BF: A SECRET WELL-KEPT

 

 

 

   BF: A SECRET WELL-KEPT

 

      The Mendoncas and the Saldanhas were among the affluent families of Goa. They were neighbours and estimable Catholics of this picturesque state in the Western Ghats of the country. 

 

Francis Mendonca and his prepossessing wife Martha were proud owners of a private gallery. The name Aguada Art Gallery was more of a misnomer. It was a private art gallery and a museum too. The art collection was thoughtful and worth more than just a casual view, where a tourist or an art collector would be enthralled by a dive into the historical past of Goa as they viewed the coleccíon de obras de arte. Francis and Martha displayed an array of vintage typewriters, gramophones, records, cameras, sea shells, piano, all jostling for space along with other smaller curios.

 

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It was a sweltering day and Francis Mendonca upbraided the employees at the gallery for insignificant errors. He was in a loathsome mood and hardly a lodestar for any individual, not even for prospective buyers and tourists. He craved pomfret accompanied with a few chilled beers.

 The breeze from the Arabian Sea was hardly soothing to his frayed nerves. Quite unexpectedly a little boy and a little girl scampered into the gallery playfully and to his horror, knocked down a precious vase. Francis was indignant.

“Who the hell are you two?” he screamed. The children were petrified and hurried for cover.

 Hearing the commotion, Martha rushed out. The winsome woman blessed with abundant patience pacified her husband and then comforted the shivering children. “Who are you little ones?” she asked as she held them.  

“I am Monica,” the chubby, smiling girl spoke up, now feeling somewhat confident. “And he is Robert,” she said pointing to the young boy much to Martha’s amusement. 

Martha gave them lemonade and wistfully thought, if only they had been blessed with children to dote up on.

 

The kids walked out of the gallery a short while later. As they skipped happily, Monica and Robert played their usual game.

“Hey Robert, who are you?” enquired Monica, in mock puzzled tones.

“I am your BF,” was Robert’s quick repartee.

Monica thought for a while and then responded, “Robert, what is BF?”

 

The boy laughed and replied, “Silly! It means I am your Best Friend.” And the two ran shouting “Best Friend, Best Friend, Best Friend” at the top of their voices. The alley resounded with the words. Curious onlookers, neighbours and passer-byes alike were amused.

 

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Dr Peter Saldanha and his wife Janet were an extraordinary couple. They were exceedingly punctilious at work and enjoyed life to the hilt. Peter was a psychiatrist and his charismatic wife, who was a gynaecologist, were livewires of Goa. As part of their affluence, they spent a large corpus on various works of charity, like setting up a rehabilitation centre for those addicted to alcohol and drugs and also to help rehabilitate those rescued from the flesh trade. 

“Sex workers in India are exposed to a range of abuse including physical attacks and harassment by clients, family members, the community and state authorities; they are forcibly detained and consistently lack legal protection; and they face challenges in gaining access to essential health services, including for treatment of HIV/AIDS and sexually transmitted diseases,” opined both the psychiatrist and the gynaecologist. The couple set up a shelter home for these hapless women.

 

However, for all the blessings that came their way, the couple faced enormous lack in their lives. They had no children and desperately pined for a child of their own. Ironically, she was the woman who through the gift of divinity was instrumental in the delivery of numerous children with her dexterous hands. 

 

In order to overcome this privation in their lives, the couple decided to establish Shalom Care Home, an orphanage into which they poured all their parental emotions. The orphanage was particularly close to Martha’s heart, occupying a special place and an invaluable part of her life.    

 

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Shalom Care Home is the place where the two infants were abandoned. They were christened Monica and Robert by local parish priest Father Rebeiro. Years rolled by and the two children combated various vicissitudes of life, savored some Aha! moments and were soon admitted to high school.

 

Monica was admitted to Fatima Convent High School and Robert went to Loyola High School, both in Margao. As a result, both the youngsters, along with a bunch of other children spent a lot of time together travelling to school.

 

Monica was attracted to the strapping youngster Robert. Soon she discovered that the attraction was mutual. One fine day, the youngster endearingly said to the wide-eyed young girl, “Hey Monica, I am your BF!”

Monica instantly recalled their childhood pastime of running around the orphanage shouting “Best Friend, Best Friend, Best Friend”.

She waited for him to reaffirm his status as her best friend.

The charming girl leaned lightly on his shoulder, in a bashful manner enquired, “What do you mean by BF?”

The lanky Robert replied with an air of confidence, “It’s Boy Friend, Monica!” 

Monica smiled, delighted at this redefinition.

 

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Robert and Monica went on to study English from Goa University and were to teach in their alma mater. Their fondness and attraction for each other had grown with the passage of time.

 

A few years later Robert and Monica got married, and soon were blessed with lovely twins. Once again Robert broke into a smile and said, “Hey Monica, once again I am your BF!”

Monica sported an amused smile, wondering what new iteration Robert would devise. She asked, “Robert, what is BF?” The loving husband looked at his happy family and replied, “Darling, it means Baby’s Father.” They both broke into delighted laughter.

 

Several years went by. By now both Monica and Robert were back to being by themselves again, their children having spread their wings far and wide. As Robert and Monica grew old, they adapted to a retired life. Evenings were spent sitting on a bench, as the crimson red sun sank in the Arabian Sea and shadows lengthened on the idyllic beaches of Goa.

 

They would watch the majesty of the sunset from the front porch of their house and an old and infirm Robert, now on a wheel chair mused to Monica, “Honey! I am still your BF!”

Monica was still a stunner. A disciplined lifestyle, a fondness for swimming and a joyous nature she maintained were the secrets behind her ageless looks. She smiled, the wrinkles on her face crinkling into a smile and asked, “What is BF?”

The old man smiled happily and answered mysteriously, “Be Forever!”

Once again Monica was delighted with Robert’s answer.

 

Life went on. Robert and Monica were getting on in the years and very much aware of their mortality.

 

Robert was now old, very old and on the verge of death. Moments before he passed away, he uttered in a whisper, “Hey love, I remain your BF, even now.”

An equally old Monica asked in a choked voice, smiling through her tears, “What is BF dearest Robert?”

The old man closed his eyes and held her hand. With great effort he replied, “It’s Bye Forever!” A worn-out paper slipped down from his hands, even as Monica realised that Robert was no more.

 

A few minutes later, she bent to retrieve the slip of paper. It read “Hey Monica, there is something I wish to share with you. I could never muster the courage to share this strange but singular fact of our lives, your life and mine. I was sworn to secrecy by Father Rebeiro. We were not orphans but the children of estimable couples of Goa.

 

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This declaration occurred several years ago in the confessional box at Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception Church in Panaji, among the oldest church in Goa.

“Father I have a confession to make. Robert is my son, born through Peter. I thought we would marry. But that was not to be,” Martha spoke with trepidation.

“I pray to the Lord and am deeply sorry for the sin committed,” Martha added. Father Rebeiro listened to the confession, assigned her penance and absolved her after she had prayed and expressed her sorrow. He assured her that she was absolved of the sin by the Lord. 

After her marriage to Francis, Martha could never conceive, though she had a couple of miscarriages. “Was it the wrath of the Universe? Perhaps I was never absolved of my sins,” Martha always wondered.

In confessional box Father Rebeiro met the next penitent, Janet. “Father I have a confession to make. Francis and I had fallen in love while were studying at college. I have even given birth to Monica, our daughter. Please forgive me my sins,” she broke down. She was subsumed by cascading tears and flooded with guilt. 

Quite like Martha, Janet could never experience the pleasure of bringing up her own children.

Father Rebeiro gave both the women an “absolution” and “release” from the sins committed. He asked them to set up an orphanage where abandoned children could be protected from the baleful eye of the society.

Dr Peter and Dr Janet ran the orphanage and Martha and Peter had financially supported the noble cause.

The two women never shared their secrets with their respective husbands.

 

It was one of those days … On a warm afternoon, Robert accidentally overheard Janet and Martha confabulate about him and Monica during one of their visits to the orphanage. He was about to confront the two women, when Father Rebeiro had walked in and Robert had scurried away.

A little later he met Father Rebeiro and was prevailed upon by him to refrain from divulging the long-buried secret.

“Imagine son, the secrecy of the births of two children has helped so many other unfortunate ones. Carry this secret to your grave. You can share it with your beloved, but only on the final day of your life,” Father Rebeiro advised the misty-eyed youth.

 

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A few days later, the charismatic old woman Monica also passed away. Before she closed her eyes for the final time, the old woman requested that she be taken to her husband’s grave. At the grave she whispered, “Robert, old man, you were wrong. It’s not Bye forever! It’s Besides Forever!”

 

The crumpled and tattered piece of paper, the writing barely visible or legible, was buried with her.