I am a small farm nestled in the foothills of Tamil Nadu, where a bounty of fruits and vegetables flourish.
My roots run deeper than the oldest tree upon this land. My soil remembers the first seeds sown and the initial rains that kissed the earth. I have learned to listen to their rhythms of scorching summers, torrential rains, and misty-cold winds, over countless seasons;
Moorthy, a thin, middle-aged man with kind eyes, is my caretaker. He tends to me with tender love, giving my land breathing space between crops and ensuring that all fertilisers and manures are organic.
One day, amidst great excitement, Moorthy brought a small box, buying it off a thrift shop at the market. I heard its gentle hum before I saw it: a transistor radio. Though its voice was soft at first, it gradually intertwined into our lives, growing bold enough to warble loudly throughout the day.
Manas, the cook, would tinker with its knobs and find a station playing old Hindi melodies.
“Saun saal pehle, mujhe tumse pyaar tha,” the mellifluous tune would fill the kitchen. Manas would sing along in his discordant voice, stirring something in a large saucepan. The aromas of onions, garlic and green chillies would drift through the air.
Soon, Sitamma tiptoed in and spirited it away to the large shed. She coaxed it to broadcast Tamil songs. The women dehusking coconuts would nod their heads in sync with ‘Naan autokararan autokaran,’ while tamarind pods cracked under the ladies’ hammers keeping time to the music’s beat. All would smile happily because Rajnikant was their favourite.
I loved how the music stitched my spaces together: kitchen to shed, laughter to labour. But then came the nights, and the transistor performed its most curious duty.
Moorthy would check the batteries, carrying the radio to my orchard. Bathed in moonlight, the guavas hung heavy on their branches, banana bunches glowed yellow-green, and the brazen jackfruits clung tightly to the stems.
He would do something beyond explanation: perch the radio high in a tree, tune into an all-night station, and leave it playing at full volume. Songs, news, and jingles would keep playing unmindful of the fact that there would be not a single soul to appreciate it. Just a cold moon playing with the clouds and shooting stars streaking across the sky.
Through the long hours, the radio sang to no one! Its voice floated over the grass, brushed the leaves, and tangled in the moonlight. The stars seemed to lean closer. The jackfruit trees swayed as if listening. I kept my questions silent.
One morning, Moorthy strolled with a friend among my trees. The visitor stopped, startled.
“What’s the radio doing here?”
Moorthy’s voice was calm, almost proud.
“Last month, monkeys and elephants came for the fruit and destroyed everything. Now, the radio plays all night. The animals think people are here. They stay away.”
Ah. That was it.
The little box was my night watchman.
And I, the farm, slept more peacefully under its song. That night, I felt rather than heard, the elephants pause at the borders and slink away from the fence.
