A lighthearted look at the idiosyncrasies of Bombay’s
Catholic Community
‘Thou shalt drink. Thou shalt jive.’ If there were commandments requiring
you to be a “Katlic”
these would be the first two.
“What to do men?” I always find myself facing people
who exclaim: “You don’t drink? What kind of Katlic are you?”
As though the Pope decreed it. Then, as if the answer to the next question would
redeem me, they hastily ask, “Do you jive?” An affirmative nod saves
my soul and I am admitted back into the fold.
By religion we are Roman Catholic, because we are governed by the Church in
Rome, not because we have dual passports. By culture we are Katlic, or ‘Mack’
as people refer to us after they’ve known us for two sentences. Of the
several theories that float around, one says that ‘Mack is a derivative
of ‘makka-pau’ (bread and butter) because, supposedly that’s
what Katlics eat.
How can anyone miss the “What men?” The ‘men’ comes free
with every sentence, quite oblivious to the fact that you’re a woman. Or
other phonetic jewels like ‘tree’(for three) ‘aahks’ (for
ask) ‘doll’ (for dhal) ‘dat’ (for that) or ‘faader/mudder’
(for father/mother). I would like to believe this is some dialect of German
- but no, it is trademark “Mack” talk.
The
drinking, of course, we are sure of. ‘Michael daru peekay danga karta hai’
tells a small part of the story. We drink at Holy Communion parties, Christenings,
and at other festivals too. We drink on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays….well
you get the picture no?
And, of course, we drink at those crazy carnivals
called ‘Katlic weddings’. That’s where you dress up, quaff booze,
slip on confetti, stomp at the Wedding March, get sozzled, eat potato chips,
vindaloo, sorpotel, pork roast, do the mandatory Birdie Dance, (or Macarena),
throw the bouquet - and finally wake up the neighbours with off-key renditions
of “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” as you zigzag home.
Katlics like to sing. Where there’s a Mack gathering (not counting funerals),
there’s a singalongsession. ‘My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean’,
‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ and the quintessential ‘Annie’s
Song.’ No Mack party is complete without a guitar and at least one sloshed
uncle who will be dragged home by the toes.
Katlics mourn with the same passion. Wearing black at funerals and for months
after, and fasting with fervour on Good Friday. But as December knocks on their
doors, you’ll find Crawford Market from Maim (for Mahim) to Marine Lines,
taking home so much lace you are not quite sure whether its for the curtains
or dresses.
At Christmas, Katlics eat guava cheese, cake, kul-kuls and drink (more) booze.
They go to Midnight Mass at 8 pm; then at 30 degrees centigrade, they wear jackets
to the Willingdon or Catholic Gym and jive the night away.
Though being a Katlic may be more about cultural togetherness than going to
mass every Sunday, we religiously fill the requirements. To be a really good
Katlic, you must go to church and if the church is full and you can’t get
inside, they have a name for those people too - they are ‘outstanding Katlics’
Good Katlics go to confession. When we were kids, we knelt in the dark confessional
and sincerely asked for forgiveness. The sins were standard: ‘I hit my
sister’ and ‘I told lies in school’. Of course, when we grew
up we either stopped going, or confessed to only the simple sins and hoped that
God would get the others via telepathy. We didn’t want to give old Father
Andrew a minor heart attack. Besides which, by then our idea of what constituted
a ‘sin’ had changed.
If you are a Katlic, you subscribe to ‘The Examiner’ where Katlic
girls search for boys with ‘sober’ habits and ‘own accommodation’.
Katlic girls annoint themselves after every four-letter word and go to confession
the morning after their wedding night. Katlic boys are in a different league
altogether. They simply play hockey, cricket or football till they die.
[Ed note: I'm sure St. Peter is a good sport and will be only too happy
to have those nice Katlic boys playing hockey, cricket and football inside the
Pearly Gates]
