One sweltering June day in 2022, while working on a project with the Irulas of Thiruvallur district in Tamil Nadu, my interns and I met eleven-year-old Lakshmi.
Struck by the beautiful rapport she shared with animals, I longed to be her friend. I reached for the kitten playing on her shoulder, and she looked on keenly as it chewed on my fingers and tumbled about playfully. She wanted to make sure that the little creature was safe with me.
Then, a rooster came along and the girl immediately picked it up. Goondi, she replied when I asked her its name. She stroked its feathers and spoke affectionately to it. Only after we returned to Chennai did I realise that I hadn’t asked whom Goondi belonged to. Given that most poultry end up as food on people’s plates, it disturbed me greatly that Lakshmi may not, in reality, have control over the bird’s fate. In that moment, the idea for Will Goondi Come Home? was born.
Our guide Nalini was a woman from Lakshmi’s village. She told us that the child had looked after her invalid mother from when she herself learnt to walk. She had bathed and dressed, oiled and combed her Amma’s hair, feeding her carefully at mealtimes. Now, with Amma gone and no father on the scene, Lakshmi lived with her grandfather. Thatha watched over her lovingly, and mention of him caused Lakshmi’s eyes to light up. He was out fishing, she informed us.
The Irular are an indigenous tribe, scattered across Tamil Nadu, Kerala and Karnataka. They once earned their living by catching snakes, but have now turned to the sea to sustain themselves. Many have no access to Aadhaar cards or government rations. They live in huts made of coconut fronds and plastic bags, sometimes erected right there on the seashore. When rains turn into storms, the government evacuates them to nearby concrete structures for safety. From there, they watch as their houses blow away.
The Irular of this region live alongside other communities, carefully following the rules of a strictly-imposed societal pecking order, of which they make up the bottom rung. A toe out of line could merit severe punishment; someone of a ‘higher’ caste may decide to take the law into their hands over an act of insubordination (real or imagined), and no tales will be told.
What, then, does education mean to an Irular child? The issue is complex, involving realities that defy the norm. If education is meant to empower and embolden, these traits may actually spell danger for people whose only protection lies in silence and submission. Here, a person could lose their life for daring to stand up for their rights.
My interns and I looked for a solution. But our urban minds, attuned to a different reality, offered none. So, I decided to tell Lakshmi’s story. A story that children who live in cities, attend school and return to homes built of brick and mortar, can read and know. One that gives them a glimpse into the life of a mighty-hearted girl who lives in harmony with earth and sea.
A story, among other things, about friendship…
(The proceeds from this book go towards the upkeep of Lakshmi and her family.)
A layered, heartwarming story by Adithi Rao with rich pictures by Fida Hamid.
Buy your copy of Will Goondi Come Home? here!
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