Ivo Coelho sdb NASHIK, MAY 27, 2009: Last night we received the news that Fr Giuseppe Moja passed away at Arese, Italy. He had recently undergone an operation for kidney stones, and did not recover well. Fr Moja was born on 20 December 1915, and was 93 years 6 months when he died on 26 May 2009. Having spent his childhood in France 
and in Italy, he first joined the diocesan seminary, and then the Salesians. He never tired of telling how he felt completely at home in the Salesian aspirantate of Ivrea from the very first day. "I have found my place," he told the Rector. He would also narrate how his saintly confessor at the diocesan seminary had been a boy with Don Bosco. Don Bosco himself had directed him to the diocese, saying he would do much good. It was that confessor who first spoke to the young Giuseppe about Don Bosco, and it was he, perhaps, who initiated Fr Moja's lifelong long love affair with Don Bosco. In those days missionaries would come young; Giuseppe came to India with some other companions as an aspirant. It was in India that he made his novitiate, and it was here that he did his philosophical and theological studies. They were days of the beginnings still; they could afford only one cassock, that had to be washed at night and worn again in the morning. In his later years Fr Moja could still remember that the Bandel chapel had a smell of stale fish with all those half dry cassocks steaming off the young bodies of their wearers. It is good to remember also that inculturation did not begin with us. Way back in those days, the young Salesians were not only made to learn the local language immediately, but they were even given impossible tasks such as teaching Bengali to young Bengali boys in school. Giuseppe did it all, with his great facility for languages and his keen intelligence. For practical training, there was again something special: he was chosen to be the personal secretary of Fr Vincent Scuderi, who was both provincial and vicar general of the diocese of Krishnagar. The provincial was, as can be imagined, always on the move. But he knew how to delegate. So his young secretary, barely out of philosophy, not only kept all his papers but even carried out a vigorous correspondence, to the extent of even signing for the superior. Fr Moja would tell me: some of those – most of those – letters from Scuderi to the superiors and to the Vatican were signed not by Fr Scuderi but by the young cleric Moja. But historians will never know. Then came the War. Giuseppe was deported, together with other 'enemy nationals', to various camps in different parts of India. There was Deoli, which is not far from our present house of Suket; then Dehradun. T
he young Giuseppe did not give the British an easy time, and they reciprocated in kind. I am told that Cl. Moja spent not a little time in the camp lock up, for bad behavior. In the meantime, life went on. The enterprising Italian Salesians made sausages, and wine, and set up a theology school, and held entertainments. The religious house was simply imported into the camps. There were even a few ordinations. At the end of the War, the British would not allow Moja and some others to remain in British India. That was when the brilliant idea came of going to Goa. And that was how Scuderi, Moja and a few others landed in Goa. That was how Scuderi became the great pioneer of Salesian work in Goa. I suppose that history has been put down in T.J. Joseph's books. Moja was his ever enterprising self in Panjim. He was blessed, of course, with a mighty temper and a caustic tongue, and T.J. has pungent things to say on that topic. But the fact was that the work went on and even flourished. On Sundays, the clerics and young priests would gird up their cassocks and cycle all the way to places like Calangute where they conducted festive Oratories. One of my neighbours, who hails from Calangute, still remembers those days, and how the Salesians would come over on Sundays, bringing along also some welcome loaves of bread. Moja worked, I think, also in Valpoi before being deputed to begin the work in Sulcorna. Some 200 acres of land had been gifted to the Salesians by a benefactor. It was pure jungle in the deep south of Goa. Moja has, I think, left some written accounts of his first days out there in the jungle: with a tarpaulin, a helper, a dog, a gun and a carafe of feni: that was how they began. It poured, torrentially, the very first night. Moja passed the night poking the sagging tarpaulin with his stick, and the feni came in very handy of course to ward off the cold and to keep up the spirits. There were monkeys, there were leopards. Eventually a little house came up: first the roof, then one wall, then another. Then an old refrigerator was
found, and made to work. Then people said: see in what comfort he is living. (The original house can still be seen in a corner of our farm.) Moja remained 16 years in Sulcorna, before being transferred – much against his will, of course – to Lonavla. That was where I first saw him, I think. He looked old to us youngsters, but he must have been barely 60. Still young, still full of energy, still able to do much, but there he was: confessor and in charge of propaganda. Later he came to Pune as Administrator, and that was where we became good friends. After that he was brought to Matunga, and eventually took charge of the Don Bosco's Madonna. He spent the last years of his life in his fourth floor room in the Shrine Building. When he could not manage anymore, after his month long stint in Hinduja's for cancer therapy, he asked to return to Italy. He was admitted to the infirmary of the Milan province at Arese, where I met him several times. "When I want to feel alive," he would say, "I think of India." Moja was the quintessential, sola-topeed, bearded foreign missionary. He never quite abandoned his Italianity; he loved cheese and wine and the good food and the culture and the languages of his home continent, and he never quite completely and wholeheartedly accepted everything that was Indian. Added to that, he had his famous caustic tongue and a heavy wit. All this did not serve to 
endear him to many. By the time he left Provincial House, he had gotten himself on the wrong side of almost everyone. I remember telling him: Fr Moja, if you shout at me also, there will be no one for you to talk to! But with all that, there are few people I remember today with greater affection. Moja had a heart of gold. And his heart was pure. He was attached and affectionate without clinging and binding. Fr Casarotti used to say that he never began an oratory or a boarding in Sulcorna; but he had a passionate love for Don Bosco. He spent several of his last years translating Teresio Bosco's 'new biography' of Don Bosco, and it was, for him, a labour of love. "I know all these stories and these facts," he would tell me, "but so many times I have been unable to go on, simply moved to tears." He was concerned that we Salesians in India did not know enough about Don Bosco and did not love him enough. If Fr Moja has left us anything, I would say it is this passionate love for Don Bosco. He has been for us, in our province, an icon of that love. As we bid farewell to this great man and great Salesian, I pray that the Lord he loved so well, might receive him with open arms into his Sacred Heart. I thought this morning of the possibly embarrassi
ng scenes up there behind the pearly gates. There will be good old Fr Casa who might groan to see Moja coming up. There will be Bro. Joe Mascarenhas, who had the knack of turning up just when some secret party was being organized by Moja and the provincial. There will be Fr Joe Vaz who also had the knack of turning up, but with different effects. There will be good old Santino Mondini, dreading that the awful ribbing might start again, but swearing to friendship. There will be, of course, Don Bosco himself, and Our Lady, and mother and father and a thousand others, all united in some mysterious way in the loving and forgiving heart of our Father.
and in Italy, he first joined the diocesan seminary, and then the Salesians. He never tired of telling how he felt completely at home in the Salesian aspirantate of Ivrea from the very first day. "I have found my place," he told the Rector. He would also narrate how his saintly confessor at the diocesan seminary had been a boy with Don Bosco. Don Bosco himself had directed him to the diocese, saying he would do much good. It was that confessor who first spoke to the young Giuseppe about Don Bosco, and it was he, perhaps, who initiated Fr Moja's lifelong long love affair with Don Bosco. In those days missionaries would come young; Giuseppe came to India with some other companions as an aspirant. It was in India that he made his novitiate, and it was here that he did his philosophical and theological studies. They were days of the beginnings still; they could afford only one cassock, that had to be washed at night and worn again in the morning. In his later years Fr Moja could still remember that the Bandel chapel had a smell of stale fish with all those half dry cassocks steaming off the young bodies of their wearers. It is good to remember also that inculturation did not begin with us. Way back in those days, the young Salesians were not only made to learn the local language immediately, but they were even given impossible tasks such as teaching Bengali to young Bengali boys in school. Giuseppe did it all, with his great facility for languages and his keen intelligence. For practical training, there was again something special: he was chosen to be the personal secretary of Fr Vincent Scuderi, who was both provincial and vicar general of the diocese of Krishnagar. The provincial was, as can be imagined, always on the move. But he knew how to delegate. So his young secretary, barely out of philosophy, not only kept all his papers but even carried out a vigorous correspondence, to the extent of even signing for the superior. Fr Moja would tell me: some of those – most of those – letters from Scuderi to the superiors and to the Vatican were signed not by Fr Scuderi but by the young cleric Moja. But historians will never know. Then came the War. Giuseppe was deported, together with other 'enemy nationals', to various camps in different parts of India. There was Deoli, which is not far from our present house of Suket; then Dehradun. T
he young Giuseppe did not give the British an easy time, and they reciprocated in kind. I am told that Cl. Moja spent not a little time in the camp lock up, for bad behavior. In the meantime, life went on. The enterprising Italian Salesians made sausages, and wine, and set up a theology school, and held entertainments. The religious house was simply imported into the camps. There were even a few ordinations. At the end of the War, the British would not allow Moja and some others to remain in British India. That was when the brilliant idea came of going to Goa. And that was how Scuderi, Moja and a few others landed in Goa. That was how Scuderi became the great pioneer of Salesian work in Goa. I suppose that history has been put down in T.J. Joseph's books. Moja was his ever enterprising self in Panjim. He was blessed, of course, with a mighty temper and a caustic tongue, and T.J. has pungent things to say on that topic. But the fact was that the work went on and even flourished. On Sundays, the clerics and young priests would gird up their cassocks and cycle all the way to places like Calangute where they conducted festive Oratories. One of my neighbours, who hails from Calangute, still remembers those days, and how the Salesians would come over on Sundays, bringing along also some welcome loaves of bread. Moja worked, I think, also in Valpoi before being deputed to begin the work in Sulcorna. Some 200 acres of land had been gifted to the Salesians by a benefactor. It was pure jungle in the deep south of Goa. Moja has, I think, left some written accounts of his first days out there in the jungle: with a tarpaulin, a helper, a dog, a gun and a carafe of feni: that was how they began. It poured, torrentially, the very first night. Moja passed the night poking the sagging tarpaulin with his stick, and the feni came in very handy of course to ward off the cold and to keep up the spirits. There were monkeys, there were leopards. Eventually a little house came up: first the roof, then one wall, then another. Then an old refrigerator was
found, and made to work. Then people said: see in what comfort he is living. (The original house can still be seen in a corner of our farm.) Moja remained 16 years in Sulcorna, before being transferred – much against his will, of course – to Lonavla. That was where I first saw him, I think. He looked old to us youngsters, but he must have been barely 60. Still young, still full of energy, still able to do much, but there he was: confessor and in charge of propaganda. Later he came to Pune as Administrator, and that was where we became good friends. After that he was brought to Matunga, and eventually took charge of the Don Bosco's Madonna. He spent the last years of his life in his fourth floor room in the Shrine Building. When he could not manage anymore, after his month long stint in Hinduja's for cancer therapy, he asked to return to Italy. He was admitted to the infirmary of the Milan province at Arese, where I met him several times. "When I want to feel alive," he would say, "I think of India." Moja was the quintessential, sola-topeed, bearded foreign missionary. He never quite abandoned his Italianity; he loved cheese and wine and the good food and the culture and the languages of his home continent, and he never quite completely and wholeheartedly accepted everything that was Indian. Added to that, he had his famous caustic tongue and a heavy wit. All this did not serve to 
endear him to many. By the time he left Provincial House, he had gotten himself on the wrong side of almost everyone. I remember telling him: Fr Moja, if you shout at me also, there will be no one for you to talk to! But with all that, there are few people I remember today with greater affection. Moja had a heart of gold. And his heart was pure. He was attached and affectionate without clinging and binding. Fr Casarotti used to say that he never began an oratory or a boarding in Sulcorna; but he had a passionate love for Don Bosco. He spent several of his last years translating Teresio Bosco's 'new biography' of Don Bosco, and it was, for him, a labour of love. "I know all these stories and these facts," he would tell me, "but so many times I have been unable to go on, simply moved to tears." He was concerned that we Salesians in India did not know enough about Don Bosco and did not love him enough. If Fr Moja has left us anything, I would say it is this passionate love for Don Bosco. He has been for us, in our province, an icon of that love. As we bid farewell to this great man and great Salesian, I pray that the Lord he loved so well, might receive him with open arms into his Sacred Heart. I thought this morning of the possibly embarrassi
ng scenes up there behind the pearly gates. There will be good old Fr Casa who might groan to see Moja coming up. There will be Bro. Joe Mascarenhas, who had the knack of turning up just when some secret party was being organized by Moja and the provincial. There will be Fr Joe Vaz who also had the knack of turning up, but with different effects. There will be good old Santino Mondini, dreading that the awful ribbing might start again, but swearing to friendship. There will be, of course, Don Bosco himself, and Our Lady, and mother and father and a thousand others, all united in some mysterious way in the loving and forgiving heart of our Father.