11
Grandfather Rises to the Heavens
The Silence Before the Storm
The house in the valley was unusually quiet. The usual sounds of birds, cattle bells, and kitchen chatter were missing. Grandfather was unwell - his breathing slow, eyes half-closed, skin pale like mist on the coffee leaves. The family knew the time was near.
Bopu sat near the veranda steps with Bollu lying beside him, ears low and eyes alert. The wind was still. Even the pepper vines didn’t sway.
That evening, Bopu’s father returned from military service. With a heavy heart he went straight to grandfather’s room.
“Bopu,” grandfather whispered, motioning him closer.
Bopu knelt beside him, holding his wrinkled hand.
“My boy… life is duty. Remember the Kodava values — courage, honour, respect and reverence for land and ancestors. Take care of your mother, your grandmother… be a pillar for the okka.”
Then, with tired fingers, grandfather pointed to a long cloth-wrapped bundle next to him.
“This musket… has protected our family for generations. It is now yours.”
Tears welled in Bopu’s eyes. Bollu let out a low whimper, sensing the weight of farewell.
Farewell to Thatha
Late that night, grandfather took his final breath. A hush fell across the home, like the forest holding its breath.
Bollu stood at the corridor door, staring into the darkness, then let out a deep, haunting howl — long and soulful. A few neighbours nearby lit lamps and looked toward the house.
Bopu hugged his father tightly as they both stood silently. Then, in uniform, his father took two steps forward and muzzle loaded the musket and raised his rifle skyward.
BOOM. And repeated it again. BOOM. Two gunshots cracked through the Coorg hills, echoing like thunder on a clear night. A signal to the neighborhood about the death.
There was a flood of visitors next morning as the message spread across.
The elders and family performed the rituals, dressed in white.
Bopu's uncle holding the double barrel shot gun, took a final double shot, BOOM! BOOM! It was a final salute — a kodava family bidding goodbye to their Pattedara.
The final rites were held in the family plantation nearby, the body was seated on a wooden pyre, layered with sandalwood, mango tree logs, dry twigs, and cloth soaked in ghee. His hunting cap rested on his lap. As the elders chanted prayers and family gave their final homage, Bopu’s father lit the torch. The fire slowly caught, crackling into flames. When the pyre was ablaze, Bopu’s heart clenched. His legs trembled. He bit his lip hard, trying not to cry, but the tears burst through. Bollu whimpered and pressed his head against Bopu’s knees.
Watching the fire rise, Bopu whispered, “Goodbye, Ajja… please watch over us.”
For eleven days, the house wore white sheets, no meat was cooked, and the air smelled of sandalwood and tears.
The Mada – A Gathering of Memory
On the eleventh day, it was Mada — the day to honour the departed soul with a final farewell. Relatives poured in, their voices soft, their eyes moist.
Bopu’s grandmother supervised quietly, placing betel leaves and flowers in copper plates. The community elder gave a final talk about the departed and the reason for gathering. Akki payasa with kodava non veg food was served in banana leaves. The air was filled with deep, collective respect.
Some men kept their silence. Others spoke about grandfather’s bravery, his guidance, how he once saved the entire okka’s coffee harvest from climate change.
Bopu felt pride and pain both, as he served guests with Bollu walking beside him, as if he too were mourning with dignity.
In the evening, as the guests left, a gentle breeze swept through the house — the first after days of stillness. Bollu looked up and barked softly once, his ears perking up.
It was as if grandfather had passed through one last time.
Triveni Sangama – The Soul’s Journey
Forty-five days later, the family travelled in their old green jeep to Bhagamandala for the pinda daana rituals.
“Three rivers meet here,” explained Bopu’s father. “When we offer prayers here, the soul finds peace.”
Bopu and his father shaved their heads. Their hair fell silently into the sacred soil. Bopu touched his bald head and looked at the flowing rivers — Kaveri, Kannike, and Sujyoti. He felt lighter, closer to something bigger than himself.
They took a dip in the cold, holy waters of Triveni Sangama. Bollu, though hesitant at first, eventually splashed in and shook his fur, sprinkling water everywhere.
Then they drove up the winding hills to Tala Kaveri, the origin of the river Kaveri. Mist hung low as they performed the final pooja. The priest placed a marigold flower in Bopu’s palm.
“For blessings from your grandfather,” he said.
Bopu looked at the sky. A single eagle flew high above the Brahmagiri hills. He whispered, “I’ll make you proud, Ayya.”
Sunset and Stars
Back home, days passed slowly. The laughter of grandfather, his prosthetic wooden leg tapping the floor, his stern but kind voice — all were missing.
The house had changed.
Bopu now woke early, fed the cattle, helped his grandmother with firewood, and even started reading old Kodava books his grandfather once read aloud.
His father soon left again, back to his regiment. Before leaving, he ruffled Bopu’s hair and said, “You’re becoming a fine young man.”
To honour grandfather's legacy, the Kodava naad community organized a local hockey tournament in his memory. He had once been a fierce player and later a respected mentor, always encouraging village youth to take pride in sport and unity. The ground echoed with the sound of sticks and cheers, and a large banner read: “In Memory of Cariappa Ajja – Warrior, Mentor, Pillar of the Naad.”
Bopu sat on the sidelines with pride in his chest, next to the trophy he was asked to present — his eyes moist, but shining.
That evening, Bopu and Bollu walked to a large rock that overlooked the valley.
They sat quietly watching the sun dipping down from the clouds above the hills, a streak of sunlight sneaked between the golden clouds and touched the grass lands, the spectacle lasted for a few seconds.
Bopu whispered, “That’s him, Bollu. Ascending the Heavens, Watching us.”
Bollu barked once, then gently rested his head on Bopu’s lap.
Fire flies circled and twinkled around, igniting a feel of divine presence of the forest spirits.
The rifle, now cleaned and oiled, rested against the wall back home — waiting for the day Bopu would grow into it.
For now, he just sat… a boy on the edge of becoming a man, with a loyal friend beside him, and the spirit of his grandfather watching from the stars.