8
Valleys - The Rice Basket of the Land and the Oath
The Question
The air in Coorg was filled with the distant beats of drums, the scent of fresh wildflowers, and the laughter of families preparing for Kailpod festival.
In the courtyard, Grandfather sat polishing the family’s farming tools. His wrinkled hands moved steadily, each stroke a memory of the past. Behind him, the fields stretched wide, shimmering under the sun, waiting for the sowing season to begin.
Bopu, in his bright red shirt and blue shorts, came skipping into the yard with his friend Kaveri. Their dog Bollu bounded ahead, ears flopping and tail wagging like a banner of joy.
“Thaatha,” Bopu called out curiously, “why should we sow rice in our fields? The shop in town has sacks full of rice. Wouldn’t it be easier to just buy it?”
Grandfather paused, gazing at the eager children. His eyes softened with wisdom. He knew this was the moment to share a story as old as the Coorg hills themselves.
The Heritage of Rice in Coorg
Grandfather’s voice grew deep and warm, carrying the rhythm of the valley.
“Bopu, Kaveri… rice is not just food in Coorg. It is our heritage. Long, long ago, our ancestors cleared the forests and found these fertile valleys. They sowed rice not only to fill their stomachs but to honor the spirits of land and forest. Each seed was a prayer. Each grain was gratitude.”
Kaveri’s eyes grew wide. “So rice is more than food?”
Grandfather nodded. “Yes. Rice is in every part of our life – cooked for Puthari, our harvest celebration, placed before guests as a sign of respect, and offered to the forest gods during rituals. Without rice, Coorg’s culture would lose its very heartbeat.”
Bollu barked once, tail thumping the ground, as if to say, ‘I understand too!’
The children leaned closer, listening, their minds painting pictures of ancient Coorg, where fields danced in golden waves and prayers rose with every harvest.
Why We Must Grow Our Own
“But Thaatha,” Bopu frowned, “if rice is sold in shops, isn’t it the same rice?”
Grandfather’s face turned serious, though his tone remained gentle. “No, my child. Many rice in shops are hybrids – made to grow quickly, but they forget the taste, fragrance, and strength of our traditional grains.”
He raised a hand toward the rolling valley. The children imagined golden grains floating in the sky: Jeerige Sanna, Biliya… names as musical as songs.
“Each variety,” Grandfather continued, “belongs to our soil. Each has a story – of festivals, of seasons, of ancestors. If we stop sowing them, they will vanish, like a song forgotten.”
Kaveri whispered, almost to herself, “It’s like protecting our ancestors’ gifts.”
Grandfather’s eyes shone. “Exactly, Kaveri. Growing rice with our own hands keeps us independent, healthy, and proud. The shop may give you rice for your belly, but the field gives you rice for your heart.”
Bollu barked twice, chasing a butterfly, as if reminding them that even the creatures of the valley depended on the fields.
The Oath
That evening, the sky blushed with shades of gold and crimson. The hills glowed, and the cicadas sang their evening song. Bopu and Kaveri sat on the veranda steps, quietly turning Grandfather’s words in their minds.
Finally, Bopu stood tall, his young voice steady. “Thaatha, I promise I will grow rice in our field. I will not forget our heritage.”
Kaveri joined him, her hands clasped around a small bundle of seedlings. “I too will learn to sow, harvest, and protect our traditional varieties. I will keep them alive for the next generation.”
Bollu jumped up, wagging his tail furiously, and barked with joy as if declaring, “I promise too!” He circled them, ears flopping, his excitement filling the air.
Grandfather’s eyes grew moist with pride. He placed his hands gently on their heads. “May the fields bless you, my children. With your oath, the spirit of Coorg lives on.”
The moment felt sacred, like the valley itself had listened and accepted their promise.
A New Beginning
The very next morning, Grandfather led Bopu, Kaveri, and Bollu down to the paddy field. The earth smelled fresh after the night dew. The soil was soft, glistening under the morning sun, waiting for new life.
Bopu dipped his bare feet into the mud and laughed. “It feels alive, Kaveri!” Kaveri smiled, carefully holding saplings in her small hands. “This is where our promise begins.”
Together, they pressed the green shoots into the cool earth, one by one, their reflections rippling in the water. Bollu splashed joyfully beside them, chasing dragonflies and leaving little paw prints in the mud.
Grandfather stood by, leaning on his staff, his eyes shining with pride. “Remember, children, each seed you plant is a gift to the future.”
The valley echoed with their laughter, mingling with the songs of birds and the rustle of the groves.
Bopu splashed through the muddy rice fields, his red shirt clinging to him as he darted ahead. “Catch me if you can!” he shouted, laughter ringing through the valley. Kaveri, her skirt soaked at the edges, chased after him with determined strides, her face glowing with joy. Right beside them, Bollu leapt through the shallow water, his brown fur dripping as he barked with excitement, determined not to be left behind. The three raced wildly, their feet sending up sprays of cool water, while the distant workers paused for a moment to smile at the carefree children and their playful dog. For Bopu, Kaveri, and Bollu, the paddy fields had become their grand playground, every splash a cheer of freedom and happiness.
From that day on, Bopu, Kaveri, and Bollu knew — rice was not just food. It was heritage, spirit, and life itself.
And so began their journey as the new keepers of Coorg’s timeless tradition.