In age she was younger; in
behavior she was protective as an elder sister. And her love and concern were
akin to those of a human mother. She joined the family as a young chick. In a
couple of months she became a full grown hen, broad and large in size, with a prominent
comb and wattles. Buff in colour, she had a few black feathers in her wings and
in a few other right spots, which added to her personality. Majestic in
demeanour, she soon became the undisputed numero
uno in her flock in social equations and pecking order. Other hens deferred
to her and always kept a respectful distance from her. She had a queenly
bearing, and the regal charisma in her personality made even the male members
of the flock treat her with utmost respect. This was such an unusual phenomenon
amongst this fiercely polygamous species, that a local poultry expert thought
that perhaps this amazing bird was a Vestal Virgin in her previous birth. My mother
suspected her of having had some kind of convent education in her formative months
under the personal care of nuns vowed to celibacy.
And she named her “The Nun”.
The
flock grows
Initially, when the Nun arrived
on the scene, the flock was about 15-member strong. These fowls were not bred
in-house. They were all carefully picked from the stocks of a part-time vendor in
the village. The criteria for selection were their beauty and grace. New stocks would arrive once in a while, and I had
the privilege of inspecting them first; and, if any new bird appealed to my
fancy, I would pick it up for myself. My selection process must have been quite
rigorous, because most of the time the new arrivals were rejected altogether. And
hence my bird population grew rather slowly. Eventually, over a period of some
three years, the flock grew to around thirty. You would have guessed by now
that these birds were being reared more as pets than from commercial considerations.
And, barring two or three males at a time, the rest were all female birds. That
was a viable gender-equation because, in their polygamous society, one male
could easily service some 12 to 15 females.
Our female ‘pets’ were never used
for meat; so they lived out their life span without human intervention even
after they ceased to lay eggs. But, in those days when poultry meat was a
rarity in the market, people could eat this delicacy only by using fowls reared
in-house. At home we used to kill male birds on occasions, especially for treating
guests unexpectedly arrived. And the stock would be eventually replenished by
buying new roosters from the vendor whenever fresh stocks arrived. As a result,
there was frequent turnover among the male birds; and most of them lived hardly
beyond eight to ten months. At the same time, the average age of the female
birds was steadily going up.
With so many females around, the
new male members always felt eagerly welcomed, and had no kind of entry problems
in their new territory. Even the Nun would socially welcome them with
affectionate clucking sounds, but without allowing them to cross the lakshman rekha. Any ‘ignorant’ newcomer
beginning his courting dance around her would get an indifferent look from her,
stopping him in his advances. And if any one thus rejected was foolish enough
to take an aggressive posture as is customary among roosters, he would get a
response in kind. There were instances, rare though, of the Nun giving them ‘peck
for peck’ kind of punishment and consummately beating indiscreet males into
submission. And, once beaten, the males would reconcile with the situation and keep
some distance from her.
Her day began like that of any
other fowl in the flock. At the peep of dawn, as the roosters gave their
clarion calls from their perches, the birds would enthusiastically jump down from
their trees one by one, welcoming the new day with great delight. Once on the
ground, they spread their wings and run a few distance as part of their regular
exercise. There in the open backyard, they would move around clucking and
playfully pecking as per their established pecking order. The roosters would
crow from time to time, making their masculine presence felt and declaring their
hegemony over the territory. Some birds could be seen plucking at leaves of
small plants in the area and eating them. Some would choose small pebbles from
the ground and swallow them. Others would look for worms. Some would drink
water from the container provided in the area. Roosters would merrily begin
their mating game right from the morning. Some female birds start laying eggs
from early morning, although majority of them would do that by midmorning to
noon.
These birds were ‘free rangers’
without any coop or enclosure to limit their movement. Yet they always moved within
their accustomed territory that was our backyard. At the centre of this
backyard was a small hut in which their regular feed was prepared. The feed
used to be given in three large-mouthed vessels so that some ten birds could
surround each vessel and eat comfortably from it. It was thus that their world
was limited to our backyard that was their territory, with the feed source in
the hut at the centre.
Feeding in the morning
The birds were fed twice a day –
in the morning at 8.30 and in the evening by 4.30.
For the first feed of the day,
they would all be ready by 8. Till the feed comes they would move round and
round the hut clucking and clucking. By 8.30, the feeder would appear on the
scene. And the birds would all rush in anticipation to the spot where the first
vessel would be placed. The moment the vessel arrives, the crowd would jump
into the fray with alacrity, without any discipline or any consideration for
others, leading sometimes to unseemly fights. The regular exceptions were the
male birds and the Nun. The second vessel arrives and some of them would shift to
it. When the third vessel has arrived, there would be some order among the
chickens, with a nearly equal distribution among them. The males would move
from one vessel to another in a show of supervision and patronization. But the
Nun could be seen waiting for clear orderliness to set in among the birds. She
would then join the least populated vessel and partake of her repast from there,
the other birds voluntarily moving some distance to give her space.
Laying eggs
After the breakfast the time
comes for good many of the hens to lay eggs; they go to their respective
‘clutches’ for the purpose. After laying the egg, the hen loudly clucks to
announce having done her job. And one could hear a series of such tell-tale clucking
from midmorning to noon and sometimes beyond.
We used to get some 12 to 15 eggs
a day. The vendor would come daily to collect each day’s surplus eggs. The eggs
laid by our favourite hen were never sold. They were larger in size and their
contents thicker. Once the vendor inspected the egg and expressed the suspicion
it was duck’s egg.
Personal hygiene
And our Nun seemed to take greater care in this daily
exercise.
Feeding in the evening
This was a truly memorable
experience. Awaiting my return from school, the whole flock would be there at
the gate to welcome me, because I was the feeder. The impatient ones would jump
on to me in a seemingly affectionate gesture, and some would try to perch on my
extended hand and gently peck at me in a show of extravagant affection. The Nun
would be there nearby, unhurriedly walking in step with me, like a mature lady.
The males would move with the hens from a distance. The procession would stop
at the doorstep of the house, and the flock would reassemble at the backdoor,
awaiting my exit into the backyard after my dress-change and tiffin. Once I emerge,
the flock would lead me to the feed-house, and there they would wait for their
dinner with alacritous anticipation. The feed is brought out and laid out in three
vessels, and the morning drama is repeated.
After the dinner, the birds are
calm; and they have nothing much to do for the rest of the day. They move
around, clucking at times, with no sense of urgency. Their motor activity has
come down, and it is all calm.
The Nun’s friendship with the goat
When the contended birds lazily moved
around after the dinner, the Nun would accompany me to the stable where my pet
goat was housed. We two would together open the stable-door and take our friend
out for about an hour for exercise and for grazing in the compound where grass
and small plants abounded. This meandering procession of the threesome always
had the hen leading the way all through the accustomed route around the house. And towards the end of the circuit and close
to the stable there was a dwarf tree. The
goat had a liking for its leaves, and I would pick some of its tender leaves
for her to eat. And almost invariably before the two of us followers got to the
tree, the Nun leading from the front would be there waiting for us to catch up.
Whenever I playfully went past her without picking leaves for the goat, she
would give me a kind of reminder clucks. After the goat had had her fill, we
are almost at the end of the evening stroll. The contented goat is returned to her
stable, and the evening job is done. The Nun has accomplished her task with obvious
relish.
Then she accompanies me to my
doorstep. From there, after seeing me off into my ‘stable’, she goes to join
the flock with the satisfaction of having taken good care of both her pets.
Roosting
Soon it is time for the birds to
roost. They jump on to their trees and perch at their accustomed places on the
branches. Like school children occupying their regular seats, the birds would sit
on their regular perches. Once the perch is chosen by a chicken, which is done
with due deference to the community’s pecking order, it would continue to be its
by custom, and none others would ever lay any claim to it.
The night would be calm and
silent, barring occasional crowing by the roosters. The flock would be recharging
their batteries for nearly 11/12 hours for their next day’s hectic life.
Breeding/brooding
A normal, healthy hen lays an egg
a day for some 12 to 15 days, and then ‘brood’ over the eggs for about 21 days
to give them its body heat as needed for hatching them. And till the young
chicks grow to adolescence, the mother hen would be single-mindedly protecting
them, to the exclusion of all social contacts especially with the male birds.
She resumes ‘normal’ life and restarts laying eggs after weaning the chicks, i.e.,
when they are about four months old. And the cycle of life repeats.
At home, we did not resort to
in-house breeding. Pursuant to this policy, the birds were not given the
opportunity to brood. The easiest way to prevent brooding was by removing their
accustomed clutches when they showed symptoms of the onset of brooding. The
hens would then be compelled to be out in the open with the other birds, in the
company of whom they would be persuaded to lead ‘normal’, active life. The bird
would then quickly overcome the instinct to brood, and would re-enter her
egg-laying cycle.
The Nun’s
friendship with humans
Interestingly, The Nun found greater
friendship and social fulfillment outside her species. She chose me as her best
friend. My mother was another best friend of hers. My pet-goat was her pet too.
During daytime, when I would be
away at school, the Nun would accompany Mother whenever she was out in the
courtyard or in the compound, moving in step with her. Mother would feed the
goat thrice a day, and the Nun would be around, not for sharing the feed but as
if to witness and help Mother in the activity. She would be clucking in
between, expressing her happiness and satisfaction. All the while, her
fellow-birds would be in the backyard looking after their own interests.
On holidays, I used to pursue my
studies while reclining on the easy chair under my favourite tree in the front
yard. There, close to me, the Nun would sit down and keep company with me. On
such occasions, she could also be seen preening and oiling her feathers.
The
anticlimax in her life
My favourite Nun was some seven
years old when tragedy struck. Fairly old she was then in chicken standards. In
the normal course, a hen attains motherhood at the age of six months. On this
reckoning, she could have had grandchildren of the 13th or 14th
generation. But she would not, because she was a celibate, and successive male
birds in the flock were decent enough to defer to her temperamental wishes.
Even her contemporaries in the flock would not have had children in spite of
their fertilized eggs, because we would consume or sell them for consumption.
And then we heard a hen had hatched
a brood of chicks in our neighbourhood, and that one male chick soon grew into
a dominant kind of cockerel, large and athletic in build and quite adventurous
in spirit. He was the first to crow among his brothers and to go after the
females with audacity and courage. We could hear his arrogant crowing from
across the border fence. Sensing the presence of responding hens in our
compound, he jumped over the fence to the warm welcome of an avid female crowd.
He went around them and straightaway established relationship with them without
encountering any material resistance from the two existing males.
Then he noticed our handsome Nun,
majestically raising her head and gazing at this new arrogant brat with some
empathetic curiosity. And he took a fateful fancy to this great-grandmother
figure. Straightaway did he run towards her in full speed and dispatch with his
wings half-extended, as if to conquer her without anticipating any resistance.
Hens normally like such strategies from strong, audacious males. After an
initial show of coyness and fleeing from the marauder (which itself is a way of
conveying her affirmation of his macho masculinity), the female bird would
gleefully surrender to the fellow. But
this young man chose a very wrong woman. The matronly lady stood her ground,
cool and unflappable, in the anticipation that the guy would soon withdraw like
all her previous suitors. But no. This guy would not retreat. Her indifference
notwithstanding, he should have what he desired.
The Nun gave him a powerful peck.
Unimaginably devastating was its consequence. It fuelled the fire of his infernal
determination. “Hell had no fury like this arrogant rooster scorned.” His outraged
male blood cried out for revenge to uphold his honour. Breathing fire, he arched
back his neck and gave her a most vicious peck at her proud red comb. Blood
spurted. Instantly did she realize, for the first time in her life, that she
had become old and her power had waned. Swiftly did she grasp the hot intensity
of her adversary’s determination. Terror overwhelmed her for the first time. She
threw discretion to the winds and fled, and he was in hot pursuit after her.
The slim, trim youngster outran her, and the moment he was on her, he plucked
at her head with all his might and pulled out a mouthful of her hair. He
recoiled in the process and fell to the ground with a thud, and she resumed
running with all her energy to save her life. He would again run after her and
pull out a tuft of feather and fall down with that feather in his mouth. This
process was repeated and the lady ran thrice around the house; and the young
guy must have pulled at her head a dozen times. Hearing the tumult outside the
house and the unusual alarm clucks from the other birds, I came out to see what
was happening. I saw the Nun running towards me huffing and puffing, with the young
upstart like a tornado in hot pursuit. He plucked at her one last time in my
seeing, and fell to the ground. Then she straightaway jumped into my arms; and
the insolent youngster, mad with rage and blind to notice my presence, jumped up
to get at her. Instinctively I raised my right foot and gave him a powerful kick.
The midair kick landed at his throat, and the youngster fell to the ground in a
somersault and lay there quiet.
I could feel her galloping heartbeat
against my bosom, and I could also realize how much she had trusted me as a
friend who could come to her rescue at that moment of her frightful agony.
Mother came too and she took her in her arms to reassure her. The cock was
dead; and that would be a cause for another conflict with my temperamentally
pugnacious neighbor. But Mother said, let him quietly go to hell; our Nun was
safe. That was what mattered. Other hens and the roosters were around us at a
distance and were observing the scene with alarm.
Then, all of a sudden, did we
notice some movement in the dead youngster’s legs? Yes; they moved. After
several failed attempts, he was able to stand on his feet. He was jittery as he
tentatively put his feet forward and it was as if he had also become blind,
darkness having spread into his eyes as he received that kick on his vulnerable
throat. He looked around in the manner of a blind man. And, hazily sensing the image
of the hen in Mother’s arms, he slunk away in embarrassment as though it was
from her that he received the unexpected kick. Slowly, under the watchful eyes
of the other birds, he limped and tottered in the direction of the fence, and there
he made some attempt at scaling the fence. After several tries he succeeded in
landing on top of the fence; and there he rested for a while. Then he jumped
down and disappeared into his own territory. We had since heard his diffident,
guttural crowing for some days, his voice becoming progressively weaker. And
then we heard him no more.
Our Nun soon recovered from the
physical injuries she suffered from the young upstart, thanks to the herbal
treatment Mother had administered on her. But her earlier sprightliness had disappeared.
Her cheer level had come down. She had become a pale shadow of her former majestic
self. It was as if her very outlook on life and her very self-esteem, the very paradigm
of her life, had inexorably altered. She seemed to be going through the motions
of her daily habits, including her fellowship with me, with Mother and with the
she-goat. Apparently it was the injury her self-esteem had suffered that defied
cure. She could not overcome the nagging memory of that shameful, cataclysmic
experience. She became wrapped up in herself. Her appetite too suffered.
Then, one day we saw her standing
alone near the hut in the backyard, with her shoulders stooping and her face
drooping. We feared her end was near. It was not a misplaced fear. That
evening, she could not climb on to her perch on her accustomed tree. I kept her
inside the hut. The next morning we saw her lying on the floor, dead. What an
anticlimax for such a dignified life!
A grave was dug for her in a
corner of the backyard. The flock came and stood at some distance, emitting
some weird sounds, signifying their grief and incredulity. The she-goat was
brought out from the stable, and she too stood there watching the lifeless body
of her companion. When her body was interred, Mother felt it was a part of her
own that was being buried.
In my adult years, whenever I
visited home, I would also spend some time at the spot where my Nun was buried.
She had taught me you didn’t have to be a human being to live a life of dignity.
K X M John
27/04/2011
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