12
The Grandeur of Puthari
A Year Without Celebration
The Coorg valley shimmered gold with ripening paddy fields. But Bopu’s home had been quiet the previous year. No laughter, no gunshots, no “Puthari.” They had skipped celebrations to honor the memory of Ajja, Bopu’s grandfather, a war hero and the soul of their home.
But now, after a year of silence, the family decided to bring back the light. This Puthari would be a celebration for Ajja—of his life, of tradition, and of the joy he loved spreading.
Bopu stood outside in his red shirt and blue shorts. Bollu, his ever-energetic brown Indies dog, wagged his tail beside him, sensing something special in the air.
Just then, Kaveri appeared at the gate, a garland of wild jasmine in her hair and a banana leaf thambuttu plate balanced on one hand. “You two planning to start without your local princess?” she smirked. “I already told the Kula Devathe—today, Bopu won't trip more than twice.”
Bopu rolled his eyes, but smiled. “Ready for some madness, Bollu?” Woof! came the reply, as the three headed into a day packed with color and culture.
“Poli Poli Deva"
The village Mandh was alive again. Elders carried sickles and rifles, young girls wore Kodava saris with Checkvastra on their head, and the spirit of the forest drifted from every home.
At noon, the ritual cry of “Poli Poli Deva!” rang across the fields. Gunshots cracked into the skies—Puthari had officially begun!
Villagers, including Bopu, walked to the fields with reverence, where they plucked the first stalks of golden rice. It was his first time holding the sickle. Nervous at first, Bopu steadied himself. Bollu trotted proudly next to him, tail high like a flag.
Kaveri, standing nearby with folded hands, tossed a few grains into the wind and said solemnly, “For Ajja and for good harvest... and fewer leeches this year.” Bopu stifled a laugh.
“Ajja would be proud,” whispered his grandmother.
Back home, the elders began prepping for the shooting contests, a favorite event of the village. Targets were lined up, and cheers rose as each shot rang out.
Bopu’s uncle, Nanaiah, took aim and hit a bullseye—drawing applause. Bopu tried too with an Airgun, but missed the target… and almost shot a jackfruit.
“You need practice, Bopu!” someone said, and even Bollu barked as if to join in.
Kaveri chimed in, “At least aim for ripe ones next time. That jackfruit wasn’t even ready!”
Kolatta, Pariya Kali, and a Chicken Chase
By evening, the open ground turned into a carnival. Drums beat as boys and girls lined up in for their respective Kolaata, Pariya Kali, traditional stick dance and Ummathat. Clack! Clack! The bamboo sticks struck rhythmically as feet moved in circles.
Bopu was roped in last-minute, and he kept missing the beat—until Bollu ran through the line, causing a full pile-up!
From the sidelines, Kaveri yelled, “This is KoL-Atta, not Coil-Atta! Straighten your legs!”
Laughter erupted. The emcee shouted, “Next up—Pariya Kali!”
This was a mock combat sport, where players carried bamboo sticks and wooden shields. Bopu and his friend Kavi entered the arena, facing off with dramatic poses. They clashed sticks, rolled, ducked, and finally Bopu slipped on a banana peel mid-spin and flew into a haystack. Bollu ran over to rescue him, only to get tangled in the same hay.
The audience was in splits.
“You’re next year’s champ, Bopu!” someone shouted. “Only if Bollu’s my coach!” Bopu shouted back, grinning.
“Don’t forget your spiritual advisor,” Kaveri called out, “Next year, the Gods will make you better than today, it's a continuous learning”
The afternoon brought the cultural programs. A stage was set, children dressed in traditional kupya-chele, and elders narrated folk tales.
Bopu had been roped in for a skit where he had to act as a mischievous crow stealing akki payasa (sweet rice pudding). While he practiced his lines backstage, Bollu wandered off...
...and returned with a full chicken from someone’s barn!
Bollu proudly placed the chicken at Bopu’s feet—right in the middle of the stage!
The audience roared with laughter. The drama was forgotten, and Bollu became the unplanned star of the show.
Kaveri stood clapping from the crowd, laughing, “Even your dogs are hungry!”
A Feast, Fireworks & a Homecoming
As night fell, the house lit up, the feast was spread—Thambuttu, bamboo shoot curry, kadambuttu and banana fritters.
Kaveri floated between the kitchen and dining area like a self-appointed feast inspector. She'd poke each dish, steal a kadambuttu, and bless the curry pot by sniffing it and declaring it “spicy enough to chase away bad dreams.”
Just when Bopu was serving food to Bollu in a leaf bowl, a loud "THUD!" was heard from the courtyard gate.
A familiar voice shouted: “Am I too late for Thambuttu?!”
Bopu turned in disbelief. His father—still in uniform, dusty boots, and a tired but glowing face—stood at the gate with a broad smile.
“Appa!” Bopu screamed and ran to hug him, followed by Bollu who leaped and licked every inch of him. Tears flowed, and joy exploded.
Bopu’s motheri stood still for a moment, then quietly folded her hands and murmured, “Kula Devathe, you’re really showing off today.”
His father had taken a surprise leave from his posting and arrived without a word, just to celebrate Puthari with them.
That night, as fireworks lit the Coorg sky, the house echoed with joy, just like the old days.
Remembering and Moving Forward
As the family sat around the fireplace with cups of hot coffee, Bopu looked at Ajja’s photo once again.
“Ajja would have loved today, no?” he asked softly.
His father nodded. “He would’ve fired the loudest shot and danced first in line.”
Bollu, curled up with a belly full of chicken, snored happily beside Bopu.
Kaveri tiptoed up and placed a flower from Ajja’s old garden on the photo. “He probably guided Bollu to that chicken,” she said with a sly smile.
The family knew this Puthari was not just a festival—it was a turning page, a blend of memory and hope.
“Next year,” Bopu said, “I’ll win the shooting contest. And the Pariya Kali!”
Bollu let out a sleepy snort, paw over his eyes.
A Festival to Remember
In the weeks that followed, people in the village spoke about the laughter, the drama, the chicken thief dog, and the soldier’s surprise return. Bopu and Bollu became little legends of that year’s Puthari.
And thanks to Kaveri—who told the story in three versions, depending on her mood—they became legends with more mischief and more heart.
Every time someone shouted “Poli Poli Deva!”, Bopu remembered his Ajja, his family’s spirit, and the grandeur of a Coorg celebration reborn in love and laughter.
But Bopu, Bollu, and Kaveri’s adventures in the Naad… were just beginning.