Memories: My Childhood Companions
RACHNA SINGH, whose father was transferred from one army station to another during her itinerant childhood in India, didn’t have schoolmates as her steady companions. Her childhood coterie in those far-flung bases, which were closer to forests than cities, was an ever-changing menagerie of birds and animals.
Birds and beasts, not boys and girls, were the cherished companions of my childhood, thanks to my dad’s job in the Indian Army, which posted him in places that teemed with animal life.
One morning in Mathura, when I was about four, our milkman brought more than our usual can of thick, creamy milk. He had a mangled dove in his workworn hands. The dove trembled in fright, grounded by a broken wing. My father placed it in my small, cupped hands and applied ointment to the wing and fed it medicine. For several weeks, it was my job to hold her gently while my father ministered to her needs. Once her wing was mended, we let her fly, but she would come back every evening and sit on the windowsill, cooing melodiously. I would rush out and gently brush my finger across her wing. After that, every hurt bird or animal in the vicinity would be sent to our house for recovery.
Once, we had a couple of guinea pigs and rabbits in our house. I would watch over them while they played in the front lawn, making sure to shoo away the neighbor’s cat watching them with a malevolent eye, or the predatory eagles who were ready to dive down and pick up what looked to them like tasty morsels.
When Dad was posted in Jabalpur, my playmates changed. In our colonial-style bungalow on what was called Sita Pahari (Sita’s hillock), huge mango trees were home to a flock of plum-headed parrots. One afternoon, we were disturbed by a cacophony of squawks, whistles, and low growls. The noise was emanating from the mango tree just outside my window. I looked out to see the parrots squawking angrily and pecking at something gray and furry on the grass. I rushed out to shoo them away and found a tiny squirrel lying huddled in the grass, her tiny body heaving with terror. She was playing dead, but the predators knew better. Picking her up, I realized that she had perhaps unknowingly ventured too close to their nest.
Squatting down some distance away in the house, I extended a morsel of bread. Puzzled and frightened, she backed away. I put the bread down on the floor and left. She darted in quickly, picked it up and, rising on her haunches, nibbled it eagerly. This little back and forth dance went on for a while before she settled down in a corner. But soon we become inseparable friends. I named her Chip from the Chip & Dale comic strip I was fond of reading. We would go everywhere together, with her perched on my palm or my shoulder.
When my dad was posted in Bharatpur, I cried all the way to the railway station, not wanting to leave my Jabalpur friends behind. But that was before I found a new set of playmates. The tank in our backyard in Bharatpur was full of turtles, including a couple of cute baby turtles. Smitten, I would spend hours watching and try to feed them bits of lettuce and carrot. Initially, they ducked for cover every time they saw me, but soon they realized I was bringing tasty tidbits. Emboldened, they paddled to the edge of the tank and took the food.
And then a little nilghai calf came into my life. The army station in Bharatpur was surrounded by a forest that abounded in acacia trees and dry stunted shrubs and grassland. The summer months made the scrubland vulnerable to fires. One hot summer night, a forest fire raged through the dry shrubbery and trees. The conflagration spread so quickly that it took several hours for a dedicated band of soldiers to bring it under control. Many animals perished. The soldiers found a bewildered nighai calf standing next to a burning thicket, calling out to the herd piteously. She was probably a couple of weeks old. When they brought her to our house, the onerous task of feeding her fell to me. But it wasn’t easy. My dad spoke to the local dairy farmer and was told they had a cow who had given birth to a calf a few days ago. My dad requested the farmer to lend us some milk from the mother cow as it would be rich in colostrum. To our delight, she quickly accepted that milk and gulped it down hungrily.
For over a month, I spent every minute of my spare time with the calf, whom I simply called Neelu (blue). We became friends. She waited at the gate of the enclosure every afternoon, as though some sixth sense told her when I would be back from school. She would nuzzle my hand and I would hand out some buds and leaves for her to savor. By now she had learned to feed on grass and sometimes on the fruit of the ber tree growing in the backyard.
But then Dad decided it was time for her to go back to the forest where she belonged. I was heartbroken but knew it was the right thing to do. So, one morning, he loaded the calf into an open jeep and took her to the edge of the forest. At first, she dug in her heels and refused to get off. After much cajoling, she ventured out but teetered at the edge of the jungle, looking longingly at the acacia trees and then back at us again, as though not sure where to go. Then her natural instincts kicked in and she let out a low coughing roar, calling out to her herd to claim her. We waited and watched. Neelu continued to make coughing roars, tremulously at first and then with growing confidence. After a while, we heard the rustle of leaves and the breaking of twigs. It looked like her family was coming to claim her!
We backed away so as not to frighten the herd away. Then I saw a group of six nilgai emerge from the forest. They stood cautiously, perhaps wondering if we were a threat. Neelu joyously galloped towards them. One of them nuzzled her lovingly—maybe that was her mother. And then they vanished into the thicket as quickly as they had emerged. I was happy that she had found her home, but that didn’t stop me from missing her very much. Knowing my attachment, Dad would sometimes take me to the edge of the forest, where I would wait patiently, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
Once, several months later, an adult nilgai broke off from the herd and came towards us. Could this be her? She did not look anything like the gangling calf I had befriended. But she had a white patch on her neck and white patches on her forelegs like Neelu. She came to us and stood watching us fearlessly. I put out my hand to her gingerly and she nuzzled it as she used to do when I fed her buds or stems. I knew it was her. Then the huge male nilgai of the herd made a strange clicking sound and Neelu turned back to the herd and they vanished behind the shrubbery and bushes. I didn’t see Neelu again, although every now and then I would still force Dad to take me to that spot.
My childhood coterie is lost in the mists of time, but I smile happily when I look back. As a child I was Alice in that Animal Wonderland—and I loved every minute of it.
Rachna Singh, a former bureaucrat with a doctorate in English literature, is the editor of The Wise Owl (www.thewiseowl.art), an online literary journal. She’s also an author and a contributor to Indian newspapers, including The Tribune, where her book reviews appear.
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