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.

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?!

Scorpions

I never really considered myself a scaredy cat.

Sure, from time to time loud bursts of thunder make me jump. Fine, I occasionally have nightmares about clowns that turn people into cotton candy and suck their blood. And I still think Ernest Scared Stupid was the scariest movie I’ve ever seen... aside from The Ring.

My point is I don’t get frightened driving through the woods in the middle of the night; snakes and small animals don’t scare me; I don’t think there are monsters living in the closet everyone refuses to open. I’ve even overcome my fear of spiders and peacefully co-habitate with giant hairy arachnoids.


But this weekend I discovered scorpions.


The first one we saw was at night, and it looked like a black lobster crossing the dirt path. “Is... is that a scorpion?” I asked Monica, a Texan, as we drove past.

“Sure was,” she replied coolly. She’s seen her share of scorpions and, as she quickly reminded me, the bigger the better.

Still, my blood ran cold.


Later, as I plugged away on my keyboard, I heard shouting from the downstairs bathroom where Monica was emerging from the shower. “Goddam scorpion buried itself in my skirt while I was in the shower for five freakin’ minutes, lil [expletive], [expletive], [expletives].” (Apparently she likes scorpions less when they’re in her clothes instead of on the road.)

While this one was small and red and thus more dangerous, it didn’t bother me, as I didn’t see it. “It’s only a scorpion,” I hollered down. “Get used to ‘em, I guess.” But don’t expect me to use that bathroom ever again.


In the morning I noticed a flattened black shell of a scorpion buried in my tire tracks. Monica told me she saw a small one cross the road. “The rains bring ‘em out,” the locals told us. Great.


Then Saturday night we went to the most innocent of events: a child’s play at the Visitors’ Center. Obviously something of this nature puts you in a cute and cuddly mood, and you naturally feel happier about everything. Until you go to the parking lot, climb onto your bike, and notice a giant lobster with a spiked tail staring at you. Scorpions are NOT cute and cuddly, nor anything to be happy about.

Fight or flight, right? Well I scrambled awkwardly to get into gear, pressing the wrong pedals until I jerked the bike forward and far away. I was silent; no words within me could alert the group of people coming to the parking lot about the giant beast that awaits, ready to induce pain with its miserable stinger. The children—for the Love of God—I failed to warn the children!

But I realized as soon as I regained my voice that I am afraid of scorpions, and if tested in a crisis situation, I would surely fail.

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?

Why nice guys finish last

"Whatcha feel like doin?" I asked, out of politeness.

"I dunno. Whatchu feel like doin?" she responded for the same reason.

We both knew what was in store for us: Girls' night out.


With wine and nice dinner on the mind, we wove our way through the lightening-lit streets of Pondi to Satsanga, a charming French/Italian/Chinese/Indian restaurant that plays host to so many of my fondest memories. We entered, late, to find only three other active tables: 1) a local sat drinking in a dimly lit corner; 2) two foreigners shouted at each other over half-full beers; and 3) an American or French boy eating alone and engaging the entire waitstaff with his tales. We chose a spot far away from them all.

But we were bound not to be alone. Before we finished dinner, the drunk India had relocated to the table beside us--despite all the other empty tables filling the star-lit space of Satsanga. Engrossed as Monica and I were in each other's conversation, we couldn't ignore the weight of his stare and the burden of his eyes. Then he started talking to us. Or, at least, he tried. In a drunk and thick accent, we made out simple questions which we answered with short, curt replies. He kept pressing. I snapped. We moved tables.

Of course, we then found ourselves near the two foreigners speaking loudly in a language we hadn't previously paid attention to. Turns out they too were drunk and wouldn't stop talking to us. I am not a patient person and entered bitch mode, causing Monica to laugh even more over quickly disappearing wine.

They improved though, mostly because they were Russian circus workers in Pondi for the Gemini Circus. Before long they ordered us dessert; cute. Then they ordered us more wine; ok. Then they ordered more dessert, more wine, and paid the bill. "Monica," I said as they sought to order more, "it's really time to go."

Meanwhile, the lone boy with the charming smile who made friends with the waiters kept making eyes at us too. But, to my surprise, he simply left... after speaking loudly to the waiter about how he'd return tomorrow. Between the Indian's stares and the Russians' progressive drunkenness, the lone departing Westerner seemed like the most decent person there. So as we left, I slipped his waiter my card and instructions to deliver both to the boy the following day.

The note read:

Thanks for being the only guy not blatantly hitting on us tonight. Call for a chai some time."

On the ride home, I found myself laughing as we dodged potholes and mud puddles created from freshly fallen rain. Men always whine that "nice guys finish last." But that's not true. It's just nice guys leave quietly without giving an opening for good things to happen, and the assholes don't shut up, thus giving them more opportunities to lure even the most skeptical bitch out of hiding.

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.

Monica's Quotes: #2

We were gathered around the kitchen table, dining and drinking and laughing. The bugs joined us.

"Dear God," Monica exclaimed. "I'm so pale the moths are attacking me."

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.

Monica's Quotes: #1

Driving into Pondi, I laughed to myself about my first impressions of the road. I clung to my driver and said, "You know, I'm trusting you with my life right now." Buildings flew by, shopkeepers shouted, he wove through buses and cars coming in the wrong lane. It's crazy. I asked Monica if she was nervous.

"No, no," she replies. "It's just like driving in Paris... except for all the motorcycles and cows in the road."

Of Cashews & Fingernails

We returned to find Vasentha removing cashew nuts from sickly sweet over-ripe cashew fruits. I had to see how it was done.

Vasentha laughed as I brushed ants and worms off a mushy green sample and pulled the nut off, squealing with delight. "Monica," I giggled, "you gotta try this!" Especially since I had to go. Business calls.

"What are you going to do while I'm at the meeting?" I asked Monica through the red walls of the house. I was concerned I was trapping this fair-skinned lady in a land she didn't know. "Will you read? Nap?"

"Nah. I'm going to help her with the cashews."

Perfect.

Later that night, she gave me her feedback: "It was great," she said. "We sat together until the whole pile was gone. We talked... I guess. I mean I talked to her in English and she talked to me in Tamil, and we just pretended we knew what hte other was saying. Or maybe we pretended the other was responding with whatever response we were hoping for."

I noticed then I was smiling so widely my cheeks ached. "Tonight we'll petition Raja for Tamil lessons."

"Right," she responded. "As soon as I cut off my nails. I don't think I'll ever lose the smell of the dirt and ants and worms and rotten fruit!"

And just then, Raja entered with gorgeous smelling flowers for our hair...

It begins... (again)

Things in the forest are changing. Temporarily.

This is the Lord of the Land:

A real-life moglie, he is so in-tuned with the land that a mongoose trespassing in the middle of the night will awake him so violently he will leap to the porch and hollar wildly to save his chickens, who are sleeping soundly in the trees (for lack of a coop). He all sorts of useful tips for tending to and leveraging the awesome power of nature, he instinctively knows his way through the 20-acre maze of forest paths, and he can protect even the most unsuspecting visitors from the dangers of wilderness. He feels this place, craves it, loves it.

But he's in Canada now.


Enter Monica and me.

I am in Auroville to launch an NGO that will introduce a complimentary cuurency into the bioregion. Monica, who is a graduate development policy student pursuing are urban creatures more acclimated to navigating metro systems than forest paths. We seek out the best happy hour specials, not the ripest fruit or veggies from outside our window. We linger at street-front cafés for best middle-of-the-night study sessions and afternoon wine breaks. We know very little of nature. And for the next three months, we're watching the land.


Wish us luck.