‘Saibini’

‘Saibini’

(Steve Correa )

The ‘Saibini’ tradition welcomes the statue of Mother Mary, more specifically, an image of Nossa Senhora dos Milagres (Our Lady of Miracles), from one home to another in the village neighbourhood. Perhaps this practice can be traced to 1952. Mary's house–to–house visitation promotes and strengthens neighbourly bonding. This old tradition begins around September- October each year, when the Catholic Community gathers at one of the gaonkars' homes. Litanies and Prayers follow.

The sun began to set, casting a golden hue over the village. It was early October, a time when the air was thick with anticipation. The Saibinn was coming. The statue of Nossa Senhora dos Milagres—Our Lady of Miracles—was to visit our home tonight, and the whole neighbourhood was excited.

The tradition is as old as the village itself, passed down through generations, and today, it would be no different than it was fifty years ago. Every year, just after the monsoon, the Catholic families prepare for the Saibini's house-to-house journey, a procession filled with reverence, devotion, and a deep sense of community. The word ‘Saibini’, derived from the Arabic’ Sahib,’ meant a feminine master, a title fitting for our beloved Mother Mary.

The soft hum of prayers accompanied the procession as the statue started from the house at the end of the road. The men carried the statue on a wooden altar adorned with marigolds and roses, the fragrance of the fresh flowers filling the evening air. Each step they took was careful and deliberate, their faces aglow with the honour of bearing her presence. The village folks followed.

Women draped in traditional dress walked behind the altar, their heads covered with thin veils, hands clasped in prayer. In the distance, barefoot and wide-eyed children ahead, laughing and singing. Too young to fully grasp the weight of the tradition, they felt its magic all the same.

At every stop, the Litanies of the Saints echoed in the air, a solemn chant that seemed to rise into the heavens. The voices were strong yet melodic, filling the quiet streets with a deep sense of spirituality. The village houses, painted in faded shades of blue and pink, lined the dirt paths. Every family would gather in front of their home, the doorway decorated with candles, awaiting the arrival of the Saibinn.

As the procession approached our home, we opened the gate and entered the balcony. Inside, my spouse and mother-in-law welcomed all. The moment was heavy and filled with joy—joy in knowing that this was more than a religious ritual—it was a celebration of community and unity.

The rhythmic clinking of bangles as women clasped their rosaries in prayer, the soft murmur of men discussing how the tradition had stayed unchanged for years, the occasional burst of children’s laughter as they broke away from the solemnity—this was the music of the Saibinn.

The statue of Nossa Senhora dos Milagres was carefully placed in the centre on a small table covered in bright flowers and flickering lamps. The glow from the lamp seemed to make her face shine even brighter as if she were watching over all of us, her gaze soft but knowing. Fresh garland adorned her.

As was the custom, prayers were recited no longer than twenty minutes, and as they finished, the villagers broke into soft smiles. My wife brought out the Chonne, boiled chickpeas mixed with fresh coconut, prepared traditionally—simple yet full of flavour. Plates of cake followed, alongside soft drinks for the children, who eagerly grabbed their share, unable to resist the treat.

The Saibinn’s visit was short, but its impact lasted. And so, the night unfolded, filled with the timeless rhythm of faith, prayer, and a sense of belonging. Tonight, she was in our home. Tomorrow, Our Lady moves from one home to another, blessing each family and drawing us closer to her and each other.

As the procession left our home the next day and moved on to the next, I felt a deep connection to everyone in the village. This wasn’t just about Mary’s visit—it was about how she brought us all together, year after year, house after house. Fifty years ago, I thought it must have been the same. The faces might change, but the heart of the tradition would always remain steadfast and unchanging.