To take care of our spiritual needs, Padre Marian once visited our isolated tea estate near Munnar in the 1950s. A burly and bearded Spanish missionary, he arrived one Saturday evening regally ensconced in his black Vauxhall, dwarfing his pint-sized driver.That morning, Mum had evicted us boys from our room which she had meticulously spruced up for the visitor, laying out her best linen reserved for important guests. And she had reiterated that we should behave ourselves in the padre’s presence. Who wouldn’t, we smirked knowingly, given his stern disposition that overawed kids?
After the perfunctory “Good evening, Father!” had been chorussed and acknowledged with a guttural grunt, Dad led the unsmiling guest to his room. Dinner followed with our parents in courteous attendance while we boys (being boys!) unabashedly spied on the proceedings from behind the curtained doors.
Of special interest to us was the ease with which the padre used a spoon and fork—a skill we were learning at boarding school. We watched fascinated as he effortlessly ‘speared’ pieces of beef and potato and forked them into his cavernous mouth, munching with obvious relish. Unable to suppress his amusement, a sibling tittered audibly, making Dad silence him with a searing stare. Engrossed in his meal, the padre luckily was unaware of this sidelight.
Dinner over, the padre retired to his room, belching his contentment in subdued tones. Eager to know what he looked like without his cassock, I quietly peeped through the keyhole of the door. I saw nothing as he wasn’t in my line of vision. But Dad caught me in the act and the sound caning I got considerably dampened my curiosity.
Quite resilient, I bedded down next door hoping to hear the padre’s unmusical snoring—a favourite pastime in our Jesuit-run boarding school. But his was the sleep of the just, marked by only a soft feline purring. And he was up at dawn, bathing—quite unbelievably—in freezing cold water despite Dad’s protests. It was his way of doing penance, we learnt later.
After the padre had guiltlessly demolished a pile of buttered toast and washed it down with coffee, Dad lined us up—looking as contrite as we could—for his blessing. Then, blissfully unaware of our previous night’s high jinks, he sprang a surprise on us.“Well behaved boys!” he grunted tersely while leaving. “Now be in time for the mass!”Never was a compliment more undeserved!