Simply Fly

by Capt G R Gopinath

  I went to the horticulture department and to growers and bought about a 1000 coconut saplings. My farm was in a zone that did not have high rainfall. Most agriculture in India is rain dependant. This explains why prudent agricultural techniques and rain management techniques have evolved on Indian soil over the centuries. These methods are suited to specific sub-geographical conditions and cover the entire subcontinent. Farmers in low-rainfall areas had access to rain-water harvesting technologies. They knew how best to conserve and use water to the last drop. This knowledge has passed from generation to generation in the form of farm lore.

  My farmer friends and acquaintances told me that things were now changing. Perhaps because of climate change, there were unmistakable changes in rainfall patterns. Farmers remarked that, barring the odd famine, the rains followed the pattern of the cloud-sky map, the rhythm of the seasons, the movements of the planets. They simply followed the map and knew when to plant seed, when to sow, and when to reap the harvest. I had complete faith in the farmers’ wisdom and never thought things could go awry. So it became a routine for me to watch the sky, the clouds, every morning and evening. I eagerly looked out for the rain-bearing clouds. And so became a self-professed cloud-watcher.

  On the one hand I was suffused by the lyrical, mystical magic of the monsoon: watching with fascination as the sky changed colour, wondering at the emergence of life in the seed, observing plants as they grew inch by inch, gazing in amazement at the renewed vigour of animals, birds, and bees. On the other I observed my own human endeavour as a farmer. Those rare moments when I was able to suspend the hubris of being me, and became part of nature that was transforming itself all around me.

  The first rains marked the onset of spring. If you live on a farm and are in tune with the elements, you sense that your breathing, sighing and emotions are synchronized with the breathing, sighing of the earth.

  The sky changes colour when the first rains are about to fall. There is a lull, a sudden silence and warmth, thunder rumbles, and lightning flashes. You long for the rain to soak you to your bones. With the first drops of rain, the fragrance of the earth blends with your being. I remember the thrill that coursed through me when the rains arrived.

  This was before my marriage. We had formed a band of eight to ten workers ahead of the rain. As soon as the rains came, we dug up the earth, placed precious coconut saplings in deep pits, covered them with earth and manure, and thrust stakes in the ground and secured the saplings. At the end of day two, we had covered twenty acres of land and planted some 800 coconut saplings. I stood on high ground in the farm and looked at the first crop we had planted. I imagined the two-feet high saplings growing-up inch by inch and becoming tall trees.

  After a long day’s work, I returned home, overcome with exhaustion, yet felt a sense of elation and fulfilment. A fine drizzle had begun. I slept in my tent and woke up in the morning to find myself dripping wet: it had been raining all night. There is a saying in Kannada that the evening rain and the evening guest are here to stay. The rains did not cease all morning, water seeping into the tent.

  I had never imagined that rains could be so heavy; otherwise I might have built a concrete platform on the floor of the tent. I huddled in a corner. The first rains are always a sign of good fortune. Soon I heard voices. Raju was trying to call out to me and so were some farmers and cattle-herders. Raju cried, ‘Sir, come and take a look at what has happened!’ I rushed out and saw that the stream was in spate, having overflowed its banks. The entire twenty-acre stretch on which I had planted coconut saplings was under water. Water flooded the fields. The stream had risen fifteen to twenty feet above its normal level. I climbed up to an elevated spot to survey the damage and saw a sea of destruction. All my efforts, Raju’s efforts, and the efforts of my farm workers had simply been washed away. Not a trace of vegetation remained.

  It was a great shock. The water did not recede for three days, and when it finally did, it left my land exactly as it had been on the day I had set foot there. The stream had left in its wake an extremely fertile residue of silt. Without brooding over what I had lost I straightaway began thinking about how to put the silt to good use. On one hand it was a huge setback; on the other I rejoiced that the stream had left behind such golden soil. I had long known, and it was discussed in the textbooks of my schooldays, that it was the silt of the receding rivers that had sustained the flourishing civilizations of the past: in the Indus Valley, in the Gangetic Plains, and in the Nile Delta. I now began thinking how I would in future protect my coconut saplings from being washed away when I planted them again, and if this was an annual occurrence, to devise a method of capturing the fertile silt each year.

  My father had always advised me never to cut plants growing alongside the stream to prevent soil erosion. I marked off a band of about twenty to forty feet alongside it to enable the natural flora to establish itself without human interference. I planted a wide variety of trees that were ecologically adapted to the area wherever the heavy rains had washed off the bank of the stream and created gullies. I cordoned off the area and asked my people to strictly keep off that swathe. I also constructed a high ridge alongside the stream to allow the receding waters to deposit their silt. I wanted that patch alongside the stream and ditch to become an area of dense foliage. We resolved that next time we would tie the saplings to stone pillars, deeply entrenched. Wooden stakes would be of no help if it rained heavily, we thought, and would also be prone to termite attacks.

  Coconut palms love water. The flood should work to our advantage, rather than the reverse, we decided. The trenches we dug in that season helped keep the farm flood free. They captured the silt and acted as rainwater harvest sinks, and also encouraged a wide range of undergrowth to flourish. The stream and the trenches were already in the process of forming a mutually advantageous ecosystem.

  The coconut saplings were planted a second time and faced the prospect of several dry winter months as there would be no precipitation until the next rainy season. They would therefore need water so I decided that I must now vigorously pursue the electricity department.

  In pursuit of electricity I knocked at several doors. I was frequently in government offices asking them for a connection. The stock reply was, ‘Don’t worry sir, we are looking into it.’ They said they would have to bring electricity from a distribution node that was fifteen kms away. The electricity board needed a minimum utilization of 300 horsepower for it to be viable to them because they had to make a huge investment to bring electricity over such a distance. My farm could use a maximum of 20 HP; what would I do with the remaining 280 HP?

  I hit upon an idea to solve the problem. I spoke to like-minded farmers in the neighbourhood. Manje Gowda signed up for 10 HP. I trekked the route along which the electricity would come and got committed users for 300 HP. I found that people would always wait for someone else to take the initiative. Several farms were irrigating with rainwater and would jump at the prospect of electricity for irrigation. I took signed applications from them and presented a solid case to the electricity department.

  The department did not however initiate the project. The system had its own inertia, with some prevailing on those willing to undertake the work, to do nothing unless a bribe was offered. They thought they were doing us a favour. The idea of giving bribes revolted me. I could have had them over to dinner; could have given them a few bottles of rum, but the mere suggestion of a bribe made me see red.

  I went to Bengaluru to meet the secretary to the department of electricity. I had no calling card so I sent in my request for an appointment with him on a slip of paper with my name and title written by hand. The slip of paper read, ‘Capt. Gopinath’. The secretary called me in. I introduced myself and said to him, ‘Sir, I am an army officer and live in a tent on my farm. Your government has spoken a great deal about supporting farming. I have applied for electricity for my farm. For the past year I have been going from pillar to post and nothing has moved. Your department
said that they cannot give me less than 300 HP when I need only 20 HP. On my own initiative I have collected a group of farmers to make up the required amount 300 HP. But I still see no sign of any action. My coconut saplings are dying. I planted them in anticipation that electricity will power the irrigation pump-set. This has not happened. I work all day from five in the morning to six in the evening irrigating my fields by hand. Can you please intervene and help me?’

  God truly helps those who help themselves. You can’t just sit back and complain that officials take bribes; you have to go and fight for your rights. You have to demand what you want. I believe in another principle and this could prove to be another law: If faced with something unfair don’t sit back and moan and wallow in melancholy; revolt and fight against it!

  Not everyone is corrupt. The secretary gave me a patient hearing and asked me where my farm was located. He then spoke directly to the executive engineer of the district electricity board. He told him, as I listened, that if electricity did not reach Capt. Gopinath’s farm in thirty days, he was not fit to hold that position and that he would be dismissed. He turned to me and said, ‘If this does not happen in the next thirty days, please come to see me.’ I took a bus from Bengaluru and headed back to the farm. The very next day, just after sunrise, there was a flurry of activity on my farm. There were about twenty people milling around the farm from the local, the taluq, and district electricity boards. This I reckoned was the result of the secretary’s tongue-lashing. It had electrified them into action; I saw light at the end of the tunnel!

  In those days I travelled frequently to Hassan. On days when my bike was sent to the mechanic for repairs, I had to walk back a good five kms from the nearest bus-stop, through picturesque countryside. One day, I found myself in the middle of a group of donkeys. Herding the animals was an agasa, the local washerman. He was leading a caravan of several donkeys. The draught animals carried large bundles. The beasts of burden were small, the loads they carried were huge, their bellies almost touching the ground. Sometimes the washerman walked alongside the animals. I picked up a desultory conversation. The washerman said he was an agasa by birth; that was on his way to the local pond. I was curious about the lives they led, and kept up the conversation. Despite the hard work, there was much cheer and sunlight in the washermen’s lives. They took pleasure in little things. A festival for instance was a great occasion for the entire community.

  Farm workers were also used to enjoyment of festivities. Unmindful of their trials and travails, farm workers did not work on festive occasions, taking a day off on either side of the festival and spending their meagre earnings on new clothes, sweets, and flowers. On festive occasions when eating meat is permitted, they bought and cooked chicken and shared a meal with family and friends. Their celebration included music and dance, and a visit to the local deity.

  During my conversation with the washerman it struck me that the donkeys were an economical proposition for washermen, which a tractor or a jeep would not have been. The washerman informed me that a donkey cost him between Rs 65–75. A flash of inspiration passed through my mind at that moment. Eventually, however, the thought proved more asinine than inspirational. Electricity was still a distant dream. Why not employ donkeys to fetch water from the stream? I was at the time hiring workers to physically fill and carry pitchers. It would save my expenses on labour, which was expensive. Labour was also difficult to get as those who had small landholdings tilled their own land and did not offer services as farm workers. The numbers of farm workers were rapidly dwindling. I decided to buy donkeys and gave Raju Rs 700, instructing him to buy ten to twelve animals, and that was how I became a donkey owner.

  One day Raju piloted a posse of seven to eight donkeys in a procession. Word got around and it soon became known in the neighbouring villages that we had donkeys on the farm. People were curious. Was I planning to become a washerman? Was there a new business venture afoot? They came over to the farm to see for themselves. I asked the agasa what he fed the donkeys. He said he let them free to roam the village. The donkeys ate whatever they could lay their muzzle on. They ate kitchen leftover, hay, and they grazed on freehold. I realized that the much ridiculed donkey was a very intelligent animal. Every morning, there was evidence of this: the donkey’s ability to learn and its ability to teach us a lesson in good turn. Nobody on the farm knew how to deal with a donkey. On the first day we tied two pitchers dangling on either side of each donkey.

  From ancient times, animal management had become the job of specialists. Mahouts tamed and goaded elephants to work. Cowherds herded cattle. Swineherds best understood pigs. Ranchers knew their horses, poulterers their birds, and shepherds their flocks. Riders elicited varying responses from the horses they rode because each emoted differently with their riders. It was clear from the very first day that dealing with donkeys was no easy task and the washermen alone knew how to. Our ignorance of donkey psychology led to some hilarious moments. When urged to carry the pitchers back to the farm from the stream, some animals stuck their hooves into the ground and refused to move. Some raised and kicked their hind legs in air, some sprinted. Some emitted a loud shriek. The donkey’s bray is a raucous concatenation of singular notes. On a scale of five it produced the least euphony. Some simply stood still, some kicked, some brayed, some ran amok. For the curious onlookers it was a moment of great hilarity, for us a great frustration.

  When buying animals, I remember attending spectacular village fairs, or jatres, where domestic animals were bought and sold. Farmers came from all over the state and camped on open ground with their animals in tow. My relatives also came to these camps with their cattle. People camped there, cooked their meals over a bonfire, and slept beneath the bullock-cart. For those who knew what this meant, it was like going to Woodstock! At these fairs, farmers and traders inspected each animal for particular traits: the lakshanas. If you are buying cattle you check their teeth for age. You need to check if a cow is good for milk and if an ox is fit for draught. Donkeys too must be recognized by some traits; the dhobis or washernmen know them, we don’t. Raju at least was blind to them when he bought the donkeys. We were able to work out a minimal taxonomy of donkeys based on the way they behaved on the farm. There are different kinds of donkeys. Those who were reluctant to work were the equus truantus. The michievous ones could be classified as equus naughticus, those not used to being team players could be called equus singularis! Many animals that we harnessed refused to take the load. They began prancing and dancing; nobody could get them to stay still. Horses have reins; cattle are amenable to halters or nose strings, a donkey simply refuses a harness. The workers on the farm were at their wit’s end, so was I.

  Our donkeys not only kicked but also bit the hand that fed them. Just one or two behaved well and were useful, the balance seemed to enjoy our frustration. If they did stay still to take a load of water, they soon spilt all of it by their measured shakes and wriggles. People had a great laugh at my expense, but that did not bother me because I was able to get some help from the donkeys.

  Two factors finally decided whether the donkeys stayed on the farm or not. Their early morning truancy was one. There is something very dogged about the early morning donkey, something very dogged about the donkey in the afternoon, and also something very dogged about the donkey at night. When they arrived at the farm they looked innocent enough, and I even thought somewhat lovable. Gradually however these positive feelings had given way to misgivings, leading to frustration and despondency. Here was a species that challenged all my ingenuity, and by the time I had begun to pride myself as being innovative and capable of surmounting any challenge, but I was proved wrong by these creatures who made me eat humble pie, or so it seemed. It was an important chore for all of us on the farm to catch the donkeys as they grazed freely on the grass on the farm. If we caught them we could harness them to other farm tasks. The donkeys were far smarter than I gave them credit for. They knew we were going to hitch them to a harness. The mo
ment any one of us approached them, they ran hither and thither, as though for dear life. They evaded capture and delayed getting caught and made to work.

  The last straw was what happened one summer night as Bhargavi and I slept in the open yard under the stars. We had spent the day harvesting Bengal gram. The harvest had been plenty and we had packed the crop in gunny-bags and stacked them in the threshing yard in piles for transport to the market the following day.

  In summers when it was extremely hot we slept under the open sky. That night we slept in the threshing yard. We were fast asleep when Bhargavi woke me up. She said she had heard a sound. Sure there was. It was the sound of something going ‘chomp, chomp, chomp’. I raised my head and saw the entire herd of donkeys tucking their teeth into the harvest. I rose and chased them away. We went back to sleep. We were woken up a second time. It was the same story. I again had to chase the beasts away. Then again it happened a third time. That was when I decided we would not have them on the farm any longer. I would miss them for certain, and some still looked innocent, but there was certainly more to farm life than looking after donkeys!

  Water-divining and Other Matters

  One year there was severe drought in the region. There had been no rains and the stream had run dry. With no water on the farm, digging a bore-well was the only solution. Friends suggested that I hire a geologist to locate the right spot for a well. I found a trained geologist at the department of mines and geology and brought him over to the farm. The geologist consulted his map and marked it with little flags to identify the local plateaus, outcrop, gullies, and valleys.

  He did a physical survey of the farm and he pointed out several spots. ‘Dig here and you will find water,’ he said. We brought the bore well rig and dug at the spots indicated but found no water even at a depth of sixty metres!