I’ve always been drawn to spirits. Both kinds. The kind that can spook and the kind one can sip — it’s always best not to mix the two, though.
On a rainy evening, I found myself at the entrance of St Alex Church in Calangute, Goa. I was well aware that the visiting hours to the graveyard adjacent to this 400-year-old church had come to a close, but my adventurous spirit urged me on.
The church, a stately white building with two towers and a splendid dome crowned by a grand cross, stood in stark contrast to the darkening sky. A spacious compound at the back led to the cemetery, where loved ones lay in eternal slumber.
The lit-up church stood in stark contrast to the dark skies
I hoped to go by unnoticed as I gingerly walked past the sanctuary, sneaking into the rectory area, the priests’ residential quarters. My attempts were thwarted by the caretaker, who emerged like a spectre from the shadows, “Where are you going?” he asked in Hindi, his frown more a result of impatience than suspicion. And just to clear any misconceptions, I certainly believe I didn’t look like a burglar.
With nervous fumbling, I replied, “Just to the cemet… cemetery.”
“Cemetery is closed, ma’am. Everything is closed,” he responded, with a pointed gesture toward the exit.
As a journalist, let’s just say I’ve dabbled with scaling walls amidst a raging inferno and gatecrashed those elite no-media IPL after-parties at five-star hotels. ‘No’ may be a strong word, but in many scenarios it is just a suggestion in my books. “It’s my final evening in Goa, and I would love to pay a visit to my grandfather’s grave,” I pleaded, feeling the need to emphasise the more immediate familial connection as opposed to ‘great-grandfather’.
“I have work in the kitchen,” the caretaker tried one last time.
“I’ll be out in a jiffy,” I promised.
A spacious compound at the back of the church led to the cemetery
A few minutes later, he begrudgingly swung open the creaking cemetery gate and disappeared into the night. As I ventured further, I was left with strict instructions to lock the gate behind me when I was done ‘visiting’, along with a discreet escape route to evade attracting attention. The cemetery was gradually swallowed by the encroaching darkness, the dusk fading away over the orange-and-pink Goa skies, and the moon casting an ethereal glow over the tombstones, revealing the contours of the graves in a muted, silvery light.
The rustling of leaves and the whispers of the wind among the palm trees added to the eerie atmosphere. I hesitated for a moment, trying to recall where my great-grandparents’ graves were amidst the thousand tombstones. In the absence of a clear plan, I let the spirits guide me. I closed my eyes and walked in the direction my instincts directed me.
Guided by instinct to the final resting place
I don’t mean to spook the reader (or perhaps I do) but my feet stopped right in front of a wall. There in front of me, in bold inscription on a plaque embedded into the wall, were the names of my maternal great-grandparents, Joachim M. Monteiro (Born 1900, Died 1994) and Ursula A. Monteiro (Born 1912, Died 2001). I’d only met them once in my lifetime.
It felt exceptionally quiet, creating a sense of solitude and contemplation. My sombre self prayed to the higher powers for guidance and eternal rest. I reached out my hand and placed it on the gravestone and felt an electric sensation. Surely, I was imagining things. So, I did it again. I felt it once more.
Convinced that my ancestors were attempting to convey something, perhaps to explain what had led me to a graveyard on a Friday evening, I strained to listen. But, after waiting for a few more minutes, all I heard were crickets, the distant hum of traffic, and something that sounded suspiciously like a grave turning over. However, I dared not confirm it.
There are soul-stirring stories in the inscriptions on the gravestones
I proceeded to explore the graves, my eyes drawn to soul-stirring inscriptions of love and remembrance, and I couldn’t help but feel strongly for those whose lives had been tragically brief. The play of light and shadows created an otherworldly atmosphere. Trees, tombstones, and statues cast long, mysterious shadows, making the cemetery appear both enchanting and slightly foreboding.
The church clock tower chimed, breaking the spell, and I glanced at my watch. An hour had slipped by unnoticed. Surely, I would get into trouble if any of the Fathers spotted me loitering around the cemetery after hours!
You can’t help but feel strongly for those whose lives were tragically cut short
I hurried back. Before exiting, I couldn’t resist capturing a memory of this surreal adventure with a quick selfie with the gravestones. The large, blue, creaking gate beckoned, and I snapped the shot before closing it behind me.
As I climbed into my Goa Miles cab and settled into the back seat, I couldn’t wait to relive the moment. With great anticipation, I opened the photo to look at it, only to find that it was nothing more than a blurry, indistinct image.
I chuckled to myself. I’d probably never find out what led me on this strange journey to my great-grandparents’ grave but at least I know we have something in common — a sense of humour. They’d left me with a memory as blurry as the spirits that walk the cemetery.
The blurry photo in the graveyard
