Mr Rooster’s death stare

Rashmi Oberoi

MY summer vacation was spent at our family bungalow, Ahmedalli Cottage, in Kolhapur, my mother’s home town. Many relatives who had nowhere to go were given refuge by my grandmother in that huge cottage, which was built in 1927. In those times, homes were built in the centre of a large walled garden, with space for children to play, families to relax and estates overflowing with flowers, fruit trees and vegetable gardens. These striking old buildings are reminiscent of a bygone era — large, single-storeyed homes with red tiled roofs, whitewashed walls, wrap-around verandahs and large manicured gardens with abundant flowers displaying a riot of colour. I was particularly fond of the mango and jamun trees and the mogra shrub growing near the front door.

These places had toilets outside the house. You could call it the outhouse, the privy, the kybo or something more. Of course, most homes had the squat toilet or the ‘Indian toilet’, not liked by many.

In 1967, when my parents got married, my grandmother’s priority was to instal the ‘Western-style’ toilet for my father, an Army officer. During the 1965 India-Pakistan War, he had been severely wounded in a skirmish with Pakistani soldiers in Kashmir and was taken to the Command Hospital at Pune, where the ‘love in the times of war’ story began with my mother. Dad had been wounded in the right leg, which had to be amputated. After a long period of recuperation and treatment, including the fitting of an artificial limb, he was presented with a choice of what to do next. He chose to remain with the infantry, determined to overcome his handicap.

Bearing this in mind, grandmother had set forth on her quest to find the perfect room and place for the Western-style pot. The longish room that was largely used as a store and also housed the chickens was the chosen place. With a great flourish, the pot was installed and put to use.

Those were exciting times for a child to share her privacy with a bunch of hens clucking around or laying a few ‘golden’ eggs on straw that had been placed conveniently around. But in all this mayhem, we had an issue: the problem lay with Mr Rooster, who thought he was the ‘King of the Barn’. His piercing stare and loud crowing were enough to scare many to exit the barn faster than the speed of light and never return.

Mr Rooster would crow whenever he saw any kind of movement anywhere near what he considered its territory. Well, he didn’t scare me a bit, and we kept up a perpetual battle of territorial claims.

Thanks to him, I learnt the ‘death stare’ — I have perfected the art of giving someone the same treatment: an angry look that shows them the intensity of my annoyance and keeps the unwanted at bay!