How To Make Friends, not Foes.

         The horse was a pathetic parody of equine physique, the hip-bones stood out like handles on either side of a shortened and ragged fringe of a tail. The neck was straining and the prominent veins writhed under the skin, the eyes were rolling in their incoherent plea of inability to exert one more erg of effort.

         The whip cracked and sang through the air, the animal just quivered once and remained in that posture of rigid effort, a do-or-die willingness in its attitude.

         “Move, you lazy good-for-nothing, put some muscle into it!”

         The words were in the rough dialect of the region, interspersed with a few high-coloured adjectives unknown to him, but the tone was sufficient for Ravi to understand the gist. He waited for the lumbering shape of the receding school bus to roll past and reveal the actors.

         It was Karia, the milkman. His laden cart was teetering at the edge of the road, milk cans tilted and dripping of their white bounty. One wheel was stuck in a large pothole of just the right size; some superhuman effort would be required to free it.

No further elucidation of situation was required, both horse and owner were known to Ravi, in fact the gregarious soul knew most of the Gottigere's inhabitants. An outskirt of the main city, it retained the intimacy of a smaller cluster of habitats.

         His school-bag was flung to the road-side to spill its bursting contents, his sister’s warning cries went unheeded; two little legs made record time over the intervening distance. Karia found the end of his nether garments pulled with so much vigour that he had to halt his heated exhortations or be in danger of his lungi

a length of cloth wrapped/draped around the lower body

parting from him. Needing to catch his breath, he chose dignity over livelihood and directed his fiercest glare at the antagonist whose curly mop barely topped Karia's waist.

         It should have been enough, the entire village quaked at the idea of angering Karia, his muscular prowess was obvious to any that cast a glance at his barrel-chest and bull-neck. His fractious demeanour was heightened by the magnificent moustache that now quivered with wrath..

         A shrill treble interrupted what should have been easy intimidation, “Can’t you see the wheel is stuck? The poor animal is doing its best, it won’t do better for shouting or hitting.”

         “What does a chikka mensinakayi

Literally a small chili, used to denote someone small and sharp - semi-derogatory

like you know about cart-horses? Anyway, he is mine and I’ll treat him as I please!”

         By now, Ravi had been joined by his sister, carrying both their bags; she hung back to to remain out of Karia’s peripheral vision. She tried to gesticulate an immediate cessation of interference to her little brother; he paid little heed to her grimaces and arm waving. She danced on the spot with frustration, pig-tails swinging back and forth in her futile frenzy.

         “I know enough to see he is starved, he barely can stand – let alone pull your heavy cart!”

         “I suppose you book-learned kids are now going to tell me to starve my children and feed my horse, eh? Or maybe you’d like them to go unclothed and without a roof over their heads so that Lazy Scrawny here can rest on a bed of straw, in a spacious stable, lipping at fresh grass and carrots?” Karia’s choler and colour were both rising in alarming fashion; his last query was shouted an inch away from the mulish young face upturned to his.

         Ravi was fond of all living things, extending compassion to beetles, cockroaches, even … Karia. He thought moreover of the children he had seen in Karia’s hut, always hard at some task at the other. They would be fetching water in brass pots on head and hip, helping in the small garden, tending the cows and buffaloes, keeping watch on the toddler confined by a bamboo grid or the infant swinging in a cloth cradle.

         His tone softened, “No, no. I mean none of that. It’s just that the horse is frightened, tired and weak. But, it is willing to do its work. Just let me try.”

         “You? Big Bungalow’s delicate darling is going to right a dirty hovel-dweller’s cart?”

         The ubiquitous caste system had people willing to buy milk from Karia, but not to make physical contact or interact in a humane way. These distinctions had never been instilled in Ravi, but they would have made little impact on a boy that venerated all life.

         The epithet and implication alike slid past, the joke of his attempting the daunting task made Ravi flash his irrepressible grin, the one that always charmed people into overlooking his mischief; it at least elicited a grudging grunt from Karia. The upraised whip and threatening posture both took a short break, allowing the boy to make a quick ducking movement and reach the horse’s head.

         Two large orbs made a liquid black plea for kindness as they swiveled to the new presence. Ravi placed a gentle hand on the sweaty neck, the long stroking movements were tuned to his crooning voice as he whispered to the horse. Maybe he imitated the way his mother hushed his cries, maybe the ability was inborn, but the horse stopped straining and stood quiescent and just heaved a large sigh that blew Ravi’s school tie into his face.

         Ravi’s delighted giggle and the snort of the horse came simultaneously. Kalia hovered near enough to intervene if the animal turned savage but a love feast seemed to be developing. The chest had stopped heaving, the veins had subsided and even the sweat no longer rolled from the unkempt and matted mane.

         By now the passers-by had thronged the scene three deep and were offering conflicting advice. Some were saying it was just retribution for habits hitherto unproved, like watering the milk. Others were bemoaning the fact that their children would be waiting so long for the evening milk to arrive. One enterprising lady even emptied her child’s water bottle and demanded that her quota of milk be delivered then and there. Others seemed ready to follow suit if she was successful.

         Karia’s brow was gathering storm-clouds and all Ravi’s effort for the horse’s relief seemed doomed. Nanni had pushed her way to the forefront, worried about her little brother.

         Mummy always says I should keep him out of trouble, but what do I do when he is the trouble?

         Nanni knew any ruckus would be inevitably her fault, any halo of good intention as inevitably Ravi’s, if she did not take some initiative. She struck down the imperious hand that was brandishing a water-bottle into what had previously been the most feared moustache in the village.

         “Auntie, just a minute - if we don’t shift that cart, all the cans will fall and none here will get milk today.” Habit made her voice sharp and peremptory, just so did she attempt to instill rules into her irrepressible sibling.

         She gathered her voice with one deep breath and made a trenchant announcement, she was not class monitor for nothing.

         “If only all of you would lend one hand to the cart, rather than your voices to this senseless argument – we could all go home the sooner.”

         Sheepish smiles and downcast eyes seemed to signal out of the mouths of babes!

         The many hands did the proverbial trick, it all seemed so easy, and the horse was backed carefully out of the rut by a combined effort from the team of Ravi-Karia, Friendly Former Foes. Ravi jumped back onto the road.

         Nanni held out Ravi’s school bag to him and he shrugged on the bulging haversack, uncaring of the burden. He was intent on addressing the crowd now congratulating itself upon its own acumen and industry.

         “Karia cannot deliver milk if his horse dies from lack of food. All of you must be having radish tops, discarded vegetables, which his horse can eat – you should not throw that away.”

         Water-bottle-lady had already been anointed as the one to follow, she now sniffed and inquired in honey-sweet tones,”I am sure you will let me know whether I should run over every time I have radishes for His Majesty, The Horse of Karia.”

         She was no match for the wide earnest gaze or the solemn counter-offer, “No, I’ll come by your lane after school school, Nanni will come down the parallel road. If you all leave it out on road-facing walls, in a bag, we’ll collect it every day. I’ll give it to Karia Anna

a term of respect - elder brother

as he comes to our house.”

         The young guru had further eco-friendly solutions, “you could pay Karia’s children to cut grass from your gardens and take it away; you would have neat grounds, they would gain both extra money and horse-feed. They’ll give you manure in return, for your vegetable patches.”

         Heads nodded at the sagacity, grunts of assent served to tell Karia that better days were ahead for both himself and his horse. The horse threw back his head and shook his mane in a manner that seemed to say the scheme had his approval.

         Karia ‘Anna’ accepted both the relationship and the solution with a smile that cracked his leathery face in unexpected delight. His pat sent his new friend staggering a pace backwards, but finally Nanni had the felicity of seeing Ravi turning homeward. They were both filled with a sense of happy accomplishment.

         He has this habit of dashing into situations and fighting for what he thinks right, yet he seems to have an uncanny ability to push all the right buttons, even on formidable people

         Karia had mounted his wagon and a soft click-click of tongue was now sufficient for forward movement. His hand rose in a half-wave and hers returned the salute in an automatic reply.

         Correction, on so-called formidable people.

         Mummy always warned me: If you stand up for your beliefs, be prepared to make enemies. I think though, that if one remains steadfast and yet gets one’s way without fighting, one makes converts and friends instead. I hope Ravi never finds out otherwise.

         Here she turned the end of the road and saw her mother’s anxious face peering out of the upper balcony of their house. Her thoughts turned to home and food, and she pelted down the path, philosophy forgotten.

         “Mmummmeeee, we’re home! Guess what happened on the way?”


Word count:1694

Based on my children, names changed to protect their sensibility. They cringe when I write of their childhood exploits.