Lingo of the Mutes(REAR WINDOW)

Valiamma had an intimate pal at home, Chathi the cow. The way she conversed with her suggested their intimacy. Valiamma seemed to know the nuances of her moos and moves. Chathi always got the top priority in her scheme of affairs. Though there were others to graze and bath her, valiamma reserved the right, rather privilege to milk her. Lest, others would afflict pain by applying more force on the udder than required. However valiamma had to forsake this privilege later on.

A household without a cow was quite rare in those days. Four or five cows adorned the cow-den, usually set up on the eastern side of the house, beside the quad. It was considered propitious to enter a house with a cow in sight. Cow-dens gradually went out of vogue as their inmates themselves. Unlike today, it was not at all difficult to get domestic-help in Mannanam. Before the advent of family-planning, most households had lots of unemployed women who would eke out a life in the neighbourhood. Apart from being a work-wage relationship, rural life had a somewhat fraternal vein. Helpers were aplenty for ploughing, tilling, breaking planks, churning milk etc.

The cow has a sacred place in Indian tradition. The Cow-Mother, they say, thanks to the age-old belief that its body-parts encompass some divine presence. The Padmapurana   enlists the deities present on each part of the animal’s body: Indra and Vishnu on the horns, Brahma on the head, Shiva on the fore-head, the sun- moon duo in the eyes and the Aswini brothers on the chin. You cannot find any room for gender-bias, with Saraswathi on the tongue and Goddess Earth in the belly. Wind in the teeth, sunrays in the milk, Prajapathi on the skin, Gandharvas on the hooves, Jyeshta in the nose and Rishis among the hair… the list goes on. No wonder the gross embodiment becomes the Divine Mother when abstractions acquire concreteness.

One day, valiamma had to be hospitalised. Mom turning the bystander and the house-maid away on leave, children were left alone at home. During the night, we heard Chathi crying. Till then we had not been paying much attention to her, as all her ‘chats’ were thought to be with valiamma alone. Their gesticulations and interactions inside the cow-den were such that any onlooker would bethink them to be real friends. Finishing the mash, Chathi would nod her head as if indicating a satisfactory note. Valiamma would then pat her gently.  I wasn’t mature enough to attribute any significance to these gestures. But her bawls that night perforated into me. She must be telling us something, I thought, but what exactly, I couldn’t gather. As it grew further in a helpless and pathetic tone, I couldn’t look the other way. With a sense of urgency, I woke up my younger sister Indira. We gathered all that was left in the kitchen, put them in a big vessel and braving much difficulty dragged it to the cow-den. Chathi drank some mash and looked up at me, as if she would at valiamma, denoting ‘I liked it’. Her gaze was now getting into my mind. I offered her a piece of banana and she munched it slowly. A nascent piece of life-truth was getting engraved in my young mind – mutes too speak!

Rural life in those times had a knack of creating, sort of a spiritual bond between animals and man. When I grew up, I came across Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty. The passion, with which she probed the life of Black Beauty, the mare and portrayed the various emotional realms of animal life, touched my nerve. Chathi too was a Black Beauty, though I couldn’t write down her life-story.

Years later, I was on a revisit to my paternal home for a family get-together. Chathi was no more, a concrete creature replacing her little den.  Still her fond memories lilted around. Incidentally, the day’s newspaper was carrying a photograph which everyone had noticed by then:  A truck-load of cattle on way to an abattoir. One of the inmates could be seen hanging out of the herd, half its body protruding out of the truck- Its eyes, a confluence of helplessness, dread and pathos, baying for something.  Seeing the snap, somebody exclaimed, ‘’is there no one to teach those brutes a lesson?’’ Suddenly, I figured out that I was still in charge of the state’s Animal Husbandry Department, the cattle-shed that my political bosses had put me into, when they developed their customary itch out of my inefficiency to genuflect.  Alas!  There was no valiamma in the higher echelons of power to coddle me as well.  Immediately I rang up my office and the police. They swung into action, zeroing in on the truck and getting arrested, all culprits linked to this brutality. There are beasts among men, but no man among beasts, they say. But then, if we tend to describe many a human deed as beastly, it would be libelous to the beasts.  So what, if Chathi could not make it to the hall of fame as Black Beauty could, she was able to imbibe in us some invaluable truths of life. Yeah, mutes too can speak, provided there are willing ears.

One day, Mannanam had a new guest, from Tamil Nadu:  A humble, rustic fellow with a funny lingo—an admixture of Tamil and Malayalam.  No one knew his name; every one began calling him Annachi (brother in Tamil). He visited every house with the only trade he knew, that of milking cows. Before long, he became the milkman of our hamlet.

Annachi exhibited the body language and behavioral mode, typical to the tribe of ‘experts’. As is their wont, he soon made some infra-structural amendments. The long existing milk-bucket was replaced with a cylindrical, aluminum utensil having a firm lid. Since such an object was new to us, it got an instant nomenclature:  Pandikkutty (pandi=Tamil Nadu, kutty=cylinder). Irony was that the very same innovation Annachi put forth turned out to be his bane, later on. As he was settling down in his work, the local rumour-mills started rolling. That Annachi’s special utensil always hid some water beneath, so as to double up the milk content, it was alleged.  A life-time’s credibility and integrity at stake through this Iago ploy, Annachi was heart-broke.  His own talkative nature made matters worse for him. His explanations on zero-demand made even the unsuspecting ones, sceptical.  Eventually, the poor fellow had to ‘show off’ his integrity by proving that his bucket was empty, each and every time before milking.

Annachi was not just a milkman, but a gifted Vet as well. Though not quite in the league of Chirayoth Anthony Vaidyar, the most famous veterinary physician of the period, he had some well-tried tricks up his sleeve —Pandikkai, as people would call it. For instance, if milk was found to be short on fat, Annachi would prescribe vinegar or gingelly oil to the concerned cow.  Sometimes cows would lie down for a while, only to jump up suddenly and start scratching the floor. According to Annachi, this was symptomatic of stomach-ache, for which he would prescribe black- tea. If the ache still persists, a simple dosage of ginger astringent would do. In case all these remedies fail, he would go for the kill— asephoitida in ginger-tinge, supplanted with nothing but opium!

Cows too get fever like we do. Loss of appetite, sneezing, and raised temperature levels   being the symptoms. Annachi’s prescription would be on par with those given to feverish humans: Gorochana pill smeared with pepper and dried ginger powder, all mixed up in Amrutharishtam.  Plan-B would be another astringent with neem, cumin seeds, pepper, salt and turmeric.  Besides, the patient would be sudated with Ashtagandha. Quite some vet-Veda for a milkman, that!

Elephants on way to temples or timber depots were almost a regular sight in Kaippuzha. Every time on hearing the peculiar clack of chains, we would run to the hedge of our plot to have an up close glimpse.  The giant would not let us down, arriving as in Sugathakumari’s old but evergreen rhyme:

•  Jumbo comes
• Horny jumbo comes
• Like a thick black cloud
• Like the pitch dark cloud
• Click-clacking those irony chains
• Trembling earth in biggy steps
• Swaying fanny ears in rhythm
• Swaying snaky trunk yum yum

Once the giant passed by, each one would come up with descriptions galore. New fables of valour would be woven around the poor animal, imagination sky-rocketing. Thirunakkara Kochukomban was the hero of the times, the legendary Gurvayur Kesavan coming   later. Mahouts had certain unwritten rights in the community or they pretended to have so.  They would stop the animal in front of seemingly worthwhile houses and would cut down palm leaves without caring for permission. No one would object to in any case, instead boast with pride that the giant had dinner with them.

More often than not, news of some elephant gone wild due to musth during festival duty would flash around. Soon local discussions would centre on this topic, fans coming out with exaggerated versions of past mishaps and a history of madness in general. With no other choice, I had  to  believe in our native Foucaults   till  a little later in life  when  I caught up with  the serving mahouts of Punnathurkotta, the official elephant-den of the Guruvayur temple.  Musth or rutting is nothing but a periodic physical condition, the bull elephants undergo.  During musth, a thick tar-like serum called temporin is secreted from the temporal glands situated between the eye and the ear on either side of the head.  It contains proteins, lipids, phenol etc.  The testosterone levels in musth elephant can be as high as 60 times greater as at other times. This high dose of   male reproductive hormone is the prime reason for the animal’s aggressive behaviour during musth. It may also be partially caused by a reaction to the temporin that naturally trickles down to the elephant’s mouth. Yet another contributing factor is the accompanying swelling of the temporal glands which presses on the eyes causing acute pain. Though the mahouts of Guruvayur attribute several catalysts to musth like unfulfilled sexual urge, shortage of fodder and water, restless work, fear and weather changes, the root cause of this exclusively male phenomenon is yet to be scientifically proved.

Apparently all elephants look alike. But discerning eyes can set apart the handsome from the herd. Pillar -like limbs, large head with protruding temples, high and broad forehead, fan-like ears, wet and honey-coloured eyes with long  slender strales, sandal-coloured horns, a  flowing proboscis long enough to swirl its triangle tip aground, full blown belly with the back sloping down,  fluffy –haired  long tail  and all the 18 nails intact… If all these attributes come together to grace a thick black body, he deserves to be titled the King Elephant.  With such an elaborate  eye with microscopic details  it  is  no wonder that  ancient India could produce  authentic  bio-medical  works  like  Gajalakshana Shasthra   (Palakapyam)  based on which  was written  the famous  Malayalam treatise on  the pachyderm:  Mathangaleela.

Cows to elephants, herbs to trees, it had been a rich and exuberant co-habitation in daily life. Gratitude is due, to the parents and teachers who silently imparted in us empathy towards fellow living beings. In fact, they couldn’t help but do so.  For, it was a cultural trait, conditioned by the ages.  Where else would you hear this plea and prayer addressed to the very same tree, about to be axed?

• Yaaneehi bhoothani, vasanthi thaani
• Balam gruheethwaa, vidhival prayuktham
• Anyathra vaasam   parikalpayaami
• Kshamaswa thaanadya   namosthudebhyaa

(O the living beings residing in this tree, please accept my offerings and be kind enough to move to another abode.  O beloved   tree, bless me, not revile.  — Vrukshaayurveda)