A new life for Damu

'A new life for Damu'

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

My original story in English:


A new life for Damu


by Aditi De



“Prakash!” whispered Damu through the Karikahalli school window, “I have a wonderful idea for the Makkala Sangha. I have to tell you about it right now. If I don’t, my stomach will burst from keeping it to myself…”

Prakash looked out. He froze. It was right in the middle of a history class on a hot May day.

Then he grinned. It was so much like Damu to spring a surprise like this. But what was his best friend doing there, instead of training with the carpenter as usual? Prakash’s brain began to work extra fast.

“Sir,” he said to Prasad anna, the teacher, “can I go out, please? There’s something creeping up my leg. It may be a scorpion. I can’t sit still…”

Prasad Anna waved him out of the room. “Be sure to return quickly, Prakash,” he called after the skinny figure that vanished among the swaying neem trees.

But Prakash and Damu, both eleven, had other plans. “Remember how the last monsoon made our stream swell?” said Damu. “And Kavitha, who’s so short, almost drowned when she was on her way to school?
 Prakash, we have to get the panchayat to build a footbridge over it before the monsoon sets in. How can we convince them?”

Prakash looked at his best friend with wonder. Damu always had the best ideas at Sangha meetings. The Sangha made it possible for them to ask for compound walls, anganwadis and playgrounds, water and electricity. It made them all feel grown-up. Prakash and Damu were proud that the adults took the Makkala Sangha seriously.
 
And yet, Prakash was puzzled at the grown-ups in Karikahalli. They thought Damu was a bad boy. But he hadn’t always been that way.

Two years ago, Damu's baby sister drowned in the pond while his mother was washing clothes. Ever since then, the boy had changed. He had become very quiet.

He even avoided the other village children, except during Sangha meetings.

Damu couldn’t bear to see his parents quarrel at home. When they did, he couldn’t concentrate on his lessons. He dropped out of school, despite Prasad anna’s efforts to make him stay.

Instead, to avoid toiling in the jowar fields like his Amma and Appa, Damu took lessons from the local carpenter. He worked hard. He ate little. But his sadness made him hang out with some rough youths.  They taught him to smoke ganja, and to drink alcohol to forget his troubles.

Prakash thought to himself, “My best friend is in trouble. What should I do?
Why does his Appa nag him for running into the darkness whenever there’s a quarrel at home? Why doesn’t anybody coax him back to school? Why does nobody else understand that we need to help Damu? He’s as clever as I am…”

At the Makkala Sangha after school, Prakash announced to the nineteen other members, “Damu has a wonderful idea…”

“What is it?” asked Kotramma. “Can it be as adventurous as when we persuaded the beedi-factory owner to set free the ten children who worked for him?”

“Or when we convinced the panchayat that it wasn’t fair to marry Manu, who’s ten like me, to Gauri, who’s four?” recalled Karibasappa.

“Remember how we fought Manu’s father? He’s so rich, yet he wanted a share of Gauri’s Appa’s fields?”

“That was tough,” said Netravathi, tossing her pigtails. “But it was just as difficult to convince Kotramma and Manjula’s parents to send them back to school after they failed the 5th standard exams. They’re doing so well, now that they have a second chance.”

“But listen to Damu’s idea,” interrupted Prakash, the most brilliant student at the Karikahalli school. The others fell silent because Damu was his best friend.

“What happens in Karikahalli every year?” asked Damu, looking at the circle of familiar faces in the schoolroom.

“Wedding feasts! Navaratri!” yelled Shivakumar, who could never have enough of good food.

“Ei! Stop thinking with your tummy!” said Prakash, as the others laughed.

“Exams!” said Kotramma, who loved to bury her head in books.

“No, no, no!” said Damu. “The monsoon. That’s when the Karikahalli stream overflows.
Kavitha, Nethravathi and Gangamma can’t come to class for weeks during the rains because they live on the other bank. Couldn’t we ask the panchayat to build a footbridge over the stream, so that they don’t need to miss school?”

There was silence for a few minutes. Then, Kavitha said, “That’s an amazing idea, Damu. How can we persuade the grown-ups how important this is?”

The children thought and thought about it over the next hour. Then, as dusk cast shadows over the distant fields, they slowly began to trail back home.

“I think Damu’s very clever!” said Kavitha to Nethravathi, as they walked hand in hand. “If only he’d come back to school…”

“That’s true,” Nethravathi agreed. “But he’s been drinking horrible-smelling stuff with all those terrible bullies who cause problems in Karikahalli. How can we get Damu to drop the habit?”

Kavitha was silent. Then she said, “Why don’t we have a Makkala Sangha meeting about drinking and how it can become addictive?”

Over the next three days, Kavitha and Netravathi spoke to Prakash during the tiffin break. The other children wondered what their secret was.

The Makkala Sangha met a week later. Prakash had managed to get Damu to attend. He took a few hours off from his carpentry training and came by.

“Are we going to talk about the bridge today?” asked Damu.

“Maybe. It all depends on what Kavitha chooses as our subject. She’s in charge of today’s meeting,” Prakash said, not wanting to give away any information that might make Damu want to leave.

All eyes were on Kavitha. She took a deep breath, looked at Prakash, then began: “My brother is 19. He works in an areca plantation. My Amma feels that if he didn’t, our family would be in trouble…”

“Trouble?” echoed Kotramma.

“Yes, trouble,” said Kavitha, “because he might have joined that gang of jobless teenagers who roam around the village creating trouble. The ones who tease us when we pass by. Those terrible boys who steal grain and money from the farmers at night…”

“I don’t know why they behave like that,” Karibasappa said, shaking his head.

“Because they have dropped out of school,” said Nethravathi. “But most of all, because they drink cheap alcohol every day…”

“Why do people drink alcohol at all?” asked Shivakumar. “Does it taste as good as fresh coconut water or majjige?”

“My Appa told me not to ever try it,” said Prakash, “because I’d never be able to come first again if I did…” 

“What do you mean?” said Manjula, puzzled by his words.

“Appa took me to Bangalore last summer. On a footpath, I saw a boy our age curled up, fast asleep at 10 in the morning,” explained Prakash. “Appa explained that many children run away from home. They live on railway platforms, park benches, footpaths and all that. When they can’t earn enough to eat or have no one to talk to, they take to ganja or drink alcohol…”

“Then…?” Savithriamma prompted.

“At first, their breath stinks when they talk. Sometimes, they can’t see or hear too well. They often stumble when they try to walk. Or fall and hurt themselves. When they are high from a drink, they can’t think very clearly. So, they could be run over by a truck or drown in a lake,”  said Prakash. “It makes them sleep when the whole world is up with the sun…”

“My appa says that when people drink too much, they don’t eat enough. They often forget important things. They fall sick, too. Their hearts don’t run as they should, their stomachs hurt all the time,” said Karibasappa.

“That’s frightening,” Manjula looked scared.

“My uncle told me about boys and girls who are just four or five years old, who smoke beedies,” Suman said.

“Beedies! That can’t be true,” said Karuna.

“Even in our village, I’ve seen children who smoke the stubs their Ajja’s throw away,” Suman sounded angry. “Some steal beedies from their fathers’ shops! I have heard that beedies are not good for grown-ups. How can they be good for children? Maybe they smoke because they are hungry or sad. Some of them smoke just for fun and don’t know that it is bad for health…”

“Apart from this gang of bad fellows in Karikahalli, do we know anyone else who drinks?” asked Kavitha.

The children looked at each other.

Suddenly, Damu spoke up: “I do. Especially when Prakash has homework to do, and can’t talk to me. Or when Appa and Amma quarrel. Or when the carpenter scolds me when I make a mistake…”

“Is that why you took to alcohol, Damu?” Manjula was puzzled.

“No. I began drinking a little when my baby sister Lakshmi drowned in the pond,” said Damu, blinking hard to check the tears in his eyes. "Whenever I think of her, I need a drink. I sometimes steal a sip from a bottle the carpenter hides behind his tool case. Or I steal some money from Appa’s wallet to get a drink. It helps me to forget…”

There was a long pause. The children didn't know what to say.

“Damu, you could always visit my home and play with my little sister. I can share her with you…” Kavitha said sympathetically.

Manjula said, “My Appa thinks you’re too intelligent to be a carpenter. Maybe you should come back to school, Damu…”

Then it was Prakash’s turn, “You can stay with us when there’s a quarrel in your house. My amma loves you as much as she loves me…”

“The Makkala Sangha really needs you,” said Shivakumar. “We can’t manage without you…”

From that day, Damu spent less time with the village goondas and more with his Sangha friends. Prakash sat with him and helped him catch up with all the portions he had missed in school. He learnt about the Indian Parliament, about men who walked on the moon, even about robots as bright as human children.

Once in a while, Manjula brought Damu basundi from her amma’s kitchen.

Karibasappa spent time listening to him whenever Damu  felt sad.

One day Prakash’s father said, “Damu looks different these days. He looks less tired. He smiles much more. Do you think he’d like to go back to school again?”

Prakash smiled. At the Makkala Sangha meetings, Damu’s ideas were getting better and better. Maybe they would be able to get him back to school soon.

Prakash was sure that Damu had given up drinking. So he was worried when his friend told him, “It’s so hard to get away from the habit, Prakash. Can you help me, please?”

Prakash spoke to his father and mother. They went to Damu’s house and explained to his parents that they should not quarrel in front of him. Sometimes he came to Prakash’s house for the evening meal. And once in a while, he stayed over.

The two friends spent a lot of time with each other.

Within a few weeks, Damu did not need alcohol any more. He returned to school and Prasad anna was especially kind to him.

One day, Damu’s father overheard the Karikahalli panchayat president telling Prasad anna, “That Damu is very intelligent. He and Kavitha convinced me to build a footbridge over the stream. They waded through the water to show me how high it flows during the monsoon. The water actually reached Kavitha’s neck. That’s dangerous! The footbridge will be ready soon. After all, why should our children miss even a day of school?”

Damu’s father was amazed. He was ashamed of the way he had been behaving at home. He made sure there was a quiet corner where Prakash and Damu could study together in the evenings.

Damu did better and better at school. Soon, his marks were as good as Prakash’s.

“I want to make sure that every child in India can go to school,” said Prakash as they sat by the village pond one Sunday.

“That’s good,” replied Damu. “But when I grow up, I want to be the panchayat head. I’ll make sure there are no unhappy children in Karikahalli. And that no other child ever needs to touch alcohol or ganja….”
“You sound like an Ajja,” teased Prakash, with a smile. He knew that his friend would keep his word. In future, there would be happier children in Karikahalli.

Prakash had no doubt about that.

Prize Day at Caveryhalli

'Prize Day at Caveryhalli'

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

My original story in English: 

Prize Day at Caveryhalli

By Aditi De

“Oh no!” said Pankajamma, clutching at Amreen’s elbow as they turned into the long school corridor that led to the assembly space beyond Std. X. “I don’t think our Prize Day is going to be the best ever.”

“I doubt it, too” echoed Amreen, breaking into run. “Why are these senior boys fighting now?”

By the time the Std. IX girls arrived there, Sangamesh had Balukrishna by the collar. He was shaking his best friend violently.

“Ganesha Sir said I was to make the welcome speech for the chief guest, Abdur Raheem Sheikh” yelled Sangamesh, crossing his arms over his chest seconds later. “Not you!”

“But I’ve always won the elocution and sports prizes!” Balukrishna screamed back, his clenched fists on his hips. “Sheikh anna is an important politician today. I’m sure it’s because he won the Caveryhalli school elocution prize ~ like me. Not some silly best student award like you… Why can’t you tell Ganesha Sir that I’d do it much better? That’s not fair….”

“I’ve topped our class ever since Std. I. Don’t you ever forget that!” retorted Sangamesh, as four of his classmates gathered around him. “That takes brains, you know. Who cares about reciting like a parrot? Or running faster than the rest of the school? Nobody who’s clever needs those skills…”

“I don’t know why I ever thought you were my friend,” yelled Balukrishna, even louder, as his friends tugged at his shirt. “You can’t even be on the winning side in our kabaddi matches against the Doddahalli school. I hope you forget your speech on stage today. I hate you…” 

“Calm down!” panted Pankajamma, reaching the boys. “Remember, Ganesha Sir said all of us have to work together make our Prize Day wonderful.”

All she got in return was an ugly glare from Balukrishna ~ and a knock on her head from Sangamesh.

“Ganesha Sir is a wise man. We have to listen to him,” added Amreen. “He is our principal, after all.”

As Amreen separated the warring boys, Pankajamma observed, “I like Balukrishna because he’s the best speaker in school. And I admire Sangamesh because he always tops his class. But each of them is so busy talking all the time that they never ever listen to anyone else….”

Over the next two hours, there was no time for small talk. Amreen helped her classmates Ramya and Mary Joseph to string bright marigolds and mango leaves across the blue cloth backdrop to the stage. In another corner, Mamatha rehearsed the bhajan that was to set the mood for Prize Day.

But they could see that all was not well amongst the boys. “Balukrishna looks like he’d like to punch Sangamesh on the nose,” whispered Pankajamma to Ramya. “What can we do to make them friends once more?”

Before they could discuss a plan, a huge car drew up to the school gate. Sheikh emerged, dressed in a white outfit, starched like a crisp paper dosa. Ganesha Sir and the senior teachers rushed to welcome him.

Sangamesh, who had been asked to join them as the school’s top student, ran towards the car. Suddenly, he stumbled over a broken brick. Red-faced, he rose to his feet. Behind him, he heard a titter of laughter. It had to be Balukrishna’s gang!

He tried to ignore them, but it was difficult. Would he fall from favour with Ganesha Sir? These troubled thoughts whirled through Sangamesh’s mind as the assembly settled down. Soon, he heard the principal call on him to welcome Sheikh.   

“Our honored Chief Guest, we are proud to have you with us on this special day,” Sangamesh began, after changing his dusty shirt for a clean one borrowed from a classmate.  “As an ex-student of …”

He found he could not recall the name of the school he had belonged to for ten years. He tugged at his shirt sleeves. That didn’t help. He looked at the clock on the wall. His mouth felt dry. His palms were sweating.

“As a student of ….” Sangamesh tried once more. He felt as if a million eyes were drilling into him. He couldn’t go on. He wished he had allowed Balukrishna to make the speech instead.

“We’d like to welcome you, Sir,” he said hurriedly, unusually lost for words. Then, he ran off-stage as fast as his feet would carry him.

Over the next hour, Sangamesh found his way to the stage in a daze. He had won prizes for top scores in maths, science and history ~ and a large cup for topping his class yet again. But somehow, none of these cheered him up. He felt as if the whole world was jeering him.

That’s when Sheikh went to the mike. He began, “Ganesha Sir, boys and girls, it seems as if I was here just yesterday ~ as a student. Those were the best years of my life…”

Pausing, his eyes rested on Sangamesh’s downcast face. He took in Pampanna’s triumphant look, his arm around Balukrishna’s shoulder. He noted how they looked at Sangamesh with cold eyes.

Sheikh continued, “But I’d like to share another time with you. I’d just joined the government when a flood hit a village, 50 km. from Caveryhalli. Thippeswamy, who was our boss, took hours to explain how relief efforts worked best. How we could get cooked food to the stranded villagers. How they would need blankets, homes, new clothes very soon…”

But young Sheikh did not like Thippeswamy. Not one bit. Why? Perhaps because his boss was a very short man with a pencil-line moustache, which he found funny. His voice was slightly squeaky. He usually wore safari suits and thick chappals, which smartly-dressed Sheikh found comic. He disliked the way Thippeswamy’s arms hung limp as he spoke, the way he tugged at his well-oiled hair, even his constant nods as he listened. 

“I didn’t listen to Thippeswamy’s instructions. I didn’t understand why he insisted that the rice, palya and sambar should be plastic-sealed in small packages,” Sheikh told the audience. “I had thousands of kilos of cooked food and drinking water packed tightly into cardboard boxes. Our helicopter flew high, high, high above the waters. The marooned villagers below looked like ants. Some were on rooftop islands amidst the floods. We airdropped the food supplies…”

This sounds like a film story, thought Pankajamma. Was Sheikh a hero in this story, like Rajkumar or Vishnuvardhan in the movies?

But his voice boomed on: “To my horror, I found that the heavy boxes, filled with food, dropped past the starving people below. The tiny heads we saw dived into the water. But when they came up five, ten, then fifteen minutes later, they were empty-handed….”

Sheikh stopped. His eyes met those of his listeners. He spoke as if he was reaching out to each of them, one to one. In a gentler tone, he said, “I should have listened to Thippeswamy. I should have had the food packed in plastic bags, so that the flood waters couldn’t get into in, so that it would stay afloat….”

What happened then, Amreen asked Mary Joseph, who shrugged.

“At that moment, I realized how my young son and daughter would feel if they had to starve while good food was wasted,” said Sheikh. “I should have listened to Thippeswamy. I knew it was all my fault. ….”

Once the chief guest came off the dais, the Caveryhalli students flocked around him.

“Sir,” said Balukrishna, “why do you feel it was your fault?”

“If only I had listened closely to Thippeswamy, I would have respected his experience,” replied Sheikh, stroking his greying beard. “I know now I was only part of a team needed to get that food safely to the flood-hit families. It wasn’t important whether I liked my boss or not. What mattered was whether I got his message right, both through his words and gestures…”

Pankajamma’s hand shot into the air. Frowning, she said, “I don’t really understand, Sheikh sir…”

Smiling, he asked, “Can I ask you all a question? Did you have a fight while working together on Prize Day?”

“Yes, sir,” said Balukrishna, sneaking a look at Sangamesh. “We didn’t know that we needed to play together like… like a cricket team! But… how did you guess?”

“I could feel the tension while Sangamesh was speaking,” said Sheikh. “I know how smart he is. So, it had to be something else…”

The boys shuffled their feet. They looked at the ground. Within moments, the story of the morning’s rivalry was out in the open. They felt as if Sheikh was a favourite anna in their midst, not a chief guest any more.   

“Did you know how to read people even as a schoolboy?” asked Mary Joseph.

“When we were in Std. VII, my classmates and I could figure out whether Ganesha Sir was in a good mood or not, the minute he stepped into our room,” Sheikh said. “Do you know how?”

“No! How?” asked Sangamesh, not wanting to be left out. 

Looking at Ganesha Sir, who was grinning by now, the chief guest continued, “Sudhir, Saleem and I would watch as he came in. If he whistled under his breath, that was a good sign. If he rocked his chair as he took the roll call, that was even better. On such days, we knew we could throw chalk at each other, munch on murukku behind our books. Or even tie the girls’ plaits together…”

“That sounds like a lucky day!” giggled Pankajamma, stroking her own glossy plaits.

“Of course,” said Sheikh. “But not all days were so easy. On some days, Ganesha Sir would come in frowning. Even as he sat at his desk, his foot would move up and down restlessly. We learnt to be very quiet at such times. If we were noisy or forgot our answers, he would send us out of the class. Or even off to the principal’s office for a scolding….”

On stage, Ganesha Sir was listening to them. He looked at the ceiling, then burst into laughter.

“The principal’s in a good mood now,” said Pankajamma to Lalitha.

As Sheikh left at the end of a long Prize Day, the girls came upon an unusual sight.

“Look, I think Sangamesh and Balukrishna are friends again,” said Amreen to Pankajamma. “Balu’s just handed over his favourite blue marble, the one his Mama from Chikmagalur brought him. He promised not to part with it all his life.”

Pankajamma agreed, “I think that means Balu will get to make a speech on Sports Day next month…”

“And Sangamesh will cheer when Balu wins medals for the 100-metre dash and the high jump,” said Mary Joseph, nudging Amreen. “They’re even looking at Sangamesh’s prizes shoulder to shoulder.”

Just then, Sangamesh and Balukrishna strolled past them. They were sharing a jalebi from the snacks handed out to the students to mark the occasion.

“We can do anything we want, as long as we work together,” said Sangamesh. “We can go into space together. Or find out all about the first animal that ever lived around Caveryhalli. It should be fine ~ as long as we can figure out how Ganesha Sir’s moods are, or those of our families at home…”

“This morning’s fight was so silly,” added Balukrishna, his arm about his friend’s shoulder. “You speak almost as well as I do in public. Honestly, I mean that…”

“If you teach me how to speak even better, I promise to learn how to play kabaddi brilliantly enough to be on the school team that you captain,” grinned Sangamesh.

“That’s a great idea. You could be the Rahul Dravid of Indian kabaddi,” replied Balukrishna, as they shook hands. “How about a lesson right now?”

The strange adventures of Ellie

 'The strange adventures of Ellie' 

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

My original story in English: 

The strange adventures of Ellie

By Aditi De

I take a big bite of the holige. Its golden crust splits. The sweet jaggery filling spills out. I smile. So do my eight little children. They nibble, tear at the holige, then fight for the best bits. It is delicious!

“Taste this mouth-watering bisibele bhaat!” squeaks my oldest child.

“What about the ragi roti? It’s much yummier than the yellow plastic box we had for dinner last night. Much better than that heap of rotten mangoes last week,” says her brother.  

I agree. I gnaw at the remains of the other oily sweets that fate has sent our way. So does my cousin, and his cousins. And all their offspring, wagging their tails, their keen eyes shining in the dark. We’ve had a good life at Doddahalli so far.

But wait a minute. You don’t know me, do you? I’m Ellie, the black Indian rat. I’m the brightest of my family in Doddahalli, our home for the past ten months. Amma always said so as she groomed me with her mouth and paws, so that my coat shone. I can sense trouble from far away. So, I can always run away in time. 

Let’s return to my story. It was after sundown today that a noisy truck arrived. Huffing and honking, it dumped goodies all over us. We don’t mind, except that it is tough to share fine food with our neighbours in this garbage dump. Like those greedy cockroaches. Or the mosquitoes that live in the stinking sewage pool next door. Or even the summer flies that buzz overhead.

In Doddahalli, we never ever have to go out in search of food. These kind villagers bring us all we want to our doorstep.  

Two days later, I hear weeping from the headman’s house. My brother and I stir out of the pile of wood under the dump.

“What’s this fuss all about?” he asks me. “Why can’t they sleep all day and stir out at night, like us?”

“It’s best to keep a safe distance from these human beings. You remember what our Ajja told us. No matter how kind they seem, they don’t really like our company,” I say.

The headman’s sister begins to wail even more loudly. Everyone in Doddahalli can hear her now. Her husband tells the village doctor gruffly, “Our son has been down with fever for the past five days. Today, he has rashes all over his body. We’ve called the tantric from the village close by to cure him. It’s a long trip in a jutka for him. He refuses to take a bus.”

By the time the tantric arrives, seven more children have fallen ill. They have high fever, and vomit often. They cry as they clutch at their stomachs. Could they have overeaten at a feast?

The tantric draws diagrams at the doorstep of the sick children. He sacrifices a chicken and two goats to calm the village goddess. He goes into a trance, swaying, chanting mantras under his breath. He collects money from the villagers, then vanishes.  

Three days later, twenty children and two adults are ill. Doctors, young and old, are invited in from towns around Doddahalli. Some give injections from giant syringes. Others prescribe tablets that cost more money than the jowar crop brings in.   

As we dart among the villagers at night, my brother and I hear words we don’t understand. Typhus. Plague. Salmonella.

We hear an angry father yelling at the headman, “Do you want us all to die before you summon help?”

His neigbour, tucking the end of her pallav into the waist of her sari, shrieks, “Is our village cursed? Haven’t we prayed enough to all the gods and goddesses at the local shrine?”

The headman tries to remain calm. But he seems scared, too. He gets into his bullock cart and sets out for the district headquarters. He promises to bring back help.

He does. That evening, when the farmers return from the fields, they gather under the gulmohur tree to meet a stranger.

The visitor to Doddahalli booms into the mike, “Listen to me, friends. I’ve come here to help you. I’m a medical officer. Now that your children are getting better…”

“Why should we listen to you?” says the Doddahalli mithaiwala.

“Because I know why your children fell ill,” says the medical officer calmly. “Do you want this to happen again?”

“Never again!” says the carpenter, grimly. “Tell us what to do…”

“Get rid of the rats!” says the medical officer. “They are vectors…”

“Vec… what?” asks the blacksmith.

“A vector carries diseases and infects others. Remember how over 500 people died of plague in Surat in 1995?” explains the officer. “So, we have to wage a war against the rats. Even the fleas in their fur can infect us with typhus germs. We have to get rid of all the garbage in Doddahalli. And make sure they have no food to eat. Then, they will have to go away…”

“Tell us more about these rats, our enemies!” demands the tailor fiercely, waving his huge scissors in the air.

The medical officer continues, “Rats multiply very fast. They can have upto 12 litters a year, with three to nine pups in each litter. They can swim underwater for half a minute, tread water for three days…”

The grocer interrupts, “I once saw a rat fall from the top of a palm, where it was gnawing at a huge coconut. Before my eyes, it fell to the ground, and ran away to safety.”   

The officer clears his throat. He says, “Listen to these odd facts, which are true. A rat’s teeth grow five inches a year. If a rat doesn’t chew, it will probably die. Because his  unfiled teeth might then curve into an arc, cutting through the roof of his mouth. This dreadful creature can gnaw through wood, cable wires, lead pipes, even concrete. Rats are our enemies…!”

“Down with rats! We have to hunt them down!” yells the carpenter.

“Let’s drive them out of town!” says the officer.   

My brother and I look at each other. We think of all the stories our Ajja told us. Of how we are so much more intelligent than mice that men rarely catch us in rat-traps.

“Ajja said we were first born in India, Asia and southeast Asian islands before the Ice Age,” my brother nods. “We have such a sense of adventure that we soon sailed to other continents by finding homes on ships. It’s so easy for us to climb up to the mast, to run along roofs, even to scale pipes.”

“Ajja told us how the first rats were launched into space in 1950, 11 years before any men went up so high in the skies,” adds my sister, as she feeds her six newborn babies. “We’re years ahead of them.”

“We’re so much cleaner than people,” my fifth son pipes up. “They bathe only once a day. We groom and bathe ourselves from head to toe at least six times in 24 hours. Don’t they know that? We can’t help it if we dribble urine all day long, can we? We’re just made that way…”

“What will these Doddahalli people do next?” I wonder.

Soon, we know. At the crack of dawn, we wake up to terrifying sounds. Of monster machines that screech and squawk. With terrifying sounds, one pulls up at the next garbage dump. It scoops up a huge pile of it ~ old rags and papers, rotting vegetable peels, chicken bones, stale rice and dhal. The long metal arm dumps all of it into the rear of the truck. Once full, it pulls away.

My cousin, whose family lives on that heap, emits a high-pitched shriek as soon as the truck looms in sight. Too shrill for the human ear, it warns all twenty-nine of them of trouble.

“Where can we find food now?” his ten children ask my cousin in panic.

“Let’s join Ellie and his family,” says my cousin. “He’d make us most welcome. After all, we’re cousins.”

In a few seconds, they shift base to our dump. We welcome them. We groom them, touch whiskers. We nibble at corn cobs, akki rotti and moulding chutney. Why don’t these  Doddahalli people want such good food?

We’re gobbling down anna-saaru when my cousin says, “When I was a child last year, my Appa said there’s even a temple to rats in Rajasthan.”

“Is that true?” asks my nephew, pushing aside a rotten leaf that has got into his half-eaten bonda. He gnaws on a used banana leaf as a side dish.

“The story came down to me from my grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather’s… Oh, rat’s whiskers, it doesn’t really matter who! Trust me,” adds my cousin, still gorging on vegetable korma and curd rice mixed with rice husks. “The temple to Karni Mata is at Deshnoke, near Bikaner in Rajasthan. It was built around the 15^th century. At one point, it had about 20,000 rats swarming all over it. Every corner teems with eyes and tails…”

My cousin’s cousin adds, twirling his whiskers importantly, “And if a visitor kills a rat underfoot by accident, he or she has to pay the price. By presenting the temple with a life-sized golden rat. So I’ve heard…”

We all glow with pride at the thought. But the glow begins to fade the next morning. Doddahalli seems to be at war with us.

All the roads are swept clean thrice a day. Those monster machines on wheels come to our homes again and again, sweeping clean every trace of temple refuse, rotting garbage, half-eaten food and plastic bottles. In four days, our homes vanish.

Where will we find food? My cousin and I put our heads together. We find some rice pellets where the dump once was. I nibble at one. It tastes really odd. Not at all like sambhar-bhaat. “Wait! Let me see if this new food is safe for us,” I warn my large family. I already feel a little queasy.

But before I can stop them, my hungry children have gobbled down dozens of them. Two days later, my cousin’s two sons are dead. His mate’s coat turns a dull grey.

My cousin and I scavenge for food all over Doddahalli. But we don’t find a single kitchen with any food for us. Not even a scrap of meat or vegetable. And the same white pellets appear in the corners of every room. What could they be?

Four nights later, I’ve lost three sons and two daughters. 

Then, I hear the headman tell the medical officer, who’s still camping in the village, “I think my wife’s idea was great. Those rice pellets mixed with oils of neem, eucalyptus, pine and lemongrass worked. We’ve found dead rats all over the sites of the former garbage dumps…”

So, that’s what these nasty humans beings tricked us with. I understand at last.

My cousin and I gather the survivors in our families. And we set out in search of another village, with kinder folks in it, we hope. And many garbage dumps, so that we can have an easy life. In the rat community, we don’t really enjoy hunting for our dinner, you know.

Here’s a secret. If only you’ll let me know where there’s plenty of dirt and rot, we’ll return to spend our lives there. That’s a promise from Ellie and all of my family. You won’t forget, will you?

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!