Like The Gobi Bullock
“Like the Gobi bullock” is my mother’s favourite expression, describing any action directed by habit rather than thought. She is referencing the bullock that my grandmother owned in the rural town of Gobichettipalayam in South India. Every summer, our family would leave behind our sensible city lives and drive out in our sensible compact car, listening to cassettes that sensibly contained The Very Best of Abba, The Carpenters, and Neil Diamond. We would spend a couple of sweltering weeks with my grandmother, her muddy-white bullock, and her hardened househelp — the grizzly Aarmu, whose head was forever wrapped in a bluish-white cotton handtowel, and the weathered Danaa, whose toothy smile matched her generous heart.
The low, black wrought iron gates of the Gobi house still bore my deceased grandfather’s name and opened to a straight driveway. The house sat to the left, with a covered front porch and four black pillars so thick we couldn’t wrap our arms around them. To the right of the driveway, along the boundary wall, stood a line of flowering trees and shrubs, and two languid coconut trees. Every morning, in the soft blue dawn, Danaa and I would carry a small wicker basket and pick fresh fragrant frangipanis, jasmines, and deep-orange hibiscus, to be used in that morning’s prayers. Occasionally, my grandmother would call in a tree-climber to race up the coconut trees with nothing more than a strip of leather held taut around the trunk. He would unscrew coconuts and drop them with dull thuds onto the mud below, while we counted the falling fruit from a safe distance. The coconuts would then be used in a range of household activities, from grating the insides to make fluffy chutney to tearing out the coir to help Danaa scour the dishes.
At the end of the driveway sat the godowns to store coconut husks, and the cowshed that was large enough to accommodate five animals but currently sheltered the lone bullock. Our car would neatly slot itself into the middle opening. On hot afternoons, my brother and I would play cricket in the cowshed with a straw-coloured plastic bat and red plastic ball, giddy with the smells of hay and dried cowdung patties.
For trips to the town market, Aarmu would hook up the bullock and cart and we would clamour under its tunnel-like covering. Aarmu would guide the bullock with a series of grunts and tongue-clicks, while we bounced hard in between the cart’s large wooden wheels. On the return journey, however, the bullock knew the way and would plod home almost in a trance. Often had we planned to visit the Pariyur-Amman Temple or the Bhavani River banks, gotten engrossed in conversation, and discovered a little later that the bullock had brought us home out of habit.
Today, the Gobi house has made way for sensibly-built apartments, while we communicate virtually from desks, breathe conditioned air, and consume processed food and water. How did we all end up here? Like Gobi bullocks.
