Paapalu Vachaaru! | Tanvi Varigala

Paapalu Vachaaru!

Tanvi Varigala

The humid, balmy air with a hint of the salty sea sand. The rhythm of waves crashing against smooth, jagged rocks that paint the picture of a seascape. Rings of rolling green hills looming large like sentinels, protecting their kingdom. Ruins of the glorious past or the hauntingly serene presence of defunct lighthouses and forts. All the unmistakable characteristics of an East-Indian coastal town. Growing up with these scents, sounds and visuals often made me think of them as the backdrop against which the grand scheme of the universe unfolded; faded, blurry backgrounds against which stories unravelled. Until I realised that they weren’t just a part of the stories, they were the stories; until now.

My earliest memories of a giddy, carefree childhood are from the endless summers spent with my grandparents and cousins in an idyllic coastal town called Visakhapatnam, a tad smaller than a city in the South Indian state of Andhra Pradesh. For someone who lived in the happening metropolitan of Hyderabad, summers in Vizag were a novelty and respite, mostly for my mother who would look forward to a little break from the exhaustion of raising a little monkey (no points for guessing!). It was the time when my grandmother would lovingly ply me with ghee-laden sweets and delicacies that I would savour all year long, while keeping up with my racing up and down the stairs of their two-storied villa. Summer in Vizag was always a whirlwind of time with cousins coming over for a quick game of hopscotch, countless trips to the beach, bagsful of iridescent seashells, way too many wind-in-the-hair moments, and an unhealthy dose of fun, freedom, and laughter!

But my vividest memory is from the summer I turned thirteen. Puberty had, as usual, kicked my friends and me in the gut and the things that hadn’t ever bothered me before had suddenly become irksome. The things that were innocent and fun before, had now been deemed silly and “childish” by me. Yet, the one thing that annoyed me the most was my grandparents’ unconditional love for my mother’s five, ‘new’ doe-eyed siblings, and my aunts.

Well, for starters, none of my aunts even remotely resembled my grandparents or my mother (Thank God! I wouldn’t want to look like them for anything in the world). They always woke the household up, even before the crack of dawn. They almost always wanted to eat. And even worse, all they ever did was roam the city all day long! But in the eyes of my grandparents, nothing could ever take their place. In fact, I am dead sure of the envious glances they received every morning from my mother for stealing her ‘only child’ status since my grandfather would proudly proclaim their arrival by announcing, “Paapalu vachaaru!” – Our daughters have come! –, as though showing off to the whole world their fine and charming appearance.

Charming? Well, I wouldn’t go so far as ‘charming’. But maybe I could grant ‘fine’! Hopefully, their description sways you my way. Think large, lustrous eyes that glow in the early morning sun; textured, leathery skin with hues of white and brown that ripples when seen closely, and a constant demure expression that could trick anyone into giving them food. When they walked on their four legs, swaying their hips to the household melodies, they looked bovine indeed! By now, if you haven’t guessed their identity, let me break it to you. My new aunts were cows. No pun intended! Five cows with four hoofed legs, a large snout, a long tail to slap away errant flies, and a big mouth with an equally long tongue that gave them a languorous appearance.

They’d lethargically walk, taking all the time in the world, wait patiently in a group, silently deciding their food and preference policies while my grandmother rushed downstairs to mix a concoction of nutritious food in large basins. Sometimes, as I glowered from the balcony above, my grandmother would strike a one-sided conversation (let’s face it, a ‘Moo’ isn’t a yes or no) with them that would often go –

Ammama: “Eamma, ivvala nachaleda?” – My dear, didn’t you like it today? –

Lakshmi aka one of the cows: “Moo.”

Ammama: “Repu inka ekkuva uppu vestanu le.” – Don’t worry, I shall add some more salt in your food tomorrow. –

At times, they would be late; during these times, my grandfather would stand anxiously in the balcony, awaiting their arrival. And when he would finally spot them, their triumphant entrance would be announced in a loud, “Paapalu vachaaru!”, their names called out (Lakshmi, Sarayu, Kanti…), and their numbers counted.

Having had enough of it, my mother decided to go downstairs one day and see for herself what the fuss was about and probably start being a better sister. Not to be disappointed, they did manage to make her feel welcome into their extended family circle. Honestly, this menagerie was a little too much to take in for a thirteen-year-old. However, their assuring presence grew on me and by the end of the summer, our relationship had grown from passing acquaintances, to letting me walk out of the gate without scaring me with their sharp pair of horns!

This year, in the midst of the raging second wave, when our airport taxi pulled over before my grandparent’s gate, we received a surprise welcome from the retinue of my wide-eyed bovine aunts. Later, I would be told that their appearance at the gate on the day of our arrival was a real miracle; since they hadn’t been sighted in over six months, until that day!

Guess family works in strange ways, sometimes, even when they are cows!