Tamil Brahmins and the Tanjore (Thanjavur) delta were a match made in heaven. And to belong to Kumbakonam — that has been truly special.
“Oh you people are so clever”, was the frequent remark made to a person hailing from Kumbakonam — often said with a sly slant.
Through the wide eyes of a small child newly in from Bombay, staying in Madras, and going to Kumbakonam during the annual holidays to be with maternal grandparents — it all seemed so strange, so backward! Kumbakonam became my ‘Kumbaks’, with hardly any electric power in the 1960s, the toilets built in the backyard away from the home proper, near the cow sheds, past the well. The smell of cow dung became the childhood memory of Kumbaks.
A doting grandmother and a stern dreamer of a grandpa made domesticity such fun. His forbidden domain was an exciting mix of chemical experiments, literary adventures, and artistic dreams. A wooden staircase led away to this mezzanine world, where children were barred. This made it absolutely vital to visit grandpa’s retreat, done furtively while he was out.
The entire ground-floor was granny’s domain — from the pillared hall, the open-to-the-sky ‘mittam’, the dark passages, the tiny rooms redolent of stored grain, herbs and spices, and the huge kitchen beyond. No cooking gas, no electric stove or any dandy appliances, nothing. Yet, this was the heart of the house, the wood burning ‘aduppu’ (stove) forever simmering with delicious food, generously served to a continuous stream of welcome visitors. Carnatic music was sung, and played on the veena — the daughters were all trained in this essential art, a must in Tanjore Brahmin families.
This little city girl, recently bereaved of her mother, was always asked what she liked, and my granny would produce it in a jiffy. I can see her now, blowing gently through a bamboo or metal pipe to bring up a blaze from the logs, and gently pulling out a log or two to reduce the heat. Today’s dependence on erratic gas supply seems crazy, in the face of such fuel at one’s command.
And Kumbakonam Brahmin filter coffee was a must for grandpa’s guests from distant shores —they would sit in old wooden armchairs, talking and discussing India. My grandpa spent a lifetime deciphering edicts on temple walls, especially at the exquisite Nageswaran temple. He could even make cutting a ‘sathukudi’ (sweet lime) a work of art.
My granny was called ‘athai’ by all — I’ve never asked why. Going out with athai on simple errands became daily adventures. Eating tart raw mango with salt and chilly powder was a fine treat —athai bought the mangoes and plied us with firm slices of mango smeared with salt and chilly. It was heavenly. My childlike pleasure left her overjoyed.
I spoke of a picnic, and the lovely old lady at once made plans, and carried it out—me, my brother, and cousin were taken by athai to Coleroon, at least 60 miles away. She had packed homemade rice dishes and crisp snacks, and I have a vague memory of sitting with feet in running water, being fed handfuls by athai.
I wanted to visit our farm in nearby Tiruvalliangudi, just outside Kumbaks. I recall arriving in a cart at the farm after a short journey — the place seemed huge, and there was no electricity. Lamps were lit, and it all seemed so magical. Bamboo baskets of fresh flowers — jasmine and kanakambaram were plucked and brought for my pleasure, and we ate fresh pineapple, and ‘nongu’ that was just plucked from the palm trees. These treats were so delicious to the tiny city- bred that I then was, and I simply revelled in it all. Rice, vegetables, perhaps even tamarind, coconut — it all came from our own land, to our kitchen. Milk came from the cows in our backyard — athai was adept at managing it all.
Tiny curled scorpions, an army of giant black ants, nothing fazed this magnificent diminutive woman — athai, my granny. Soon, it was back to Kumbaks, and I continued to be startled by the milling bullock carts, and the sight of the cart behind us seemingly boring into me, as I sat holding on to the iron cross bar, legs dangling from the cart. I was taken aback to see the bovines dropping dung on the road constantly. ‘This is shaani ooru” (dung town). I won’t come here again,” said I, childishly.
Regrettably, I never went back for such a holiday to Kumbaks again, but only brief day visits. Athai would make the trip to Madras, trying to cajole me to come. “I will build flush toilets for you,” she would say, as I had been afraid of going to the far-off bathroom in the dark.
I wish I had spent more time with her, cocooned in her pure affection for me. After Bombay’s Joy ice-cream and orange lollies, athai would buy us ‘ice’ — one for 2 paise, homemade frozen milk and vermicelli ice-cream on a stick, brought in tin boxes that were packed with ice. Eaten with hot tiffin, all of us joshing each other, playing, fighting, bitten by some insect or the other — the memories are so precious, so priceless.
And the summer rain pelting down in the ‘mittam’ — we played in the rain like happy injuns, watched carefully by the indulgent athai.
Have holidays and good times changed with time? Migration to cities and modernisation have seen the virtual end of the slow-paced life, which nonetheless made its fortune from agriculture, and built up huge assets, now easily disposed of for gain, by the educated inheritors.
Visits to Kumbaks see me wander along the busy ‘kadai theru’ — the main market street, still bustling with life as it was then. Flowers, fruit, vegetables, rice, plantain leaves, coffee, idli and dosai — it is all there, along with madly honking cars and buses. The steel vessels, the brass art work, the handloom weavers, the Kumbakonam betel leaf — they are all there too. North Indian sweet shops pop up here and there, enticing one with hot roti and sabzi. The town’s myriad temples give it a unique skyline, while the river banks give it a different topography. That the mighty Cholas worshipped here and walked around here, sends a tingling thrill through one.
It is all there, but athai is not. Her warmth is irreplaceable. The family home has long been hastily sold, due to migration of the family. I look at my old home longingly, on each visit, and walk around the familiar roads and temples that my mother and her siblings must have walked along.
The eternal Cauvery, the green fields, and the temples serve to keep the charm of Kumbaks alive. The temples too are moving with the times — the priests and staff are keen to know if I am from America or London. “Madras,” I say, and their face falls! The East looks to the West, even in unlikely settings.
At Mt. Rigi, in Switzerland, part of the extended Alps, I’m blown off my feet with the freezing wind. Bells are ringing melodiously, and there is a familiar whiff in the air. I walk towards the fencing, and there it is — cow dung, from well-fed, fat cows, mooing away, with beautiful bells around their necks. Kumbaks came to mind instantly, smelling just the same, thousands of miles away. The holiday took on happy familiarity. The milk became smooth chocolate here in Switzerland — in Kumbaks athai had made delicious ‘therati pal’, from the milk.
Sadly, my children never knew athai — the dynamic woman who made simple living so superior.
(The author is a freelance photo-journalist, writer, and documentary-maker who works from Chennai and Singapore. E-mail: rupa.gopal@gmail.com)
