K. Ravikumar

Vishaka George

Editor

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In the
Mudumalai Tiger Reserve the eyes rest but the ears don&#39;t. Birds and animals
communicate in sounds we can&#39;t quite understand. Amidst these are the languages
of various tribes who live in Tamil Nadu&#39;s Nilgiris mountains.

“Nalaiyavoduthu” [How
are you]? ask the Bettakurumbas. The Irulars say “sandhakithaiya?” 

It’s the same question, different greetings.

The music of
the animals and people in this southern region of the Western Ghats contrasts
sharply with the noise of vehicles and machines elsewhere. These are the sounds
of home.

I live
within the Mudumalai Tiger Reserve in Pokkapuram (officially Bokkapuram)
village, on a small street called Kurumbar Padi. From late February to early
March, this serene place transforms into a bustling town akin to thoonga nagaram [city that never
sleeps], a name also used for the big city of Madurai. This change is due to
the temple festival dedicated to the goddess Pokkapuram Mariamman. For six
days, the town pulses with crowds, festivities, and music. Yet, when I think of
life in my oor [village], this is
only part of the story.

This isn’t a story about the tiger reserve or my
village.  It&#39;s about someone who plays a
defining role in my life—a woman who single-handedly raised five children after
her husband abandoned them. This is the story of my mother.

My official
name is K. Ravikumar, but among my people, I am known as Maaran. Our community
refers to itself as Pettakurumbar, although officially we are listed as
Bettakurumba. 

The heroine
of this story, my amma [mother], is
called ‘Methi’, both officially and by our people. My appa [father] is Krishnan, known by our community as Kethan. I am
one of five siblings: my eldest sister, Chithra (Kirkaali in our community); my
elder brother, Ravichandran (Maadhan); my second eldest sister, Sasikala
(Keththi); and my younger sister, Kumari (Kinmari). My elder brother and sister
are married and live with their families in Paalavaadi, a village in Tamil
Nadu’s Cuddalore district.

My earliest
memories are of either amma or appa taking me to the anganwadi, a government-run childcare
centre, where I experienced all kinds of emotions with my friends –happiness,
joy, anger, and sorrow. At 3 p.m., my parents would pick me up and we would go
home.

Before
alcohol took over his life, my appa was
a very affectionate man. Once he started drinking, he turned irresponsible and
violent. &quot;The bad company that accompanies him is the reason for his
behaviour,&quot; my mother would say.

My first
recollection of trouble at home was when appa
came home drunk one day and started yelling at amma. He assaulted her and insulted her parents and siblings – who
were also with us at the time – with the most offensive language. Although
forced to listen to him, they tried to ignore his words. These outbursts became
a daily occurrence.

I distinctly
remember an incident when I was in Class 2. As usual, appa came home drunk and angry, hit amma, then my siblings and me. He threw all our clothes and
belongings onto the street, screaming at us to get out of his house. That
night, we clung to our mother on the street, like young animals seek warmth
from their mothers during the winter.

Since GTR
Middle School – the tribal government institution we went to – had boarding and
food facilities, my elder brother and sister decided to stay there. During
those days, it seemed like all we had in surplus were our cries and tears. We
continued to stay in our home, while appa
was the one to move out. 

We were
always on tenterhooks, not knowing when the next fight would erupt. One night, appa&#39;s drunken rage escalated into a
physical fight with amma&#39;s brother. Appa, wielding a knife, tried to slit my
uncle&#39;s hands. Fortunately, the knife was too blunt to cause serious damage.
Others in the family intervened, attacking appa.
In the chaos, my younger sister, held by amma,
fell and hurt her head. I stood there, cold and helpless, unable to process
what was happening.

The next
day, the front yard was splattered with the reddish-black blood stains of my
uncle and appa. At midnight, my
father staggered home and dragged me and my sister out of my grandfather&#39;s
house, taking us to his tiny room amidst the fields. A few months later, my
parents separated for good.

At the
family court in Gudalur, my siblings and I expressed our wish to stay with our amma.  For a while, we lived happily with our
maternal grandparents, whose home was on the same street as our parents&#39; house.

Our happiness was short-lived as we ran into
tough times. Food was starting to become a problem. The 40 kgs of ration my
grandfather was entitled to wasn&#39;t enough for all of us. Most days, my
grandfather slept on an empty stomach to ensure we ate. Desperate, he brought
home prasadham (sacred food)
sometimes from the temples to fill our stomachs. That&#39;s when amma decided to go for labour work.

Amma dropped out of
school in Class 3 as her family was unable to finance her education anymore.
She spent childhood taking care of her younger siblings, and at 18 she was made
to marry my father. 

Appa collected firewood
for the canteen in a large coffee estate located 10 kilometres away from
Pokkapuram, called Singara village – in Gudalur block of the Nilgiris. 

Nearly everyone in our area worked there. While
they were married, my mother stayed home to care for us. After their
separation, she joined the Singara coffee estate as a daily wage worker,
earning Rs. 150 a day.

Every day,
she went to work at 7 a.m., toiling through sun and rain. I’ve heard her
co-workers say, “she never rests even during lunch breaks”. For almost eight
years she ran the house with her earnings from this work. I have seen her
coming back from work as late as 7:30 p.m., her sari completely drenched,
shivering, with nothing but a wet towel to keep her covered.  On such rainy days, our house would leak from
various spots in the roof, and she would move from corner to corner, placing
vessels to catch the water. 

I would
often help her start a fire, and then the family would sit by it and talk to
each other every night up to 11. 

On some nights, as we lay in bed, before we fell
asleep, she would talk to us, even sharing some of her hardships. At times, she
even cried as she recollected them.  If
we began to cry hearing her stories, she would immediately joke to distract us.
Is there a mother in this world who can bear to see her children cry?

Eventually,
I enrolled in Sri Shanthi Vijiya High School in Masinagudi, run by my mother&#39;s
employers. It was a school for the workers’ children. Going there it felt like
jail. Despite my pleas, amma insisted
I attend, even resorting to beatings when I was stubborn. Eventually, we moved
from our grandparents’ home to my eldest sister Chithra’s marital home, a tiny
two-room hut. My younger sister, Kumari, continued at the GTR Middle School.

When my
sister Sasikala faced overwhelming pressure from her Class 10 exams, she quit
school to handle household chores, giving my mother some respite. A year later,
Sasikala got a job at a Tirupur textile company, visiting us once or twice a
year. Her Rs. 6,000 monthly salary supported us for five years. Amma and I visited her every three
months and she always gave us her savings. A year after my sister started
working, my mother stopped working at the coffee estate. She dedicated a lot of
her time to taking care of my elder sister, Chithra&#39;s child and the house.

I managed to
finish my Class 10 at Sri Shanthi Vijiya High School and then moved to Kotagiri Government
Boarding School for higher secondary. My mother sold dried dung cakes to fund
my education, determined to provide better opportunities. When appa left, he destroyed our home
and disconnected the electricity. Without power, we used kerosene lamps made
from liquor bottles, later replacing them with two sembu [copper] lamps. These lamps lit our lives for ten years until
we finally regained electricity when I was in Class 12.

My mother endured a lot to restore our
electricity, battling bureaucracy and overcoming her own fear of electricity.
When alone, she switches off all the lights, using only her lamps. When I asked
her why she was so afraid of electricity, she recalled an incident she heard
where a woman died from an electric shock at Singara.

For my
higher studies, I joined Arts College in the district headquarters,
Udhagamandalam (Ooty). My mother took loans to cover my fees and bought me
books and clothes. To repay these loans, she worked at vegetable farms and
collected dried dung cakes. Initially, she sent me money but I soon started
working part-time at a catering service to support myself and send money back
home. My mother, now over 50, has never asked anyone for financial help. She is
always ready to work, regardless of the job.















When
my eldest sister’s children were a bit older, my mother would leave them at the
anganwadi to collect dried cow dung
from the wild fields. She collected dung all week and sold it for Rs. 80 a
bucket. She would start at 9 a.m. and return only by 4 p.m., surviving on wild
fruits like kadalipazham (a cactus
fruit) for lunch. 















When
I asked how she remained energetic despite eating so little, she said, &quot;In
my childhood, I ate lots of meat, leafy vegetables, and tubers from the forests
and wild fields. The food I ate in those days is the reason for my energy
today.&quot; She relishes wild leafy greens! I have seen my mother survive on a
rice gruel – just salt and hot water. 















Surprisingly,
I have rarely heard amma say, &quot;I
am hungry.&quot; She always seemed content just by watching us, her children,
eat. 















At
home, we have three dogs, Diya,
Deo and Rasathi, and goats too – each one named after the colour of
their coat. These animals are as much a part of our family as we are. Amma cares for them just as she does for
us, and they reciprocate her endless love. Every morning, she feeds and waters
them, giving the goats leafy greens and boiled rice water.

My mother is
deeply religious, placing her faith in Jedasamy and Ayyappan more than in our
traditional deity. Once a week, she deep cleans our house and visits the
Jedasamy temple, sharing her inner struggles with these gods.

I&#39;ve never
seen my mother buy a saree for herself. Every saree she owns, only eight in
total, was gifted by my aunt and elder sister. She wears them repeatedly,
without any complaints or expectations. 

Many villagers used to gossip about the
constant fights in my family. Today, they find it astonishing that my siblings
and I turned out so well despite our daily struggles. Local people now
congratulate my mother for raising us without letting us feel the heavy burden
she carried. 

















In retrospect, I am glad amma forced me to go to Sri Shanthi Vijiya
High School. It’s where I
learnt English. If not for that school and amma’s persistence, my higher
education would have been a struggle. I don&#39;t think I could ever repay my amma for all she has done. I am indebted
to her for life.

At the end of every day, when amma is finally able to stretch her legs
and relax, I look at her feet. Feet that have laboured for years, no matter
what. Even if work demands her to stand in water for hours, as it quite often
does, her feet still resemble dry barren land with multiple cracks on them. It
is these cracks that brought us up.

Methi, my mother

میتی، میری ماں

ਮੇਥੀ, ਮੇਰੀ ਮਾਂ

ମେତି, ମୋ ମା’

मेती... माझी माय

മേതി, എന്റെ അമ്മ

ಮೇತಿ, ನನ್ನಮ್ಮ

मेती, मेरी मां

મેતી: મારી માની કહાણી

मोर मयारू महतारी ‘मेती’

मेती, हमार माई

আমার মা মেতি

মেতী, মোৰ মা

என் தாய், மேத்தி

Nilgiris

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Methi, my mother

A young Bettakurumba from Bokkapuram, a village nestled in the Nilgiris forests, writes about his mother

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