All about rats and a little more

Poetry, like music, can be a pulse, a heartbeat, and many other things in people’s lives. It educates our minds to learn the ways of the world, appreciate beauty, understand nature, and understand the human condition. For me, one such poem has always been Kuvempu’s Kindari Jogi.

Just last week, our domestic help Ratna, remarked as she was sweeping the floor, “Today we are going to visit my brother in Bommanahalli.” Little did she expect my sudden reaction to the news. I jumped up, brushed my mind with one lightning stroke, and started reeling off:

Thungatheerada balagadeyalli / Hindallidudu Bommanahalli.

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Alleniligala katave kata / Alliya janagaligathi golata.

Without pausing, I kept on and on building up the rhythm, rhyme, and excitement created by the teeming rats around. Ratna stood still. listening with a broom in hand. She waited to see when I would stop, which I did when I had reached the lines.

Kamanadahisida hanegannu / Mooshika romava sudalilla.

What I had learned by heart in my school days had served me well when I needed it!

The story goes that K V Puttappa, better known as Kuvempu, as a student at Maharaja’s College, was given a translation assignment by his professor, B M Shri, to translate Robert Browning’s The Pied Piper of Hamelin into Kannada. When Kuvempu submitted his work, his teacher was so thrilled that he tore up Browning’s poem and said we are going to keep this Kannada creation. That is the story, and I don’t know how much of it is true. But I myself believe it is true beyond truth.

In a way, I have never let go of this poem. I instilled it in my kids when I read stories to them and in my students when I had to teach English 101 at the university. If there was no direct chance to introduce it, I took the chance by hook or by crook. I believed in the story as a moral compass in my own life.

The pestilence humans face, the search for solutions to the problem, the answer finally given, and how the answer is handled—these are dominant issues in the long poem. What appealed to me, however, was the promise and the word of the mayor to the Jogi, and his backing off at the crucial moment and the dire consequences of breaking his word. The mayor, who had promised a thousand coins at first, changes the game by telling the Jogi, “You did not do much. You played the pipe, and the rats fell into the river by themselves. Here is some change; you can go and buy a snack.” The result of breaking the promise is the catastrophic loss of all children in the village except for a lame boy who is left behind to tell the story.

To get back on track, Ratna, who had stood open-mouthed with a broom in hand and been listening patiently, bent down to resume her sweeping. “So, it was all about rats,” she said.

“Yes,” I replied, “all about rats and a whole lot more.”