Some memories are etched forever. It was hardly a few weeks since my first encounter with the dreaded Banyan tree. I had almost forgotten the eeriness of passing by the tree while making routine visits to and from the farm.
It was a bright sunny day at my village after a fresh bout of rains. My uncle and I were at farm early in the morning. It was paddy sowing time. A small single-bullock driven cart was ready with the fresh paddy plants covered with wet jute sacks. The male laborers started unloading the paddy plants while the female laborers evenly spread themselves out in the wet farm – ready to hand each other the plants and begin sowing at the stroke of the auspicious hour.
My uncle was restless. He wanted to be at home. His favorite cow had completed its gestation period and was ready to deliver a baby calf. It was a moment of anxiety for the family.
Just when the farmers were about to begin planting, Nagulu, our helper boy of my age, who was our all-in-one domestic help, came rushing on his nearly-broken cycle, looking for my uncle. Nagulu delivered the news that my uncle was waiting for. The cow was ready to give birth. My uncle rushed to the shed in Nagulu’s cycle and we both went running behind passing the Banyan tree enroute. The cow trusted no one other than my uncle and she wouldn’t deliver without him being on the side.
While my uncle made arrangements in the shed for a smooth delivery, the whole village was excited about welcoming a new-born calf. It was a sign of prosperity for the villagers. The kids were excited to see how long the calf would take to stand up and start jumping. I was myself very excited because I would get to eat the colostrum-milk-pudding for the next few days.
Finally, the moment arrived. The male-calf dropped on the ground – healthy and active. The mother-cow started licking the calf to dry it up. It was time for celebrations. The calf had to be carried from shed to home for the rituals. The otherwise friendly cow was now super protective. It wouldn’t allow anyone to come near her calf. My uncle himself had to carry the calf in his arms and the cow followed rushing behind him shooing everyone who were trying to touch the calf.
My Granny had everything ready. Hot water, turmeric, vermillion, neem leaves and other pooja items. The cow had registered the routine, so it played along. The calf stayed closed to his mum. Prayers were recited for long life of the newly born calf.
While the rituals were ongoing, my Granny’s face turned pale. Her worst nightmare was coming true and she wanted to get a second opinion before concluding. She quietly called my uncle and asked him to go get two people from the neighboring village – a local vet who needs to mandatorily visit after every cattle delivery and Lakshmamma, an 82 year old lady who was the most authentic person when it comes to handling such matters.
While my uncle was clueless about why Lakshmamma was being called, he silently obliged. Around the same time, he noticed that the cow wasn’t particularly happy. She had tears in her eyes and these were not the ones related to labor pain. She was visibly pained looking at the calf and she too seem to know the reason. The new-born calf was kicking with both his hind legs – as if it was trying to shoo away something. Something that was already in it. Something that had already started taking control of it. Something that it was too weak to defend.
Lakshmamma, was a very learnt person. She had experienced the good and the bad equally. She wouldn’t mince words when it came to calling spade a spade. She waited till the doctor finished his routine checks. She asked my uncle to see off the doctor. My Granny too was a strong woman. She gathered the courage to hear out what Lakshmamma had to say.
My uncle was called inside the room. Nagulu and I stayed at the door, curiously overhearing what was brewing inside. Meanwhile, the frequency of the calf kicking with both his hind legs intensified. It would gather some strength, kick and lay down – in a repeat mode.
“The calf needs help. We need to make a visit to the Banyan tree to seek that help”, explained my Granny. My uncle stared with disbelief. What in the world would a calf kicking with its hind-legs got to do with it needing help and how on earth visiting that dreaded Banyan tree will help. It was all going beyond his comprehension. He wasn’t ready to accept what he also knew would be the reason.
“The calf will not survive long if we don’t help. Unfortunately, we cannot use the same methods that we use on humans. We cannot tie him up or use physical means. Calves are very delicate and hence fall prey to such things easily. Please don’t panic and don’t overthink. Everything will be alright”, explained Lakshmamma reassuringly.
It was already evening and things had to be arranged before the dawn. That night would be the toughest one for everyone – especially the new born calf.
“What are the chances”, asked my uncle. “If we get ‘lucky’ tomorrow morning, we will get to bring back the calf and the cow. If the nature decides otherwise, Banyan tree will become the permanent resting place for the calf.” murmured my Granny – her voice shivering a bit.
“What will make us lucky”, shot back my Uncle, this time with a determination to take things in his control. “Find out if there were anyone in the village who passed away in the last thirteen days. Make some enquiries on who they were and how they were at the time of passing away”, Lakshmamma started bringing all her past experiences to play.
My uncle went around the village and came back after couple of hours. It was dinner time already, but the earthen stoves weren’t lit yet. The hanging kerosene lamps were reflecting the faint hope that the night carried. My uncle, realizing that the cow hasn’t eaten either, quickly mixed up rice with jaggery cubes and started feeding her with his own hands.
“Any luck”, asked Lakshmamma, who had just finished performing a special ritual for the well being of the calf. The calf was kicking even strongly now. He didn’t like hosting the stranger that it had no business to do with. At the same time, he was loosing his energy.
My uncle explained about the anklet sounds, door knockings and the strange voices that we heard a few weeks back from our neighbor’s home. Lakshmamma rubbished it saying it was the act of a drunk mimicry artist. “You go to the toddy shop and you will find much more stranger sounds. Don’t give a damn to it. Did you enquire about any recent passing away in the village?”
“Yes, two of them. An elderly gentleman who was in his seventies. Seems to have passed away peacefully and another man – a poor part-time electrician – who got electrocuted while repairing the lines after the heavy rainfall a few days back. He was in his early thirties, married twice, his second wife now pregnant and he was the only breadwinner in his family of six.” My uncle’s voice shivered as he narrated this. Lakshmamma listened intensely. She and my Granny started whispering few things into my uncle’s ears.
That night was full of activity. The village assistant officer and sarpanch were summoned. Nagulu and my uncle loaded a few rice bags on the bullock cart and carried it to the Electrician’s house. That rice would feed the family for at least an year. The village sarpanch gave an assurance in writing that the education and school expenses of the kids in the family will be taken care of by him. The village assistant officer promised that the monthly ration of Rice, Wheat, Sugar, Kerosene and Pulses will be delivered free of cost for an year. The officer also promised to provide Govt initiated farm employment to the two ladies in the family.
It was well past midnight and my uncle, Nagulu and I came home after ensuring the supplies were unloaded safely at the electrician’s place. Nagulu went to the shed to ensure rest of the cattle were fine. The cow rested her head on my uncle’s shoulders pleading him to stay close by. He sat down next to the cow letting her doze off in his lap.
This was the second time that I didn’t get any sleep the whole night. Too many thoughts running in my mind as to how the next morning will unfold. The sight of the Huge Banyan tree with its roots and branches spread out as if it is inviting us into its fold and wrapping us around in a conniving hug.
Early in the morning, we all headed towards the Banyan tree which was couple of miles from our home. My uncle carried the frail calf with the cow following dutifully behind. The calf had been kicking its hind legs all through the night. It was now tired to extent of getting unconscious.
Meanwhile, the village priest and the Imam also joined to perform the rituals. The Imam carried the broom made of peacock feathers and a few amulets. The priest managed to get water from the three holy rivers. My uncle could convince the Electrician’s family and gather some ashes kept for immersion in a holy river later that month.
As we were approaching the Banyan tree, it started swirling wildly. As if it was indicating to us that it had enough of this business and didn’t want to play along. As if it was resisting a new entrant in its already congested house. As if it too was tired of carrying the burden of hosting guests. It became even more violent as the priests started reciting the prayers. The branches swirled so wildly that it would throw us out of its vicinity.
The calf started loosing consciousness. It had fought its battle bravely but it seemed to be now giving up. The hind legs were still kicking involuntarily. The cow was nodding its head as if it was pleading the tenant inside her son’s body to vacate peacefully.
It took couple of hours for the prayers to finally get over. The Banyan tree returned to its peaceful self. The breeze indicated the calmness around. The clouds started covering the sun as if they were determined to save the recovering calf from its heat. The calf slept peacefully. The kicking had finally stopped and he was at peace. The mother cow finally felt relieved and the tears finally started to dry up. My uncle who was still anxious about the whole outcome started looking at the priests, Lakshmamma and my Granny for answers.
The ritual was finally declared successful after multiple observations. We all returned back home. It was time to feast. The calf started enjoying itself and playing around with the kids. The mother cow was relieved and was feeling proud to see the playfulness of her day-old calf. My uncle made preparations to catch some well deserved sleep. My Granny’s trust in Lakshmamma was once again proved right and their bond grew even stronger.
The next day I had to head back to my town. My exams were nearing and I couldn’t idle around in the village any longer. As I headed back in the bus, I started reflecting on what transpired in the last few days.
Why did the new born calf started kicking with its hind legs? How did the mother cow knew it by looking at the calf? How did Lakshmamma zero down on the cause and the effect? More importantly, what was bothering me was the fact that I hid something from my uncle and Granny. The fact that Nagulu fell down near the Banyan tree while we were heading back from the farm that morning. The fact that he bruised his knees, started bleeding and that he applied some mud near the roots of the Banyan tree to cover the wound. The fact that his eyes turned yellow ever since. The fact that he had weird grin on his face while we were unloading the rice bags at the Electrician’s house. The fact that he refused to come to the Banyan tree in the morning in the pretext that he had not slept the previous night. The fact that he was found asleep near the electric pole next morning where the mishap happened instead of the shed.
Some questions are best left unanswered.
(This is a fictional concoction of some true childhood incidents. You can read the first part here).
