Sunday Struggles in Mangalore Church

Sunday Best or Sunday Struggle?

Catholics in Mangalore are obsessed with church. Sunday best, they called it. I preferred Sunday struggle. The chants repeated, the ritual unfolded: sit, stand, kneel. Kneel? WTF. My grandma’s fingers would find my thigh or tug my skirt down like divine punishment if I didn’t comply. The pinch was inevitable—especially if I dared to scoff, snort, or, God forbid, laugh. Victim: me.

Grandma’s Pinches: A Rite of Passage

The nudge, the eyes of fire, the double-tap if misbehaviour persisted—this was church discipline at its finest. Some days I wondered if the blood clots I nursed afterward were part of the blessings. She meant well, probably, but the gossip marathons after Mass were another form of torment.

The Choir: Heaven in Sound

The only saving grace? The choir. Some days, an old nun screeched so horribly that even the priest asked her to zip it—from the altar. The altar! Thy Holy place, oh Lord. And then there were the good days, the goosebump days, when voices soared and for a fleeting moment, heaven seemed to exist in sound.C

Convent School Chaos

I studied in a convent, so music was stitched into the fabric of faith. Still, I was usually the one busting a guitar string, letting it smack the mic stand until it squeaked endlessly. That sound? Definitely not holy. Thankfully, our family’s involvement in parish extracurriculars was minimal. My flaw-ther was protective to a fault, probably running Bad boys, bad boys, what you gonna do on repeat in his head whenever church got too involved.

Peace Be With You (Mostly)

So yes, we dressed up like heavenly dolls and marched to church. Me, draped not in grace but in the sorrow of the walk, the talk, and the army wands—sit, stand, kneel, peace. Peace be with you. I hope my grandma is in heaven for all her pinches and post-Mass gossip sessions. But my point? The choir. That was the only thing that made the ride bumpy, jumpy, and maybe even worth it.