Ooty’s Toda Village

February 2007 

This morning we were at the Regency Villa – a very grand old royal estate, once owned by one of the Maharajas, and now a very opulent, and of course expensive, hotel.  As beautiful as the villa was, we felt we needed to go somewhere with a little more natural beauty and a little less artifice.  We decided on the botanical gardens, a large (44 acres) site with a good variety of tropical and sub-tropical plants and trees.  Due to the season (end of winter), the gardens were not at their best: very little was in bloom, and dead broom branches had been liberally used to shade the newly transplanted flower beds, so they looked rather bleak.  Nevertheless, the paths through the gardens were pleasant, and despite the mid-day heat we decided to climb to the top of the garden, some 500 feet or so up.  

About 3/4 of the way up the path we spied another beautifully renovated villa, the gates to which were firmly closed.  A couple of workmen-cum-guards were on their way out, so we asked them who lived in the villa.  "Ah, this is vacation house of Governor of Tamil Nadu [a state in India].  Entry prohibited.  Not coming in here."  Another leafy road led up the hill from the villa.  "And where does that road go?" we asked.  "It is going to the house of the Chief of Police."  Of course.  India's many politicians, chiefs and inspectors generally live very well, and very well removed from the poverty and squalor of those they lead, regulate and inspect.  We have decided that if we come back in another life to India, we want to come as Inspectors.  I think I would like to be a tea stall inspector.  I don't think there are enough of those here now, 

 

Effectively – and happily – prevented from visiting another villa, we back-tracked a little, then carried on up a much steeper part of the hill, on a narrow dirt path.  We came across a sign, roughly painted with the words ‘Toda Village’, and an arrow pointing upwards. We assumed the ‘Toda Village’ was some sort of replica (Indians love replicas).  We carried on to the top of the hill where we came upon a low cement wall with a small opening in it, beside which was scrawled, in faded white letters ‘Toda Village.’  

 

The Toda are one of the original tribal people of Southern India.  Although their numbers were decimated by disease (smallpox) following colonization by the British, the Toda are making a comeback of sorts, and now number around 2000.  Toda people worship the buffalo, and maintain large herds of the animals.  They do not slaughter them, but use them for milk.  Their temples are actually dairies, and their priests are buffalo tenders (and dairymen).

 

We had read about the Todas and had heard about ‘Toda tours’, where groups of tourists pile into mini-buses and are taken by guides into Toda villages to see ‘real Toda life.’  As we don't fancy that kind of tourism, we had decided to make do with post-card images and replicas.  But as we climbed the stairs up over the wall what we found on the other side was in fact a real Toda village!  

 

The village was on the top of a little mountain (or a big hill).  Directly in front of us was a large unfenced grassy area well-grazed by the 8-12 buffalo roaming about freely.  (There were likely more in other areas.)  Three or four women sat in a circle around a small heap of white and red fabrics, doing the needlework they are known for.  They were all traditionally dressed in black, white and red skirts and shawls.  

 

A middle-aged man in regular (ie. western) cotton pants and shirt approached us and asked if we would like to see the temple.  We said we would, and he walked with us over to the centre of the grassy area, to a spot overlooking a broad valley, and several terraced and cultivated hillsides.  Then he pointed to a large, round excavation, around 10 feet deep, in the centre of which was a plain mud hut with a rounded palm-thatch roof.  It looked a little bit like an enormous loaf of bread.  It was a very humble ‘temple.’  

 

The only opening in the temple was on one end - a rectangular opening about 2 feet wide and 3 feet high, which was covered by a wooden door.  Around the opening there were some black painted symbols which our guide told us were for the sun, moon and buffalo.  Apart from these decorations, there was no indication of any religious or ceremonial significance.  And it certainly did not look like a dairy, but what do we know?  The temple looked exactly like the photos of ‘traditional Toda houses’ we had seen.

 

We sat on the grassy bank chatting in Hinglish with our new friend and guide.  He told us that 20 families lived here in this village.  We saw several men and women carrying baskets of buffalo dung on their heads, towards a nearby terraced slope.  "We grow our own food, and food to sell.  We sell food at market."  We remarked on the beautiful setting of the village, and he told us that it was all protected land, including the adjacent farmlands, specifically for the Toda people. We were glad to hear that, and hope that with this protection the Toda people will be able to maintain their unique lifestyle.  We were equally glad to see, just before we left, several Toda children as they came running up the hill and through the gate on their way home from school.  In many areas of India kids are not sent to school, but instead tend animals or work in the fields.  Evidently the Toda, in Ooty at least, are aware of the value of education for their kids.

 

Shortly after we arrived, an old man wrapped in a shawl shuffled slowly towards us, and said "Namaste."  Our friend introduced him as the "village elder," or chief, and the keeper of the temple.  He chatted with us for a bit, asking where we were from and telling us a little about the temple, his people and the buffalo.  He emphasized that they did not eat the buffalo, but used only the milk.  We asked if there were any baby buffalo, as we saw none, and he said yes, there was one that we could see.  With that our friend got up and walked us over to a mud-hut shed, the door of which was securely wired shut.  

 

Undoing the wires and opening the door, he showed us a little calf that stumbled up, trying to adjust to the light, and picked its way over the debris-littered floor towards the door.  It didn't look like much of a life for a "sacred animal," but then again none of the sacred animals in India seem to fare too well.  I gathered that they were weaning this calf from its mother, and I couldn't help but feel sorry for it, all alone in the dark all day.

 

We were about to take our leave when our friend asked us if we would like to see a Toda house.  There was only one traditional house in the village.  The rest were what looked like government issue plastered adobe or brick structures, all joined together to form a small compound around a central courtyard.  They were painted blue and white, and looked much like the little houses we see often here - very basic, but better than nothing.  Likely they have one or maybe two rooms for sleeping, and a larger room for sitting, food preparation, storage, and eating.  There are no kitchens as such, and almost all of the cooking is done out of doors, over small open fires.  And of course there are no bathrooms, indeed no indoor plumbing at all.  There are generally central water pipe stands with make-shift and often leaky faucets, from which everyone fills their water containers, buckets and bottles, and around which they brush their teeth, bathe, and do their laundry.  There might be a central latrine, or the people may just use the open fields around them.  These arrangements are typical throughout India, and are indeed a step up from how many people here live.

 

As we approached the traditional house it was difficult to tell if it was a sort of museum, or if it was inhabited.  Like the temple, it had no windows, and there was no sign of life.  The small low doorway was open, but the inside was pitch-black.  Our friend motioned for us to go in.  So we crouched down and crawled through the doorway.  And there, in the dim light of a smoky little fire, were an old woman, who was sitting on the dirt floor feeding small sticks onto the fire, and an even older man, who was sitting on a narrow raised platform - the bed - on one side of the hut.  The smoke from the fire filled the room, making it even harder to see, and uncomfortable to breathe.  The old man coughed several times, and our eyes stung.  Doug and I sat beside the old man on the hard blanket-covered dais - there was no mattress or layer of reeds to soften the mud, just a few woven blankets.  Our ‘guide’ crouched outside the door - there was literally no room for him to come in.  He introduced the old man as his grandfather, and the old man's rheumy eyes lit up as he flashed us a gap-toothed smile.  His wife offered us tea, but we declined, uncertain where the water supply came from, and whether the woman would boil it for sufficiently long to ensure we didn't get sick.

We sat for a while, just taking it all in and making very small talk with the old man and woman.  There were no windows in the hut.  There was no furniture, and nothing on the walls.  But behind the old woman, against the far wall, were some shelves on which were neatly arranged more silver-coloured pots, pans, plates, bowls and cups than two people could possibly use.  Looking around, I noticed more pots and pans on the floor and on another shelf just over the fire.  What were they all for?  Did the Toda store their wealth in the form of pots and pans like the Hindu women store their wealth in gold jewelry?  Or was this hut a place for communal feasts (hard to imagine, it was so small).  We didn't ask, so we'll never know.  

We did, at the younger man's suggestion, and with the happy assent of the old man and woman, take a couple of photographs.  In preparation, the old man stood up and wrapped his red and white shawl more ceremoniously around his shoulders.  The woman shifted her position and wiped her sooty forehead with the end of her shawl.  They both smiled, which is unusual here.  Unfortunately the photos were partially obscured by the veil of smoke and the overall darkness.  Nevertheless, the old man and woman were very pleased to see them, smiling and pointing at their images in the little LCD display window of the camera - an incongruous, but welcome piece of technology in this rude little hut.  We said our thank-yous and good-byes and crawled back out into the dazzling sunlight, taking a few very deep and very welcome gulps of fresh air.  

 

As we walked back down the hill through the botanical gardens we couldn't help but compare the two ‘homes’ we had seen today - a Majaraja's opulent palace and a Toda's rude hut.  According to the old adage, both of these homes were the ‘castles’ of the men who call them ‘home.’  But how incredibly far apart these men's castles are!  How can we reconcile, or even hold at one time in our limited consciousness, such disparate realities?  The gulf between rich and poor is always and everywhere this wide, this completely unbridgeable, and unfathomable.  It has almost nothing to do with an individual's merit or measure, and almost everything to do with the accident of one's birth, and the unfolding of destiny.  It is a sobering thought and one that can't help but make us grateful, again, for what we have.  For our lives, for our families, for our home, and for the truly great country that we live in. We are indeed so very very fortunate. 

 

 

For more information on the Toda people go to: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toda_people