Nature's Spokesman

by M Krishnan

  It is hardly surprising that in a country where bullocks have always been valued even higher than milch cows, a number of draught breeds should have been evolved. Apart from dual-purpose breeds like the Ongole, Nellore, and Sindhi, we have specialized draught breeds in the Kangeyam, Hallikar, and a number of less stabilized strains, including the miniature ‘rekla’ breeds. None of these can compare with the Amrit Mahal, except perhaps its close cousin, the Hallikar. Amrit Mahal bullocks are unbeatable, unapproachable, as draught animals. The commissioner of Mysore was just and temperate in claiming a superiority for them as patently superlative as the qualities of the Arab among horses.

  The Amrit Mahal is a long-horned breed. Even the stud bulls and the cows have long, tapering, sabre-curved horns. The breed is marked by a long, lean face, a muscular build combining size and strength with active speed, and real endurance. The bullocks continue to flourish after they are five years old, and reach their prime about the age of eight years; they are good for hard service for many years thereafter. A full-grown bullock stands nearly five feet high (the official average is fifty-two inches) and has a girth of about seventy inches. Such an animal should weigh about 800 lbs. Long, tapering tails, ending in a bushy tuft of black hair, well below the hocks, are characteristic of the breed.

  The bullocks are typically iron-grey in colour, darker on the head and forequarters and almost white on the flanks; the cows are grey, or white at times, and the dark grey deepens to black on bulls. The bullocks stand over a lot of ground on firm limbs—they are big, powerful beasts, endowed with a mile-eating stride and tireless, quick muscles.

  My head-piece,* sketched from life, shows a pair of bullocks in repose, and has a placid, decorative bias. It gives no indication of the fiery, high-mettled temperament of these animals. The Amrit Mahal and Hallikar breeds seem to have had a common ancestry, but whereas the Hallikar handles easy and has a more amiable temperament, Amrit Mahal bullocks are high-strung, resentful of strangers, and wild, a quality which is at once their chief asset and handicap. The hardihood and quick temper of the breed is largely due to the fact that they are raised under natural conditions, the young herds being grazed in the jungles and exposed to wind and weather. It is said that a herd in the jungles can take care of itself against all comers, including the tiger, and knowing the dislike of tigers for a massed attack of determined, spike-pointed horns, I can well believe this.

  It should be possible, by careful, selective breeding, to eliminate the stubborn wildness of the breed without loss of spirit or stamina. This is not so difficult as it may seem at first. Those who have followed the progress of the Coloured Bull Terrier in the last twenty years will know what I mean.

  It is unfortunate, and all wrong, that this superb breed of cattle, whose hardihood and abilities have been tested and proved here and on foreign soil, should be so little known outside its native Mysore. But Amrit Mahal cattle have so long enjoyed the patronage of the rulers of Mysore, that it is reasonable to hope that governmental recognition will now be available to them in enhanced measure. Perhaps, in the near future, these superlatively useful bullocks, which provide so many answers to the problems of our rural economy, will be appreciated and made available on an all-India basis.

  1951

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  * Not reproduced here.

  42

  Versatile Neem

  Some time ago, there was a report about the neem being introduced into a distant country from India, as a quick-growing shade tree with potent medicinal and germicidal properties. And, reading it, I recalled the adage about the prophet not being honoured in his own country.

  That is not quite true. Even today people in the countryside are alive to the neem’s versatile virtues. It is seldom cut down and is still planted in and around human settlements. Tradition decrees that, when the Indian new year comes round about midsummer (in April) and the neem bursts into prodigal, fragrant white bloom, its tiny flowers mixed with jaggery should be cooked into a special side-dish, both as a tonic relish to mark the commencement of a fresh year, and to remind people that life is an admixture of sweet and bitter experiences. The latter sentiment seems largely imaginative, for neem flowers are not bitter, though the leaves and fruits are. They have a characteristic resinous aroma and are mildly astringent. In the South, the flowers, which fall soon after opening, are gathered, dried, stored and used as a garnish to impart a distinctive gusto to mashed greens, and especially to ‘rasam’, the thin, clear dal-soup that is taken with rice and which is the most demanding test of culinary skill in Tamil cookery.

  The neem comes up readily from seed, but is not really quickgrowing. It is a close cousin, the ‘wild neem’ (Melia composita), that is noted for its rapid growth. The neem is a long-lived hardwood, thriving for a century or longer, and remarkable for doing well in very different soils—in dry, sandy tracts, black cotton soil, and even humid areas where the drainage is good. Since it is an evergreen, and its finely-cut foliage does not form too dense a crown, it lets the air freely through while providing a sun-proof shade. Few trees can rival it for the roadside. The pleasantest avenue I have ever known is a 3 km section of the road leading from Badami to Pattadakal in Karnataka. This stretch is flanked on both sides by great old neem trees, planted a hundred years ago perhaps, that almost meet overhead, providing an airy, cool, vaulted shade for which we were truly grateful on a sweltering summer afternoon.

  Many trees prized for their fine, beautifully figured furniture woods belong to the neem’s family—mahogany in the West, red and white cedar in our own country, and some others, including the fragrant, lustrous, soft-red chickrassy (Chukrasia tabularis) and satinwood (Chloroxyion swietenia), the handsomest of all blond hardwoods, though cross-grained. All contain aromatic oils, and are very durable and termite resistant. The neem’s heartwood, heavy, very dark red, oily and with a disagreeable smell when fresh-cut, is also used for furniture and construction, but there is no need for this with many more attractive timbers of its family available. All the therapeutic and preservative products for which the neem is renowned come from its foliage, bark and seeds, and for these the tree need not be cut down.

  From time immemorial the neem has been valued in our country for its religious associations, and the medicinal and germicidal efficiency of its twigs and bark, the heavy-smelling oil extracted from its seeds (a powerful antiseptic) and the preservative and disinfective potency of its leaves. Sophisticated techniques have been employed to derive cosmetic products from the neem, like soap and toothpaste. The green twig, chewed into a fibrous brush at one end, is an excellent toothbrush that contains its own cleansing paste, and is widely utilized in the countryside.

  The use of shade-dried neem leaves to preserve books and clothes from destructive insects has long been practised, but their enduring efficiency in preserving foodgrain stored in huge earthen bins (as grain is commonly stored in rustic tracts) merits wider publicity. I can personally vouch for this property of the dried leaves.

  Long ago, I lived in a valley in the Deccan where jowar was the staple grain. One year, when unseasonal rains ruined the jowar harvest, and the grain was in short supply a farmer remembered that his grandfather (who had died thirty years ago) had buried the surplus from a bumper crop stored in bins in a twelve-foot deep pit in the dry earth of his backyard, and thought of digging up the buried treasure. Everyone said it would be a wasted effort, for the grain was bound to have gone bad in all those years and, moreover, the imprisoned air within the crypt would be poisonous and dangerous. However, the crypt was cautiously opened up, and the bins with their sealed, baked-clay lids were also opened.

  There was a thick layer of dry neem leaves on top, beneath the lid, and another at the bottom of the bins, and the grain between these neem-leaf layers was plump, dry, pale yellow and seemed quite sound. Still some of the doubting Thomases argued that, until the grain was ground into flour and baked into rotis and eaten, one could not be sure. I was one of those who volunteered for
this test, and I must say I have seldom eaten better jowar-roti, something I like and have subsisted on for over a year. Finally, the excavated grain was sold at a handsome profit.

  The long held belief that it is good to have a neem tree or two growing close to one’s house to purify the air around was pooh poohed by two scientists I know, but has not been disproved. It is only in recent years that we have come to be aware of the hazards of air pollution that we cannot readily detect. Neem leaves on a tree do have a distinctive, faint smell from close by. It is by no means far-fetched to think that some volatile principle in them may permeate the ambient air, or that it may have a purifying potential. This is something that a painstaking scientist, duly qualified and adequately equipped, has yet to investigate to prove or disprove the belief.

  1992

  43

  Jungli Phal

  About this time of the year, for many years, my elderly cook used to warn me of the dangers of eating all sorts of ‘Jungli phal’ by which term she meant the custard apple, the jamoon (Eugenia jambolana) and the wild, sharp Carissa, fruits now in season in many places. Particularly was the good woman against the first two.

  The custard apple, I was told, promoted phlegm and the rheumatics; it was a fruit one should guard against at all times, but especially in seepy September. The jamoon was worse. It caused, besides sore throats and bronchitis, sudden, debilitating fevers; a distant cousin of hers, who was fond of the fruit, had died young. Moreover it was infra dig for a man of my years and status, an officer of the government to indulge such immature, boorish tastes. Latterly these sermons became so insistent that I had to use much furtiveness in my fruit eating.

  I am no longer under Sita Bai’s motherly surveillance, for I have left that place and she this world—and I am an officer no more. I eat my fill of custard apples and jamoon, with abandoned openness. But somehow they have not quite the old relish.

  There was much truth, though, in the elderly advice. A surfeit of custard apple is not calculated to improve one’s health. However, it is not often that one takes it in any quantity, for it is a fruit of which one tires quickly. If you like its somewhat musty flavour and have not eaten it that way before, you should try it in an icecream. Much of the prejudice against the fruit is due, I think, to the fact that people often eat it overripe and are not choosy over their custard apple. The polygonal ‘cells’ on the rind (denoting each carpel) should be few and large and the fruit of good size. It should be taken off the plant while still firm and stored in dry grain till just ripe—much of the charm of this artless fruit lies in its being properly ripe. The way to get good custard apples is to collect them in person from carefully selected shrubs or, if one is an officer, to employ a confidential agent for the purpose. People rarely sell the best custard apples they can find. They eat them.

  Of the jamoon I can speak with greater enthusiasm. This, too, varies considerably from tree to tree, even more than the custard apple, and is often eaten over-ripe. What is sold is fallen fruit with bruised skin, collected from under the tree. The jamoon must ripen on the tree and is at its best when just about to fall, pendent and a glistening purple-black. An ideal arrangement would be to wait beneath a tree of known quality and catch the fruit in one’s mouth as it falls, but ideals are hard to achieve in this cussed world. Therefore, pick your tree and get someone to climb it and bring down the ripe fruit.

  The jamoon differs as much in size as in quality. On the hill slopes it is possible to get a long, thick variety twice as big as the fruit of the plains, dark-fleshed and exquisitely flavoured. To my plebeian palate no lichi or mangosteen has the sweetness of this fruit. On the plains the trees yield smaller and more astringent fruit and some of these are hardly worth the eating. However, one need not despise the jamoon of the plains provided it is of fair size and good flavour. Sprinkle salt and powdered red chilli over the fruit and wait for an hour and its astringency will be cured—this treatment is not to be thought of for choice hillgrown fruit.

  The world consists of those who like the jamoon and those who do not. Among the addicts are the aborigines, the shaggy sloth bear and other denizens of the jungle. The people who cannot abide the fruit are often highly refined and intellectual—they find no joy in life.

  Another delicious and wholesome fruit, now in season, is the guava. Being marketable, it is frequently cultivated in orchards and there are ‘improved’ varieties, mild, white-fleshed, yellowskinned and big—excellent for conversion into jam or jelly, I think. Give me the small, green-skinned, red-hearted country guava. I believe I am correct in saying that the country guava is far richer in vitamins than the cultivated varieties. Anyway it is better eating. There is a pear-shaped kind, very small and red and often grown in the backyards of villagers. The tree is little better than a shrub and its yield very scanty, but make friends with the man who owns it.

  There are many other trees and shrubs in the jungles that are in fruit just now, but I shall mention only the spiky Carissa carandas. It is very sour when green, less sour when ripe, and too acid for consumption as it is—there are other Carissas that bear sweeter fruit. However, the green fruit of this bush can be converted into a piquant and stimulating pickle with powdered chilli and other spices and just a little oil. According to south Indian traditions this fruit (even in a pickle) is superlatively good for the liver. I think there is sound sense in many of our traditions regarding things to eat and I am sure that even my old cook would have agreed that it is very important to keep the liver in good order!

  1953

  44

  Walchand

  Asudden clamour from the nether regions, the brassy clang of tumbled vessels, shrill and shocking language from my elderly cook and the thud of stick upon hide proclaim that Walchand has broken bounds and entered the kitchen again. I rush to the cuisine where Walchand, unmindful of the feminine stick, is steadily consuming my dinner, and diving beneath the upraised arm of the cook I grab him by the beard. And I lead him back to the goat-pen, grumbling and protesting, and tether him up securely.

  Walchand is a Surti buck and hornless by virtue of his pedigree. This does not prevent him from butting wickedly, but of course he can effect no serious damage. Whoever evolved the Surti goat did wisely in breeding out horns, and even better in breeding for the thick ridge of hair from nose to tail. By this ridge I know what sort of a mood Walchand is in. It lies flat to one side of the back, when he is on good terms with the world, but when he contemplates a change it bristles ‘like quills upon the fretful porpentine’. Walchand grows suddenly bigger and ‘bristlier’, and I know what to expect. It is the beard, however, that is the true index of the breeder’s cunning and genius. Walchand’s beard is at once his pride and his undoing. It is no goatee, no mere straggling tuft of hair, but a full and fluent beard long enough, thick enough and (except on the days he is washed) dirty and orange enough to delight the heart of the most fanatic fakir. At the same time it affords a most convenient hold—in fact I would be as helpless without it as he himself. Walchand is difficult at times, when he thinks he has not had his due share of ‘bajra’ or when there has been dissension in the harem. It is useless to seize his ear at such times, for an ear is yielding and pliant and he can twist round and butt. But once I have him fairly by the beard all arguments end abruptly. He still protests in a quavering treble—his voice is surprisingly thin and high considering his lusty looks—but all fight leaves him.

  I remember Walchand as a year-old kid, when first he came to me. The four-foot wall that separates the pen from the kitchen block was no obstacle in those days. He would jump lightly on to it and go skipping along its edge, rearing and bucking for the sheer joy of being alive. He is too heavy now, and crusty and dignified, to do such things. It is only by a feat of will that he can hoist his bulk on to the wall these days, and he is too sensible to put himself out for no purpose. When he smells dinner, my dinner, however, he is impelled to the effort.

  His zenana is his chief preoccupation—a doze
n does, of all sorts and colours. There are two evil-looking country-breds in the lot who can, if they choose to, rout Walchand in battle, but they never do. It is his beard, I think, that subdues them, and they suffer him to butt them and bully them and put them in their places. In return for this acknowledgment of mastery, Walchand leads them all, at home and abroad. At times he grows ambitious and sets out to acquire fresh conquests for the harem. Walchand does not come home, though his indifferent wives return, and we search far and near for him; and find him at last disputing possession with the lord and master of some other herd, dirty, bedraggled and bested by the horned buck, but still willing. We bring him home and bathe him and it is then that I find that old Wallie has not changed one bit in his heart of hearts. He detests a bath as cordially as he ever did.

  I use warm water, the best of soaps and persuasion, but he fidgets and struggles. Force becomes necessary. I get my goatboy to souse him with the water, and holding his beard in one hand proceed to soap him with the other. The rich, white, frothy lather spreads like the crest of a wave along his side and something in the sensation seems to quieten him and he stands till. It is an old trick, but I fall for it. I relax my hold on the beard to get round to the other flank. Walchand springs forward with irrepressible suddenness, floors the boy with a savage butt and we dance around in a shower of lather and warm water, a strand of the beard still clutched in my hand. I secure my hold, and the bath is resumed, leaving the soaping of the vital beard to the very end, for we dare not let it get slippery. At last the ordeal is over and a white and gleaming Walchand, washed and towelled is tethered to the verandah to get quite dry. But we are a sorry sight. The goat-boy is wet to the skin and has a bump at the back of his head. I have soap in one eye and both ears … .