‘Madras is hot for 10 months of the year, and hotter for two.’ RK Narayan.
During one of the ten hot months, I floated in a mini bus, along the coastal road that hugged the Bay of Bengal in Tamil Nadu. It was the time of Pongal, the harvest festival dedicated to the sun god Surya.
Through the windscreen the fierce midday sun glared into the vehicle, sedating the passengers. Breathing was slower, senses were dulled, and under this solar veil we were anaesthetised, but there was no discomfort to complain about.
The road was long. The mini bus did not change out of top gear, with the engine droning at a constant 3000 rpm. Our minds hovered until there was no distraction of thought. I was existing on an indeterminate level of consciousness.
The warm smell of salty marsh plants drifted in through the window, and mingled with the faint aromas of diesel and gearbox oil.
When the bus slowed a little, the lower revs changed the tone of the engine, causing my eyelids to flicker. I peered lethargically out of the window through clouded eyes. The strength of the sun was undiminished, and it took an effort to squint into the dazzling light, which bleached the colour from the landscape. Where was I? I seemed to be looking out on fields of snow, there were many white-capped peaks in the middle-distance, too small, too regular, too formal to be mountains. There was a midday haze in which every shape in this milky blue landscape was nebulous, and every straight line was wavy.
The sound of grit under the wheels suggested we were pulling off the road. Gradually the vehicle came to a halt.
We were on the top of an embankment adjacent to a tidal river estuary. I stepped into the haze outside in silent wonderment, staggering as I came ‘round from my anaesthetised state.
These tidal flats stretched out in front of me, spilling onto the land in a pattern of reservoirs of evaporating sea water, contained by low bund walls. Near to the embankment there was a neat row of precisely constructed pyramids of drying sea salt, the product of a steady industry.
I was drowsy and entering a state of mind where, apart from feeling unsteady on my feet, little was of concern to me. Like a drunk trying to be sober, I slowly made my way down the slope of the embankment, each step being more deliberate than the last, and so it was that I drifted into this weird environment.
A line of white bullocks was drawing carts, loaded to the hilt with pure white sea salt. Heads nodding, they moved at a steady pace at fairly regular intervals of about 50 meters. They turned to walk in the opposite direction, climbing up the gentle gradient of the ramped embankment to lorries waiting at the roadside. I squinted hard to find the carters keeping them under control, but bizarrely there were none. The bullocks worked this route alone.
For a moment I wondered if they were real. Could they be robots? But no, they drooled their foaming saliva. These obedient beasts were trusted to lead their carts, stop to have their loads of salt despatched and return for another load, entirely by themselves.
I paused to admire those loyal and handsome beasts.
After all, this was Pongal, a time to revere all farm animals, especially the sacred cow. Owners showed their appreciation and took good care to decorate them well.
The journey’s anaesthetic wore off. My eyes began to open fully, but the surreal nature of what lay in front of me did not lessen. Was I hallucinating? A huge white beast sporting spots of lemon yellow, was followed by another wearing broad splashes of cerise pink? As the fantasy continued, I approached the next one. It had the most impressive horns, painted cobalt blue. These lethal-looking projections were capped by small brass bells that jingled as it trod through the crystalline surface underfoot.
It benignly slowed to a halt when I whispered into its ear. It was listening carefully when I offered it my admirations. I told it how handsome I thought it was and asked it where it might be going. Unbeknown, there was an unseen eavesdropper listening in on this personal conversation. He was seated on a cart, which approached from an adjacent direction. He was camouflaged in his white singlet, white lunghi and white turban, and startled me as he suddenly rose to his feet.
Fulfilling that laudable Indian duty to be helpful to visitors, he exclaimed, ‘No sir! no sir! cow no speaking. Only “moo”!’
As I slowly climbed back up the embankment, I wanted the carter to be wrong. I wished the adventure to end in the bullock turning its head to offer me a simple greeting in Tamil or in English.