The Very Catholic Childhood of Licia F de A

By Mimi Correia-Afonso Desai

From an upper-class, staunchly Indian-Catholic family in Portuguese India, Mimi Correia-Afonso Desai’s memories of her childhood in Goa in the 1930s inspire this story of Licia Fontes de Almida. It is a little girl’s journey, losing and finding her way - determinedly in her own way – as she grows up despite a very Catholic childhood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mimi Correia-Afonso Desai
• Release date: Sep 15, 2015

Mimi Correia-Afonso Desai

Mimi Correia-Afonso Desai was born in 1932 in Goa, at that time Portuguese India, where she spent her childhood and teenage years. She qualified as a doctor from Bombay University and worked in India, Tanzania, and then England where she now lives. Her interests are geology, travel, languages, ancient history and knitting. She has three children and six grandchildren. This is her second book.

Book preview

THE VERY CATHOLIC CHILDHOOD

OF

LICIA F de A

Mimi Correia-Afonso Desai

Copyright © 2015 Desert Rose and Mimi Correia-Afonso Desai

Published by Desert Rose Publishing

Bristol and London

Praise for

THE VERY CATHOLIC CHILDHOOD OF LICIA F de A

A wonderfully entertaining and poignant account which encompasses the profound effects of Catholicism when seen through the eyes of a child.

June Parker

Unique beautiful, gentle and informative about Catholicism and Goa. A delightful read.

Jane Morgan

Desert Rose Publishing

Bristol and London

© 2015 Desert Rose and Mimi Correia-Afonso Desai

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, by any process or technique, without the express written consent of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction inspired by the author's experiences. Any similarity of these names to the names of any living person is purely coincidental.

First published in 2015

ISBN (ePub): 978-0-9931252-6-3

Dedication

To Mana, my big sister Claudina, my Heroine and Inspiration.

About the Author

Mimi Correia Afonso Desai was born in 1932 in Goa, at that time Portuguese India where she spent her childhood and teenage years. She qualified as a doctor from Bombay University and worked in India, Tanzania, and then England, where she now lives.

Her interests are geology, travel, languages, ancient history and knitting. She has three children and six grandchildren. This is her second book.

Acknowledgements

I am truly grateful to:

My daughter Reethah for her belief in me, her unfailing support and all her time and hard work in the making of this book.

My grandson Anton-Jari for his continued enthusiasm and support.

Klaus Traber for editing the manuscript and his invaluable comments and suggestions.

Alvynne Curley for proof-reading the manuscript and useful suggestions.

Ann Marshall for reading the manuscript in the early stages and making useful comments and suggestions.

My sister-in-law Telma Correia Afonso, a fount of knowledge about the Goa of our childhood, for filling the gaps in my failing memory.

Contents

Licia

Jo’s Birth

The Village

The Family

Extended Family

Fedd

Religious Routine

Feasts, Fairs, Scruples

Confession

Communion

Cousins

Tom

Ayah

Illness

Dishti

Entertainment

Dolls’ Wedding

Recita (The Concert)

Rosa Maria

Entrevista (The Interview)

The Coconut Tree

Mangoes

Monsoon

The Atheist

Saint Filomena

Lavina and Celina

Dona Elvira

Holy Week

The Wedding

Holidays

Romance

Schooling

End of Childhood

Glossary

Licia

Licia! Felicia! Up with you, my girl, it is almost seven and Mass is at seven-thirty!

Oh! What now, Mama! Who’s been born or who is dead now! Licia gives a big yawn and stretches her long, lanky arms until her left hand hits the wall and hurts her bony knuckles and her right hand nearly sends the candlestick on the bedside cabinet flying.

Mother always has an excuse to make everyone go to Mass. There is no end to the list of excuses for going to church.

Sarcasm is lost on Mama. She simply says It’s Tia Belisa’s Anniversary today.

But Tia Belisa has been dead for over six years, Mama, she died when I was a baby.

That’s why it is her Anniversary, dear. Had she been living, it would have been her birthday. Mama has her own rules of logic and it is no use arguing.

Ungrateful girl!, she continues, You’ve forgotten how she looked after you when you were just a year old and were so ill with Malaria. She sat up all night sponging your forehead and giving you sips of iced water. Selfless, yes, that’s what she was, and you owe your life to her. A Saint she was. The least you can do to show your gratitude is to offer a Mass for her dear soul. A real Saint she was, she repeats and goes off to make sure everybody else is getting ready.

Licia stretches her scrawny arms again, upwards this time, and grips the cane headboard. She can give vent to her frustrations better this way. Why do her mornings have to start with frustration? Her mind feels so alive and she never needs encouragement to use her imagination or her reasoning powers. In fact all her problems are the direct result of using reason. Funny, isn’t it, when a child uses reason she is at once called unreasonable.

If Tia Belisa is a Saint, as everyone says, she reasons, she must be in Heaven, and if she is in Heaven, she doesn’t need anyone’s prayers for her soul. If she went to Purgatory when she died, her soul must have been cleansed by now. And if she went to Hell…. Licia’s mind doesn’t wish to linger too long on the subject of Hell. Father Letelier’s description of it has literally put the fear of Hell into all the children of the family.

I wonder what they do in Purgatory besides suffer? What form does that suffering take? I wonder if they have to drink Epsom Salts? The word Purgatory conjures up pictures of the purgative days that she and her brothers and sisters have to endure on the first and last days of school holidays. Purgative Days!, Licia’s mouth contorts at the thought of the taste of Epsom Salts. She can almost feel that bitterness that no amount of rice-water they are made to drink afterwards would take away. Yes, she wonders if they are made to drink Epsom Salts in Purgatory. Or have enemas, perhaps?

Licia rolls over and sprawls right across the big four-poster bed which she shares with Ti Melinda. It is wonderful to sink into the cotton mattress. The few familiar lumps here and there have now become old friends she can talk to and hug just like a real friend. And they don’t talk back. They keep her secrets. But best of all she loves the big bed on a dark monsoon night with torrential rain pelting on the roof, thunder and lightning bringing the sky to life, appealing to all her senses, and the toads in the pond by the house croaking wonk-wonk! wonk-wonk! It is music to her ears. On such a dark monsoon night she snuggles up safely against Tia Melinda’s warm, loving body, her soft rolls of fat absorbing all the shocks of her life…

She is rudely shaken out of her ruminations by Mama’s exasperated voice. Dear God! What on earth are we going to do with you? It’s gone seven!

That’s it! Licia’s eyes light up with understanding. Perhaps they are given lovely, comfy beds but are not allowed to lie in them. That would be punishment for sure!

Licia so loves her bed, but not because she is lazy. Here, cosy, safe and undisturbed between bedtime and church-time she can let her imagination soar to unlimited heights. And there is no limit to the flights of fantasy Licia’s mind is capable of.

Is this a Gift or is it a Curse?

Jo’s Birth

The earliest recollection I have of my very Catholic childhood is the birth of my youngest brother José (Jo). It was 1935. I was 3 years and 10 months old.

Something was going on in my parents’ bedroom. There was a lot of movement in and out of the room but it was all hush-hush.

Dona Angela, our family midwife, who helped us all arrive into this world, had herself arrived the day before and installed herself in a room nearby.

My parents’ room opened into a huge hall which had a chapel at one end, the end near their room. It was a beautiful chapel by Catholic standards, dominated by the statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus right in the middle. Jesus was showing us his heart, red and bleeding, to tell us how much he loved us. It never failed to move me and make me very sorry for all my numerous sins.

This Chapel was well known by everyone in the village and Mass had been said there on many occasions including the death of my Grandparents and other special family events.

It was in this Hall that the whole family had gathered--uncles, aunts, my siblings and cousins and servants. Everyone was on their knees and the Rosary was being recited, led as usual by TiCarmina, Papa’s youngest spinster sister who was a second Mother to all her nephews and nieces. The rosary is a cycle of prayers which is supposed to be a garland.

Our Father who art in Heaven…….

Give us this day our daily bread…..

Hail Mary full of grace…..

Holy Mary Mother of God…. ten times and one Glory Be once. This was repeated 5 times which completed the Rosary.

No sign of anything happening in Mama’s room, so a second Rosary was started and on and on it went.

Nobody seemed to be going in or out of Mama’s room now except for an occasional old servant carrying water. Inside it was all so quiet.

I could sense there was some danger involved, and the thought of Mama dying was so terribly frightening.

Hours passed, countless Rosaries were recited, all the Mysteries exhausted. Finally a lusty cry from a newborn baby announced the arrival of José Antonio de Jesus Fontes de Almida, Mama’s 8th child.

Jo weighed 11lbs12ozs at birth. What a whopper! Like a 3month old baby! I learnt many years later that was because Mama was diabetic.

In the end it all ended well. How could it be otherwise after all the Rosaries and the resulting sore knees?

The Village

Ours was a picturesque and pretty village. Of course I would think that for I loved my village so.

People in the village had a reputation for being clever and a bit mad, by which they meant eccentric. I didn’t mind that. I hate to be like everybody else.

We had the Arabian Sea at one end, a deep blue, a feast for the eyes and for the soul, with its wonderful beach of fine white sand and plenty of it. One could bury one’s feet in the sand and it was like burying them in white flour. Some people used to bury their whole body leaving only the head out. It was supposed to be very good for the skin. I never dared let myself be buried. How would I scratch my face or nose if I had an itch? The thought terrified me. But I loved burying my feet deep in that soft, warm, comforting sand. I could imagine it soothing and healing aches and pains at the end of a long walk in the heat.

In the evening I am aware of the intense activity that has been building up on the beach. The centre of attention is the big black fishing boat that is about to be launched. It is piled up high with nets. They are the old-fashioned fishing nets woven from coir rope and they weigh a ton. On one side two long, thin parallel logs join it to the ulandi, a flat piece of wood which helps the boat to keep balance in rough seas. A dozen fishermen, their beautiful bronze bodies shining with sweat, naked but for the flimsy kashti, busy themselves placing rounded logs in front of the boat to facilitate its plunge into the sea.

Young men, sons of fishermen, eagerly help. One day it will be their turn to go out. They see only adventure. They are too young and blinded by excitement to see reality.

Countless children have suddenly appeared from nowhere and excitedly jump about on the ulandi and engage in acrobatic feats on the side bars.

Wives of fishermen, babies straddled on the left hip, bodies tilted slightly to the right for balance, watch the proceedings and chide the children.

Time to launch the boat now. The fishermen, old and young, start pushing the boat, which glides roughly over the logs. They work as a unit with their chant of Hoosh-Oh! Hush-Oh! which sounds to me like a hymn to adventure.

The fishermen will be out all night on a perilous journey