prayers. It was the ayah. “Bai,” she said, “Bab has sent up a friend of his [the Collector’s office was on the ground floor] to see Baba.”
An old friend of her husband’s, and herself after her marriage, was in the room with her baby son. They spoke until it was time for the Collector to come upstairs and meet his friend. Meanwhile the mother returned to her baby and the round-eyed ayah. “Bai, see what Bab’s friend put under the pillow,” she said. The mother’s hand came away with a hundred-rupee note. In 1955 that was a lot of money. More than sufficient to meet household expenses until her husband’s next salary was received.
She told her husband the story and they agreed that God could always be trusted to help them in their utmost need, but they must never forget those who had even less than they did. This resolve guided their long lives, during which they were often in straitened circumstances and only knew a few comforts – such as most others would regard as necessities – in their old age. Luxuries, never.
That is why she was struck by the stupidity of people who assumed that persons who gave such sums in charity must have a hundred times as much stored away; and the cupidity of those who acted in the expectation of there being such wealth ready to be seized. But virtue must always be hard to practise, as even the pagan Romans well knew, although their definition of it was not equal to the Christian’s. Or where would there be the virtu in it?
According to Portuguese law her mother would have inherited an equal portion with her siblings of the paternal property – small as that was. But she was going to marry an Indian and become an Indian citizen. Although at the time relations between India and Portugal had not reached the pitch of hostility that was to come, with her new status she would not be permitted – from the Portuguese point of view - to own ‘Portuguese’ property, even theoretically. As for her husband, he had not asked for her hand because it would hold a money-bag. Nor, as an Indian civil servant whose patriotism would be under scrutiny because he was also a Goan Catholic, did he want his wife to have any claims on her inheritance. So she willingly signed a legal renunciation of her claim.
Thus it happened that these two persons of deep religious faith and a strong sense of honour, but absolutely no monetary resources, started married life together. The husband had a job which paid a pittance and had very strict rules of conduct (in those far-off days), but a job which only the most serious misconduct would have deprived him of. A job which commanded respect if performed well, and offered scope for doing a world of good to fellow citizens, if the authority which vested in him were rightly exercised.
All this he did, and was long remembered wherever he worked, but that is matter for another tale. Here is the tiny story which remained the foundation of hope for herself and her sister in hard times.
Once a month, on a Friday morning, the beggars of the tiny town of Kaira (now Kheda) gathered in the compound of the Collector-saheb’s bungalow. Awaiting them were the memsaheb and her daughter, with a bag of rice and another of dhal. The mother would measure out a cigarette tin full of raw rice, and after that a half tin of raw dhal. Each time she handed the measure to her daughter, who gravely poured out the contents into a corner of a saree or a piece of cloth held out to her. The recipient would knot up the rice and the dhal, speak a word of thanks and blessing, and move on. This continued until the bags were empty.
Did the mother think of this when she stood in tears one morning before her oratory, because there was no money to buy food and the month was not yet over? There had been extraordinary expenses. She had given birth to a son only a few weeks earlier. Whatever she thought, a knock interrupted her prayers. It was the ayah. “Bai,” she said, “Bab has sent up a friend of his [the Collector’s office was on the ground floor] to see Baba.”
An old friend of her husband’s, and herself after her marriage, was in the room with her baby son. They spoke until it was time for the Collector to come upstairs and meet his friend. Meanwhile the mother returned to her baby and the round-eyed ayah. “Bai, see what Bab’s friend put under the pillow,” she said. The mother’s hand came away with a hundred-rupee note. In 1955 that was a lot of money. More than sufficient to meet household expenses until her husband’s next salary was received.
She told her husband the story and they agreed that God could always be trusted to help them in their utmost need, but they must never forget those who had even less than they did. This resolve guided their long lives, during which they were often in straitened circumstances and only knew a few comforts – such as most others would regard as necessities – in their old age. Luxuries, never.
That is why she was struck by the stupidity of people who assumed that persons who gave such sums in charity must have a hundred times as much stored away; and the cupidity of those who acted in the expectation of there being such wealth ready to be seized. But virtue must always be hard to practise, as even the pagan Romans well knew, although their definition of it was not equal to the Christian’s. Or where would there be the virtu in it?
1 comment:
Heartwarming story
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