Each of the seven brothers took care of one aspect of the house.

The eldest, Govindappa Nayakkar, took care of the general running of the house.

After him was Krishnappa Nayakkar who took care of the fields.

The third was Kovappa Nayakkar who looked after the cows.

The fourth, Ramappa Nayakkar, cared for the goats and their pens.

The fifth was always busy attending family functions like deaths or tonsures, ear piercings, housewarming celebrations or weddings.

The sixth was Sundarappa Nayakkar who was attached to his buffaloes.

The seventh and last of the brothers was Kannappa Nayakkar who stayed home doing what we referred to earlier.

Besides the two entrances to the Kottaiyar house, there were two side doors. Perhaps because of this there was no back door. Even the side entrances were for the sheds. In fact, no house in Gopalla had a back entrance. Both the front and backyards had tall neem trees. At night during the summers these trees looked beautiful with their white bunches of flowers. It was a pleasing sight, like a woman in a green sari and white blouse. Akkayya called a neem tree ‘Veppamma’. When it bore fruit he would say she was pregnant. When the sirissa tree shed all its leaves, he would say, ‘Look at her, she is shameless, standing here naked.’

If you were to peek through the northernmost of the four windows along the thinnai, inside the room you would see an old woman on a coir cot. She was skinny, with a long nose, very bald, and would remind you of an eagle. Her name was Mangaiathaar Ammal. She was a hundred and thirty-seven years old.

She leant on a leather-covered bolster, her head bent as if she were praying, hands folded at her stomach, dangling earrings dragging down her earlobes so far that they brushed her shoulders and had to be capped.

It had been years since she slept. She just catnapped as she leant on the bolster. Sometimes she cleared her throat loudly. But if she ever did it twice, Govindappa Nayakkar came running to find out if anything was wrong. Her hearing was not too bad. But she had lost all her teeth and so only those who knew her well could understand what she said.

She would call out, ‘Govindappa,’ seat him next to her, and caress his body. Not just him, no matter who came over, she would seat them and stroke their body. Her touch had many meanings: Are you fine? How do you feel? Why don’t you come more often to see me? I can’t be without you. These were only some of the things her touch said. Those slim, wrinkled hands said it all.

Regardless of how chubby the person was, she’d fondly say, ‘You’ve become thin, child. Eat well. Do you take ghee with your food? Are you having a regular head bath? Do you have curd in the morning? Drink plenty of buttermilk. Make sure you have castor oil regularly to clear your stomach.’