The Organ, the Loan, and the Gold Watch

The Organ, the Loan, and the Gold Watch

I still remember those months in our parish church in Karur, a small village near Thrissur. Even now, when I pass that old church with the tall coconut trees behind it, I cannot help smiling. Because what happened there… it was both funny and painful at the same time.

Memory is a strange companion; it carries both laughter and sorrow in the same pocket.

At that time, I was just a young altar boy, perhaps fifteen. I had the quiet habit of watching everything closely, the people, the meetings, the priests’ worries, and the endless plans to collect money.

When we are young, we think we are only watching life, but slowly, life is also teaching us.

It all started with a very noble idea.

One Sunday evening after Mass, our parish priest, Father Mathew Kuruvila, stood on the altar steps and cleared his throat in a way that made everyone immediately attentive.

“My dear brothers and sisters,” he said in his deep voice, “people in many places are suffering terribly.

We must do something. Our parish should also help.”

Everyone nodded with serious faces. Helping the suffering always sounded like the right thing to do.

It is always easy to agree with goodness when it is still only an idea.

So the parish council decided something grand. They would organise special evening prayers for several weeks, and the collections from those services would go to help the suffering people.

But someone suggested that the services should be made more attractive so that more people would come and donate generously.

Human hearts sometimes open more easily when accompanied by music.

That was when Thomas Chettan, a man who always carried large ideas in his head, stood up during the meeting.

“If we had a proper pipe organ,” he declared confidently, “our choir would sound like heaven itself. Then people will definitely give more money.”

Everyone looked impressed.

Within a week, the parish had decided to buy a new pipe organ.

In meetings, decisions often grow faster than wisdom.

Of course, the church did not have enough money.

So the solution was simple, at least it sounded simple.

Many solutions look beautiful from far away; their complications appear only when we walk closer.

They decided to take a loan by mortgaging the parish house.

I remember hearing the adults discussing it at the tea stall near the bus stop.

“Don’t worry,” said Varghese’s uncle confidently, sipping his evening chaya.
“The special prayers will bring plenty of offerings. Everything will be settled.”

But things rarely go exactly the way people plan.

Life has its own plans, and it rarely asks our permission.

Soon, the new organ arrived. It was large and impressive, with shining pipes rising almost to the ceiling. For several days, people came just to look at it.

Everyone admired it.

A new possession often fills people with pride before it fills them with responsibility.

But the bank loan had interest to be paid every month.

So the choir leader, Lissy Teacher, suggested another idea.

“Let us organise a sacred music concert at the Chalakudy town auditorium,” she said. “People will buy tickets. The money can pay the interest.”

Everyone clapped.

It sounded like a brilliant plan.

In those moments, every plan shines like gold before it slowly turns into work and worry.

But then another small difficulty appeared.

The auditorium rent had to be paid in advance.

So the “Willing Workers Association” of the parish ladies gathered one afternoon under the mango tree behind the church.

“Simple,” said Annamma aunty, adjusting her glasses.

“We will organise a social gathering in the Sunday school hall. Food stalls, games, raffles… we will raise the rent money.”

Again, everyone agreed happily.

Hope is the easiest thing to produce in a meeting.

But even a social gathering has expenses.

Chairs, decorations, food, and lights all required money.

Money has a mysterious habit of disappearing fastest when people are trying to raise it.

So Father Mathew himself proposed the next idea.

“I will give a public lecture,” he announced proudly.

“The topic will be ‘The Pope at Rome, Italy and Its Glorious Past.’ I will show pictures with a projector.”

People were impressed.

Our parish priest, speaking about the Pope and Italy, sounded very grand indeed.

Sometimes distance makes things sound more important than they really are.

But the projector, what people called a magic lantern, had to be rented.

Which meant, of course, another expense.

One expense rarely travels alone; it usually arrives holding the hand of another.

So the assistant priest, Father Joseph, and a group of enthusiastic parish ladies decided to organise an amateur drama performance.

They rehearsed every evening. I used to sit quietly on the church steps and watch them practise.

“Speak louder!” shouted Annamma aunty.

“Oh my God, Josephine, you forgot your line again!”

Everyone was excited.

Excitement can easily hide the small troubles waiting quietly behind the curtain.

But there was yet another small problem.

The costumes for the drama had to be rented.

And that required money.

Problems rarely come alone; they arrive like relatives to a wedding.

The parish council held another long meeting.

I still remember the tired look on Father Mathew’s face that night.

Leadership sometimes means smiling in public while worrying in silence.

After a long silence, he finally said softly,

“Well… perhaps we must reduce some expenses.”

Someone asked carefully,
“What kind of expenses, Father?”

Father Mathew sighed.

“Maybe… we cannot keep two priests right now.”

And that was how Father Joseph, the assistant priest, had to leave the parish.
Sometimes the smallest person in the system carries the heaviest consequence.

The decision was politely explained as a “temporary financial adjustment.”

And that is how things stood in our parish at that time.

Still, the parish council had another plan.

When one plan fails, human beings comfort themselves by creating another.

They now wished to collect money to buy a beautiful gold watch as a farewell gift for poor Father Joseph.

Only after that, they said, would they finally begin helping the suffering people they originally intended to help.

Good intentions sometimes travel in long circles before reaching their destination.

Sometimes I sat outside the church steps at sunset and wondered about all this.

“Human plans often grow like coconut trees,” I once wrote in my notebook.

“They start small, but their shadows become bigger than the tree itself.”

Meanwhile, the people who were actually waiting for payment were becoming restless.

The costume shop owner from town came twice asking for his money.

The projector owner kept reminding the parish office.

Those who are owed money rarely forget.

But the most serious case was the bank manager who held the mortgage on the parish house.

Every Sunday evening, when Father Mathew spoke emotionally during the special services about helping the suffering, many people in the congregation quietly felt that perhaps, just perhaps, he had the bank manager particularly in mind.

Words sometimes carry two meanings: one for heaven and one for the bank.

And the donations?

Well… they were coming in rather slowly.
But interestingly, two people were very generous.

One was Raghavan Chettan, who owned the big toddy shop near the bus stand.

The other was Suresh, the man who ran the small amusement rides during temple festivals.

Both of them gave large contributions during the collection.

Kindness does not always live where people expect to find it.

Whenever I saw that, I used to feel something strange.

“Life is full of ironies,” I wrote once again in my notebook.

“Sometimes the people outside the church give more easily than the people inside it.”

Even today, when I think about those days in Karur parish, I remember the endless meetings, the serious speeches, the worried faces, and the grand plans that kept creating even bigger problems.

Human beings are very skilled at building ladders that lead them back to the same place.

And somewhere in the middle of all that noise and planning, the original purpose quietly waited… like a forgotten prayer.

Sometimes the purest intentions are the easiest to forget.