There were some rare weddings that Engatrayalu has successfully worked out.

A man in our village lost his wife. He had a son around seventeen years old. As there was no one to take care of the house, he came to Engatrayalu with the son’s horoscope seeking a bride for him.

Rayalu scanned the horoscope, fiddling with his beard and then asked the father, ‘Why don’t you get married instead?’

‘What? I have a grown-up son. How can I get married now?’

‘Well, your son’s horoscope has a few flaws. Nothing that can’t be set right, of course. If you follow my instructions, there will be peace in the family.’

‘Sure, tell me. You are our guide and we will abide by your words.’

The advice Engatrayalu suggested was that it should be the father who ties the thali first for the bride and the son should follow suit. This is known as being twice-thali’d.

Days after this strange wedding, Govindappa Nayakkar, bewildered, asked Engatrayalu, ‘What kind of weird wedding is this? You mean to say that she is wife to both of them?’

‘What do you think I should have done?’

‘Why not get the woman married to the father?’

Rayulu smiled and that smile was full of pity. ‘It really doesn’t matter which of the two men I had wedded to that woman. It would have been exactly as it now. Had I got just one of them married, and this had occurred, the house would have been at war. So, I did what I had to do.’

The one chatting with Engatrayalu and doodling on the ground, as if he were branding a cow, is Vakadam Pulliah, an expert in cattle rearing and warding off the evil eye with herbs. The days that he is immersed in warding off the evil eye, he speaks to no one. If he were to utter a word then the herb would become impotent.

Those who needed his treatment had to book him a day earlier. He’d rise early, take a brisk walk with a glum face, mumbling something to himself. When he returned from plucking his herbs, those who knew his nature would try to chat with him.

He’d crush the herb on the cow’s forehead and spread the juice over its back, down its tail and then snap his fingers. He’d do this thrice, and then speak.

Swollen udders, bleeding nipples, cows with no appetite, any cattle ailment—he had a herb to cure it.

Vakadam Pulliah could accomplish one other thing too and that was dealing with bovine pregnancy—removing the dead foetus. That is no easy job. A cow’s sense of smell is good. Not even at midnight can one make a cow feed a calf that is not her own. She would sniff it and kick it away. So Pulliah would keep the orphan calf out of the cow’s sight and lead it away to a lonely place, making sure that the mother cow is ahead of him, and there is someone carrying the calf.