I have fond memories of Raia village where I spent my early years and a good part of my vacations, with my aunt Tulia fondly called Madrinha, by all of us, being the godmother of my elder sister. The rolling hills with the monsoon waters cascading down the gentle slopes and ending in streams full of little fish are still fresh, in my mind. The landscape is a deep contrast to the flat lands of my seaside village. Clambering up the hill behind the chapel dedicated to Nossa Senhora de Montserrat, at Manora, bruised by thorns and thistles was nevertheless, exhilarating. Wild fowl hares and boars sprung up and flew or bounded away in different directions. The stink of decaying cashew mash discarded after extracting the juice for the celebrated drink Urrak (named after a Portuguese queen?) pervaded the air. Smoke rising in the distance was accompanied by the acrid, though not unwelcome smell of roasting cashew nuts. The descent was followed by an invigorating bath at the spring, flowing from inside a cavern, naturally carved into the hillside.
The parish of Raia is dedicated to Nossa Senhora das Neves (Our Lady of Snows) a rather inapt dedication for a church in the tropics. The original parishioners had certainly not been aware of what snow was and I wonder how it was explained to them, by those hardy missionaries, who proselytised the village. Again I wonder what the reason for selecting this particular dedication. Did the missionary in charge dedicate the church after his own parish, back home? Or for that matter how did the original Our Lady of Snows come into being? And to that I found an answer, after a bit of search.
The legend that gives this name to the feast (August 5, also called the Dedication of the Basilica of St Mary Major) is that in the pontificate of Liberius (352–366) a childless Roman couple promised their wealth to the Virgin Mother of God. Her approval of their vow was indicated by a miraculous midsummer snowfall on the Esquiline Hill; by her appearance the same night in a dream to the patrician John and his wife, instructing them to build a church on the site; and by her confirmation of these instructions in the dream of Pope Liberius. The church was built, and later rebuilt during the pontificate of St Sixtus III (432–440). It has been called by various titles and is now known as the Basilica of Mary Major.
The Raia parish enjoys the privilege of blessing and harvesting the first sheaves of paddy every year, on the feast day of the church.
One thing that struck me about the village was that houses of the landed gentry, carried nicknames and in conversations, families were routinely identified by such names as Monecao, Pothkollo, Rogro, Kanti, Budhi, Chumbolle and a host of others. I have always wondered at the how and why of these names. Some of these houses were decrepit, a few in ruins. The reason as locals may tell you Te pensao farik khorta (they are paying for their sins). The reality may be otherwise. The owners have actually migrated abroad and prospered so much, that their ancestral holdings do not matter, thus neglected, fall into ruins.
Today I find myself travelling to Raia to visit my friend and colleague who was injured travelling in a car, driven by his friend that went off the road and overturned into the fields. He is convalescing at the residence of his brother in law Edwin Mascarenhas a descendant of the first person to embrace the Catholic faith in Salcete. He is scion of the rambling but immaculately restored centuries old mansion, identified by the nickname chumbolle. To my relief, my friend Filipe Carlos despite the major mishap is his usual bubbly and confident self.
As we sit in the spacious backyard and make small talk, I find Edwin has no clue to the origin of the nicknames. But he does provide me a copy of the book RAIA e CAMORLIM authored by his maternal uncle Rev Jorge Paulino da P Sequeira. Weeks later I browse through the book, (with my limited knowledge of Portuguese) but still find no answer to my question. But, various other details arouse my attention and particularly the fact that ‘The cemetery of the parish was reconstructed reorganised and renovated during the tenure of Rev Jose Francisco Carvalho, parish priest from 1908 to 1930”.
That information sends my mind racing back decades, when we siblings would sit around and my father would narrate stories events and happenings, during his own childhood. I contact my elder sister, who confirms my recollection of the narration, that my father had witnessed the work on the cemetery and had himself planted a few of the mango grafts standing in the church square, now bent and gnarled. It was the hobby of the priest to make mango grafts and plant/ distribute them. My grandmother would regularly visit Raia with my father in tow, to meet her uncle, the parish priest, in the course of which the priest insisted my father plant the grafts with his own hands. Some other mango grafts made by the priest also survive at his house in Orlim, not excluding the famous devchara ambo.
I have over the years addressed several meetings under the shelter of these aging trees, without connecting them with my ancestors. But now whenever I pass that side my head automatically turns to the mango trees, that my grandmother’s uncle grafted and my father planted. But the origin of the family nicknames, the use of which is waning, still eludes me.
(Radharao F. Gracias is a senior Trial Court Advocate, a former Independent MLA, and a political activist.)