Written by Tanisha Cardozo || Team Allycaral
In the quiet, verdant landscapes of Goa—where the Mandovi River winds gently and coconut palms sway in harmony with the breeze—lies the village of Tonca in Marcela, also known as Mashel. Nestled close to the serene island of St. Estevam, Tonca is a place where time moves slowly and faith quietly binds people closer than blood.
At the crossroads where paths from Tonca and St. Estevam converge once stood a simple stone Holy Cross. Weathered by monsoons and sun, it had witnessed generations pass by. More than a religious symbol, it was a silent companion to village life—children played in its shade, travellers paused for prayer, and families gathered during the Litany of the Cross.
Among those who grew up under its gaze were a group of boys who proudly called themselves the “Super Star Boys.” Bound by friendship, football, and mischief, they spent their childhood days chasing kites, stealing mangoes and cashews, and dreaming big dreams at that very crossroads.
As years passed, life led them far from Tonca—to Dubai, Kuwait, London, and beyond—in search of opportunities and stability. They built lives, families, and futures abroad, yet the pull of home never truly faded.
One December, many of them returned—not just for a visit, but for good. Drawn by nostalgia, they walked together to the old cross that had shaped their childhood. Time had taken its toll. The paint had peeled, the base had cracked, and the flowers had lost their colour. Though it still stood tall, it needed care.
That evening, over conversations, laughter, feni, and sorpotel, a decision was made. Without debate or hesitation, the Super Star Boys resolved to restore the Holy Cross—not as an obligation, but as an act of gratitude.
The village responded wholeheartedly. Contributions flowed in, and even Hindu families from nearby wards came forward, recognising the cross as a shared symbol of Tonca’s identity. “It belongs to all of us,” they said.
Work began soon after. Men who were once boys laboured side by side—some now grandfathers—laughing, singing old mandos, and reliving childhood memories as they worked. There were no leaders, only brothers united by purpose.
Weeks later, the restored cross stood renewed—clean, vibrant, adorned with fresh flowers and glowing lights. When the village gathered once more for the Litany of the Cross, voices rang louder, lanterns shone brighter, and the cross seemed to radiate a deeper sense of peace.
Children ran around it once again, just as the Super Star Boys once had.
What emerged from this small act was something far greater than restoration. It was a reminder that faith, friendship, and unity can endure time, distance, and change. In Tonca, a simple roadside cross became a testament to shared roots, collective memory, and the quiet strength of community—proving that sometimes, the smallest gestures carry the greatest meaning.
