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There is a well-known saying among people who
have chosen to live close to nature — you may own the land, but the land
owns you back. I discovered the truth of this rather early after building
my weekend home in Dharmarajapuram, a quiet village not far from the city, that
I had chosen with some deliberation as a place to retreat to, to breathe, and
perhaps someday, to grow old in gracefully.
I had expected solitude. I had expected
birdsong, clean air and the unhurried rhythms of village life. What I had not
quite bargained for was the parade of visitors — invited and otherwise — who
would present themselves at my door, my window, my garden wall, and
occasionally, my dining table, with a cheerful disregard for appointment or
protocol.
Let me introduce them to you, one by one. I
assure you, no two are alike.
Chirpy —
The Window Philosopher
Before anyone else stirs in Dharmarajapuram,
before the crows begin their morning announcements and before Kamakshi has lit
the stove, there comes a small insistent tapping at my bedroom window. It is
precisely 5.30 in the morning. It is, without fail, Chirpy.
Chirpy is a tiny bird with wings of the most
arresting blue — a blue that seems improbable against the grey pre-dawn light,
as though a small piece of the afternoon sky has got lost and ended up on my
windowsill. He is, by any measure, a creature of great conviction and very
little wisdom.
My bedroom window is fitted with reflective
privacy glass. To anyone looking from outside, the glass presents a perfect
mirror image of the world — the garden, the trees, the sky. Chirpy, bless his
tiny heart, has concluded that what he sees in that glass is not a reflection,
but a doorway. Another world. A world that looks exactly like this one, where
another small blue bird of identical appearance waits on the other side,
equally eager to make contact.
Every morning at 5.30, Chirpy arrives to
breach that barrier. He taps. He pecks. He tilts his head and studies the
problem. He tries again. The other bird — his reflection — taps back with equal
determination, which only encourages him further. This has been going on for
longer than I care to remember, and Chirpy has not once, in all that time,
arrived at the conclusion that the mission is impossible. He is either the most
dedicated philosopher in the village, or the most optimistic fool. Given that I
cannot tell the difference with certainty, I leave the question open.
What I cannot leave open, of course, is my
eyes. Chirpy has resolved that problem for me. He is my alarm clock, my morning
call, my uninvited reminder that another day has begun and that at least one
creature in Dharmarajapuram is already at work pursuing an impossible dream.
There are worse ways to start a morning.
Gudu-Gudu
Pandi — Yama's Postman
If Chirpy represents the philosophical wing of
my visitor list, the Gudu-Gudu Pandi represents its eschatological division.
He arrives on some Saturday or Sunday mornings
— never announced, never expected, always unmistakable. You hear him before you
see him — the dry rattling cadence of the damaru, the pellet drum, sending its
peculiar gudu-gudu sound ahead of him through the village lanes and his
preamble lines, “Nalla Kaalam Porakkirathu, Nalla Kaalam Porakkirathu” ! (Good
times are on the anvil) By the time he reaches my gate, the drum has already
set the mood. This is not a social call. This is a cosmic one.
The Gudu-Gudu Pandi is a man of about
forty-five, bare bodied and barefoot, his skin smeared with sacred ash and
vermillion, clad in a saffron clothing, a garland of beads around his neck. He
carries his damaru (a pellet drum) in one hand and, in a bag slung over his
shoulder, the item that distinguishes him from all other itinerant holy men in
the district — an old human skull, carried as matter-of-factly as another man
might carry an umbrella, available for deployment should any householder
require a tantric remedy on short notice. He comes, it is said, directly from
the cremation ground, which lends his morning visits a certain atmosphere.
There is a Tamil saying that a corpse on a
Saturday always has company. The Pandi's Saturday rounds would seem to confirm
this. His is a world lived at the junction of the living and the dead, and he
navigates it without theatre, without drama, and without any apparent burden.
He makes his predictions in a matter-of-fact tone — the damaru speaks, he
interprets, the damaru then twists to confirm. It is a closed loop of celestial
consultation that leaves little room for appeal.
In 2011, he stopped at my gate and informed
me, after a considered consultation with the drum, that my son would complete
not just BA but also MA. This prediction was delivered with the gravity of a Vedic
pronouncement. What it meant, in the vocabulary of a man whose academic
taxonomy stops at postgraduation, was that my son would complete his PG studies
— which he duly did. The cosmos had spoken. The drum had confirmed. The Pandi
had delivered.
Kamakshi always finds a coin for him, quickly,
because the alternative — being turned away without alms — carries the
possibility of what the Pandi delicately terms an ominous alert. Kancha
Bhatta used to shoo him away, in the confident manner of a man who does not
believe in pellet drums or borrowed skulls. I once took the trouble of
explaining to Kancha the precise nature and standing of the gentleman at our
gate. The conversion was instantaneous. The next time the Pandi appeared,
Kancha received him with folded palms and a request — delivered with great
diplomatic courtesy — that the master was unfortunately not at home, and
perhaps the next house might be more deserving of the Pandi's attentions.
Boom Boom
Maadu — The Nodding Prophet
Not long after the Gudu-gudu Pandi's visits,
on a different morning entirely — the two seem to maintain a courteous distance
from each other in the village calendar — another sound announces another
visitor. This time it is the wail of a nadaswaram, followed by the sharp crack
of a whip slicing the morning air.
The Boom Boom Maadu man has arrived.
He is, in surface appearance, not unlike the
Gudu-Gudu Pandi — barebodied, saffron-veshti clad, a man of the road and the
ritual economy of a Tamil Village. But where the Pandi has his damaru and his
skull, the Boom Boom Maadu man has something altogether more impressive: a
bull.
Not just any bull. This bull is an event. His
horns are painted in vivid colours. Ornaments hang around his neck. A silky,
embroidered shawl adorns his back. Bells are strung to his feet — so that he
announces his arrival in music even before his master cracks the whip. He is,
in the taxonomy of sacred animals, a representative of Nandi himself, Lord
Shiva's vehicle, dressed for the occasion.
His role, however, is more specialised than
Nandi's. His role is to nod. Whatever prediction the Boom Boom Maadu man
delivers — whatever he says about your fortunes, your family, your future — the
bull nods. Vigorously. Aggressively, even, as though the cosmos itself is
emphatic on the subject. It is the most committed performance of agreement I
have ever witnessed in any species. The bull has never, in my observation,
declined to nod. The bull has never offered a second opinion. The bull nods,
and the matter is settled.
In 2015, the Boom Boom Maadu man stopped at my
gate and, after due consultation with his instrument of prophecy, announced
that I would live a king's life — though without a retinue. The bull nodded
with great conviction. I received this prediction in the spirit in which it was
offered, choosing not to point out that Kamakshi and Kancha Bhatta were
standing approximately six feet behind me at the time.
Kamakshi always receives the bull warmly,
feeding him bananas and sweet porridge rice, which he accepts with dignity. On
one memorable occasion, the bull — mid-nod, mid-prophecy — caught sight of
Kamakshi emerging from the kitchen with a bowl of porridge. The nodding
stopped. For one extraordinary moment, the cosmic confirmation mechanism was
suspended. The bull had an opinion of his own, and it was entirely about the
porridge.
Some things, it turns out, are more compelling
than prophecy.
Most of my visitors announce themselves — with
drums, nadaswarams, whip cracks, or the persistent tapping of a small
determined beak. Bhujanga Veera announces himself with silence. It is the
sparrows who do his announcing for him.
When a dozen sparrows in my garden suddenly
abandon their ordinary morning chatter for something higher-pitched, more
urgent and more collective — a sound that carries an unmistakable note of alarm
— I know without looking that Bhujanga Veera has entered my gates. He is a
large cobra, and he moves through the garden with the unhurried authority of a
creature who has been on this earth considerably longer than the bungalow that
now sits upon it.
The household response to Bhujanga's arrival
follows a protocol so well established by now that it requires no direction.
Kamakshi, on hearing the sparrow alarm, does not wait to verify. She is through
the back door before the sound has fully registered. Kancha Bhatta proceeds to
the balcony upstairs and takes up a position of dignified elevation from which
he observes developments below. He will not come down until the situation is
fully resolved — either by my intervention or by Bhujanga's own departure. These
terms are non-negotiable.
I go downstairs.
Bhujanga Veera, upon seeing me, invariably
does the same thing. He pauses, as if making a brief assessment. Then he turns
and slithers back the way he came, in a manner that I have always felt carries
the suggestion of mild apology — sorry, did not realise this particular
residence was yours. I will see myself out. He disappears through the gate
with the unhurried composure of a guest who has decided the party is not quite
to his taste.
On the occasions when I am not at home, things
unfold differently. Bhujanga, unimpeded, makes his way to the palm fronds —
climbing upward with that boneless, liquid grace — while Kamakshi and Kancha
watch in horror, from their respective positions of safety, transfixed by an
ascent they are powerless to interrupt.
He comes perhaps once a quarter. The sparrows
always know first. And until Bhujanga clears the premises, Kancha Bhatta
remains on the balcony. I have never tried to negotiate this arrangement. Some
things in Dharmarajapuram are simply the way they are.
Rikki and
Raaki — The Coconut Tree Couple
Among all my visitors, Rikki and Raaki are the
only ones I cannot really call visitors at all. They live here. They have
simply chosen not to inform me.
They dwell in the coconut tree — a arrangement
they appear to consider permanent and exclusive — and they spend the day in a
state of continuous, acrobatic domestic negotiation. They chase each other
through the fronds with the energy of creatures who have never once considered
whether the enterprise is necessary. When Raaki disappears on some errand of
her own, Rikki's response is immediate and operatic — a continuous,
high-pitched screeching that fills the garden and a fair portion of the
neighbourhood, announcing to all of Dharmarajapuram that he cannot account for
his mate's whereabouts and finds this situation entirely unacceptable.
They descend to my portico and balcony
occasionally, in search of grains or leftovers, with the casual entitlement of
tenants who feel their landlord is behind on maintenance. Rikki, in particular,
has a weakness for the flowers on my drumstick tree, which he inspects daily
and confiscates with systematic thoroughness. I have made my peace with this
arrangement. Some flowers survive his audit and grow into full drumsticks. I
have come to regard these survivors with the particular affection one reserves for
things that have beaten the odds.
When Bhujanga Veera arrives, Rikki and Raaki
bolt to the very top of the coconut tree — the one elevation in my garden that
the cobra has not, thus far, seen fit to visit. This is, for the squirrels, the
non-negotiable sanctuary. I watch their ascent on cobra days with something
close to relief. Good for them, I think each time. Good for the squirrels.
The Gang of
Thieves — Organised Crime with an Alpha General
Bhujanga Veera is a visitor. The Boom Boom
Maadu bull is a visitor. Even the Gudu-Gudu Pandi, for all his proximity to the
other world, can be categorised as a visitor.
The monkeys are something else. The monkeys
are an operational threat.
They arrive as a group — never fewer than a
dozen — and they move through the village with the coordinated efficiency of a
unit that has done this before and intends to do it again. Their business model
is simple: identify a household, assess its defences, exploit any gap, and
depart with whatever edible items can be secured in the available time. My
household has been on their list from the beginning.
Kamakshi keeps all doors closed when the gang
is known to be in the vicinity. This is her primary defence, developed through
experience. Kancha Bhatta arms himself with a stick, which the monkeys regard
with the polite indifference of seasoned professionals encountering an amateur
deterrent. They do not leave because of the stick. They have never left because
of the stick.
I step outside. They leave.
This asymmetry has puzzled and, I suspect,
faintly irritated Kancha for years. The monkeys, who are unbothered by sticks,
by shouting, by any conventional persuasion, are genuinely afraid of me. I have
a .177 bore pellet gun — harmless, but effective as a statement of intent — and
the monkeys have learned to read the situation accurately.
At the head of this operation is the Alpha
Male — an old, large, and entirely unhurried individual who directs proceedings
from whatever elevated surface offers the best view. He is the only monkey who
does not panic on my appearance. He ambles when I shoo him. He requires the
pellet gun to persuade him. Even generals, I have found, respect artillery.
His operational intelligence is considerable.
On one occasion, Kancha was sent to Pazham'ni’appan's local fruit shop for
apples. The Alpha, observing from his perch on a nearby rooftop, deployed his
commanders along Kancha's return route. The ambush was clean, professional, and
entirely successful. Two apples were extracted. Kancha arrived home with the
remaining two, his dignity somewhat rearranged, and a grievance that he aired
at some length.
The monkey who breached our dining table
deserves a separate mention. On a day when I was absent and a door had been
negligently left ajar — Kamakshi and Kancha have different accounts of whose
negligence was responsible, and the inquiry remains open — a monkey walked in,
located the bananas on the dining table, and departed. The whole operation was
apparently conducted without fuss. Dharmarajapuram's criminal class does not
require drama to be effective.
Kalia — The
Punctual Ancestor
Every day, at one o'clock in the afternoon,
with a regularity that puts most humans to shame, Kalia arrives.
He is a large-billed crow — unhurried,
purposeful, and possessed of a dignity that I have come to associate with
someone who knows exactly why he is here and exactly what is owed to him. He
lands on the compound wall and waits, with the patience of the ancestral realm,
for his meal.
We feed the crow before we eat. This is not
superstition; it is theology. In our tradition, the crow is the emissary of our
manes — the ancestors who have gone before us and who, we believe, continue to
take some interest in our welfare. A handful of fresh rice and lentil placed on
the wall before the household eats is an acknowledgement of that continuity, a
daily act of gratitude to those who made our existence possible.
Kalia has absorbed this arrangement
completely. He arrives at one o'clock. If the offering is on the wall, he eats,
and departs. If Kamakshi is away and no offering has been made, Kalia caws. He
caws with increasing insistence for approximately fifteen minutes — a formal,
operatic expression of ancestral disappointment — before accepting the
situation and leaving.
If the thieving primates show up before Kalia
flies down, Kamakshi lands up in a predicament of sorts.
On the days when Kamakshi is absent and I am
at home; I offer what is available. Murukku, as it happens, goes down very
well. The ancestors have expressed no objection to festival snacks. The manes
of this household, it appears, are pragmatic.
Krishna —
The Philosopher King
And finally, last on this list but first in
contentment, there is Krishna.
Krishna is a cat. He arrived one day and
stayed, in the manner of cats who have assessed a situation and found it
satisfactory. He has the bearing of a resident, the schedule of a professional,
and the complete absence of obligation that is the defining characteristic of
the species.
At six in the morning, he makes his entry
through the back door — stealthy, unhurried, already knowing where he is going.
He goes to Kamakshi, who knows what is required of her and produces a pale of
milk without being asked. This transaction has never been renegotiated.
From six until noon, Krishna works. He hunts
mice through the house and garden with the focused application of a craftsman
who takes his occupation seriously. The house is, in consequence, a mouse-free
establishment, and Kamakshi regards Krishna with the particular warmth reserved
for those who solve problems without being asked twice.
By noon, Krishna has done what was required of
him. He proceeds to the balcony — the same balcony where Kancha retreats on
cobra days, now transformed into a very different kind of sanctuary — stretches
himself to his full length, and dozes his way to glory. There is no other
phrase for it. He lies there in the afternoon light with the complete
horizontal satisfaction of a creature who has discharged his duties and earned
his rest, and who has arranged his life so that the two are in perfect
equilibrium.
At five in the evening, he rises, stretches,
and disappears into the neighborhood for his evening rounds — food, company,
and whatever social engagements a cat of his standing maintains. He does not
explain his movements and is not asked to.
Dharmarajapuram is a quiet village. I chose it
for its quietness, its distance from the city's noise, its mornings of clean
air and unhurried time. I stand by that choice entirely.
But I have learned, over the years, that
quietness does not mean emptiness. It means, rather, that the world fills
itself differently — with a tapping at the window at 5.30am, with the rattle of
a damaru on a Saturday morning, with the sparrows' alarm and the lazy authority
of a cobra crossing your garden, with a bull nodding gravely to confirm your
destiny, with an ancestral crow on the compound wall at one o'clock exactly.
I did not invite most of them. They came
anyway. And Dharmarajapuram, I think, would be considerably less interesting
without them.
