Chicken little

I spent the first five years of my life in a remote village. Ah those wonderful years. Being the
youngest of the siblings, god was I pampered? Yes I was, partly because I was born blessed as a
boy, wasnt that reason enough to be treated like a gods gift to the family. Though the
memories of those five years are sketchy and fragmented, all I can remember now is a life of
getting up when the suns rays were unbearable and so were the hunger pangs early in the
morning. I would sit up on the foldable cot in the middle of the open to sky inner courtyard,
dutifully placed by my mother in a row the previous evening. Sunnunda I would yell, from the
cot, and my mother would indulgently smile and get me one of those sweet laddus made of
finely ground minappa flour liberally doused in home-made ghee and powdered sugar. I would
gobble up the laddu wash down with a glass of water. Only then the morning oblations could
start.
Life was song then, getting up, gobbling the laddus, brushing the teeth was an option. Taking
bath was a chore. Roaming the in the village, pillaging and causing havoc with the gang of other
good for nothing gang was a privilege. Boy, am I getting nostalgic. Well coming back to the
story.
We had half a dozen hens and a couple of roosters, in the backyard. These hens were covered
by the three, big round woven bamboo baskets that were overturned to house the birds for the
night. Early in the morning kicking the baskets off and letting the hens out was a task my
mother entrusted to me. I really enjoyed doing this especially when I overheard my mother
whispering loud enough for me to overhear, to one of relatives across the compound wall, only
my Sai knows how to do this job properly I cant trust anyone else with it. It made me feel so big
and important; I believed that only I could do this job right. Little did I realize that it was one of
those many tiny mind games my mother played on me.
I remember once accidentally the servant boy let the hens out before I got there. I created such
a ruckus that the poor guy had to go and round them up all again and put them under the
baskets. What a cacophony it was. The poor boy huffing and puffing all over the backyard, the
hens cackling loudly in protest of having to go back under the basket, me yelling and wailing,
the poor guy cursing and muttering something about the sisters and mothers of the hens under
his breath. The relatives and neighbors were roaring with laughter and egging the poor sod on.
My grandmother with customary rosary in her hand was grumbling, about her daughter-in-
laws incompetency of bringing up the children.
Finally after an hours time, all the hens were put back under the baskets. The ordeal of the
poor guy was not yet over, he had to kneel down holding his earlobes and apologize till I
cooled down enough and my little ego was satisfied to let him go. Lesson learnt for the every
one, never come between Sai and his chicks. Having to gather half a dozen hens again under
the basket for the spoilt brat was not anybodies idea of fun.
Now one of the hens had brood of six chicks, five of them were black only one was white as
snow. I took a special liking to this white chick. I guess this obsession for a cute white chick
remained even when I grew up and was looking for a life partner. I would be partial to the
white chick, feed her a little extra. Weeks passed by and the chick grew up into a beautiful hen.
I really loved her. Soon she was laying eggs. I had the sole right on the eggs that she laid. During
lunch my mother would select the egg laid by the white hen and loudly proclaim this is the
white hens egg meant only for my little one. How she could know which of the eggs was the
right was a mystery to me but, I simply took my mothers word for it. I missed my siblings
sniggers and did not realize how gullible I was.
Now every few months we had relatives from far off villages or cities would dropping in. they
called it visit to Lanka house as our house was always referred to as. I was too young to realize
at that time, that relatives were, mainly of two types.
Those who came in singly or in twos at the most who came in the morning and left before it
was dusk, humbly refusing the half hearted request to stay for by my fathers mother. They
usually came with sacks full of vegetables and jackfruits corn and other farm produces. They
would lovingly pat my head and slip in a few coins in my hand to buy some sweetmeats, and
bless me and part with misty eyes. I would often see my mother quietly sobbing covering her
mouth with her pallu. My Grandmother muttering and grumbling under her breath about the
cheap stuff they brought. My elder sister who was ten years senior to me explained that they
were relatives from mothers side.
Then there were the relatives from my fathers side. They would often descend in as entire
families, and would bring sacks full of dirty linen to be washed and ironed. The Lanka dhobi was
the best in the world they said. It was a festive season as long as they stayed, which lasted
anything between a weeks to a fortnight. They would throw disapproving looks at the unkempt
urchin and enquire if I went to school. Aaw he just a toddler now my mother would defend her
little darling. Boy if you want to be rich and successful like your uncles you must go to school
and study big, the city ladies would say letting out the biggest secret of the life.
My grandmother would go to each guest and find out what would like to have for lunch dinner
and breakfast each day. The lanka kitchen would turn into a hotel and my mother the chief chef
and the lowly servant rolled into one. I hated these relatives because my mother would hardly
have any time for me during those days. I would sulk and make fuss and freely mouth the cuss
words I learnt from good for nothing friends although I did not even understand the words, but
happy that it annoyed the relatives.
Careful my elder sister would caution me least my grandmother overheard, because it was my
mother who would have to pay the price. (Only later on in my Life, I understood why this
discrimination took place. My mother was an orphan and from a poor family and in spite of that
my grandmother had agreed to the marriage). The relatives would loll around chatting up to
each other and sucking up to my grandmother the whole day long. While my mother slogged it
out in the kitchen.
Once day a scruffy looking relative of my grandmother arrived unexpectedly with just a cloth
bag with a pair of spare clothing with him. He was my grandmothers sisters son-in-law. The
first thing he did on arrival was to play an emotional drama, oh my dear mother-in-law,
yesterday night you came in my dream and chided me for forgetting you for long time. I could
not go back to sleep in the morning I took the first available bus and came to see you he
declared in an emotionally choked voice. My grandmother was moved to tears. While the
drama was being played out, in the courtyard, I heard my fathers suppressed laugh in an
adjacent room, he was telling my mother, looks like his wife threw him out again this time, each
time she does this Subbudu will end as a guest in some relatives house, for a few days.
After dealing with my grandmother the guest then sidled up to my father in the verandah
outside the house, after the customary small talk he quickly came to the point, orey Bava,
(brother-in-law), whatever it is let me tell you, I have tried chuttas (local hand rolled cheroots)
from different places, but, Aah nothing can beat the aroma and keenness of Lanka tobacco, I
just cant smoke any other he declared. My father laughed and cut him off with a wink and I
know what you are after wave of his hand. Bava I know what you want and have already sent
the boy to get you a sack full of the same from the storeroom.
My father was in a magnanimous mood, he said and there is nothing to beat the taste of Lanka
chicken he declared. Subbudu (I actually called him that since my father referred to him so, and
boy what a scene it created is another story) licked his lips in anticipation and dared my father
to prove it. That was when the fate of my pet white hen was sealed. The white hen was way
past her egg laying period and was ready for the cooking pot.
I was out playing with friends when one of them came running to me and said you guys are
going to have chicken curry for lunch today, I saw your servant boy taking your white hen to the
fields. I dropped everything and ran as fast as my little legs could carry me to the fields. I saw
the boy happily humming away and had almost finished plucking the slain chicken. I gave the
boy a mighty push and snatched the dead chicken from his hands and ran back to the house
cradling the lifeless and cold pet in my arms sobbing with grief that only an innocent five year
old could feel.
The reactions from the elders at home ranged from amusement to anger to sympathy,
depending on the person. With great difficulty they managed to get the chicken from me.
Eventually the chicken was cooked and consumed.
I try to recollect the reactions of the elders from that day. My father was only mildly amused
and said son you are still small and emotional now, later on in life you will have to let go of
bigger things you cant keep crying for everything you will have to grow up to be a man.
The Relative was just annoyed about the whole drama and was wondering if by any chance he
will miss his chicken curry. He suddenly remembered he had to go and meet someone in the
village and came back just in time for the lunch.
My elder sister tried to divert my attention by showing me some new sweetmeats she bought
from the village shop and showing me other nice hens that I could have as a new pet.
My grandmother took me near and launched off in a discourse of the holy Gita, Who are we
humans to give or take life, life can neither be created nor destroyed, it only changes form. The
blessed chicken in his next life may be born as a human being. Its all the leela of Krishna; he is
the one who is behind everything that happens. She droned on. To hell with this guy Krishna
why cant he sacrifice his own chicken, who gave him the right to steal my hen, I screamed at
her and ran away.
I finally sought solace in my mothers lap. She did not speak anything, she silently hugged me
and silently sobbed along with me, only a mother can understand the pain of her child. She held
me for a long time till I calmed down, and then wiped my tears away along with her own. She
then took me to the kitchen and gave only fruits to eat for the lunch.
I gave up the privilege of letting the hens out from that day. I did not stop grieving and crying
for my pet for a long time to come. I actually did not eat chicken for many years after that. As
for Subbudu he quietly left the next day, with the stock of raw tobacco leaves tucked under his
arm, and I never saw him again.