The Coconut Tree and the Woodpecker

In a mountain valley, where the River Nirmala flowed in from the hills, stood a coconut tree called Thengachi. All her life she had leaned towards the water, her fronds combing the wind. Crows, cormorants and parakeets came to rest on her, and she knew them all.

Her last coconuts had fallen long ago, and her trunk was going soft inside.

One morning a woodpecker named Kotthan landed on her trunk. He was a golden flameback, with a bright red crest and a chisel-like beak. Kotthan tapped his way from top to bottom, pressing his ear to her bark.

Thengachi rustled her fronds to welcome him. Woodpeckers came to her looking for grubs. But this one kept tapping.

"Little one, did you not find any yet?" she asked.

Kotthan did not seem to hear.

He found a soft place below her crown and settled there. He closed his eyes in prayer and struck his beak against her. The blow ran through her whole length. Another came, and another. She held her every frond still.

At last she tossed her fronds. "What is it that you are doing?" she called out.

He only drilled deeper.

When he left for the day, Thengachi let her fronds fall loose. "What a rude creature," she thought. She felt the scar on her trunk; it was not very deep. But what if he came back? She was worried.

Kotthan was back.

"Stop this. Did you not hear me?" she demanded.

With each blow, pieces of her fell, and the smell of her sap drifted off on the wind.

Thengachi prayed for strong winds to carry him away. She looked at the sky, hoping it would turn dark and rain. It did not.

Then one day he did not come. Nor the next. She let herself believe it was over. The hole stayed; she would learn to live with it.

Until a woodpecker landed on her. This one had a black crest.

"Shoo, shoo, go away. I don't like woodpeckers here," she snapped.

It flew off, but came back with another, and they landed at the edge of the hole. The other was Kotthan.

Now two beaks took turns at her. When one stopped, the other began. At times they rose to her crown to rest. It irritated her when they scrapped and chased among her fronds.

Bits of herself heaped up on the ground. Even when they rested, the drilling went on in her.

One afternoon the pair sat side by side at the entrance before flying off early. The hollow in her was almost a nest.

They returned at first light. Kotthan pushed himself into the nest, but he flew out shrieking. Two parakeets came chasing him out.

"This is my nest," he cried out. The parakeets screeched.

He turned to Thengachi and pleaded, "Tell them, tell them, this is my nest."

Thengachi said nothing. "So he can talk," she told herself.

He tried to push in again, but they attacked him. Kotthan's mate dived in beside him. The parakeets drove them both away.

Golden and green feathers glided down.

As Thengachi watched the woodpeckers flee, the parakeets settled on her fronds, swaying gently in the breeze.

The Mango Tree and the Mistletoe

A little way from Devi Amma's temple stood a mango tree called Mangaachi. She was tall, and her branches spread far and wide. Her broad trunk was furrowed deep, and her bark was draped in slippery moss.

Mangaachi was beloved. She had lived long, and the whole place counted her as a friend. Crows and parrots, mynas and squirrels, ants and termites, rats and monkeys — she welcomed them all. She gave them shade, shelter, and food. She listened to their stories — their longings, their quarrels, and their small triumphs.

Yet her grace faltered whenever she thought of one creature: the mistletoe, Etthikanni. He had clung to her tallest branch for many years, feeding on her.

She had taken great pains to drive him away, but he always held on. Sometimes, when she was particularly troubled, she would remember Devi Amma and chant, "Amme Narayana, Devi Narayana..." Perhaps Devi Amma would hear her one day, and Etthikanni would simply vanish.

Meanwhile, Etthikanni spent his days gossiping with his many visitors — the bees, the ants, and the occasional bird.

Seasons passed without rains, and a severe drought set in. She tried to stay green, to keep flowering, but soon it was beyond her. She was thirsty and exhausted, her sap drying away through the burning days. She could bear fruit no longer. Her leaves curled and fell, and her branches slowly wilted.

Around her hardly anything survived, except for a few shrubs near the temple pond — itself shrunk to muddy slush.

She worried about her friends. They came to her thin and hungry, and she had nothing to give.

"This is cruel. This is long," she said.

In her pain she turned to Devi Amma more and more, her chant rising day and night — "Amme Narayana, Devi Narayana, Lakshmi Narayana, Bhadre Narayana, Durge Narayana, Amme Narayana..."

As the drought worsened, she grew drained and weary; the intervals between the chants lengthened, until she trailed off — "Durge Narayana..." Except for the rustle of dry leaves in the wind, there was a long silence.

After a while, she heard a feeble voice take up the chant. "Amme Narayana," it said.

Mangaachi looked about to see who it was. The voice came from above.

It was Etthikanni.

She hesitated to answer him. He too had withered. Apart from a few thick leaves and roots, he was all dried up, ready to be carried off by a strong wind.

Many days went by. She watched the temple pond dry up, its bed split open. Mangaachi and Etthikanni held on in a world gone to dust.

One day, when fierce winds blew, Mangaachi broke her silence.

"You should try to catch a wind and fly away, little one," said Mangaachi. "I will soon be dead."

Etthikanni hesitated for a moment, then said, "I like it here, Mangaachi. This is my home. I like you. Devi Amma will be kind. She will give me the strength to hold on against any wind, anything that tries to uproot me."

"Very true," she said. "Many times, in many ways, I have tried to be rid of you. The wind stands no chance."

The noon sun blazed on them and the hot air swirled all around. A chuckle, then another, and they laughed it all away.

"I know you hate me. Sometimes I hate myself for being who I am," said Etthikanni.

Mangaachi gently shook her branches. "Don't hate yourself..." she said.

After that, they never really stopped talking. Etthikanni told her all the gossip the bees and ants had ever brought him, and she laughed at stories that would once have offended her. They talked of the rains to come, of the mangoes she would bear, and of the visitors who would return. They made up for the years they had spent together as strangers.

With time, Mangaachi and Etthikanni grew weaker, until they could hardly talk at all.

Many days passed in silence. Together they waited, still holding on.

At last Mangaachi whispered, "Etthi... Etthi..."

The branch above her did not stir. She called and called, but no voice reached down to meet hers.

"Wake, Etthi. The rains are coming. Wake."

And they came — pouring, drumming, running down her dry bark until life stirred through her branches again. She turned her face up to the rain and breathed a prayer for him, "Amme Narayana, Devi Narayana..." and, after each name, waited for his voice to rise and answer hers.

The Heron and The Crows

The old heron Vellan spent most of his time fishing quietly by the pond. It was mostly dry except for a few pockets of swamp among the thick grass that grew all around it. He would wait patiently for hours, sometimes the whole day, only to return hungry. Catch or no catch, he would thank his gods and go to roost.

One such day, a crow flew down and perched on a nearby tree. She sat there observing him for a while; she then spread her wings and asked him, "How can I get to Kali Amma's temple?"

She expected Vellan to say something. He said nothing.

"Chetta, which way to Kali Amma's temple?" she asked him, loud and clear this time.

Vellan looked up. She glared at him, feathers ruffled.

"Keep flying north... you will find the temple," replied Vellan in a feeble voice. He then returned to his fishing.

"Which way is north?" asked the crow. He ignored her.

"Chetta, I am asking you..." the crow pressed. He hunched low, tucked his head in, and closed his eyes.

The crow continued, "What kind of a place is this? I am on a pilgrimage and this grand seer of herons thinks it's below him to talk to me."

Hearing her complain, another crow dropped by.

She told the passerby crow how the heron was rude to a pilgrim like her.

"Chetta, what is all this?" he asked Vellan. He then flew away. By the time he was back with a few others, many more crows had come to the pond. All of them were cawing together.

Hearing all the commotion, Vellan looked around. The din rose when they saw that he had opened his eyes. He was about to leap into flight.

"Chetta, where are you going? After all that you have done... You think you can just fly off?" said one of the crows. The others cawed in agreement.

Vellan paid no heed to the crows and took flight.

The crows started chasing Vellan. They attacked him, trying to knock him down. He flew on, not knowing where he was going.

After a while, Vellan realised that he was near Kali Amma's temple.

He landed in the temple courtyard. "Amma, Amma, please help me," he cried and lay exhausted at her door.

As Vellan lay there, the crows surrounded him. A few overzealous ones among them jostled him. When he tried to escape, he realised he had been cornered. He closed his eyes and began mumbling some prayers.

"Stay away, stay away," said an elder crow. "He seems to be mumbling a curse. Let us wait for Kali Amma. She will do us justice."

It was already dusk, and there was no sign of Kali Amma. The crows asked each other where she was. No one knew, so they waited.

At first, a few of them with nests and chicks excused themselves and left the temple. They were followed by elders who said they were too weak to wait this long.

Those who remained grew bored. Slowly they drifted off.

"Don't think you are saved. We are all here only," one of them told Vellan while flying away.

Finally, only Vellan was left waiting in the temple courtyard. He got to his feet, closed his eyes and prayed on.

It was pitch dark and near midnight. The night turned warm. The temple lights shone more brightly. The scent of sacred ash filled the air.

An owl hooted, after which a few bats flew out from the peepal tree. Vellan shuddered. He was too scared now to open his eyes.

From afar, there was a faint sound of anklets approaching.

He gathered courage and slowly opened his eyes. The temple doors sprang open, and the most beautiful, terrifying darkness stood there. Kali Amma's bloodshot eyes sparkled. She looked towards him.

"Did they all go, Vella?" she asked.

"Amme, Amme..." Vellan called out.

He ran towards Kali Amma and prostrated himself at her feet.

The Two Ants

Two ants were walking north through the undergrowth. Yama and Niyama had set out on a pilgrimage.

For some time the forest had been alive with the story of Kashi the crow, who had flown all the way to Kailasa to meet Lord Shiva — the Giriruha, the one who dwells in the mountains. To see Parameshwara Shiva was something Yama and Niyama had never dared to dream of. But after hearing Kashi's tales, they could not wait.

"Namah Shivaya, Namah Shivaya," they chanted as they marched.

Whenever they stopped to rest, they told every passerby — other ants, grasshoppers, crickets, butterflies, spiders, termites — that they were going to Kailasa to meet Lord Shiva. Most wished them well and told them to speak to Kashi. Many laughed at them.

After two days they reached Devi Amma's temple. By then a small entourage had gathered behind them — younger ants, crickets, even a few caterpillars. The little crawlers argued among themselves about how Yama and Niyama should get to Kailasa. They also had plenty of advice on what to do there.

Near the temple stood a bael tree. She had been watching the small army pass by.

"Little ones," she said, "what will you do when you meet Bhagavan?"

They were silent. They had not thought about it. Just meeting him was their wish.

"I have a prayer," she said. "Will you carry it to Bhagavan for me? I have been barren for many seasons. I wish to bear fruit."

"Sure thing! We will let him know..." called out Yama. They both prayed at the temple and moved on.

The further they went, the smaller their entourage became. Some stopped to quarrel with those who mocked them and never caught up. Others grew tired and fell behind.

In the end only Yama and Niyama were left.

They walked in silence, Yama dragging behind Niyama. They were famished, and they missed their nest, their family, their friends.

It had all been Niyama's idea. Yama could not bring himself to go any further.

"Come on, let us keep going," said Niyama. "If we keep chanting Namah Shivaya, we will reach Kailasa."

"I was a fool. I got carried away. They mocked us for a reason. It is best we turn back now, before we are lost in this forest forever," said Yama.

"All right, all right. Let us rest a while," said Niyama. "We can go on once the noon sun has softened."

Yama said nothing. He stood looking at Niyama. Then he turned and began walking back the way they had come.

Niyama did not call him back. He watched him go for a moment, and then continued on alone — "Namah Shivaya, Namah Shivaya."

Yama reached home. At first, the others teased him, asking how Kailasa had been, what Shiva had told him. Yama kept to himself. After a while they forgot.

Seasons later, the bael tree was full of fruit. Creatures feasted day and night, and the whole forest came to hear of it.

Everyone asked Yama about Niyama — about his journey, how he had walked, and what kept him going. They praised his devotion, and each claimed to have been his friend.

Like everything in the forest, even Niyama was forgotten.

Yama lived the rest of his life thinking about Niyama, thinking about Kailasa.