Hareendran Kallinkeel
Frog-Smitten
"Ayye!" Mother exclaimed, placing a finger on her nose. "Who'll ever want to eat a frog?"
"Is it that bad?" Kuttan asked. "All the boys eat it. They say it tastes better than chicken. Even the grown-ups are quite fond of it."
"I didn't realize people in this village had found new food habits," she said. "Looks like they have no concerns for their traditions."
"They've been catching frogs all through the monsoon, Mother." Kuttan ran a finger through the heap of steaming rice in his plate. "Since the sowing season. They say there are plenty of frogs out there during this time." He inhaled the aroma of roasted prawns wafting from a bowl Mother carried in her hand.
"So, you want to eat it too?" she asked, placing the bowl on the dining table. "If you did, you better take a hundred dips in the pond before you entered the house. Your father brings you everything you need. I don't understand why would you think of eating frogs."
Kuttan could almost feel the shudder that ran through her body. Mother never allowed you to go beyond conventions, and she always had a list of things "you should not do." If you broke a rule, you took a hundred dips in the pond. Sins must be washed off before you got back home.
"Is it such a grave sin to eat frog meat?" Kuttan knew Mother worshipped many gods for the family's prosperity. She went fasting on Mondays and Fridays for the health and welfare of her husband and son. He wouldn't want to incur the displeasure of any of those gods. "Will the gods punish me for eating it?"
"Gods don't punish people for eating things." She served him a curry of green grams in coconut gravy from a pot on the table, and a large scoop of shrimp. "Take a stroll in the paddy fields before the birds are up, and you'll know." She ruffled his hair. "Would you like some pickle?"
Kuttan shook his head. She went back into the kitchen.
The prawns, deep-roasted in coconut oil, had a dark brown hue. He could smell the distinct flavors of garlic and pepper. Despite the inviting aroma, he didn't feel like eating them. He lazily mixed the prawns into the rice. Why couldn't Mother understand that he was tired of crabs, prawns, and fish? And why would she oppose his eating frogs when she served him all these foods? Wasn't a crab's life as worthy as a frog's?
He picked up a shrimp. It felt firm against his fingers. Chew, chew, and chew. His friends used to gather around him during lunch break for a share of roasted prawns, mussels, or crab pincers. But ever since they started their new food habit, they seemed less enthusiastic about his lunch box.
Unni, his best friend, had told him there was nothing like the roasted leg of a frog. "It's so soft, sort of melts in your mouth like chocolate."
However, before he decided about eating one, he wanted to check out mother's concerns. Why did she want him to go to the paddy fields before the birds were up? Father had vast property and most of it was agricultural land. The main crop was paddy, and the frogs nested in the fields where there was enough water for them to frolic and insects to feed on. The villagers caught the frogs from the paddy fields and ponds. What was Mother's point? She wouldn't casually say something without a valid reason.
Kuttan made a mental note to visit the paddy fields the next morning, and squeezed handfuls of rice into his mouth. He chased the food down with a glass of cold water. Mother wouldn't want to see any leftovers in his plate. She said a ten year old boy should eat enough if he wanted to be strong like his father.
Kuttan woke up early, before anyone else did. He debated for a while whether to brush his teeth and take a bath first, before he ventured out, or postpone the preliminary chores till he returned. Those were elaborate rituals for every kid in the village, especially during the rainy season from June to October when cold winds from the Arabian Sea lashed across the coastal belts of Kerala.
Kuttan would fetch a handful of coconut husks from the chaypu, a shed where the family stocked dry wood, coconut, and areca nut husks to be used as fuel during the rainy season, and place them one after another into the improvised fire pit of three stones laid out in the backyard in a triangular shape, over which water was heated in a huge vessel for the bath. Mother brought him umickari, burned paddy husks mixed with salt and powdered peppercorns.
He'd rub the umickari against his teeth with a forefinger, relishing the warmth as the fire burned. When the fuel burned out, he'd feel the chilly breeze against his skin, and his teeth chattered. He'd fetch more coconut husks and rekindle the flame. Mother then offered him his toothbrush with a little Colgate smeared on the tips of the bristles.
"Massaging the teeth and gums the traditional way gives them shine and strength." Her smile would reveal gleaming, white teeth. "Ah, the Colgate freshens your breath."
Father had no specific liking towards Colgate. He sometimes bought Binaca or Forhan's also. But no matter what brand the toothpaste was, people called it Colgate. Kuttan loved his land and people, whether they recognized the difference in brand names or not. He took pride that he belonged to this state in the southern tip of India, which had beautiful landscapes and abundant natural resources. His teacher said Kerala was popular as the God's Own Country, and tourists from all over the world visited here.
He never saw any of them in his village, though. He'd watched these strange men and women on TV on a few occasions. Some of them had white hair like that of his grandfather in a portrait in the sitting room. He thought the color of their hair didn't match their unwrinkled, rosy cheeks. Young people didn't have gray hair.
"Europeans have different hair colors," his teacher had explained. "Some blond, some brown, and others auburn, while we Indians usually have only black hair."
Did the Europeans eat frogs? He should ask his teacher.
He heard a rooster cock-a-doodle-do, announcing the imminent arrival of dawn. He should hurry. It was still dark outside. He didn't want to interrupt his parents' sleep to take out the flashlight from their bedroom, and so had instead picked up a matchbox from the kitchen.
Kuttan hastily crossed the coconut palm groves and reached the fencing that separated the estate and cultivated land. The fencing had only a single breach wide enough for a person to squeeze through two vertically-planted logs, so that the cattle did not roam into the fields. He easily slid between, his lithe body not so much as touching the posts.
Kuttan toured the paddy fields, listening for the croaks of frogs. Only some strange gurgling sounds broke the silence of the wee hours. He searched the fields, looking for frogs in the dim light, waiting for that series of plops when they leapt into the water one after another upon hearing any intrusion.
He ran a hand over the paddy plants. Their silky smoothness sent tickles along his forearm. Suddenly he felt tiny things crawl up his hand, a soft creepy sensation, as if wisps of air were brushing against his arm. It grew in intensity, and became unbearable. Goose pimples rose on his skin. He withdrew his hand, lit the match, and ran the flame along his forearm.
An acrid smell invaded his nostrils as the tiny golden hairs on his arm smoldered. A strange, pungent aroma wafted with it. Insects, perhaps, he thought. He swept his hand along his arm, and took to his feet.
Day began to break, hesitant like a child's initial venture into a backyard. In the distance, orange streaks appeared behind a cluster of hills.
Blooming sunlight painted pictures for Kuttan. Instead of frogs leaping at his sight, he saw their cadavers. Halves of their dead bodies! Then he watched in horror as the upper torso of a frog crawled between stems of paddy plants. Its intestines protruded from a deflated belly, and dragged behind as it inched agonizingly forward on its forelegs.
Next to it laid another upturned torso without hind legs. It opened its mouth and fought for breath. As the salty winds from Arabian Sea lashed in fury, the water in the paddy field slowly lapped up, filling its open mouth, and gurgling sounds escaped. A long, sticky tongue throbbed between the desperation to live and the urgency to die.
Kuttan remembered Unni telling that only the hind legs of frogs were taken. Their bodies were useless as food. He ran towards the orange glow of the sun, longing to forget the dark.
During harvest season, men from the entire village assembled in Kuttan's courtyard. In any event of crisis, the villagers gathered so in order to sort things out. This time it was the all-time low agricultural crops that they reaped.
The village chief spoke, "We are left with nothing. Our harvest does not equal even a small portion of our investment; not to speak of the labor."
The others just kept nodding, looking hopefully at Kuttan's father as he stood on the verandah, clad in a dhoti without any shirt, a white cotton towel wrapped around his broad shoulders covering parts of his muscular biceps. His oiled, dusky skin gleamed as morning sunrays filtering through jasmine veins cast dark patterns on his body. He ran a hand along the spring-like coils of shoulder-long curly hair, but said nothing.
"We've done everything," the chief continued. "Provided enough manure and ash to the plants as usual. Gave sufficient offerings to the Kalichan Theyyam."
At the mention of the Theyyam, Kuttan, who was standing by his father's side, became interested. Mother had told him that Kalichan Theyyam was the folklore representation of Lord Krishna's elder brother Bal Ram, the mighty warrior, who wielded a plough. In the early times when caste system was rigid, the lower caste did not have any rights to go to the temples belonging to the upper caste. Yet, they had to worship some deities. So they created their own versions of the gods in the form of Theyyam.
Even today, it was a popular form of folk art, and people organized it on several occasions, like harvest times, and also for prosperity. Some of the Theyyam were elaborate festivities, including fireworks.
"Plants don't grow just by manures and water," Father said in a gruff voice. "And gods can help you only when your karma is right."
The chief withdrew his eyes from Father's face. Even Kuttan was unsettled by the tone of his voice. He never spoke unkindly to others.
"It's not that the plants didn't yield," Father continued grimly. "We harvested more chaff than grain because we failed to protect what the plants bore."
Mother stood at a corner of the verandah looking at the confused men. "They won't understand," she said.
"But we can't just abandon them." Father said. "Their entire life depends on the crop. What do you suggest?"
"Divide what we reaped, amongst them. If it's not enough, give them more from our buffer stock." She shook her head and went inside.
"Kalikala vaibhavam!" Father shook his head too. Like mother's firmness with things one should not do, he attributed the bad things to the miracle of Kalikalam, the chaotic times, the doomsday, even though he knew human follies caused them.
"It's those insects that turned grain into chaff," Kuttan said. "They have flourished, because without hind legs, frogs can't leap to catch them."
"Go inside to your mother." Father cast a warning glance at him. The family tradition also dictated that children didn't interfere when elders discussed important matters.
"Let me first take the hundred dips, Father." Kuttan stepped down the verandah, pushed the men aside, and crossed the courtyard.
Father stared after him for a while, and then understood. He too had seen the dead frogs without hind legs floating in the water.
"Well, you all better get to the pond too," he said, turning towards the men. "And don't forget to take your sons along."
©2005 by Hareendran Kallinkeel
