BELVAI DUNIYA KA SABSE KHOOBSURAT AUR PYARA GAON KYONKI ISS GAON MEI MERI MAA KA JANAM HUA THA.... BY ALI PETER JOHN

I must have seen and lived in any number of villages in this country which Mahatma Gandhi believed was the heart of India lives. I myself have been born in a village in Bombay called Amboli and grew up and became a man in another village called Kondivita, also in Bombay - Ali Peter John

But I have never seen the beauty of a village or felt the fragrance of the flowers, the trees and the little rivers and streams of a village called Belvai in Mangalore, and for god's sake will any sane man or woman tell me why they have changed the name of Mangalore to Mangaluru or Bangalore to Bengaluru?

There was an epidemic of small pox in Bombay in 1959 and people were dying in every corner, in every bungalow, in every hut and even in the streets and hospitals and crematoriums and graveyards were walking overtime and fear and panic had become a way of life. I was nine years old, but I remember every little scene of that epidemic and its impact on people and life and love.

We lived in a hut, my father Haroon Ali, my mother Mary and my two other brothers Robin and Roy. Looking at the atmosphere of fear, my father decided to move us out of the village and send us off my mother's native place in Mangalore in a village called Belvai.

The journey from Bombay to Mangalore by train took more than two days and for us children, it was like a picnic but I could see and feel the pressure and the tension on my mother's face, but she never said a word about what was going on in her heart or her mind. She was enjoying our excitement.

We reached a place called Harihaar from where we took a bus which reached us to Hampankatta from where we took a bus which was passing through Belvai and it was past midnight when we reached our destination, Belvai and entered a large house with its roof made of dry grass. Most of the people in the house were asleep, but there was a very old man sitting in one corner.

He was my mother's father who had not seen his daughter for years and my mother and he embarrassed each other and wept like little children, without saying a word. That same night, there was a thunderstorm over the village and the roof made of dry grass had blown away and we spent the whole night looking for any corner to save us from the downpour.

The next morning, my aunt called carmin woke us up with ‘maaltis'(bowls made up of mud) full of steamy hot coffee, which didn't taste like the coffee we slurped from our mugs in Bombay, but we had to have the coffee if we had to survive the rain and the biting cold. Some men who later turned out to be my uncles succeeded in putting the roof in order and life seemed to be normal, but not for very long.

We boys and a cousin called Annette went for a swim in the nearest stream and almost drown till my mother found out and singlehandedly saved us from what looked like certain death. That little swim in the stream gave me my first experience of what it meant to touch the parts of a female body. It was the beginning of our stay in Belvai.

There was more thrill and fear for us the following morning. Our entire belongings including the trunk were stolen when we had gone out to meet my mother's sister and her family. The thefts was announced in the local church. The police arrived and started interrogation every member of the family.

My mother asked the police if they would also interrogate Paul Cardoza, her ninety year old father and when the police said that he too would be interrogated and that even force could be used, my mother asked the police to leave the house and forget that a theft had even taken place in the house.

That was the first time I realised how much my mother loved her father and her family. That was also the time when I realised that my grandfather was once the chief (Patel) of Belvai once. His permanent address was appethotu (mother's blessings.

The next few days were just making the best of God's beauty, nature, walking in the fields, swimming, climbing trees, stealing fruits from my grandfather's orchid and exchanging them with the local money lender, Khoganna for a few annas (the early version of naya paise) and talking and singing to the birds in the sky and playing around with cobras and other wild snakes without any fear, but only with love.

This first first to Belvai gave me the infinite pleasure of seeing old churches, temples, mosques and even the Gomteshwar temple in Karkala. It also introduced me to a world which must have been the first plan and creation of God when he decided to create his world. But nothing could be as precious for me as being a speck of dust in Belvai where my mother was born, where she must have cried out in joy to know that she was the daughter of Mr Paul Cardoza and Anne.

When I left Belvai with my mother,I looked back and I heard a voice from the hills which said,“ look at Belvai with all the love you can because Belvai will never be the same again."

My mother died and I lost touch with Belvai, but Belvai always stays in me and with me. And as the hills had predicted so many years ago, the next time I was in Mangalore, there was no trace of Belvai. Like every other place in Mangalore, Belvai had also sold her souls for a few Rupees or Riyadhs.

Belvai, rest in peace where ever you are and I hope you always keep Mary, my mother with you. Don't you remember, Belvai, how much Mary, your daughter loved you????