7 The Garden of Life
[Jeevana Uyana, Iriyagama] The name of the meditation hermitage in this remote village means the Garden of Life. I moved in here on Easter Sunday. The monsoon had started three days earlier, confounding the forecasters who had predicted the drought would continue until the middle of May. Sitting in evening meditation soon after I had moved in, I noticed what appeared to be a large migration of birds underway. The numbers involved were large, several thousand each night.
As they always started their flight after the sun had set, I couldn’t make out the species: they were large black, and a little ungainly in flight, but that was all I could tell. Night after night I watched them as they made their flight in great silence and order, their silhouette against the reddening clouds as they flew towards the setting sun. Sometimes as the intensity of the monsoon increased, the night would be alive with crashing thunder, and lightning flashing from one end of the heavens to the other, but nothing seemed to deter them. They always appeared, rose and crossed the sky in the same direction.
Then one morning, out on an early morning walk, I noticed my ‘migrating’ birds were returning in similar numbers. I had a theory that it might be a bird feeding in the town, and roosting in the countryside, but still I wasn’t able to make out what bird it might be. The mystery was solved one night when I invited some children round, and my mystery bird turned out to be a bat! Apparently they live in some trees in the Botanical Gardens by day, and then fly to the Colombo area – about 100km away – by night, to feed on the fruit trees. So now I sit each night and wonder as they disappear into the distance, such a long excursion they make, and they must be back before the sun rises.
Jeevana Uyana overlooks the paddy fields, and my kutir is on a bank about 40 metres above the fields, thereby commanding a good view as the work proceeds. The fields are set in a valley that varies from 100-150 metres wide, and is surrounded on all sides by the jungle. From where I sit the valley runs off in a S-bend, before rounding a corner and disappearing from sight.
The rains were the signal for the farmer to start ploughing, and he and his buffalos are to be seen working in harmony to till the land. The ploughman has a very distinctive holler, which his animals clearly understand, and his call though not musical, seems to belong to the valley, as generation after generation have hollered at their animals in the same way. At the close of the day’s work he takes time to wash his animals, scooping water over them as they enjoy the soaking, and he then proceeds to give them a rub down with coconut matting, a thorough job taking a half hour to complete.
I had met this farmer before moving in. He sometime had seen me from his fields and was naturally curious. He owns two acres of paddy here which he inherited from his father, and has worked those fields all his life. Work is as toilsome for the farmer as for his labourers, as he works all day with his mammoty, a kind of large hoe, endlessly turning the land over.
I am learning to wield a mammoty myself, doing a few hours work each day in order to clear the land for planting. I start quite early, at 7.00am, because by the time the sun has risen over the jungle and is beating down it really becomes a hefty job, as the sweat simply pours down, and I usually finish work by 9.30am. But for our farmer this is nothing – he’s hardly begun, and he toils on through the hottest part of the day. A second ploughing was given to the fields a couple of days ago, and today I saw a worker in the field sowing seed. The seasons move round, and man works in harmony with nature.
In one of our trees are nesting a family of six babblers, commonly known as seven sisters – we seem to be one short. They are a highly sociable bird who hunt in packs; always a couple will settle on a branch overhead to keep watch, periodically being relieved of their duty so that they may eat. I put out some rice for the birds, the remains of my lunch, under a tree in front of my window. The first to arrive at the feast are of course the ants. They are most welcome as far as the babblers are concerned, and after a peck of rice they will take some fresh meat. Meanwhile the squirrels, who are extremely wary here, climb down the trunk and taking advantage of the babblers standing guard, dare to come to ground, where a chunk of stuck-together-rice makes a tasty nibble. Any untoward movement or sound though, and they are back up the tree like a shot.
One day the sentries on the branches suddenly sent up a loud shriek, ruffling their feathers, and causing all kinds of commotion, as out of the grass a long snake slithered along the bank. I'd seen this particular snake in the morning and went over to have a look, thinking it best to be acquainted with the fauna. From my window he looked only a small fellow as he stood with his head aloft, but as I approached he moved back into the grass – all four feet of him! Later I described this snake to a local, who told me that he was not dangerous, well, not to humans he’s not. For the birds it’s a different story, and upon seeing him they all flew into the tree and sent up a hue and cry, enough indeed to warn any other creature in the vicinity. After raising the alarm the babblers decided to leave the garden for a while. The snake slid out of sight, and for a moment there was quiet, and then there appeared a stoat, stealthily following the snake. What a drama was played out that day, as cooperation was interrupted by danger, and predator followed predator.