It’s early morning. Sleepy villages were coming to life. I was in a rickety old jeep, making my way back to the rural health centre. The old nurse in the backseat had just assisted in a difficult delivery. The neonate and a relieved teen mother looked up at us with gratitude as we left the beaming farming family and climbed back into our open-topped four-wheeler. Just as it looked like another long hard, hot day in rural community service, we heard a happy sound.
I stopped the vehicle. We’re at a small detour on a well-used mud-road. A huge tree had been uprooted by the previous night’s thunderstorm. Even as we’re wondering about reversing the jeep and finding another route, the familiar sound, notes from early childhood rang in the air. Was it actually a rooster crowing?
To everyone’s surprise, I stepped out, skipped over slush and a watery branch to investigate behind the bushes. There it was. A tall handsome red-gold-black-shiny green, blue-plumed rooster, presiding loftily outside a hut. The sight whisked me back to another day, decades ago.
Except instead of a lowly hut, it was a huge Victorian bungalow in the cantonment. A 4-year-old had sneaked out, to go up to a stocky rooster throatily and cheerfully ushering in a new day. Around the big bird were hens and yellow-feathered chicks. Before I knew it, my mother grabbed me and chided me for running out of the house. As she hugged and ushered me indoors where MSS came louder with the Suprabatham chants, I couldn’t keep my little head from turning back to the lively poultry drama being played out in the backyard. The rest of the day, I was a toddler making rooster-like sounds.
Now I stood in the village milieu, taking in the surprised rooster. It stood its ground, staring back with alert red eyes, making intermittent and warning sounds. It was a replica of the native Indian breed that ruled the roost in the cantonment bungalow. I didn’t want to miss a moment, and kept shooting with the mobile camera, until the hero disappeared behind the hut.
Back in the city, I transferred the “discovery”, the digital recording into a laptop. The video was better than expected, despite the poor light. My out-of town colleagues, a Michigan health worker and two interns from a local teaching hospital, were excited by the “sighting”.
They hadn’t seen a “real Indian, indigenous wild rooster”. Even for the interns, it was the first time they were seeing a natti koli. “Could we go with you to see this rooster?” pleaded young Laura from Grand Rapids. “Of course,” I said, “but first I need to visit a certain elderly couple on the top floor of our building. They’ve returned from abroad after many years, and miss the old nature sounds of Bangalore. So far they’ve got an overload of traffic sounds, angry motorists, bore-well being dug in the neighbouring plot and on TV news, the non-stop shouting, cross-talk and clamour. The video of a natti koli crowing will surely cheer them!”