The greening of Sampigehalli

‘The greening of Sampigehalli’ 

Unicef/ IETS
Translated into Kannada and Hindi for first generation rural students.
16 pages
Paperback
2006

 My original story in English:

The greening of Sampigehalli

By Aditi De

“NAGAPPA mama,” said Shivanna, settling on the mat by his neighbour’s side, “what was Sampigehalli like when you were a boy? I need to know….”

“Shivanna,” replied Nagappa, who had returned to Sampigehalli after ten years abroad, “why do you ask?”

“Because Appa said you are sad about how much our village has changed. I can’t imagine what it was like when you left for America, Sweden, England and all those places whose names I can’t even pronounce. That was ten years ago, right?” Shivanna, who was ten, asked shyly. “If you don’t tell us, what will I tell my grandchildren?”

Mehmud and Parshurama, by his side, poked their classmate Shivanna in the ribs. Then, they burst into laughter. Nagappa joined in. All of them found it hard to imagine Shivanna, with his bright eyes and lop-sided grin, as a grandfather!

Nagappa, once the star of the Sampigehalli School, sighed. He sipped at his tumbler of frothy coffee, then spoke: “When I left this village, I was just 15. My uncle sent me to America to learn all about computers. I enjoyed it. I travelled to Sweden, to Germany, to Australia. I taught at universities there…”

“Why did you come back to visit?” Mehmud interrupted. “Didn’t you like all the huge, superfast cars? Like the ones on TV…”

“And the tall buildings that touch the sky?” added Parshurama.

“Not much,” said Nagappa. “I really missed Sampigehalli. Not this village, but the one I left behind…”

“Left behind…?” Mehmud echoed him.

“Yes, our village then had dozens of sampige trees, which left a carpet of yellow flowers for us to walk on,” said Nagappa. “The ponds were always full, with visiting dabchicks and cormorants that we tried not to disturb as we splashed about in their clear waters. We woke up to the call of the bulbul and the wood-pigeon each morning…”

“Appa says the forest was perfect for hide-and-seek then,” said Shivanna, who was a chatterbox. “He says they’d play among the rosewood, jacaranda and gulmohur trees after school…”

“My Amma talks about the sweet-sour nati mangoes they would pluck off the boughs,” added Parshurama, “and the coconut trees they would scale until my Ajji told her she was too old for such childish stuff….”

“But you tell us your story first,” said Mehmud to Nagappa.

“I wonder where all those wonderful trees have vanished,” continued Nagappa. “The silver oak and the neem, the subabul and the parijatha. Maybe the paper factory and the saw mill have swallowed them up.”

“What else is different now?” asked Shivanna.

“Our villagers were farmers. They had cattle,” said Nagappa, “and the hills around were green. Goats did not graze on the slopes, turning the green to brown. The Manasa river flowed full throughout summer. The cry of civet cats would ring through the honne, neem, matte and honne trees, as porcupines darted through the bushes. The heart of Sampigehalli had four ancient banyan trees, not just the single one under which the village elders now meet.”      

“Had the iron mines made holes in the land then?” asked Parshurama.

“No, that began after I left,” said Nagappa sadly. “They gave our villagers jobs, but look at the mess they’ve left behind.”

“Mama, were our villagers better off as farmers, then?” asked Mehmud.

“In a sense, they were,” said Nagappa. “Because they understood the village, the land, the sky, the fact that we are connected to nature.”

“How?” asked Shivanna, who loved asking questions.

As Nagappa explained, the boys looked at each other. “Mama!” said Mehmud suddenly, “Why don’t you come to school and tell us all about this? I’m sure Shabana, Sayeda, Chandrakala and everyone else would love to know, too.”

“Good idea!” said Nagappa. “I’ll talk to Raghavendra, your teacher, later today.”

At that, Shivanna and his friends ran into the blazing May sunshine, whooping with joy.

“I want to be the President of India when I grow up,” declared Shivanna. “Then, I can make sure Sampigehalli returns to being beautiful.”

Two days later, there was a definite buzz in Raghavendra Anna’s schoolroom. All through the boring maths lesson, Mehmud kept trying to catch Shivanna’s eye.

Just after the tiffin break, Shivanna ran out with a shriek, “There he is!” He jumped over Parshurama and his slate. He knocked over the pitcher of water at the entrance. He darted towards the brilliant butterfly that fluttered over a coral tree bloom. Then, he took Nagappa by the hand and led him into the schoolroom.

“This boy will never grow up!” muttered Raghavendra Anna, smiling as he watched Shivanna. 

All eyes were on Nagappa. “Hello, mama!” piped a dozen voices.

“Isn’t that what they say in America?”

“How big is that country?”

“Do they speak Kannada there?”

Raghavendra Anna signalled that the class should be quiet, then announced, “Today, we have the pride of Sampigehalli with us. This is Nagappa, the brightest student our village has ever had! Today, he will talk to us about why it is so important to study hard….”

“No, no, no!” cut in Nagappa. “I’d like to talk about Sampigehalli instead. Do you mind?”

Mehmud smiled. So did Parshurama.  Raghavendra Anna merely nodded.

“What did you see this morning when you first looked out of the door?” asked Nagappa.

“Clouds of smoke from the paper factory,” said Sayeda.

“Goats grazing on the slopes,” said Shivanna.

“My Ajja brushing his few teeth with a neem twig,” said Shabana. “And then, the cuts on the hillside where stone has been quarried, so that rich people can have shiny floors.”

“When I left for America, the Sampigehalli forests were full of neem, honne, mathi, nandi, peepal and other trees. Now, most of them have gone. By the time you are my age, there may be none left…”

“Do you mean that, mama?” asked Mehmud, worried at the thought. “Then, Sampigehalli will have no shade at midday?”

“And Chikka, the village dog, will have no cool spot for his siesta,” said Bhargavi.

“True. Unless we do something about it now,” said Nagappa, looking at the anxious young faces around him. “I really don’t feel like returning here any more….”

“What can we do to set things right, mama?” asked Shivanna.

“Let me first tell you what trees do for our earth,” said Nagappa gently. “Why do you think the Manasa river runs dry in summer? Because as we cut down trees, their roots that hold down the topsoil also disappear. When, it rains, the water washes away more and more of the earth. As we quarry and mine, the hills and surroundings get hotter and hotter…”

“Then, the monsoon water doesn’t collect underground naturally, as it should,” added Raghavendra Anna, who was feeling left out.

“We have to respect Sampigehalli,” said Nagappa, “if we want to live here.”

“How?” asked Sayeda anxiously.

“We can plant trees in the forest right away. I’m sure the government would give us saplings of neem, honne, peepal, and other trees we once had here,” Nagappa explained. “We could ask the paper factory to try recycling instead of cutting down trees. We could desilt our ponds, so that rainwater can be harvested again.”

“Like harvesting ragi?” asked Shabana.

“This is different,” said Nagappa, smiling. “I’ve already spoken to your parents. The village belongs to all of us, so they are willing to take action.”

“Could we help, too?” chorused Shivanna and Shabana.

Nagappa agreed at once. Three days later, before the sun rose, twenty children gathered where the forest once stood. Stumps spoke of trees that had been felled. Chikka came with them, his tail wagging non-stop.

“Hey! It’s fun to dig the earth with this shovel,” announced Mehmud. “I’m sure I can plant more neem saplings than all of you before lunch. It’s the best antiseptic on earth, Amma says.”

“Do you know that the shade of the neem is said to be 10 degrees cooler than the temperature around it in summer?” added Nagappa. “And a neem tree can survive upto 200 to 300 years, if we don’t cut it down.”

“I’m going to plant only honne,” said Shabana, as Chikka dug a deep hole by her side with his paws. “It’s such a sturdy tree. My Ajja’s house has doors of honne.”

“Peepal for me,” said Sayeda. “My mother taught me how to paint beautiful pictures on transparent peepal leaves, once the green pigment is gone.”

As they worked under the scorching sun, the children had so much to talk about. Sayeda’s father had got them hundreds of free saplings from the government nursery. Each child had chosen a different species to plant and care for, so that Sampigehalli could once more live up to its name. They were proud of the Tree Club they had formed at school. 

“My father will teach me how much to water my saplings until the monsoons arrive in June,” said Parshurama.

“Ajja knows all about how long the trees will take to grow in the forest,” added Shabana. “But I’m going to plant some sampige and gulmohur by our house as well. That’s what I want to look at when I open my eyes in the morning.”

“I’m going to use only cowdung as fertilizer, and old leaves that have turned to compost,” said Mehmud. “Ajji says that’s much better than chemicals.”

From then on, the children woke up two hours earlier each day to water their plants. Each class was divided into groups of four, to take care of the honne, neem, sampige and other saplings they had promised tend to. After school, they would rush to their plants to see how they were, often preferring this to hopscotch or even outings with the catapult.  

Two weeks later, when it was time for Nagappa to leave for Sweden, where he now lived, the children were in tears. For he had taught them to look at Sampigehalli with new eyes. With the eyes of one who loved Sweden, where more than half the land was covered with forests of oak, beech, elm, ash and other trees, planted generations ago. 

“I’ll be back in a year,” he promised Shivanna, as he placed his suitcase in the jeep.

But it was two years before Nagappa returned. He was amazed by the changes in the village. In the forest and around the homes in Sampigehalli, the saplings had grown, tended with loving care by the Tree Club. They had grown more than it was possible for a child to grow in a year.

Shabana, Chandrakala and their schoolmates had helped to drain the ponds. They had cleared the silt and weeds at the bottom, then lined the sides with clay. When the monsoon arrived, the ponds filled up easily. “It rained well this year,” beamed Shivanna.

Goats no longer roamed the grassy land. And the paper factory had been persuaded to shift to a small town far away, where it recycled old newspapers and magazines. The children, led by Shivanna, had even put out a forest fire in a neem grove. All the villagers seemed much happier.  

“I think I’ll come back and live in Sampigehalli in about ten years,” Nagappa announced to Shivanna’s father, as they watched the sunset together. “These children have made me change my mind. I’d like to take care of their education, so that they can fulfill their dreams.”

Nagappa and Shivanna’s father thought they saw a shadow flit across the wall. Or could it be the dusk playing tricks on their eyes?

            It was just Shivanna, running out to share the news with Parshurama and Mehmud, who were chewing on pods of sweet tamarind under the banyan tree.

“I want to be like Nagappa Mama when I grow up,” Shivanna announced with pride.

The greening of Sampigehalli had begun!