Ask me who the great teacher in life is. I swear, it’s the nature, which has myriad ways of making you enlightened. Nevertheless to say even the small creatures, whom we treat with least respect or often take for granted, can open your eyes to the world of wisdom, of course, in their own unique ways.
Here is the queen, an ‘ugly’ black hen. She was neither an onlookers’ delight nor a landlord’s pride. Yet, she was in the list of the ‘hottest’ pets in my animal lover grandmother, a Maneka Gandhi of sorts in my home.
Born in a magnificent village in Southern Kerala, the bond with nature and care for animals and birds were in her blood. What stood testimony to that fact was nearly 11 cows, sheep, rabbits, roosters, parrots and dogs of varied breeds sharing the living space of our ancestral home in a sprawling three acre land. The ‘quack-quack’ army of around 40 ducks, who encroached upon the backyard of the house, was the cynosure of all eyes. They stood united all the time, while there was dissent in the chicken family, with other members often isolating the black queen (Karambi), for reasons unknown. However, my grandmother’s practical wisdom was far from illusions. After surviving two fierce attacks from Rocky, the German shepherd and a stray otter, Karambi held a special place in grandma’s heart.
As months flew past, Karambi turned as a dutiful egg-laying machine, religiously contributing at least two eggs every day. Soon, my ‘body-builder’ brother’s eyes fell on her and subsequently, his diet was enriched by her eggs. The moment she ‘blessed’ with eggs, they landed straight on his mouth. The routine continued for a few days. And a fine morning, she vanished in thin air, leaving all of us wondering what prompted her to sacrifice the coziness of her hut and nutritious food?
After constant searches that lasted for many days, it was discovered that the broody Karambi has made a dark corner of the ginger plantation her home. The broody hen was sitting on her ‘precious’ eggs; refused to leave the place and when we approached, she strut around making clucking noises. A few days later, when grandma took off the dry coconut leaves laid on the field, we saw Karambi, squeezing out sluggishly. What followed her growling and grumbling was a rhythmic chorus by seven new-born chicks.
Swiftly making a move to protect the chicks from the jaw-opened spectators, she, predominantly keeping an eye on my brother’s six-pack-in-the-making half naked body, fell into violent hysterics. I found myself near to the point of self realization when the rebellious hen blew the trumpet in a bitten voice. “Hey man, be at least decent in relationships. You feed me, you shelter me and you reap the benefits in the form of eggs every single day. You took care of me all these years for nothing but for your advantage. My maternal rights were never taken care of. If it was not an unconditional love and care, it could have been at least on the basis of a ‘give-and-take’ policy. Now this is my life, my rules!”
The voice of the oppressed against the autocratic set up! An uprising, if not a jasmine revolution, a ‘chicken revolution’. When my grandma took off the dry leaves, the army of seven cute chicks emerged out in style and marched past the awe-stricken onlookers with a new vigour and pride.
Here is the queen, an ‘ugly’ black hen. She was neither an onlookers’ delight nor a landlord’s pride. Yet, she was in the list of the ‘hottest’ pets in my animal lover grandmother, a Maneka Gandhi of sorts in my home.
Born in a magnificent village in Southern Kerala, the bond with nature and care for animals and birds were in her blood. What stood testimony to that fact was nearly 11 cows, sheep, rabbits, roosters, parrots and dogs of varied breeds sharing the living space of our ancestral home in a sprawling three acre land. The ‘quack-quack’ army of around 40 ducks, who encroached upon the backyard of the house, was the cynosure of all eyes. They stood united all the time, while there was dissent in the chicken family, with other members often isolating the black queen (Karambi), for reasons unknown. However, my grandmother’s practical wisdom was far from illusions. After surviving two fierce attacks from Rocky, the German shepherd and a stray otter, Karambi held a special place in grandma’s heart.
As months flew past, Karambi turned as a dutiful egg-laying machine, religiously contributing at least two eggs every day. Soon, my ‘body-builder’ brother’s eyes fell on her and subsequently, his diet was enriched by her eggs. The moment she ‘blessed’ with eggs, they landed straight on his mouth. The routine continued for a few days. And a fine morning, she vanished in thin air, leaving all of us wondering what prompted her to sacrifice the coziness of her hut and nutritious food?
After constant searches that lasted for many days, it was discovered that the broody Karambi has made a dark corner of the ginger plantation her home. The broody hen was sitting on her ‘precious’ eggs; refused to leave the place and when we approached, she strut around making clucking noises. A few days later, when grandma took off the dry coconut leaves laid on the field, we saw Karambi, squeezing out sluggishly. What followed her growling and grumbling was a rhythmic chorus by seven new-born chicks.
Swiftly making a move to protect the chicks from the jaw-opened spectators, she, predominantly keeping an eye on my brother’s six-pack-in-the-making half naked body, fell into violent hysterics. I found myself near to the point of self realization when the rebellious hen blew the trumpet in a bitten voice. “Hey man, be at least decent in relationships. You feed me, you shelter me and you reap the benefits in the form of eggs every single day. You took care of me all these years for nothing but for your advantage. My maternal rights were never taken care of. If it was not an unconditional love and care, it could have been at least on the basis of a ‘give-and-take’ policy. Now this is my life, my rules!”
The voice of the oppressed against the autocratic set up! An uprising, if not a jasmine revolution, a ‘chicken revolution’. When my grandma took off the dry leaves, the army of seven cute chicks emerged out in style and marched past the awe-stricken onlookers with a new vigour and pride.
