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We were travelling from Karkala to Kalasa… a day in the monsoon… The breathtaking landscape along the way had a way of captivating everyone—even those who had never considered themselves lovers of nature. It was only natural. It was as though the King of the Skies himself had descended to gently drape Mother Earth with a quilt of mist so that she would not be drenched by the relentless rain. Yet, like a blanket too small, if it covered one end, the other lay exposed… pull it towards the feet, and the head peeked out… pull it over the head, and the left side appeared… try to hide the left, and the right opened up…

Whenever nature revealed her lush green splendour here and there, one could only stand in innocent admiration. Tourists would stop every now and then to soak in the view… and we would quietly laugh, imagining what might happen if we told them about the true children of our Malenadu soil—the leeches. They must surely be descendants of Raktabeejasura himself… these tiny imbalas, these leeches, that gorge on blood until they fall off like Jada Bharata, heavy and motionless.

Wow… what if one of these climbed onto a tourist’s leg and made its way up…? Just imagining the next scene would make us laugh, though a little sympathy would creep in too.

Just then my grandchildren would begin their commotion.

“We want to get down too… We also want to stand by the roadside and see the Kadambi Waterfalls!”

My grandson, however, had an even greater urgency.

“Ajji… I really need to pee…”

The moment someone pointed out a single imbala from inside the vehicle, both of them became perfectly quiet.

But before my own eyes, another train of memories came rumbling down its familiar tracks…

As part of our school duties, we had to compulsorily visit the homes of our students. Whenever my husband had some free time, I would finish the visits assigned to me. On one such day, my younger sister’s little daughter was with me, so I took her along.

If we got down at one particular bus stop, we could cover the homes of three students. All three families owned arecanut and coffee plantations. My little girl was absolutely thrilled at the sight of the coffee estate. No matter how much we shouted, she paid no attention to us. She ran between the coffee plants, happily disappearing beyond our reach.

The monsoon had just begun.

By the time we reached the student’s house, my little girl looked like a little bear. She was wearing a sleeveless frock.

Except for her face and head, her arms, legs, and the rest of her tiny body were covered with hundreds of tiny imbalas clinging to her skin.

Hearing her cry was heartbreaking, yet the sight of her was strangely amusing.

The family had a large pot of hot water ready. They handed us turmeric powder and said,

“First apply this to the child and give her a bath…”

Then they showed us the bathing room.

Though no photograph was ever taken, whenever I see an imbala even today, that unforgettable image of my little bear instantly returns, arriving and departing on the endless train of memory…

On another occasion, a group of us were travelling from Koppa to Moodbidri for a programme. Heavy July rains had brought down a huge tree across the road, and we remained seated inside the bus for nearly two hours.

Eventually, nature called, and everyone disappeared into the nearby forest.

Even though the memory of leeches flashed through my mind, I carefully accompanied my mother-in-law. After returning, I thoroughly checked that no leech had climbed onto either of us before we boarded the bus again.

But perhaps a leech that had attached itself to someone else’s foot found mine instead…

After a little while, blood began trickling down my leg.

I tied my handkerchief around it… then even used the shawl draped over my husband’s shoulder.

By the time we got down at Moodbidri, every pair of raised eyebrows and curious eyes around me seemed fixed on my leg.

A few people even asked what had happened.

Whether I said jigane, imbala, or “leech,” they simply couldn’t understand.

“You should see a doctor…” they advised earnestly.

Fortunately, just then the bus we needed arrived and rescued me from the growing crowd of curious onlookers.

Once I reached home, I applied a generous amount of turmeric to the bite, and the bleeding finally stopped.

But the eyes I encountered at the bus stand… and the embarrassment they left behind… still return every now and then, rumbling before my eyes with a familiar dhadak… dhadak…, before slowly passing by once again.

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By Veena Shanbhogue

Translation and Preservation by Sumanth Shanbhogue for Shanbhogue Publications