Of all the fascinating creatures in Auroville, perhaps most likeable are the frogs. During monsoon time they can be intrusively noisy, especially the bullfrogs with their "kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi" calls on and off all night long after big rains. But they can also be very endearing.

At one point I had five of them living in my letterbox! They would tuck themselves safely away inside by day, and then come and sit in the letter slit in the early evening, watching the world go by and snapping up passing insects. Later they, no doubt, visited my pool, where they frolic'd and "quark, quark'd" on and off all night, or at certain times indulged in massive mating orgies. Once I had 22 of them at it at the same time in and around a pool little bigger than a grand piano. Another male I've witnessed was either just plain stupid, or totally confused. It seemed he was under the impression that a 'mail' box was a 'male' box and, instead of going down to the pond and joining in the frenzy, did all his mating calls from inside my letterbox. (I doubt he ever passed on his genes.)

Later, Gratitude became like a multi-faceted barnyard, with cows, a bullock, peacocks, chickens, geese, guinea fowl, turkeys and dogs meandering around the place. But it continued to be the place where Aurovilians brought injured birds or abandoned fledglings. At one point a variant was brought, in the form of a young Flying Fox (India's largest bat), which can have a wingspan of up to four feet (1.2 m) when fully grown. This one was an adolescent with wings still under two feet in spread, but he/she? (most thought 'he') was still large by most bat standards. The problem was that Dietra was overloaded at the time with her Doberman bitch and nine puppies in her bathroom; her parrot, an owl and a woodpecker in her kitchen; the whole farmyard of animals outside requiring attention; and her own, her partner 'Thomas', the workers' and visitors' needs also to think about. She decided to seek a 'Batman' for the 2-3 weeks she had been asked to look after him, and who more convenient than nearby nature-lover and friend you-know-who?

'Squeaky', as I called him, was fascinating. He was very puppy-like and curious; chewed his 'blanket'; flipped himself upside down (right way up for us) any time he wanted to relieve himself; clambered around his hanging cloth day and night flapping his wings for exercise; ate only ripe fruit and a little milk; had no odour about him; and enjoyed having his velvety neck area or tummy tickled. I was quite sorry when the day came to return him to his owner.

My worst experiences have been with scorpions. I've been stung four times now! We have no deadly species locally, but about ten minutes after first being stung by the small brown variety, you might be excused for doubting that. I would describe the pain of the first six hours as 'excruciating', something like being plugged in to an electric current; the next six hours as 'extremely painful'; the following six as 'very painful'; and the last six, of what is normally a 24-hour period of trauma, as just 'painful'.

Worst was the time I trod on one just as I was heading for bed, too late to call anyone or do anything but lie sleeplessly all night sweating it out. The following morning brought some light relief, however, when a friend arrived and offered to stop the pain "the village way." This consisted of filling a bucket with water, placing the wires from a cycle dynamo in the water, and then pedal-charging the dynamo while the luckless victim held his limb in the water for a supposedly neutralising shock. Somewhat to my relief, after what I thought was his rather-too-eager offer, we found that his dynamo was rusted and no charge came through! The laugh we had was a far better cure.

My own experience of scorpions has been pretty unpleasant, but pales when compared with that of a Latin-American Aurovilian here many years ago. This unfortunate fellow put on his shorts one morning without looking and a scorpion stung him in the most agonising spot one can imagine for a man. Witnesses said he could hardly talk for the pain, and just sat on the edge of his bed all day long, literally pouring sweat, and exclaiming 'madre mia!' at intervals. Poor fellow, but he survived to tell the tale!

I'm now somewhat ashamed to say that I used to always kill scorpions, though one day I hit on what seemed at the time to be a reasonable compromise. I decided to take a pair of scissors and snip off the poison-loaded barb at the end of the tail, reasoning that it would allow them to catch food as usual with their pincers and generally go about their business, but would prevent them stinging humans. Finally I stopped even that practice, and now just catch and release them some distance away.

Perhaps the trigger for this particular non-interference-with-nature behaviour came from the time I watched a beautiful moth hatch from a chrysalis I had brought into my room, and my decision to keep it there until the evening. When it was finally dark and there was no danger of birds spotting it, I carried it out carefully, threw it up into the night air, and stepped back to watch its maiden flight. It could not have gone more than a metre or two, however, when 'swoosh…zapp!' a large bat caught it and carried it off into the night. To this day I am sure that the moth died muttering "thanks a LOT!" Anyway, it gave me the feeling that I should henceforth try to minimise my interference with the natural world. (Courtesy: Sri Aurobindo's Action)

(To be concluded)