The village as a whole decided that each family would plant a tree to register their presence. So trees were planted all over the village.

In those days, families with larger head counts were considered the biggest homes. Sheer numbers meant they could till larger fields, rear a larger herd. The Kottaiyar family was one such big home.

Betel-leaf chewers gathered around Govindappa Nayakkar. In those times, one could chew on a betel leaf only after marriage. So, the unmarried young ones stayed a step away to watch.

It was fun to watch them chew, holding the lower lip a little higher, so that the juice would not spill, slightly intoxicated with the tobacco, their chatter growing louder and more childish … the younger ones longed to give it a try.

Chinnaih Nayakkar rose to spit out the betel leaf. His mouth, lips and teeth were stained red. High on the tobacco, there was a stream of sweat running down his neck and the bridge of his nose. His face wore a satisfied look. He’d gently pick a scrap of areca nut from between his teeth with the tip of his tongue and spit it out discreetly. No matter how large the crowd around him, the nut would not fall on anyone.

He had another strange habit. Unlike the others he did not look for a toothpick after spitting out the betel leaf. Instead, he’d search for a feather and rip it to a comfortable length to dig his ears. Even as he did this, his ears would scream out to be dug. He’d tuck his veshti under his armpit, so that it would not be blown away by the breeze, and then insert the cleared feather end into his ear. Even as did this, his eyes would roll back in pleasure. Once enough of the feather tip was in, he’d twist it with two fingers. Aiyyo, one doesn’t have enough words to describe this joy.

His mouth screwed, eyes rolling back in ecstasy, head gently rolling in time with the feather … anyone seeing him then could experience his pleasure. He’d hiss loudly, rhythmically, as if he had bitten on a chilli, enjoying each breath. He was usually so lost that he would not notice the spittle dripping out of the corner of his mouth. Abruptly he’d come back to reality, swipe his wet mouth and grin. Not sheepishly, but casually.

When he was happily digging his ear, Govindappa Nayakkar would ask, ‘How is it?’

Chinnaih Nayakkar’s usual reply was, ‘Boy, what pleasure. As good as being drunk!’

Govindappa Nayakkar would silently laugh, his paunch jiggling. They’d never tire of this rote question and answer. This was a routine.

There were many hens in Chinnaih Nayakkar’s house. Hen feathers were tucked at every comfortable spot for him to dig his ears with. Four or five at the eating place in the kitchen, near the thinnai where he’d relax after his meal to chew on his betel leaves, a couple at the place where he chatted with others, in the cowshed, in his study, in the storeroom, bedroom … at every imaginable spot there were hen feathers, ready and clean, so that he wouldn’t need to hunt for one.