Even as he was busy in an argument, his hand would extend automatically and his fingers grasp a hen feather, without him having to look around.

His cousins referred to him as Hen Feather Chinnaih Nayakkar. As the days went by, this nickname stuck to him. So, you could not ask for just Chinnaih Nayakkar. They’d demand bemused, ‘Who is that?’

21

THE ONE SITTING NEXT TO Chinnaih Nayakkar is the soil lover, Rengaiah Nayakkar. A geophagist, he did not eat soil and rocks because of an iron deficiency. It was just that he was an expert at judging soil. Anyone planning on buying a field would take him along to gauge the soil. He’d eat a handful of the earth and immediately declare what plants could be grown in it, and what would never thrive … this soil is fertile, this one is a dud. His judgement never erred.

Beside him is the big, ‘good soul’ Thiravathi Nayakkar. The origin of this nickname is very interesting.

He was then in the prime of his teens, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. His physique was strong and healthy. He was absolutely innocent, but would not step out of the way if he were walking down the path. He would just crash into you. You would have to move out of the way if you didn’t want to be hurt.

One day they had made mutton and urad vadai. He ate his fill, finishing off twenty of those hot vadais. He was stuffed and restless. He had to wrestle with someone. He came out of the front door and into the street. Vanniya Chettiyar’s son Chinnathambi Chettiyar was walking down the road with a black, shining, empty oil pot, returning after having distributed his gingili oil in the neighbouring towns.

Thiravathi Nayakkar was thrilled to have found an equal partner.

Chinnathambi was huge and strong, with taut muscles. Even his fingers were double the normal size. He’d smother his rice with a ladleful of oil while eating. At night, once he fell asleep, his mother, while cleaning the house, would dole out a dish full of rice, topped with four spoons of dal, and place it beside him along with a measure of fresh gingili oil.

At the stroke of midnight Chinnathambi would wake up, go into the street and take a leak with his eyes shut, return to his bed, empty the oil on the rice, polish it in four mouthfuls, fall back and go to sleep without a break.

If in general people ate three meals, Chinnathambi had to have four meals, without fail.

Thiravathi Nayakkar beckoned Chinnathambi with a tight smile. He came forward, respectfully. ‘Put the pot aside,’ Thiravathi Nayakkar told him. He put it down. ‘Now let’s have a small wrestle,’ he said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Chinnathambi started to laugh, ‘What do you mean? Stop being childish. Let go of me. I have just finished my work. Have not eaten as yet. Let go. Please listen,’ he begged.