Facets: An Empowering Testimony of Faith, Recovery and Fulfilment

PART I

CHAPTER 1

EARLY DAYS

I was born in a place call Ajni, an important railway junction, which is situated on the outskirts of a town called Nagpur in Central India. Nagpur is an important and well-developed city, being the third largest, in the State of Maharashtra and is geographically positioned in the centre most point of India. It has been designated as the ‘zero-mile’ city; it is from this point which all distances to various capital or major cities are measured. There is a pillar erected at this zero-mile site to denote this important landmark.

Nagpur has a few trump cards to boast about, and I am proud to be able to say that I have my birth roots there. It is a major education centre with institutions offering tertiary as well as post-graduate courses in the faculties of arts, science, engineering, and technology. The Government Medical and Dental colleges attract foreign students, especially from Southeast Asia, who come to pursue a professional education.

Another important feature of this great city is its national reputation for growing and exporting oranges as the climate promotes its growth in abundance and it is due to this fact that it is nicknamed the Orange City. In the years gone by, we experienced extreme temperatures in summer and winter because of its central location. The city gets its name from the fact that a river called ‘the Nag River’ runs in a serpentine course through the city. In the native language, ‘Nag’ means serpent and ‘Pur’ means city. When the British ruled, it was spelt and pronounced ‘Nagpore’.

Nagpur, as I knew it in the years I was growing up, was a cosy town where people were very friendly and helpful and most places were within reach by foot or bicycle. Many people walked to their destinations or used the bus for more distant places. Cars were owned mainly by the business class, and a majority of the upper middle class used scooters or motorbikes, which were very convenient to weave through the congested traffic.

In addition, we had the cycle rickshaw which was a relatively cheap and very popular mode of commuting. This three-wheeled vehicle was drawn manually by the rider who often struggled uphill with passengers as we did have a lot of steep hills in parts of the city. I thought this was a very inhuman way of transporting people and I avoided using it save for the times I had no alternatives. I felt very uncomfortable and afraid that the rider might die on me due to exhaustion or have a heart attack, especially when they were aged and the temperatures soared to over 40 degrees Celsius in summer. Due to their dire poverty, the men resorted to this method of self-employment as a means of livelihood and an extra tip paid was received with so much gratitude that it was heart-rending to think of the extent of poverty they must endure in their lives. Their wives usually supported them by being employed as domestic helpers in the homes of the upper class or on building construction sites.

I am the youngest of three children—my brother Edwin and sister Julia, are eleven and nine years older than me. Since my dad was an employee in the Indian Railways, my family had been living in the accommodation provided to them. The year I was born, my dad retired and as a result of his retirement, the family had to move to another place and begin their lives all over again—new jobs, new house, new neighbours, and an all-new life.

Dad and Mum decided to move to Nagpur as it was the nearest urbanised town they could move to and my older siblings were already attending the Catholic schools there. They found a small house that comprised of two rooms with an attached bathroom, which was a strong contrast to the spacious bungalow we lived in previously; but in the present circumstances, that was the best option. They had a lot of adjustments to make as downsizing is never easy. I was quite oblivious to all these transitions and inconveniences the family went through. As a baby, I had nothing to worry and I was taken good care of, I believe, at that time of my life—and that was all that mattered to me.

My father, Charles Borromeo (his family name was Correia), named after the Catholic saint, was known for having the disposition of one. He had two older sisters and one younger who adored him. Their parents died when they were young and they had to take care of themselves from a very young age and they became a very close-knit, loving and affectionate family. When Dad married Mum, he brought her the love and security she needed. He was a very hardworking, quiet, unassuming person, very talented yet very humble. I admired his talent at playing the violin and I thought when I grow older, I would learn from him. He was a combination of a gentle soul and a strict disciplinarian.

My mother, Emilia Artemeza, came from a large family of twelve, of which two died as infants. My grandfather Octavius reminded me of Adolf Hitler because of the hairstyle and the moustache he donned and also his harsh temperament. He became unreasonably punitive under the influence of alcohol and Mum had to step up to protect her siblings. My grandma Charlotte on the other hand was of a submissive and meek nature. The constant childbearing eventually took a toll on her and she suffered from postnatal depression, and eventually, she too gave in to alcoholism along with her husband. They entertained a lot and indulged in activities that were very detrimental to the family’s welfare. Owing to this situation at home where Grandma had become quite dysfunctional, my mother had to take over the oars to save the sinking ship. At the age of 11, in grade five, she had to abandon her studies to take care of the young ones.

As was common in those days, when girls turned 18, suitors were sought, so Mum was married to Dad, who was almost twenty years her senior. Likewise, her three younger sisters were married to men much older. They submissively agreed to it as they realised that it was done in their best interest in the prevailing family circumstances. Very reluctant to leave her brothers and sisters with such negligent parents, Mum had no choice but to obey her parents’ wishes. With a mix of sadness and fearful anticipation, she married and moved on.

When I was older, some time in my early teens, I had the opportunity to meet my grandparents from time to time as they came to live with us on short vacations. From what I remember as a young child, they were chronic alcoholics; my grandfather was a very insensitive and demanding person. In contrast, I remember my grandmother to be very kind, caring, and jolly. After a couple of drinks, she became the life of the party; she would pick on all the young boys to do the ‘Mando’ (a traditional Goan dance). She was a short, stumpy, cheerful lady and could be quite hilarious at times. Everyone enjoyed her company, and the young boys were her willing cheerleaders. But after the party, she had to face the music from grandpa for ‘making a fool of herself’. We affectionately called her Sweet Charlotte.

As the days went by, Mum felt more secure and settled into her new life with her very caring and loving husband. She brought a wealth of experience into the marriage and did well with nurturing us. She was patient, very caring and gentle and disciplined us with love.

Mum and Dad worked hard by integrating their sewing and culinary talents to provide for us and give us a decent living and an education. They took on seasonal contracts for sewing school uniforms for a local school; they also worked together to cook a few authentic Goan dishes for the local consumers and our circle of friends. This also contributed to the family’s income. We experienced some tough times but were never in want of anything. Food was always home-cooked as Dad’s culinary skills, I was told, ranged from the traditional Indian snacks to the more complicated exotic Goan dishes. Our garments were mostly sewn by our parents; Mum did the girls’ while Dad did my brother’s and his own.

When there were no orders for school uniforms, Dad had a backup job. He worked for a men’s outfitter in the city’s shopping centre. He would ride his bicycle to work daily, and sometimes I was in tow. I would read and draw and amuse myself at the shop where Dad worked. I spent a lot of time with my dad and I loved this time with him and I thought I was his special child and his princess.

We were a close-knit, happy family, and though we lived in a small house—the white house (the entire house was whitewashed, inside out)—it was a ‘mansion’ of love and happiness. Mum and Dad made a lot of sacrifices to give us the best they could; we, were always their first priority. Though they were a very loving couple, there were times of discord between them, which I could not quite understand. I used to feel that I may be the cause of their conflicts and I would get very sad and distressed. But they seemed to sort these problems out somehow and all would be back to normal again. Every night we sat around the dining table, thanked God for the delicious meal provided by dad and prepared by mum. We prayed together each night to thank God for the blessings received. Mum and Dad were God-fearing people, and they instilled in us the power of God’s presence and love.

From the time I can remember, I enjoyed the love and security I received from my parents. As my brother and sister, being much older, were at school, I was the sole focus of their attention. I remember the years growing up with my dad; we spent a lot of time together, especially when Mum was busy with the housework and other things that she needed to take care of. He did take good care of me; he was patient and always attentive and would never let me out of his sight when Mum was not around, making sure I was out of harm’s way. And as far as he could help it, he would not allow me to get hurt.

Mum had to attend a series of hospital appointments for a treatment she was undergoing. When she attended these, she asked Dad to watch over me. She was aware of Dad’s nervous streak and his inability to cope in the face of a ‘bloody’ crisis! Mum was the calm one and braver of the two in times like these. So she kept these ‘watch over’ days to a minimum as she knew I was on the ball and could easily create such an emergency.

The incident is vividly etched in my mind; one day when Mum went for one of these appointments, Dad had to take care of me. I was playing on the front yard with the children in the neighbourhood and Dad was right there, taking care of us. He stepped inside the house to fetch something, and at precisely that moment, I fell and hit my head on the pointed tip of a rock embedded in the pavement. I suffered a deep gash in my forehead, which gushed out with blood. I started screaming because my eyes were burning with the blood that had seeped in. My poor father was barely able to cope with this emergency; he somehow managed to reach the doctor’s surgery to do the needful, brought me back home, and passed out.

Shortly after, Mum and my sister returned to what looked like a makeshift hospital ward to find me bandaged and sedated lying on one side of the room and Dad lay unconscious on the other. We later learned, as Mum was playing Sherlock Holmes, a neighbour who was an eyewitness to the whole drama, interrupted her thoughts with the bare details of the incident. I have a prominent scar to tell the story, and I have inherited my dad’s aversion to ‘bloody crises’.

Dad would tell me stories at bedtime; there is a particular one I remember—a woodcutter went into a forest to collect some firewood. By the time he finished, it grew so dark that he could not see his way back home, so he decided to spend the night in the forest. But there was a problem—he was afraid the animals would eat him. So he got an idea; he broke twigs into two pieces, placed them as little crosses a fair distance around him, and fell asleep. He woke up early the next morning to find the animals of the forest standing on the borderline made by the crosses, protecting him. That story has remained with me. Even till this day, if I don’t want creepy crawlies (or any creeps) to come near me, I make imaginary crosses and I feel safe and protected.

The principles and values my parents demonstrated have largely influenced me to become the person I am. My childhood was very simple but enriched with happiness. We did not have luxurious comforts or material wealth but had the warmth of a loving and caring family who shared. When my parents were busy working in the background, I had my own life going. I mimicked everything my parents did, I treasured this one cuddly life-sized doll I had and took care of her every day just like she was a live baby. I pretended to bathe her then dressed her up in hand-stitched clothes which I made out of the remnant pieces of material from my parents’ tailoring. I kept her comfortable at night on a small bed next to mine and during the day we shared a tiny space which measured a little less than 2’ × 2’—yes, the two of us fitted there cosily. It was located below the extension table of the sewing machine at which my mother worked. I also had a small box which contained a tea set and all my other toys I owned so my doll and I could play house. My mum draped a sheet over it to make it a feel like a cubby house. In there I pretended to share my food with my doll and I talked to her about everything. What I did not know at that time was that the roots of caring, sharing, self-reliance, and self-denial were being nourished in this rich, nurturing soil, which were going to impact greatly in my adult life. I had a very happy childhood with two loving and attentive parents and a caring brother and sister; I was left wanting nothing.

AND THEN TRAGEDY STRUCK…

It was a winter’s day on 27 February in 1963. My dad was on the afternoon shift at the oufitter’s shop so he left for work after we had lunch together. At around three o’clock in the afternoon, Mum was at the kerosene stove, getting dinner ready for the family. Mum and I usually spent this time together when she would tell me all about her young life and the times gone by. I was sitting at the dining table engaged in our usual chatter, and then we heard it! Strange voices outside the house, people talking loudly but incoherently. Mum and I were frightened as we rushed to the front door and saw a gathering of people, some of them were carrying my dad, struggling to get him inside the house

Once the commotion subsided Mum was informed about how the events unfolded. That afternoon after we had lunch together, dad left to return to work at the tailoring shop. My sister who had joined us for lunch as well, followed him a short time later. On her way back to school, she saw my dad standing by the side of the road, holding on to his cycle for support and struggling to breathe. She asked him to come home but he told her instead to take the cycle home, which she did. He proceeded to the tailoring shop on foot as the shop was not too far away from where the incident happened. On reaching, he collapsed at the entrance. The people in the tailoring shop summoned