Uthamapalayam is a charming town in Tamil Nadu’s Theni district, surrounded by the lush Western Ghats. Coconut groves, banana plantations, and emerald-green paddy fields paint the landscape of this town. Life here unfolds at a leisurely pace.
My father’s work had brought us to this town. I was 14, in class 9, and was navigating the delicate transition from childhood to adolescence. It was an age when curiosity burned bright, but my world felt confined, wrapped tightly in routine. My days revolved around textbooks and exams, with my parents’ unwavering belief that education was the only path to success. Even Sundays, meant to offer a break from the grind, became extensions of schoolwork. Other kids roamed the narrow streets, scaled tamarind trees, or raced along the banks of the nearby Periyar River, while I sat inside, anchored to my desk. The sights and sounds of life outside beckoned me, but they always seemed out of reach—like a world I could only observe, not touch.
One Sunday, my father’s friend Mr. Durairaj, known as GFD, offered to take me on a hunting trip. Back in the 1980s, hunting was not merely a legal pastime—it was regarded as a respected skill and revered sport in villages. I eagerly accepted the invitation. What drew me in wasn’t the thrill of the hunt, but the chance to escape my usual Sunday routine and explore the wild outskirts of the town, where the forest offered promises of adventure and freedom.
GFD, a seasoned hunter, carried a muzzle-loading rifle, an antique weapon that required meticulous preparation. I watched in fascination as he poured a precise measure of black gun powder into the barrel, followed by solid pellets. To my young eyes, the rifle seemed like an artefact from another time, shrouded in mystery and danger.
Under the harsh midday sun, we ventured into the forest, the heat pressing down like a thick blanket. Yet the thrill of the unknown kept me moving forward. I loved the forest—trees alive with rustling sounds, colourful birds darting between branches, and the earthy aroma of leaves crunching underfoot. GFD led the way, gliding silently, his trained gaze sweeping the terrain. I followed closely, trying to tread lightly, my heart racing with excitement.
Suddenly GFD stopped, his eyes locking onto a distant figure. ‘Sembooth’, he whispered. I squinted, trying to spot what he had seen. Perched on a low branch was a dark bird—a greater coucal, a name I had never heard until that moment. GFD crouched low, raised his rifle, and aimed with practised precision. An electric tension filled the air, and the forest seemed to hold its breath.
The shot rang out—a deafening BOOM! I flinched as the bird fell from the branch, lifeless. GFD’s helper rushed forward and picked it up with reverence, as though it were a peculiar trophy. I moved closer and stared at the dead creature in his hands. Just moments ago it had been vibrant, its eyes bright, feathers glistening in the sun. Now, it lay limp, eerily still. I had seen chickens butchered at the broiler shop, but witnessing a life extinguished so abruptly in the wild felt haunting—like a weight pressing on my chest.
As we ventured deeper into the forest, GFD aimed at several more birds, but they were all just elusive shadows to me, nameless and fleeting.
Then, we spotted a pigeon nearby. Before training his rifle on the bird, GFD turned to his helper, whispering, ‘Track it. Pigeons can fly even after being hit.’
He took the shot, and the pigeon shot into the air, flapping desperately, a wounded warrior defying fate. It soared for a moment, wings battling against the inevitable, before crashing into the undergrowth. The helper sprinted after it and retrieved the dead bird. We pressed on.
Later, we stopped at a grape orchard. The caretaker greeted GFD warmly and then made a request: ‘Could you shoot a crow for me? They ruin the grapes. If we hang one, the others won’t dare come near.’ GFD obliged, and the caretaker handed us a basket of fresh grapes in gratitude. As I savoured the sweet fruit, my gaze drifted to the lifeless crow, now strung up as a grim warning to its kin.
Soon the sun began to set, and it was time to head back. On the way, we spotted several sparrows sitting atop a telephone line. GFD raised his rifle once more. A single shot echoed, and many tiny bodies tumbled to the ground. We gathered them in silence, and I followed him home, lost in thoughts I couldn’t yet express.
Back at GFD’s house, a rich aroma emanated from the kitchen. I found myself staring at the coucal meat on my plate, my heart heavy with an unsettling awareness. I could almost hear the bird’s last plea echoing in my mind: Spare me. Just hours ago, it had been full of life, soaring through the trees with grace and purpose.
A flood of questions rushed through my mind. Did it have a home? Were there little ones waiting for it, perhaps calling for their parent just like I did? What would they have thought when it did not return that evening? These questions weighed heavily on me, and a sense of unease clawed at my conscience. Feeling suffocated, I slipped out quietly, seeking solace in the stillness outside.
That night I tossed and turned, grappling with thoughts I couldn’t articulate. Was it right? Was it wrong? I didn’t know. The only thing I was sure of was that something within me had shifted.
That day became my first and last hunting trip. As time passed and I entered college, I found a different way to connect with the wild—through a camera. I began photographing wildlife, capturing its beauty without harming it.
Looking back, I see the hunting trip as a catalyst for a deeper understanding of life, death, and the choices we make. In the quiet click of a camera shutter, I found the peace I had once sought in the forest. I chose preservation over destruction. This shift in perspective aligns with the essence of Emily Dickinson’s poem ‘If I Can Stop One Heart from Breaking’.
The poem beautifully captures the idea that life’s meaning lies in small acts of compassion. In a world full of suffering, offering comfort, easing someone’s pain, or helping a struggling soul—even a fainting robin—brings true happiness. It reminds us that a purposeful life need not be defined by grand achievements. Just being kind toward others can bring meaning to our lives, enriching both the giver and the receiver.
If I Can Stop One Heart from Breaking
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
—Emily Dickinson
This realization continues to shape my choices, guiding me to find meaning in every compassionate action, no matter how small.
Credits:
Special thanks to Sowmya Natarajan, a freelance artist, for contributing her beautiful illustrations to this post. You can follow her work on Instagram.
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Interesting to see the wide variety of travel content in this site with beautiful photographs and interesting narration.
Especially I loved this write up about a small town, as many blogs cover only popular tourist spots. Sketches by Sowmya Natarajan drew my attention to this blog. I liked the first two sketches very much. My appreciation to the artist for her beautiful effort. A.Hari
Your narrative is powerful and evocative. It was a pleasure collaborating with you.
A very well written and fascinating read, expressed with all the emotion you felt those many years ago. Reading it bought back some nostalgic moments of my childhood too. Thank you!! Kudos to Sowmya Natarajan for the drawings. Emily Dickinson's poem resonated beautifully too. Keep writing Dev Anand !!
I echo Vyasa comments here. It is like Malgudi days! Seldom do blogs transport us along with them like a book. This site is a book and every blog a transcending chapter. Well done Dev!
Lovely narration!