The Story Birds

Progress

The Story Birds — Sat, 18 May 2024 12:45:03 GMT

A flock of sparrows was enjoying a late afternoon snack of insects in the grassy verge by a pond. A pair of bronze-winged jacanas spotted the sparrows and made their way to them, their big feet treading delicately across the lily pads. “Hello, story birds, how are the books coming along?” called the jacanas.

The sparrows, unprepared for such enthusiasm,…

Hatching Plans

The Story Birds — Thu, 29 Feb 2024 14:30:14 GMT

The Great Cloud Bird had once again called the birds of the world together. The birds came, chittering and chattering, honking and hooting, looking forward with great excitement to the event. There would be music and dancing, and good food and stories to be shared.

“We love these gatherings,” twittered a pair of sunbirds. “There are always new birds to meet and new stories to hear.”

“And the music! The nightingales were a fabulous opening act last year,” said a large, green parrot. “I wonder who it is this year.”

“Me, I am opening this year,” said the doel. She cleared her throat nervously, looking around for the coppersmith who had promised to keep the beat to her singing.

As the first tuk-tuk-tuk of the coppersmith filled the air, the pure, sweet notes of the doel rose to the skies. All the birds fell silent and listened, enrapt, as she sang of sunlight on water and wind in the trees. As the last fluid notes of her song died away, the birds broke out in a storm of applause. Garud waited for the birds to quieten, then stepped forward, his wings shining brighter than ever before. “That brought back so many wonderful memories,” he declared, wiping a tear from his eye. “I now turn to the main business of this gathering and invite the story birds to speak.”

The sparrows, who had come from all over the world, whirred up into the air in a great flock, and settled into the centre of the gathering. One of the sparrows settled her elegant feathers and stepped forward. “Dear friends,” she said, “we have been collecting stories for almost three years now. You have helped us in so many different ways—by telling us stories, pointing us to sources, spreading the word, and most of all, by listening to our tales. Today we need your help in another way. We now have so many stories that we can no longer keep them in our heads. We are concerned they will be lost or forgotten. How do we save them and the new stories we collect?”

The gathering broke into excited discussions and began to shout ideas into the air. The Great Cloud Bird, who had been listening to all this in silence, shook his head in exasperation. “This will not do, G,” he rumbled at Garud and clapped his enormous wings. As always, thunder rolled across the universe, the earth trembled, the stars forgot to shine, all the birds jumped out of their feathers and at last there was silence.

Garud glared at the gathering. “Now, one at a time!” he said imperiously.

“Bury them,” said the blue jay.

“Poop them out, they’ll grow!” called the flowerpecker.

“Weave them into nests,” said the baya.

“Sing them as songs,” fluted the blackbird.

“Hide them under shining pebbles in a shallow stream,” chattered the magpie.

The African grey parrot had been listening quietly to the suggestions. “How about a book?” he said, with a flap of his wings.

“What a good idea!” rumbled the Cloud Bird.

“But we can’t make a book all by ourselves,” squeaked the sparrows in panic. ”We still have stories to collect!”

“I’ll write them out for you,” said the secretary bird, already looking busy.

“I’ll gather the leaves for you to write on,” offered the jacana.

“We’ll give the quills,” honked the geese.

“We’ll collect berries for ink,” trilled the finches.

“I’ll help you with the research,” said the owl, opening one eye.

“And who will edit the collection?” asked the Cloud Bird.

“Raven can do it!” suggested Garud.

“If you want,” shrugged the raven, casually preening his glossy feathers, though everyone could see he was delighted at the honour.

“Alright then! We’ll start sorting what we have,” chirruped the sparrows, now excited about the idea of a book.

“Looks like we are all set then,” said Garud.

“Make sure you let us know from time to time how you get on,” said the Cloud Bird.

“And that concludes our business,” declared Garud at which the bell-bird announced the grand feast that was waiting for them all.

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A Story Birds original.
Story copyright © Shaiontoni Bose and Rohini Chowdhury 2024.

We released our first story, A Chirpy Tale, on The Story Birds on April 5, 2021. Since then we have published 75 tales here and have collected several more. We are excited to tell you that we are now in the process of collating all these (and more that we are still collecting) into several books. We will publish regular updates on The Story Birds on how we get on. We will also post regularly on Substack Notes and Instagram for those of our readers who follow us there.

Happy Diwali!

The Story Birds — Sun, 12 Nov 2023 02:30:29 GMT

A tall silver oak with its pale leaves and silvery trunk rose tall above the tin roofs of a cluster of small houses. Each house had its own banana tree and a rickety gate with climbing roses and other flowering creepers. A patchwork quilt of terraced fields fell down the mountainside behind them. The setting sun lit up the snow-clad peaks of the Kanchen…

New directions!

The Story Birds — Tue, 31 Oct 2023 06:30:25 GMT

Dear Readers,

We have been writing The Story Birds steadily for almost three years now. Many of you have been with us from the beginning, and many have joined our journey of exploration along the way.

The Story Birds has grown beyond anything we imagined and has given us insights into stories, the interconnections between them, and how they grow and change across time and as they travel around the world. New directions have emerged from this work, and we are excited to take The Story Birds on further adventures. The sparrows will continue to bring you stories, but less frequently.

Your presence, participation, and encouragement have brought us this far and been a key factor in our growth. We will keep you updated and informed as we discover and create new material, and invite you to join in with comments and suggestions. We look forward to your continuing inputs.

Rohini and Shaiontoni

Nirbandh

The Story Birds — Sun, 15 Oct 2023 07:00:43 GMT

The summer night was busy with the rustling of small creatures in the undergrowth. Down by the river, amidst the puddles and rock pools at the water’s edge, a lapwing searched for a late night snack. “Did-he-do-it? Did-he-do-it?” he called suddenly, startling awake an elderly sparrow roosting in an Arjuna tree by the riverbank.

“What? What? What happened…

The Tale of the Bent Old Woman, Kujo Buri

Sat, 30 Sep 2023 06:00:16 GMT

The skies were a newly washed blue after the late monsoons had begun to retreat. The season of Sharad was in the air. A few clouds, relieved of their heavy burdens of the previous season, chased each other in the sky like errant sheep. There was a slight nip in the morning air and a mellow golden haze lay over the countryside. A starry shiuli bush had s…

The Sparrows Return

The Story Birds — Fri, 15 Sep 2023 06:00:09 GMT

The parrot, Hiraman, sat dolefully upon a branch of the mango tree. It was pouring with rain, and he was wetter than a hen in a duck pond. “What’s with this weather?” he grumbled. “Raining when it shouldn’t, dry when it should rain.”

The barbet poked his head out of his warm, dry hole in the trunk of the tree. “Come in out of the wet with me,” he invited. “This rain will be over soon. It’s not like old times when it went on for days.”

“Why have those sparrows not returned yet?” fretted the parrot, ignoring the barbet’s offer and peering at the overcast sky.

“They know their way home, they’ll be back soon enough,” reassured the woodpecker cheerfully.

Just then the babblers set up a huge commotion. “They’re back, they’re back, they’re back!” they shouted all together. And sure enough, there they were, the whole flock, hurtling through the wind and rain to the old mango tree.

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“We have so much to tell you all,” chirped the sparrows as they wiggled and waggled and shook the raindrops off.

“Keep that water to yourself,” muttered Hiraman grumpily, sidling away from the wet sparrows, though secretly relieved to see his friends return safe and sound.

The barbet stuck his head out again. “Did you meet the Great Cloud Bird? What did he say? Did he have any solutions for the crazy weather? Or suggestions for us?” he asked hopefully.

“Well, we did meet the Cloud Bird…” said one of the sparrows.

“And?” prompted the other birds eagerly.

“All he said was go forth and find out.”

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“Find out what?” asked Hiraman, exasperated.

“We weren’t sure at first,” said another sparrow, “but as we journeyed home, we began to understand what he might have meant.”

“We saw such exciting things,” chirped a young one. “Roof gardens, solar lighting, electric cars, rain-water harvesting, grey-water recycling…!”

“Garbage traps at the mouths of rivers, and ocean traps to catch the plastic,” chimed in another young sparrow.

“Some people are even rebuilding coral reefs,” said another with an excited wiggle of her tail.

“We even saw some making fashionable new clothes out of old ones,” said an old sparrow. “They were almost as pretty as our feathers and there were long lines of people wanting them.”

“Even children are helping by planting wildflowers for the bees, and putting out water for birds and wild animals in the summer months,” said the first sparrow.

“Maybe your tribe won’t become extinct after all, Hiraman,” said the optimistic woodpecker with a vigorous tap-tap-tap on the tree.

“Too little, too late!” grumbled the parrot. “The icecaps are still melting, the mountains collapsing, the rivers drying up. There are wildfires and floods everywhere, storms and cyclones and hurricanes.”

“From what we saw, it seems more and more people are coming together to look for solutions,” reassured the sparrows.

“Look, it’s stopped raining, just as I said,” declared the barbet suddenly, hopping out of his hole.

“Cheer up, Hiraman,” said the woodpecker. “It’s not all bleak. We won’t give up without a fight. Meanwhile, our friends are back safe and sound.”

“Tell us more, tell us more, tell us more!” chanted the babblers.

“Yes, yes,” said the sparrows, “but first we must eat, we haven’t eaten all morning and we’re starving!”

“Ooh! Look at all the juicy worms! Nothing like home food!” chirped a young one, and the entire flock swooped down for a well-earned meal.

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Whatever Happened to Kaga Mama?

The Story Birds — Fri, 30 Jun 2023 09:43:36 GMT

A flock of sparrows had sought the deepest of the dense, dark shade of a gnarled old mango tree. There were a few luscious mangos still hanging on the very top of the tree that people had been unable to pick, but none of the sparrows even looked at the fruit. They were just too hot.

“Why is it still so hot?” moaned one. “There’s not a drop of rain yet!”

“Yes, the rains should have been here weeks ago!” agreed another, peering hopelessly up at the cloudless sky.

“The weather gods seem completely confused this year,” said a woodpecker, taking a break from his tapping. “There are floods in some places and fires somewhere else!”

“You know Kaga Mama, the old crow who lives in the gulmohur, two trees down the street? He hasn’t been seen for ages,” piped up a barbet.

“Do you think he’s lost in a cyclone?” asked a parrot dolefully. “We hear they are blowing everything away this year, even the monsoons. Maybe Kaga Mama has been blown to bits,” he added with miserable relish.

A troop of babblers squawked in horror, and huddled closer together despite the heat.

“Don’t be silly,” said an old sparrow bracingly. “Kaga Mama is a tough old bird, he would have taken shelter somewhere. He’ll be back.”

“I don’t know,” said the parrot. “Even if he escaped the storm, he might have starved to death, had a heatstroke, bashed his head against a glass window, choked on plastic, been crushed as flat as a leaf by a car or hacked to pieces by blades in a wind farm…”

“STOP!” twittered the sparrows in unison. “Why must you be so morbid?”

“My entire Hiraman clan is on the brink of extinction,” said the mournful parrot. “How can I be otherwise?”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said the old sparrow. “Sparrows are facing similar troubles, though perhaps my flock has been fortunate—people have been putting out seed and water where we live, and looking after their parks. So our tribe has increased a bit.”

“You are lucky,” chimed in a skinny sparrow from another flock. “Where I live, the trees have disappeared. It’s difficult to find safe nesting spots and food for our chicks. The ground is covered with concrete, there are no ponds left, and the rain, when it falls, can’t seep into the earth.” She turned to the parrot in sympathy. “We are worried too.”

“Save the earth, save the earth,” cried the babblers all together.

“The earth doesn’t need saving, she’ll just regenerate without us,” said the parrot. “It’s we who need saving!”

The birds sat in gloomy contemplation for a while.

“Maybe the Great Cloud Bird will know what to do,” suggested the woodpecker at last.

“We can visit him!” said the sparrows, glad of something positive to do. “We’ll meet him, and see if we can bring back some ideas.”

“Goodbye, goodbye,” they called and off they flew.

“Goodbye and good luck,” cried the other birds.

“Don’t forget to keep an eye out for old Kaga Mama!” called Hiraman, a smidgeon more hopeful now.

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The story birds are taking a break for the summer. They will be back with new stories in September.

In the meantime, look out for them on Substack Notes as they update you on their travels.

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Unfortunately, some of our work was used elsewhere without our permission. In order to stop such copyright infringement, we have had to put our stories behind a paywall. As a courtesy to our free subscribers, we have made our stories available for all to read for the first 4 weeks after they are published. Subsequently, they are available only to paying subscribers, who always have access to the full ARCHIVE on the The Story Birds website.

We respectfully ask our readers to bear in mind that ALL writing on The Story Birds is protected by copyright law and may not be used in any form or format, including downloads, printed copies, or performance, without explicit written permission from the author/s.

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The Story Birds — Wed, 21 Jun 2023 14:46:54 GMT

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The Legend of the Dwarf

The Story Birds — Tue, 20 Jun 2023 11:31:38 GMT

It was a bright, sunny day in the ancient city of Uxmal. A flock of visiting sparrows alighted on the the topmost branches of a majestic ceiba tree.

“Ooh, what a view!” exclaimed an excited young one. “I can see the whole world from up here!”

“Perhaps not the whole world,” chuckled an older sparrow indulgently, “though I must say the ruins look spectacul…

Yeo Ka?

The Story Birds — Tue, 06 Jun 2023 11:26:03 GMT

A lone black headed ibis stretched its neck out over the sand. It stepped gracefully along the waterline, on the shores of the Arabian Sea. The flowering mangroves clung defiantly to the sand with their stilts and spikes. Their delicate scent wafted into the air. A flock of sparrows pecked busily on rocks at the edge of the mangroves.

The ibis moved in…

The Legend of Tomiris, Queen of the Massagetae

The Story Birds — Thu, 18 May 2023 15:44:51 GMT

A pair of wind-blown, sand-blasted sparrows were tossed one blustery March morning into the branches of an old mulberry tree. The tree was in the inner courtyard of an abandoned old madrasa with a crumbling minora in the outer courtyard. They had been blown miles off course by the dust storm, blinded and helpless in the gusts of wind and the fine billow…

Join us on Notes

The Story Birds — Sun, 07 May 2023 09:37:26 GMT

We are now also on Substack Notes, and would love for you to join us there!

Notes is a new space on Substack for us to share links, short posts, quotes, photos, and more. We plan to use it for things that don’t fit in the newsletter, like fun facts around stories that we find, or short updates, work-in-progress, and quick questions.

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Head to substack.com/notes or find the “Notes” tab in the Substack app. As a subscriber to The Story Birds, you’ll automatically see my notes. Feel free to like, reply, or share them around!

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Why Substack Notes

Fellow writers and readers are spending time in Notes for a variety of reasons.

Ted Gioia sees Notes as a forum for dialogue.

The idea behind Notes is simple. Millions of people now participate in Substack as writers and readers—but much of this is built on long articles and essays. We now have a forum for dialoguing and sharing shorter posts.

Chris Ryan is drawn to Substack as an alternative for legacy social media.

One of my main reasons for joining Substack was to wean myself off exploitative social media platforms. I’m hoping this is going to help move us along on that journey!

Sherman Alexie wants to create a kind and creative new space in Notes.

I’m going to focus on being positive, with my own thoughts and photos and by linking to songs, stories, poems from around the web and from other Substacks.

If you encounter any issues, you can always refer to the Notes FAQ for assistance. Looking forward to seeing you there!

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The Old Woman's Treasure

The Story Birds — Mon, 01 May 2023 11:52:15 GMT

It was May. Spring was over and the scorching north Indian summer was well on its way. The village—or town, as it liked to call itself since the coming of the inter-state bus terminal—stretched raggedly along the highway. Despite its ramshackle appearance, the village was a favourite snack stop for the lorries and buses that plied the busy route between…

How Cuchulainn Came to Conchobar’s Court

The Story Birds — Wed, 19 Apr 2023 05:00:54 GMT

It was spring. The cold, bleak days of winter were past, the ground was soft with spring rain, and plump, juicy worms were plentiful once again in the parks and gardens of the city. A pair of starlings were pecking for breakfast in the grass verge that ran along the children’s playground. A line of well-fed sparrows sat upon the fence, admiring the irid…

Reminiscences of an Unknown Draughtsman of the Calcutta Botanical Garden

The Story Birds — Fri, 31 Mar 2023 15:58:33 GMT

The golden morning was greeted with a harsh ‘chacka chacka chak’ followed by musical metallic tones, ‘clunk-clink clunk-clink’ . The sound came from a rufous tree pie. It was perched on a guava tree near the flimsy bamboo gate, dangling its long tail.

A young mother looked out, holding her little baby in her arms. A small toddler stood beside her, sucki…

The Merchants and the Thieves

The Story Birds — Mon, 20 Mar 2023 16:38:28 GMT

The village rooster opened a beady eye. Though sunrise was still some time away, the sky had begun to lighten in the east. He opened his other eye and looked around him. The hens in his harem were still fast asleep, and so were the cow and her milk-white calf. He enjoyed these quiet moments before the hustle of the day began. Soon, though, it would be t…

The Clever Peasant

The Story Birds — Sat, 04 Mar 2023 05:24:59 GMT

It was spring. The forest had shaken off its blanket of snow, its trees stretching tall to the warming rays of the sun. A large mother boar and three striped, squeaking, curly-tailed little piglets rootled for breakfast in the soft earth along a gurgling stream. Upon the branches of a gnarled old oak perched a troop of sparrows watching the wild boar f…

Guest Post: Baale and Mugudu

Mon, 20 Feb 2023 13:38:22 GMT

Many are the rivers that flow in Tulunad, and their names flow as they do. Netravati, Phalguni, Shambhavi, Nandini, Pangala, Swarna or Suvarna, Souparnika, Papanashini. Upon the higher terrain where the floods do not reach, grow the tall coconut and arecanut palms. Homes are carefully built just above the palms. Other lush vegetation surrounds these plantations. Rainwater flows from this lush, rocky terrain creating small streams that collect in the middle of low-lying fields below. During the monsoons these streams flood and join the bigger rivers that flow into the sea.

In the rich alluvial soil of these coastal fields is where the paddy grows. In one green paddy field, a pundade, the shy, white-breasted waterhen, scurried in and out. Its big webbed feet trampled all over fresh, green seedlings as it gobbled up snails, small shrimps, tiny crabs and precious earthworms. It looked very nervous.

A flock of cheerful sparrows had come to join in the feast. They watched the pundade jumping at every noise, scuttling off at the whisper of every leaf, and, curious, they asked, “Why are you so frightened?”

“Don’t you know? It’s the time for the Keddasa festival when the village youths hunt us to chase us off their fields. They say it’s to protect their young seedlings. They should know we eat a lot of pests too! Luckily we are not very tasty for them to eat or we would have been wiped out by now! We lose at least one or two of our flock every year to the hunt. I don’t want to be caught!”

“Hmm, should think not! Must be stressful!” the sparrows agreed.

“Yes, it is,” said the waterhen, “but when we stay safe hidden among the reeds or in the jungle undergrowth, the songs, the paddanas, we can hear from the fields far away, are beautiful. The Keddasa lasts for three days. People believe that this is the time Mother Earth has her menstrual cycle just like human women, and after this period of three days, when she is carefully nurtured, celebrated and propitiated, she emerges as a bride, bathed and fresh. I’ve heard them say in the village it is the period of blooming flowers and the promise of wonderful fruit. Mango, cashew, palasha and so many other plants bloom at this time. The earth is adorned in a riot of colours like the beautiful saris the village women wear. So they have ceremonies and sing songs and tell tales to celebrate the season and to give thanks to Mother Earth.”

“Tales? Come, rest a while and tell us one if you can remember,” said the sparrows, ever eager to add another story to their collection.

And this is the tale the pundade told.

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BAALE AND MUGUDU

A cautionary Tulu folk tale, retold by Dejappa Shetty Pejathimar

Tulunad is rich in life of all kinds. Our place is on the banks of the river Nandini and here in our village, it takes another name where it meets the sea. Here it is called the Pavanje river. It has an abundance of vegetation and of sweet- and salt-water creatures including fish, water snakes, snails, shellfish, and mud crabs. People are hardworking and reap their crops in two seasons.

The crop harvested in the month of Puyintel or Ponni (around February) is the one we enjoy the most. The weather is cool. The sun is in a kindly mood. The air is full of music as women sing paddanas in chorus while they transplant the rice seedlings. Fish, shrimps, and little crabs loiter in the watery mud and are easy to catch and take home to the family. The fragrance of delicious curries fills the air, and life is good.

When I was a boy, on a day like this, while ploughing the field, we captured some fish. The poor kingfisher who sat on top of a tree branch could barely see its prey. The fields, stretching as far as the eye could see, were being ploughed, and yellow-brown water had been stirred up from ponds and tiny streams along the borders of the field. The kingfisher watched helplessly as we triumphantly carted away our spoils. We took home our catch in a deep-bottomed kudupu, a pot made from a wild yam. We had caught all kinds of fish. There were the dark sweet-water prawns, the small catfish known as tede, the whiskery Asian catfish we call mugudu that swims close to the ground, and the flat, long ribbon fish we call baale that slips in and out of the paddy stalks.

When we got home, I heard my mother telling my older sisters to cook the mugudu and baale in separate earthen pots. I was a curious child and was puzzled when I heard this. “Why can’t they be cooked together, Amma?” I asked her. “You use the same masalas for both fish!” My mother was very pleased with my question and in reply she told me this tale.

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Once upon a time, in a village in Tulunadu, there lived a brother and a sister in a house with a nice courtyard. The courtyard had a flourishing tulasi bush planted in the katte platform in the middle. Around the house were large spaces used to dry the crops from the fields—coconut palm leaves, the orange fruit of the arecanut, or paddy stalks. With large trees on the banks of the river and lush greenery all around, the brother and sister lived quite happily. The brother worked in the field during the day, and the sister took care of the house.

Things went along quite fine but time was passing by, and both the brother and the sister were unmarried. One day, on the way home, the brother found some tender jasmine flowers with a sweet fragrance prettily strung together. He looked around and, finding no one, took it home thinking it might be a special sign for him. When he reached home, he put it reverently on the tulasi katte. Then he vowed that he would marry the first girl drawn to the flowers by their fragrance and off he went to the well nearby to bathe. By and by his sister came to their courtyard after sweeping the house from top to bottom. First the kitchen, then the bedroom, then the dining place, then the cool chavadi, the hall, and the airy padasaale, the open verandah, and at last the courtyard. There she noticed a sweet fragrance filling the air, and found the jasmine flowers lying on the platform upon which grew the sacred tulasi plant. She thought her brother had brought the lovely gift for her. Her heart warmed towards him as she wound the flowers into her beautiful, long, black tresses.

After some time, the brother returned and found the jasmine flowers missing. Excited, he looked around to see who the beautiful maiden destined to be his wife might be. “Will it be the lovely Nandini who tosses her hair and smiles at me on the way to the market? Or will it be tiny Prakruthi who barely reaches my shoulder and makes me feel ten feet tall? Or Mani whose black eyes flash and sparkle? Anyone…it could be anyone!”

But to his horror, his sister ran up to him with the flowers wound into her hair. She pirouetted joyfully before him, her anklets clinking, and showed him the flowers she was wearing in her hair. She hugged him, and said, “You have never given me anything so lovely ever before! My favourite flower!”

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The brother’s flowery dreams crashed about his ears and he said, “Why did you take the flowers I left on the tulasi katte ?”

“Why? What’s wrong?” said his sister, dismayed. “Weren’t they for me?”

Her brother took a deep breath and told her how he had vowed before the sacred tulasi plant that he would marry the first girl attracted by his offering of fragrant jasmine.

“I will not marry you!” she shrieked in horror. “It is not right for a brother to marry his sister!”

“You’ve got to marry me. I made an oath. The gods will be angry,” he said and tried to grab her hand.

Strengthened by her fear and horror at his advances, she tore away from her brother. She tried to hide in different places inside the house, then outside the house. Finally, she came out into the courtyard again, crying for help. He followed her. She ran to the gate, shouting for someone to help her. But her shouts only echoed in the wilderness. She ran to the fields. He followed her. Finally, she climbed a tree on the banks of the river. There, too, he followed her. She moved to the branches, and there, too, he chased her. She took a deep breath and moved towards the thinner branches, but he caught her and he would not let her go. With a prayer to her kuladevata, her family deity, she let go of the branch.

Down she fell, down, down, down into the deep river. The brother too fell in, down, down, down into the deep river. The great river took pity on the tragic pair and transformed them. The sister became the baale, the ribbon fish, long and wavy like her beautiful hair, and the brother became the mugudu, the large catfish, with his whiskery chin and his determined mouth. Even today the mugudu is never is able to catch the baale, who flits in and out of the reeds and escapes in a flash.

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One would think this would be an end to their troubles, but no….

One day both the baale and the mugudu were caught in a net and taken home. There, they were flung together into a pot, with rich masalas and bubbling oil to cook. But the fisherwoman who was cooking them heard a strange sound. “Tagena tangadiya kuchu kuchu, tagena tangadiya kuchu kuchu,” whispered the curry, bubbling uncomfortably. “Brother and sister are boiling together, brother and sister are boiling together!”

The fisherwoman found blood in the vessel. “What kind of cursed fare is this?!” she exclaimed in horror, and threw the entire contents out into the yard with a prayer to her kuladevatas, begging them to keep her safe.

After a few weeks, the fisherwoman found the red-leaved amaranth we call padpe, and Malabar spinach, which we call basale, growing together in the yard where she had thrown the fish curry. Delighted, she cut the leaves to cook them together.

Alas! The same vague murmurings arose again from the vessel—“tagena tangadiya kuchu kuchu, tagena tangadiya kuchu kuchu”. This time, the fisherwoman took the contents far off into the jungle and threw them away.

In a few weeks, two plants began to grow—one was the wild jackfruit and the other the domesticated jackfruit.

Years went by. The trees had now grown tall and strong. The wood was sturdy and valuable. A rich man wanted to make zoolas, wooden platforms suspended on strong chains, to seat the family daivas he worshipped. His workmen cut the sturdy trees, hoping to give the daivas a grand seat to recline in. When they tried to splice the pieces of the different woods together, they found to their dismay, there was blood oozing from the joints. Terrified, the rich man ran to his village priest to ask what he had done wrong and if the daivas he wished to propitiate were angry with him.

Gravely, the brahmin priest spread the cowry shells on the cowry table, and then he told the rich man the entire story of the brother and sister and announced that no part of these two trees should ever be used together.

The same is true for the fish, baale and mugudu, and the leaves of the padpe and the basale plants. If you are always mindful of these rules, you should be able to lead a healthy, happy, and prosperous life.

Author’s note: The “wild jackfruit” mentioned in the story is Artocarpus hirsutus, while the regular common jackfruit is Artocarpus heterophyllus.

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As the story drew to a close, the sparrows sighed. “That was sad!” they exclaimed.

“Kowak,” squawked the waterhen as some youths come sauntering down the village path. It flew off in panic, and the sparrows shook their heads in sympathy.

“It’s wise to remember tagena tangadiya kuchu kuchu!” they all agreed, and with this they flew to the next paddy field to find some more insects to munch.

This story was written and contributed by one of our readers, Mr. Dejappa Shetty Pejathimar. Mr. Shetty is from a village called Kodethooru, where his ancestral house, Pejethimar, is located. Even though he now lives in Thane, and is far away from his native Tulunadu, he is still passionately interested in all things Tulu, including its literature and folklore. Many of the tales he remembers were told to him by his mother, Cauvery, including this story about Baale and Mugudu.

Mr. Shetty has been a staunch supporter of The Story Birds since its inception. He is always present with invaluable information and insights, which considerably enrich our work. We would like to thank him for taking the time and trouble to send us this story despite his busy schedule, and for answering our innumerable questions. It is always a pleasure to work with him.

From The Story Birds ARCHIVE, here is another story from Tulunadu, also contributed by Mr Shetty:

DOOMA’S STORY: A tale from Tulunadu, contributed by Dejappa D. Shetty

The white breasted waterhen (Amaurornis phoenicurus) is a common bird in the paddy fields and ponds of India. It is usually very shy and tends to stay in the undergrowth. It has several different calls, some sounding like alarmed squawks, some like hoots.

The Story Birds is very pleased to present a photograph taken by a talented aunt who has given permission for us to use it, to illustrate this story. Here is a waterhen that grew up gamely in an urban garden. It has somewhat heroically survived the onslaughts of kites, crows, snakes and mongoose.

Do you know more such tales? Do write in via the comments below!

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“Wish I could hover like that!” said a sparrow to his mate. The two of them were perched …