OWNING A SAINT

 
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Owning a Saint

(A community poem

as it might be written by the parishioners of Anjuna,

where Ven Fr. Agnel was born and raised.)

Forget the oxygen mixed with urak and cattle fumes,

I breathe in the remaining molecules of the breath he left behind

For all of us Anjunkars

On the 20^th of November 1927.

As today I walk the fields and pathways of

Mazalwaddo, Zorwaddo, Arpora, Pequeno and Grande Chivar

Or across any little vaddo in my Anjuna

That was his Anjuna.

(Blessed am I, Venerable One because of you.)

And do I feel even now, mingled in my sweat

The spray of his spittle as he delivered holiness from his pulpit.

"If we ourselves do not pay attention

                           to what we are asking for from God,”

He had thundered,

“how can we expect Him to hearken to us?"

And do I imagine I see his writing on every palm leaf,

As I slide up that maad for toddy.

"Trust in God,

He had said.

“Rest like a dog at the feet of its master."

And of course, it is his voice that I hear resonating

From the brass calling of the Angelus and daily chimes

From the belfry of San Miguel, our church.

His church.

He is ours.

No. He is mine. He is mine.

Don’t get me wrong.

I believe in the communion of saints.

Augustine, John of the Cross, Teresa of Avila,

Jude, Anthony, Francis of Assissi, Lawrence,

Bartholomeo, Agapito, Agatha, Lucy, Agnes, Cecilia,

Rita, Cosme and Damiao, Sebastian, Anastasia and

Yes all your saints of the calendar.

Yes, I believe in St. Francis Xavier who belongs to Goa.

He is yours. He is ours. He is every Goan’s saint.

But Venerable Fr. Agnelo!

He is mine.

Mine, as I walk behind the plough in my field.

Mine, as I sit behind my wine shop in Chapora.

Mine, as I rent out my bike to a visitor.

Mine, as I belt out my hymns to Advogat Saibinni.

Mine, as I take my first born to the font.

Mine, as I take my spouse down that aisle.

Mine, as I lay my old mother to rest.

Mine, as I sit in the Panchayat office and …

Wait a minute now ….

Wait a minute, Mr. Builder, Tenant, Taxpayer,

What’s the colour of those currency notes under that table?

Have you counted them with spittle.

Now you have me salivating, mister.

What did you say, Fr. Agnel?

“It is difficult to love the world and save your soul.?”

I can’t hear you now, Fr. Agnel. A little louder please.

Those notes are rustling up quite a racket, you know.

While in another corner of our parish …

I close my eyes as my beloved son of just twelve

Has worked up quite a rustle of notes again, so help me God,

With that packet of snow-white powder.

Wow! Unbelievable!

And in another corner, I have learnt

How to let that time paid for by my boss

Sift quickly through that sieve called susegado.

Why, my dear Venerabilis, did you give us those hard sayings?

Couldn’t you just be born and be raised by your holy parents,

Minguel Arcanz Mariano and Maria Sinforoza Perpetua

In that modest, almost invisible home on the road to Arpora?

Couldn’t you have just quietly given us

Those three Amche Bappas and Noman Mories at your confessional

And done all those wonderful deeds in the Pilar seminary and in your parish

And finally, at that last sermon, when your great heart failed you

And you asked with your dying breath to be present at the Benediction?

And tell the whole world that you are mine.

Couldn’t you have just left it at that?

So that I could collect the mud from under your saintly feet

And join my hands and pray to my own Anjunkar for favours.

And we all would be happy ever after.

Did you have to say all those things to stir up my conscience?

Did you, Vernerable Father?

And then, can I still call you mine?

Can I?