Whispers of Summer

Born Beneath the Summer Sky

by Dr. S. Jeeva

10 March 1984 – Mugilankadu, Midday

“MmmmMAAAaaaa!”

A cry echoed from the cattle shed.

“Hey boy, go check on the cow we brought yesterday. Sounds like she’s crying. Don’t tell me it’s dead already!”

Deivanayagi stood on the sun-drenched four-pillared porch, her voice sharp against the afternoon heat that threatened to split open the very air. The sun hung low, thick and blinding, as though determined to peel the paint from the clay walls of Mugilankadu.

Their house stood at the village’s heart, stretched grandly across a four-way junction, large enough to house four families. A mere glance from the street revealed its stature. Broad verandahs fanned out on either side, hosting gossip, laughter, and justice. Even village panchayat matters were resolved beneath this very roof.

Everyone called her Vellachilakkezhavi — the silver-tongued matriarch. She chewed betel leaves, dissected disputes with a wisdom that cut deep, and delivered verdicts no villager dared challenge. Her sons, raised with fierce love and discipline, worshipped her word. Even their wives bowed, knowing her voice reigned supreme.

“MmmmMAAAaaaa!”

The cow cried again. There was something in its voice — a mix of anguish and urgency. Grabbing her walking stick, Deivanayagi rushed out. Her youngest son followed, tightening his dhoti with fumbling fingers.

The cow stamped the dry earth, straining against its rope. Its tail spun like a whip, swatting flies that bit mercilessly into its back.

“Boy! Flies are biting her! Grab the rope!”

“I’m scared, Ma. Feels like something’s not right.”

Still, he pulled the cow steady and slapped away the flies. Deivanayagi crushed another with bare hands.

“It’s alright now. No more flies. Don’t be afraid.”

She patted the cow gently, eyes narrowing at its stiff udder and still womb.

“Another few days, I think. The calf’s not ready yet.”

“Yes, Ma. Let’s go back. The girl’s all alone.”

Crossing the porch, Deivanayagi remembered summer rains when women danced barefoot. Her younger daughter-in-law, Ramlakshmi, once twirled like a movie heroine — gripping a pillar with one hand, raising the other skyward, face kissed by rain.

During dry spells, women gathered to play games — dice, snake and ladder. There was Sornam — dark-skinned, sharp-tongued, and always lucky. They called her “Karunaakkukaari,” the woman with cursed luck. But her grit silenced gossip. Once, after dragging her cheating husband through the streets, she was remarried into this very house.

Sornam had once tossed a heap of cluster beans into Ramlakshmi’s lap. “Bear a daughter soon, little queen. I saw her — long-haired, like a goddess.” That month, Ramlakshmi conceived. Deivanayagi, moved by the omen, gifted cloth and coconuts.

Now, heavily pregnant, Ramlakshmi moved slowly, but with purpose. The local midwife said she had fifteen days left. But fate had other plans.

“Why did the cow cry?”

“Just flies. You lie down, girl. He’ll be home soon.”

“I’ll feed him. He won’t listen otherwise.”

Deivanayagi scolded her. But she let her work. As Ramlakshmi fetched water, her breathing grew heavy.

“Don’t push like this. I’ll make you ginger coffee.”

When the boys returned and declined dinner for a village feast, Deivanayagi packed them food and then lovingly served Ramlakshmi — rice, fish curry, and a boiled egg.

Later, she lay down to rest — only to jolt awake as pain tore through her spine. She tried to sit up. Failed. Quietly, not wanting to wake her mother-in-law, she stepped onto the porch, the traditional place for nighttime relief.

As she squatted, a rush of water burst forth. Panic surged. She clung to the eastern pillar, knees giving way. She hit a water pot, which fell, flooding the porch with birthing waters.

Hearing the noise, Deivanayagi rushed out.

“Oh, cursed girl! Why are you lying like this?!”

She tried to lift her but failed.

“Leave it, Ma. I’m giving birth. The goddess will see me through.”

Deivanayagi fetched sacred ash, smearing it on her belly and forehead.

“Pottal Amman will protect you.”

Then she dashed to the street, saw Mylsamy Konar cycling by, and flagged him down.

“Our girl’s in labor! The midwife’s not home. My sons are in Nadesan’s grove. Tell them!”

Without a word, Mylsamy turned his cycle and sped off.

The neighborhood began to stir. Women gathered. Someone fetched a taxi. The men paced, their footsteps jittery. Someone went to fetch the village doctor, just in case.

Ramlakshmi groaned, her body wracked with waves of pain. Her legs kicked, hands gripped tight by two comforting women.

“She’s close. Push, girl!”

“She’s due in fifteen days…”

“Is that what matters now?!” Deivanayagi snapped.

By 10:40 PM, under a whispering summer sky, a slippery baby girl slid into the world.

Sornam beamed with triumph, lifting the baby’s tiny feet.

“Just as I said! Born in Visakam — she’ll rule the world!”

She cleaned the child, tied the cord, burned incense, wrapped her in white cloth, and placed her in Deivanayagi’s arms.

Perumal, the father, kissed the baby’s head with trembling lips.

Suddenly — “MmmmMAAAaaaa!”

The cow cried out again. Everyone froze.

It, too, had delivered — a female calf, breaking all predictions. Both births, against all expectations, had unfolded that very night.

The house erupted in joy.

As Deivanayagi massaged warm sesame oil onto both mothers, she whispered blessings and wrapped the placenta in cloth, readying it to be tied to the coconut tree the next day.

“Let happiness thrive here,” she whispered to the goddess.

In the soft glow of the oil lamps, two new lives — baby Jayalakshmi and the calf — suckled peacefully at their mothers. Their eyes met — soft, unknowing, sacred.

Perumal sat watching, drenched in joy.

Two daughters. One night. One summer sky.

A blessing written in blood, milk, and whispering stars.