The auto pulled up in front of a small provision shop. The quiet of the dawn was broken by the rumbling of the engine as it halted. The light was on in the shop, casting a bright glow in the otherwise dimly lit street. Colorful bags of Lays Chips were hanging, lazily waving in the morning breeze.
Next to the shop, small but lively houses were lined up in two rows, forming almost a tunnel like appearance. Calling the space between the houses a road, would be too kind. The narrow strip hardly gave space for two people to walk side by side, yet large motorbikes stood parked precariously against the walls connecting the houses.
Every house had one step under which a small groove was carved in to let excess water flow and drain. The steps themselves were decorated with intricate patterns painstakingly drawn in the morning light.
Climbing out of the auto, the driver helped my father with the suitcases. Jammed in the middle of my carryon and my mother, I climbed out, eager to stretch my legs after the bumpy ride. Standing on the pathway away from the road, I helped unload our bags and began the journey of rolling them into the narrow alley.
Carefully maneuvering the suitcase I stopped in front of the third house on the left. My mom was behind me and my dad ahead of me. Pressing the door bell, we stood outside the gated door.
The door opened and a face peered through the iron gates. Clad in a pink and green saree, hair combed to perfection, face glistening with talcum powder, she smiled excitedly at seeking her family.
“Segu, vaa”
Her excitement evident, she ushered us inside her home. The lights in the hall were off, but the one tubelight in the kitchen was blazing brightly. The fans were out, and the lamp in in the adorned swami room was ablaze.
“Kanni raasi neyargale, inniki…”
I inwardly groaned at seeing the familiar astrologer on TV. The next few days, I could be assured that this astrologer would be a part of my wake up call.
Helping Appa, we pushed the suitcases into the room on the far left. A small room used mainly for storage, I could see the neat pile of pillows, a small mirror, a container of talcum powder, pottu packets, and 2 combs on a shelf. The familiarity was overwhelming.
In the hall, the lights and the fans both on now, and Appa sat on the sofa. Amma came and nudged him as Atthai stepped out of the kitchen with the same excited smile on her face. We stood and, as customary, we did our namaskarams for my grandparent’s photos which adorned the entrance, majestically looking down on us with such benevolence.
When we did our namaskaram for Atthai, she stood next to the fragrant swami room, in front of the TV.
Next to the shop, small but lively houses were lined up in two rows, forming almost a tunnel like appearance. Calling the space between the houses a road, would be too kind. The narrow strip hardly gave space for two people to walk side by side, yet large motorbikes stood parked precariously against the walls connecting the houses.
Every house had one step under which a small groove was carved in to let excess water flow and drain. The steps themselves were decorated with intricate patterns painstakingly drawn in the morning light.
Climbing out of the auto, the driver helped my father with the suitcases. Jammed in the middle of my carryon and my mother, I climbed out, eager to stretch my legs after the bumpy ride. Standing on the pathway away from the road, I helped unload our bags and began the journey of rolling them into the narrow alley.
Carefully maneuvering the suitcase I stopped in front of the third house on the left. My mom was behind me and my dad ahead of me. Pressing the door bell, we stood outside the gated door.
The door opened and a face peered through the iron gates. Clad in a pink and green saree, hair combed to perfection, face glistening with talcum powder, she smiled excitedly at seeking her family.
“Segu, vaa”
Her excitement evident, she ushered us inside her home. The lights in the hall were off, but the one tubelight in the kitchen was blazing brightly. The fans were out, and the lamp in in the adorned swami room was ablaze.
“Kanni raasi neyargale, inniki…”
I inwardly groaned at seeing the familiar astrologer on TV. The next few days, I could be assured that this astrologer would be a part of my wake up call.
Helping Appa, we pushed the suitcases into the room on the far left. A small room used mainly for storage, I could see the neat pile of pillows, a small mirror, a container of talcum powder, pottu packets, and 2 combs on a shelf. The familiarity was overwhelming.
In the hall, the lights and the fans both on now, and Appa sat on the sofa. Amma came and nudged him as Atthai stepped out of the kitchen with the same excited smile on her face. We stood and, as customary, we did our namaskarams for my grandparent’s photos which adorned the entrance, majestically looking down on us with such benevolence.
When we did our namaskaram for Atthai, she stood next to the fragrant swami room, in front of the TV.
This was where she always stood.
The process was so automatic for me. First, face the entrance, do namaskaram for Paati and Thatha, next turn around and face the TV and do namaskaram for Atthai. Upon reflection, I don’t know if I ever knew any different at that time. The movements may have been mechanical, but I know that the significance was not lost on me, even at that age.
“Virchiga raasi neyargale…”
Now back on the sofa, Appa signaled to me to get him some water. Atthai, not missing this exchange of gestures, quickly asked, “Kaapi kudikriya?”
Before even Appa could say, “Vendam-ka”, she got up and bustled to the kitchen. This was what she did best, this was what gave her happiness.
Knowing that resistance was futile, Appa drank the coffee, and then told her to sit down. Again, I got up to put the coffee tumbler in the sink. Child labor never ceases when with your parents.
“Iru, rava laddo, kai murrukku laam panirken, konjam eduthikriya?”
I looked at the clock, the time was 7:30.
7:30 AM.
7:30 in the morning!
Hardly an appropriate time to be eating rava laddos and murruku.
“Virchiga raasi neyargale…”
Now back on the sofa, Appa signaled to me to get him some water. Atthai, not missing this exchange of gestures, quickly asked, “Kaapi kudikriya?”
Before even Appa could say, “Vendam-ka”, she got up and bustled to the kitchen. This was what she did best, this was what gave her happiness.
Knowing that resistance was futile, Appa drank the coffee, and then told her to sit down. Again, I got up to put the coffee tumbler in the sink. Child labor never ceases when with your parents.
“Iru, rava laddo, kai murrukku laam panirken, konjam eduthikriya?”
I looked at the clock, the time was 7:30.
7:30 AM.
7:30 in the morning!
Hardly an appropriate time to be eating rava laddos and murruku.
If this isn't a testament to the fact that you are always spoiled when you are with your family, then what is? Kind of makes up for the child labor factor, doesn’t it?
This time, Appa managed to get the words out, “Vendam ka, ippo thaan coffee kudichen.”
Amma chimed in “Okkaarungo ka”
Again, Appa gestured for me to get some water. This time it was accompanied by the standard “Oru rendu bottle-a roppi fridge la vechudu”
“Tring Tring” the land line rang out. Next to the red colored phone was a stack of papers, a pen holder, Atthai’s glass case. The shelf below it held a few magazines, newspapers, and old copies of Twinkle/Jughead/Betty & Veronica comics.
These comics were courtesy of my cousins from their prior trips to Trichy. They would give me company for those hot afternoons when there was nothing much to do.
“Makara raasi neyargale…"
“Tring Tring” again, the landline called us. Appa answered the phone and I heard the usual
“Helloooo…mama”
It was Anand Anna, calling to see if we reached safely. I knew in a few hours, he would be on his way here.
By this time, Atthai had stood up and was standing next to the phone waiting to see who had called. Amma was rummaging through our hand luggage to find clothes and toiletries. I was still filling the water bottles.
Amma glanced at me, as I closed the fridge door, and the look conveyed that I was to quickly take a shower and get ready. Emphasis on the quickly.
Curiosity abated, Atthai came up to Amma and asked, “Dosai pannatuma?”
Amma immediately said, “Ippo onnum vendam Akka, poi kulichitu varatum”
“Iru venneer vekkaren”
Atthai shuffled back into the kitchen. Taking advantage of this momentary gap, I quickly ran to Amma and told her to take a shower first instead. My extremely logical reasoning was that this would ensure that by the time I got in, there would not be any unwanted surprises, such as cockroaches, lizards and the occasional frog.
Amma resolutely refused under the pretext that she would need to wash my clothes, unless I want to do it myself? Not wanting to give up but also not willing to add more work to my plate, I turned to the one superpower we have as kids, whining.
As our voices raised, Appa shot a glare at us. Superpower or not, somethings are not to be tested. I shut up and went to take my shower, grumbling about the unfairness of childhood.
Atthai's hamam soap was in the dimly lit bathroom, and placing my things next to it, I heard her say,
"Veneer kothikarthu, jaakarthai"
I grumbled in response. Quietly she whispered, "Seekrama kulicha, Jevvarisi vadaam pandren"
All of a sudden, taking a bath didn't seem like too much trouble!
Thus began our vacation in the sunny city of Trichy, in the quaint Andar street, under the loving care of my Atthai.
Many years have passed and with it some people have, as well. However, if I close my eyes now, I can still hear the bustle of the city waking up, my Atthai fretting over my parents and the sound of hot water being poured into the bucket just as the TV blares, “Meena raasi neyargale…”
“Tring Tring” again, the landline called us. Appa answered the phone and I heard the usual
“Helloooo…mama”
It was Anand Anna, calling to see if we reached safely. I knew in a few hours, he would be on his way here.
By this time, Atthai had stood up and was standing next to the phone waiting to see who had called. Amma was rummaging through our hand luggage to find clothes and toiletries. I was still filling the water bottles.
Amma glanced at me, as I closed the fridge door, and the look conveyed that I was to quickly take a shower and get ready. Emphasis on the quickly.
Curiosity abated, Atthai came up to Amma and asked, “Dosai pannatuma?”
Amma immediately said, “Ippo onnum vendam Akka, poi kulichitu varatum”
“Iru venneer vekkaren”
Atthai shuffled back into the kitchen. Taking advantage of this momentary gap, I quickly ran to Amma and told her to take a shower first instead. My extremely logical reasoning was that this would ensure that by the time I got in, there would not be any unwanted surprises, such as cockroaches, lizards and the occasional frog.
Amma resolutely refused under the pretext that she would need to wash my clothes, unless I want to do it myself? Not wanting to give up but also not willing to add more work to my plate, I turned to the one superpower we have as kids, whining.
As our voices raised, Appa shot a glare at us. Superpower or not, somethings are not to be tested. I shut up and went to take my shower, grumbling about the unfairness of childhood.
Atthai's hamam soap was in the dimly lit bathroom, and placing my things next to it, I heard her say,
"Veneer kothikarthu, jaakarthai"
I grumbled in response. Quietly she whispered, "Seekrama kulicha, Jevvarisi vadaam pandren"
All of a sudden, taking a bath didn't seem like too much trouble!
Thus began our vacation in the sunny city of Trichy, in the quaint Andar street, under the loving care of my Atthai.
Many years have passed and with it some people have, as well. However, if I close my eyes now, I can still hear the bustle of the city waking up, my Atthai fretting over my parents and the sound of hot water being poured into the bucket just as the TV blares, “Meena raasi neyargale…”
