The river bent lazily through the land, its waters thick and brown from the monsoon, curling between banks that smelled of wet earth and roots. Beyond the fields, the horizon rose in dark smudges of forest, Beyond the fields, the horizon rose in dark smudges of forest, where tall trees stood in quiet ranks, their crowns whispering to each other and nearby the bamboo trees rose, their tickling fingers brushing against each other in the evening breeze. The paddy fields stretched wide and green, blades trembling under the weight of beads of water. Frogs croaked in chorus, and egrets walked like pale priests through the shallows.
In those days, when I was still a boy, my grandfather kept cattle. Their bells chimed softly at dawn as they were herded out toward the grazing grounds by the riverbanks. Each one had a different tone, a different voice, so much so that I could tell who was who without looking. Evening was when they returned, steady and patient, shadows stretching long over the fields as the sun sank behind the forest. My Grandfather would stand at the edge of the cowshed, leaning on his staff, counting them one by one with eyes as sharp as the hawks that circled above.
But sometimes, one did not come back. The air grew heavier on such evenings, and though the cicadas still sang and the fireflies still glowed, silence hung around the house. Grandfather’s face would harden, though he said nothing. He would sit on the veranda, fidget with his snuff box ,scoop out the powdered snuff between the thumb and index, take a whiff, and glance toward the fading sky.
The next morning told its own truth. Above the treetops, dark shapes would appear— The vultures, circling in patient spirals. To us they were messengers, told us what we already feared: the missing cow was gone. The Missing one had fallen. Whether it was a broken leg in the marsh, a snake bite, or some predator from the forest. The cause mattered little.. Death had claimed it, and the vultures were now its keepers.
I remember walking with my Grandfather then, trotting on those tiny on Hawaii Chappals on the dew-soaked grass, the ground soft and cool underfoot. The smell of wildflowers mixed with the sour scent of cattle dung and the sweetness of the river breeze. And far away, where the vultures dipped and wheeled, the truth awaited us. He would not rush, nor curse, nor cry—he walked as though he already knew this was the way of things.
To me, those mornings were heavy with awe. The world seemed larger, crueler, yet also truer. Life was spread before me in green fields and living rivers, and death, too, was there—written in black wings against the sky.
Even now, almost half a century later- in memory, I can still see it: the cattle bells fading at dusk, the quiet waiting, and the circling of vultures in the pale dawn light.
Irony is…Today, it is more in my memories than in the sky. Its blissful when you are actually granted that sight for real. Let their Tribe Flourish.
Shot in Coorg, Oct 2022 © Dr.Bishan Monnappa
