Monica & Me vs. Mamma Hen

“They’re like goldfish,” Monica said. We stood staring at the baby chicks running around the storeroom. Their feathers were starting to change colors, but they were still awfully small.

“What do you mean, goldfish?” I asked.

“They grow according to their environment, and they’ve been trapped in a little basket their whole lives, so they haven’t grown much.”

The theory sounded good, but what do I know about chickens? Then it hit me: she didn’t know anything about chickens either. “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” She feigned insult. I remained silent. A moment passed. Then she looked at me hesitantly before adding with a laugh, “I mean, I haven’t read it anywhere or anything...”

Still, it was good enough for me. “It’s time to move the chickens.”

However, we soon realized that was easier said than done.

First, we tried herding them with sticks. They didn’t cooperate. In fact, we looked so ridiculous the Old Man was bent over laughing at us from the peaceful security of his house.

So we tried catching them with a sheet. They were too quick. Every time we came within sheet-throwing distance, they’d scuttle out of range or take cover beneath a prickly bush. These goddam chickens are wiser in the way of warfare than they lead you to believe.

Then we resorted to the basket, catching Mamma underneath and scrambling around to convince the four chicks to join her. But the distance between the storeroom and the henhouse was simply too great! As we dragged the family along, Mamma’s foot or a baby’s wing or an entire chick itself would get caught between the thatch and the path, and we would cringe on their behalf, cease our movement, and stare at the broiling remaining distance. By this time the sun was at its zenith, and Monica and I were drenched in sweat.

Still, we refused to concede. We took a moment to strategize over a glass of water, built a chicken-catching contraption with a basket, a couple sticks, and our own wit, and tried again. To no avail.

Maybe the idea was sent from elsewhere, but it struck us both at the same time: With the chickens in the basket, we shifted them over the sheet, wrapped the corners tightly to prevent any openings, and lifted everything. All five rascals were squawking and squealing, but they were sealed and transportable. We carried the chickens to their new home, shifted the basket on its side, with the sheet between the chickens and the henhouse door. Then, like two proud magicians, we let the sheet drop. Mamma, Thelma, Louise, Beatrice and Mammacas flew frantically into their new home.

We sealed the door just in time for Vasentha to arrive. She looked at us, standing and sweating beside the hen house. She looked at the Old Man, laughing from a distance. And she looked at the animals playing in the dirt within caged walls. “Super.”

Monica and I may get the hang of this after all.

Daily Activities

People from the States keep asking me what life is like these days.

The thing is, running a forest is a lot of work. Period.

Twenty acres is a lot of land. Period.

And there are animals to protect! Just this morning the villagers brought their dogs to collect cashews and—as they do almost every morning—the dogs chased the chickens. For the third time since June, one of the dogs succeeded in catching a poor bird, and I had to come with a stick to free the cock.

Plus, our Gop__ needs a lot of loving (which I’m more than happy to give) and company (which I spend simultaneous writing about watsu and/or complementary currencies). He’s just a puppy, after all…

And the cows come several times a day to eat the young trees and blooming flowers, and the house/kitchen/storeroom always offer improvement projects, and the workers—my God, the workers.

Everyday they try to teach me Tamil. However, the lessons include me repeating what they say without any clue what it means. We laugh a lot. Then they ask me serious things in Tamil and look at me with expectant eyes. I suddenly have to make a thoughtful decision based on a frantic stream of grunts and hollers which meant absolutely nothing to my ears. Sometimes we play charades, but I’ve always been bad at that game.

They look to me more and more for direction. I point and explain what needs to be done around the house. But in the forest? I clearly have no idea, and even if I did, the Old Man would have no idea what I’m saying.

Thus, after working on watsu and economics, between fighting village dogs and chasing cows, while tending to Lumière’s puppy and employees, I’m now researching Tropical … Forests and practicing Tamil online.

So, my fellow Americans, my only answer to you is: I’m keeping busy.

Chics Day Out

Interesting how much we’ve seen shapes how world view. Many will never leave their home country, many have never been on an airplane, many can’t even conceptualize elsewhere. I, for one, strongly advocate for travel and encourage others to see as much as they can. If I had the resources, I would give EVERYONE I know an opportunity to leave their sheltered life—even if only for a few moments.

Why should the baby chickens be exempt?

Thus far, the chicks’ entire world existed only of the blue birthing bin, the protective basket, and a few futile glimpses of the storage shed corner as we changed the sand or water in their home. It was time to push their limits.

(Plus, the Steward of the Land suggested a chick expedition via skype… so I was simply following orders.)

I first let them out in the morning. They just emerged from the storeroom door when the Old Man ran over hollering, pointing to the sky, and herding them back into the protective den. Apparently there’s a giant gray bird that eats baby chickens if they come out too early in the morning. Seriously.

So we tried again at the zenith of the day. Voila—Thelma, Louise, Beatrice, and Momacas (she’s a bit fatter than the others)—you are free! Go forth and prosper!

And while we (mostly Monica) took their guardianship quite seriously…

…this is primarily how and where they spent their day of freedom:

Getting them back into the basket was the hard part. It consisted of using the basket as a shield and a giant stick as a sword, so I pranced around like a gladiator until they were successfully herded back into their tiny dominion.

One of these days we’ll shift them to the abandoned hen house…

The Vet

It’s good to be humbled. I find I am wrong more frequently these days, and that’s fine. I’m sure I’m learning something besides humility.

A dear friend took me and the dog to the free vet for village dogs. What an incredible service! Walking through its beautiful gate, visitors find themselves in an open puppy playground with battered dogs full of life and hope. A three-legged beagle mix greeted us with protective barks and gentle kisses. Several mutts followed curiously in our wake. Others suffering from mange or broken limbs or whatever else were herded into the back field, where they can run and tussle and play. I was immediately relieved, and brought our street dog to the table.

“Ah, he’s not so bad,” the vet said.

I looked at the fly-infested, limping, bleeding dog and responded, “You must see a lot of suffering.”

She examined his wounds, weighed him, gave him a shot for worms, played with his feet and teeth and unmentionables. Here are the conclusions:

• He’s six to nine months old.
• He’ll be a big dog, judging by the size of his paws. Some German Shepard mix.
• He has mange and needs to be washed with special soap.
• He needs follow up worm pills.
• He needs to eat more. A lot more. He’s malnourished—probably because of the worms.
• He limps because he’s weak; as soon as the mange and worms go, he’ll be better.
• He’s already attached to us.

“Now,” she said, “the first step to healing is a name. What are you calling him?”

We each blurted out three different words.

“And that, I fear, will be your problem.”

Ok, ok... Gop__ it is?

The Dog

We're still settling on a name, but Gopta and Gopal are coming out on top… even though he’s not living up to his name as defender/protector or cow herder. In fact, as I spend time with him, I realize more and more how difficult this is going to be.

Here's why:

1. I'm not his person. Dogs pick their person; we, also, are drawn to certain dogs. I was not drawn to Gopta nor him to me; we were united by extraneous circumstances and now must learn to like each other. We’re getting there. Slowly.


2. He's old. I don't care what Raja said: This is not a puppy—it's a small-sized dog. His balls have dropped and he's stubborn. I'm not training a puppy; I'm teaching an old dog new tricks. Or trying to, at least.


3. He's scared. Of everything. Including the chickens. (And eating… Every time I feed him he nibbles, jumps away, timidly returns, eats some more, and continues as such until the bowl is empty.)


4. He doesn't bark. How can you noiselessly defend a house?


5. He won't chase the cows. Unless, of course, you count him chasing me as I chase the cows.
   

But I have faith if not patience. This poor pup had a hard life and survived something traumatic. In time, I hope, he’ll come around…

In the meantime, we’ll shower him with love and affection, heal and feed him, and try try try to make him the Defender of Lumière and Protector of Plants!

The Newest Addition

In the middle of the night Monica turned to me. “Catherine,” she whispered, “do you hear that?”

I listened to the sounds of the land. “Hear what?”

“That creepy noise that’s definitely not a cow.”

Yup. Yup, I heard it. And there was nothing me, Monica, or an injured old watchman that my grandfather could beat up could do about it. (In all fairness, my grandfather’s in remarkable health for 80.)

“We really, really need a dog,” I said.

“A big dog,” she replied.


Hours earlier, across Auroville…

Raja had just finished dinner with his family when his eldest brother marched in. “I need some leftover food.”

“You don’t have enough?” his mother asked, full of concern.

“It’s not for me; it’s for this damn dog that won’t get out from under my porch.”

“Dog?” Raja’s ears perked up.

So his brother told the story: A few days ago he—a mere puppy—was chased by bigger village dogs, and now he’s broken and bleeding in the sand near Brother’s house and refuses to move.

“Lumière will take him.”

So suddenly we have a guard dog in need of serious mending… and a name.


Any suggestions?!

The Case for Dogs

The land is lined with coconut tree gravestones of puppies long past. Something about dogs and this place doesn't work; they fall ill or injured and pass away long before their time is due.

But the land needs a dog. For example...

These days there are always strangers on the land. Dozens a day, from early morning until the heat becomes to much to bear. They come to pick cashews, but they wander too close to the house, use our water tap, sit in the kitchen. They ignore Raja’s request to keep away from our space and stick to the cashews.

One day Raja cracked. He was sick of the villagers coming too near, so he walked inside and concocted a plan.

He download sounds of dogs barking from the internet. And he played them, over and over, all the while shouting at his “dog.”

Slowly, slowly, the people moved away.


He told me this story after an afternoon of chasing cows. Out of breath, I could only reply: “Can we train our fake dog to herd cows too?”

Old Man vs Wild Cat

Last night there were noises. Violent noises. Noises too scary for us to check on. Plus, we have a night watchman, and his voice triumphed over the cries. So everyone in the house returned to dreams, and only this morning did we learn of the previous evening's heroic adventures...

Apparently the shadows hid more than sleeping bugs last night. Somewhere in the bushes lurked a wild cat, and his hungry eye was on the chickens. While the chickens' protectors slept soundly, the cat pounced--snatching away a beautiful white hen in its blood-thirsty fangs!

But the Old Man isn't too old. He sprung from his bed and approached the vicious cat with a big stick and only mild intimidation. It was one wild creature versus another, and with flaring arms and bizarre shouts, the Old Man frightened the beast away.

But not in time. The hen lay wounded on the ground, blood staining its precious feathers. The Old Man scooped the poor damsel up, nestled her in his arms, and walked away slowly. He soothed the creature, wrapped her in bandages, gave her the love and attention any old bird needs.

And today, she's walking with her chicken comrades across the Land.

No wildcat will get us down.

Welcome, Chics!

Raja sweetly created a home for the hens, and they quickly took advantage of it. Two hens laid six eggs. Now, tucked into the corner of the newly cleaned storeroom, a hen sits warming eggs in a blue bucket full of sand.

But today there was more than a hen, eggs and sand in the bucket. Today I heard chirping.

"Monica, come quick! And bring the camera!"

Thus we are pleased to welcome Thelma and Louise into the world. (We're naming them after girls in hopes that they don't join the incessant crowing... It's better for Monica's sanity this way.)

*We're working on taking better pictures... but you try touching a mother hen! They bite!

Roomies

I spent the night on the hammock; sometimes it’s just too damn hot in the house. As light slowly took over the land, my senses began to stir. My heart stopped. There was someone snoring beside me.

I froze and my limbs went cold as only the chill of fear makes them do. Who was sharing the deck? How did they get up here? What did they want? Was I in danger?

I listened to the rhythmic breathing and tried to take comfort in the fact that the breaths were small, meaning the breather couldn’t be too large either. Maybe one of the millions of locals got lost picking cashews yesterday, wandered all night, and ended up here. ‘It’s probably some poor little woman, or even a child!’

So I worked up the courage to turn around... slowly... carefully. I wished for something heavy or sharp with which I could defend myself if necessary. ‘I’ll have to rely on my charm... and dirty fingernails.’

With my face towards the breathing I opened my eyes. Nothing. The floor was completely empty. The dark corners were people-less. I was alone.

But the snoring continued.

So I looked up.

There, still as a statue, was perched a large owl. Its feathers lifted and left to the rhythm of the breaths. The great bird was snoring.

I laughed at myself and rolled back to sleep, content to share my space with such a magnificent creature. ‘We both can snore together for a few more hours...’

When I woke up in full light later, the bird was gone. A lizard had taken its spot—a lizard like I’ve never seen before. Pink head, green body, black neck and legs, beady eyes staring at me with curiosity. I swear its colors shifted as it slowly crept along the keet roof. Are there chamelians in these parts?

I laughed. I like that the house is so full, and we all make such splendid roommates.

Progress

Once upon a time (Dec. 25, 2008) fourteen students visited the Land.

They were Americans and unfamiliar with working with their hands. But they picked up mumpties...

...and clumps of compost...

...and together they planted four trees.

Six months later...

One of the students triumphantly (or foolishly?) returned to the land. Glowing with pride, she checked on their four trees.

And I'm proud to report, all four a growing well, happily, and safely at Lumière.

:)

~ c.e.michel

Country Cowgirl

The lady takes a mothering tone when she teases me for being a country girl because my nails are always dirty. "It’s because I’m constantly cleaning and planting!" I cry in defense.

The trendy gay man teases me for being defeminate because I don’t wear sparkly things. "But I only wear dresses!" I cry. "Plus, everything gets ruined when you spend so much time with red earth."

The friend tells me I’m a cowgirl because I’ve all but given up on make-up. "It’s too hot," I explain, tired of the teasing.

But today, as we returned to the Land from an afternoon out, I called the bike to a screeching halt and hopped off the back. There was a family of cows grazing, eating the flowers like they were exquisite desserts plated just for them. I grabbed a stick, started screaming in Tamil, and chased the beasts to the hole in the fence--while Vasantha and the Old Man looked on in laughter.

And it dawned on me that my friends may be right, and I deserve the teasing.

Things of which I am/was Proud

In the spring, we hung mirrors along the path. Driving along--especially at night--the little hanging spinning squares would capture light and reflect the way.

I received great feedback on the mirrors. They were beautiful, clever, helpful in finding the way. I was so proud.

But today they’re gone.

There are so many people wandering in the woods by the house these days that it was only a matter of time. Someone stole the mirrors, and I was crushed.


On the up-side I fixed the solar-powered washing machine, which required tools (that first had to be found then cleaned... too much bee honey on them to use!), disassembly, fiddling, and reassembly. I’m not really a fix-it-myself kind of gal, so I'm (once again) feeling pretty proud.

Things come and go, my friends.

The Story of the Old Man

The Old Man is the source of awe, superstition, rumors, and truths. Most assume he's a crazy drunk, but few can deny a certain...presence...he commands. Everyone who spends time on the land sees him, wonders, and guesses. He moves slowly amongst the trees, black skin shining under the Indian sun. He sits in silence outside his hut, the whites of his eyes watching you even in the darkest of nights. He wears a loin cloth and turban and nothing more.

Sometimes he shaves; sometimes his silver stubble grows a bit too long. Sometimes he sings; sometimes he converses with no one in particular.

Tonight I asked Raja for the Old Man's story.

"You know," Raja began, "he talks to himself sometimes. At first it scared me, so I asked him why..."

'The asuras,' the Old Man responded. 'They walk this land constantly, and if you cross their paths, they'll take your mind.' The devils will steal your sanity. 'I talk to nature, to the gods, to them. I sing about my life and release my sorrows; I do it to keep them away.'

Raja was intrigued and asked a great guru if there was any truth to the Old Man's tale.

'Yes,' the guru answered. 'There are no asuras in that land; what he's afraid of is no longer possible. However, the asuras--and any bad spirits--will only bother those who are afraid, who think negative thoughts. If you are strong, if you are a friend to all the energies, to all the souls lingering in the air, you will be safe no matter what.'

And that, I found, was sound advice.

"But what's his story?" I pressed.

He came from a town whose name means 'Two Dams.' "So," Raja said, "he grew up by the river." But, despite being a good person and a hard worker, the Old Man had no job. "So he came to the land with the first family that owned it. He came to make little works, to do the gardening, to tend the land." Years later, he still does... with great pride.

"He's also a bit of a translator, a communicator with the gods," Raja explained. Sometimes people will take him to the temple where he will begin to work as if intercepting instructions from the Divine. He'll do his piece and advise the locals on what they must do differently, and of what they're doing right.

I smiled. "So the man who protects Lumière speaks to the gods, to the spirits, and to nature. He sings his soul out to ensure he's strong enough to fight asuras. And he's so tremendously grateful and entrenched in this land that he's a part of it and it's a part of him. Right?"

Raja considered the question for a moment. "Right."

What better watchman could you ask for?

A Day at Lumiere

This morning I awoke with a jolt; something huge had landed on the thatch roof above my hammock bed. I followed with curiosity its heavy footsteps as it traversed the ceiling. Then, to my great delight, I watched a peacock descend and linger in the garden before trotting into the wilderness. What a way to start the day.


This afternoon Raja climbed a tree while Monica and I sipped wine, read, and hollered orders or encouragement to him from our swaying hammocks. Who ever said It's a man's world?

In the night we had delicious sambar cooked by Vasentha, who was in a particularly pleasant mood all day. We were serenaded by an unusually happy Old Man. And now, with the breeze bringing some cool fresh air to the land, we'll fall asleep with smiles sealed on our lips.

This is life at Lumiere.

Not bad, right?

Listening to the Land

I learned two important signs tonight:

1. When the gecko croaks, the words being spoken are certainly Truth. For example, if you're speaking of rain when it cries, it will surely rain.
   
   
2. When the owls cry, good spirits are present. Every night they wake me from my sleep, and now I can take comfort in their bittersweet song.
   

A New Old Friend

Raja wandered the land alone.

It was early--the best time to see the trees. It's still relatively cool at that hour; humidity hangs in the air like a thin silver veil instead of an oppressive iron weight. The rabbits linger longer in the morning, the birds sing sweeter, the bugs don't bother you as much.

But he wasn't alone.

From behind one of the pruned cashew trees a woman emerged, slowly, gracefully, silently. Raja greeted her with caution. "Are you lost?"

"No," she muttered mysteriously. "I came here."

Ok. "Do you need some water? Something?"

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Who are you?" he answered.

"Why do you need to know who I am?"

"Because," Raja replied, trying to keep his patience with the elder lady, "I am taking care of the land."

"Oh? And who are you?" Her voice wasn't harsh nor kind.

Our Warrior of the Woods sighed. Why play this game? "I am Raja. Martanda asked me to watch the land while he is in Canada."

"Ah, Martanda," she responded. "I want a jackfruit."

"Who are you?"

She too became tired of these silly questions. "I planted that jackfruit tree, and I want to sample its fruits." She is the mother of the first Lord of the Land.

Raja smiled, filled with joy. There's something special about Lumière that draws people in, lures people back. You reap the land with your hands and heart, and you want to see what magic your seedlings produce. "I am sorry, Madame," he said softly, sending her all the warmth of his heart. "The jackfruits are not yet ready. Please, please come back soon and we will share many with you."

She smiled. "Don't worry, I will."

We all come back some day.

productive play

I watched the rain fall with mixed emotions.

The land needs a drink. The roads need the water. And I love the smell of the forest and red earth after the rains fall. Plus, the skies have been thick and gray for days, grumbling and tumbling and twisting and shouting but never opening up. I'm sick of empty threats.

However, the rain stopped me in my tracks. I looked at the freshly cleaned whiteboard and list of "Things to Do," and I realized none could be accomplished in the rain.

Some people accuse me of being a workaholic. I disagree whole-heartedly. I just like doing things.

"But Catherine," they said as I looked longingly at the rain, "you work all day on the computer."

"It takes a lot of time to launch an NGO and raise funds for a business."

"But then you go back to the land and work."

I laughed. "That, my friend, isn't work. That's fun."


And thus, amazing things are unfolding on the land...even with the rain.

Monica vs. The Chickens

The chickens here live in trees. The trees receive them happily. Monica does not.

There is one rooster who lives in the tree behind the bedroom who seems particularly confused. Monica wants to eat him.

Every morning, around 1am... and 3am... and 6am... this rooster cries and cries and cries. And so does Monica.

I laugh, smile, sleep.

"Catherine," she said this morning as she drove to work, "I need earplugs." Just then a chicken darted from the bushes and threw its feathery self in front of the wheel, forcing her to swerve and curse. "Goddam chickens are haunting me!"

tee hee. It will be a fun fight to watch.

Raja, Monica & Me

Raja is taking good care of the land and of us.

The evening we arrived, he gave us a perfect welcome to the country: two weddings and a "coming of age" party--all in Tamil. "We like family now!" he shouted over and over, his voice thick with sweet enthusiasm.

Two days later, we were family... dining with his brothers and parents in a tiny hut in the local village.

We spend our evenings driving around Auroville and Pondy, walking the beaches and building dreams for what we'll do this summer on the land. A better water filter. More mirrors along the path. A new bedroom. A new garden. Or two. More flowers, more fruit, more animals. Whatever. A land of love and life and light--Lumière.

Raja is also our teacher. We are learning salsa, tango, and self-defense. He sits behind me with grave patience as I try try try to master the motorcycle. But my favorite lessons happen almost every evening as we collect our notebooks and sit cross-legged in a circle outside the front door. There, he teaches us Tamil.

"Soon," I tell Vasentha even though she doesn't understand me. "Soon we will be able to chat."

Tonight, Raja bravely led the caravan to the windmill, which we diligently climbed to catch a glimpse of the full moon.

And, of course, I already have a rash. So Raja, our teacher and caretaker, roamed the land and gathered all the right herbs for a perfect healing bath.

It may be India. It may be in the middle of the woods. But don't worry Ma, I'm in good hands.