broken a leg; another has failed in his exam; the girl in the corner house is not at all what she seems to be; she is learning songs and English in secret. The man of affairs thrives on these stories and shakes his head with dim forebodings scarcely whispered. He defrauds the Elephant God of our street of its annual dues of oil, ghee, clothes and coconuts. All of us know all about it and say that he will suffer for it one day. But for fifty years now, the fellow has been going on like that and the Elephant God does not seem to mind. Slushy roads in winter, mosquitoes all through the year, a house that is often not the best of places to live in on suffocating or cold days, the scorpions, the snakes and the other living brood of biting and stinging animals and insects are some of the minor nuisances of life in Sattanur. There is a lack of privacy that is hard on a man from the city. At village marriages and funerals, rubbing shoulders with many whom I have never seen before, I have come to understand how perhaps, in some not very distant future, the whole world might live as one family. My grandmother fell ill and we were sure that it was her deathbed. For ten or eleven days, a stream of visitors has been coming to our house. And not all of them are relatives. Men and women of all stations from all the neighbouring streets and villages come to ask and talk to me as if it were their grandmother instead of mine who was lying ill. Not so long ago, there was another event in the village. Down the street came walking a naked holy man, the avadhutha. All the women and children came out of their houses and prostrated themselves at his feet in the dust of the street. The men stood with palms joined looking on. The avadhutha passed with his right arm raised in blessing. That day he walked straight on to another village. But some days, I was told, he elects to stay. The whole village considers the host of such a spiritual one blessed among mortals. This letter has become too long, like the shadow of the evening, but I have yet one more thing to add. Our lone cow is lowing, and would you believe it, she is lowing pure poetry. It is past milking time now and perhaps the cowherd, in the general round of duties, has forgotten the cow. But no, he is coming now. In the village rounds, men get forgotten sometimes, but never the domestic animals. Sattanur works a miracle in human hearts. To appreciate it you only have to unlearn a few of the things you have learned in the cities. You can take a railway ticket to any of the villages in South India. From Madras to Sattanur is a short two hundred miles. You pay four rupees twelve annas for a third-class ticket and you are there in ten hours. (UNESCO).

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