When the Marathas Belled a European Cat

Catholic church bell, marker of the fabulous Maratha victory over the Portuguese in 1739

Pune, with its enchanting weather, picturesque surroundings, and great cultural heritage, is home to several historic monuments in and around the city. It has seen several eras: from its inception during Shivaji Maharaj’s childhood, the Peshwa rule, the political base of famed anti-colonialists Tilak and Gokhale, and today as an IT hub. With every historic monument, there is always an interesting story intertwined. With the intention of reliving one such story, last month my friend Heramb and I went off on an escapade towards the east of Pune, to visit the Chintamani Ganesh temple at Theur. The Chintamani temple, having witnessed the many ups and downs of Pune ever since it became a city of prominence, has become part of the aura of the place, having been interwoven into it's history and culture.

From a religious standpoint, the Chintamani temple at Theur is said to house the Chintamani incarnation of the Hindu lord Ganesha, one among his eight manifestations, whose temples are scattered across Maharashtra, known as ‘Ashta-Vinayak’ or The Eight Ganeshas. 

Said to be built by the contemporary ascetic Morya Gosavi in the 16^th century, it wasn’t until the rise of the Chitpavan rulers of the Maratha Empire in the beginning of the 18^th century that this temple got its present importance. These rulers, appointed as ‘Peshwa’ ministers (Persian for Prime Minister), adopted the Chintamani Temple as a family deity, due to which the temple began to enjoy a special religious status. It is noteworthy that these rulers, who went on to control the dominion themselves, brought a third of present day India and parts of Pakistan under the realm of the Maratha Empire, until their expulsion in 1818 at the hands of the British. With the powerful Peshwa family having its seat of governance first at Saswad and then at Pune (both near Theur), this temple’s stature continued to rise.

We decided to visit Theur on a windy Saturday morning, with the quaint countryside punctuated by post-monsoon showers. The village, just like any pilgrimage town, is small and unclean, with hawkers peddling temple offerings such as flowers and coconuts right from the parking lot up to the entrance of the temple. We parked our car and zipped across this market to enter the Chintamani temple. When we entered the premises, the object which greeted us was one of the principal reasons why we chose to visit this place. Not a sword, not jewels, not sculptures, but a Catholic church bell!

This Catholic bell, now a part of the temple, is so indistinguishable from the remainder of the structure, that if it weren’t for the Greek markings on its hull, we would have easily ignored it too, as do all other normal pilgrims. This bell marks a watershed milestone in Maratha politics and tells a fascinating story about Indian and Maharashtrian history, which goes like this:

In 1737, a conflict ensued between the Marathas and the Portuguese Empire. Within the next two years, the Peshwa rulers, now with their second generation at the helm of Maratha affairs, had captured among others the strategic Thane Fort and Salsette Islands, isolating the Portuguese at Bassein (now Vasai, near present day Mumbai), their imperial capital. which enjoyed more power and prestige than their other colony at Panjim in Goa. In 1739, a member of the ruling Peshwa clan, Chimaji Appa, set out with an expeditionary force towards Bassein, unfolding a set of events which history would seldom permit happening again in the coming ages. Chimaji Appa emerged victorious, delivering such a decisive blow, that the Portuguese Empire in the Maharashtra region ceased to exist. Such was the rout that the Portuguese had to abandon their capital, and relocate to far off Goa and Diu (where they continued to rule until 1964). An Indian kingdom had humbled a superpower feared the world over. 

Bassein, which now lay ravaged, was earlier said to be a Portuguese colonial wonder, with several churches and an Iberian town layout. Chimaji Appa, himself fascinated with the spoils, carried some of the church bells back with him to Pune. As a memento celebrating the victory of natives over foreign aggressors, he then had them installed at Hindu temples having Peshwa patronage, one of them at the Chintamani temple at Theur.

We simply sat in the temple courtyard, trying to visualize events as they would have taken place at the very spot, some three centuries ago. As remarkable as this moment is in Maharashtrian history, equally appalling is the attitude of the temple authorities which have not deemed it fit to install even a single plaque commemorating the historical importance of the bell, the Maratha-Portuguese war, Chimaji Appa, or even the Peshwa family. Few decades after the victory over the Portuguese in 1739, the fourth generation Peshwa Madhav Rao I, under whose leadership the Maratha Empire revived its tenacity in North India after the disastrous Panipat campaign against the Afghan kingdom, made the Chintamani temple his home during his final days, and breathed his last here in 1772. There is no memorial in the temple dedicated to this great ruler either, and the only one there is stands in squalid conditions a five minutes’ walk away. 

It made me wonder: if Germany, which even maintains its World War era concentration camps with the same seriousness and dignity as it maintains its palaces and museums, in spite of them being reminders of one of the darkest periods in their history, can we as a future 'super power' not have the simple initiative of maintaining monuments that are markers of one of the most golden moments of our own?

Having done some more sightseeing in the vicinity, we drove back to Pune, having relived a golden chapter in this city’s history.

The Other Goa

It was a warm Sunday morning in Panaji, with the sun beaming down, and the sky clear. The calm winds carried the verses of the morning mass, emanating from the Church of the Immaculate Conception. I stood before the great church, clicking pictures and adoring its beauty, as devotees kept rushing past me to reach in time for mass. The 9:15 a.m. English mass boasted of full attendance, as did the one in Konkani which followed it. What I, and twenty odd octogenarians were waiting for outside, was the one at 10:30. The mass in the language of the Viceroys, who held sway here for 456 long years, the noble language that is Portuguese.

As I first approached the golden-agers, the first words which I could hear between the laughs and guffaws sounded very familiar. I mustered the courage to converse (in my very limited and broken Portuguese) with the first gentleman next to me: ‘Bom Dia! Fala portugues?’ The reaction was ecstatic. He grabbed me by my arm and dragged me to the center of a big group of aged people, and exclaimed (in Portuguese, which I could comprehend because of my familiarity with Spanish), ‘Here’s a young guy who is one of us! He speaks our tongue!’ In a few seconds, I was swarmed and bombarded with greetings and questions: ‘Bom Dia!’, ‘De onde é?’, ‘Do Brasil/Portugal?’ were the ones which I could decipher, others simply lost in translation. Some hearts were broken when I told them that I had not a drop of Iberian blood (sangue azul) in me, and that I was nothing more than a Spanish aficionado who hailed from Nashik. Nevertheless, several hung on and continued talking to me. The joy of having a new entrant in their group who knew their language was too alluring, perhaps. The discussion I had with that group was absolutely marvelous.

These people, aged seventy/eighty plus, had nothing much in common with each other, apart from the fact that they all spoke Portuguese, some who had Portuguese ancestry, and that all of them were proud of Goa’s colonial traditions. All of them had had primary education in Portuguese. Several still had family in Portugal. Two of them spoke fluent Spanish, with whom I had a hearty discussion about their lives. As the church bell struck, all of us entered the magnificent building to attend mass, the building structure being an architectural marvel in its own right. One of the Spanish speakers sat next to me so that he could help me understand the Portuguese words. A very kind gesture, but it hardly helped. For me, or for any other Spanish student, to understand Portuguese being spoken is highly difficult, as easy it is for us to understand the language in its written form. After a grueling 30 odd minutes, the mass ended and all of us departed the building.

Once outside, all of them again ganged up to talk about the past week, laughing, cracking jokes, all in Portuguese, of course. After a good chat session of about half an hour, they left, slowly descending the crisscross stairs that form the entrance to this grand church.

Soon after they dispersed, I saw the foreground being replaced with an increasing traffic of tourists; taking selfies, completely oblivious of the existence of these octogenarians. It dawned upon me, that in our quest to define our present and map our future, as a society, we have chosen to forget our past. Whether we like it or not, colonial values, whether Portuguese or British, have and will continue to shape our lives.

With a final glance of the church edifice, I left with memories that would last for a lifetime.

Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception Church, Altinho, Panaji

Regular Portuguese mass visitor #1

Regular Portuguese mass visitor #2