Ginelle Ebnett, 21, appreciates every opportunity to talk about the village of Marol, not surprising for a history student. When I walked out of Marol metro station, she stood waiting for me with an umbrella: “You’ll need it. This heat takes a toll even on hardcore Mumbaikars, plus we are going for a little walk.
” The first thing I see is Marol Church. You can’t miss it, it’s a huge beige building with a park, where kids love to play football. As you keep walking, the houses start looking different.
Slanting red-tiled roofs, walls painted a pastel shade of lilac or a deep canary yellow. Slim white pillars with angels marking verandas, old gates that look like they creak. These cottages with beautiful dusty trims mark the old Portuguese East Indian village of Marol.
“I am glad you came today,” says my gracious guide. “Post lunch, you can witness the rosary and housie.” May in Marol is a special affair.
Despite the heat and humidity, at 8 every evening, Marolkars gathered in small clusters to say a fifteen-minute rosary (a Roman Catholic meditation of 5 decades, each comprising 10 Hail Marys, beginning with an Our Father and ending with a Glory Be prayer). “For more than 20–25 years, every May, for a whole month, we have the Rosary. Some people give chana (chickpeas), some give murmura (puffed rice); you can give whatever you want,” says Blanch Gomes, 84.
A mosaic of East Indians (an ethno-religious Christian community native to the seven islands of Bomb.