Sathanur Days - Part 1: A walk down memory lane

When I was growing up, only one thing was more certain than the traffic in Kutcheri Road or a stomach upset after those heavenly bajjis at Marina beach - my annual summer vacation trip to a quaint non-descript village called Sathanur, the land of my forefathers. Year after year, I will finish the last of my annual exam and start my packing for the 'big trip'. I will leave the same day my school closed for summer and return only the morning it reopened, for any day lost otherwise would tantamount to missed time in paradise. Yes, for me and my cousins (who were quite a few), Sathanur was the promised land. It was a land of plenty - lots of people, lots of food and lots of fun and games. And more importantly, it was a place where our parents did not have a say in anything we did, because the kingdom was ruled by my grand father, Sambasiva Iyer, with an iron fist and a soft corner reserved only for his grand kids.

Sathanur was located in Tanjore district, strategically (?!) equi-distant from the big towns of Kumbakonam and Mayiladuthurai (otherwise known as Mayavaram). The only way to get there was by the Sengotta (Red Fort) Passenger. It was a run down metre gauge train blowing soot on all and sundry and covering ground at a mind-boggling 40 kmph or so. The 350 odd km journey took us anywhere between 7- 9 hours depending on how many unscheduled stops we made along the way (People used to pull on chains to stop the train when their towels flew out the window!). But for the sheer anticipation and the rewards it promised at the end of the journey, the Sengotta Passenger could beat the Hogwarts Express hands down. Ofcourse, it would be easier to get onto Platform 9 and a quarter than to predict which platform this train would arrive on, never mind what the announcement in the 3 languages said. Since Sathanur did not have a train station, we had to get down at Narasinganpet and trek the 2 kms to Sathanur. By 7AM, the red seas would part, the train would pull up for a few minutes and we would step on the promised land. My grandfather was always there, with his questions about our school year and updates on the village grapevine and what we could look forward to in the next month and a half. We would pepper him with questions about which relatives are going to be there and when, are the neigbors grandsons coming as well, what's the new cat called, and what are the new arrivals in the cow shed.

The reception when we got home was fit for royalty, and we would catch up with all the old servants and workers on the way to giving our grandmom Bhagirathi a big hug before we were handed down huge mugs of steaming filter kapi (coffee) with lots of fresh milk and sugar and passably little amounts of caffeine. Ofcourse, we couldn't eat or drink anything unless we finished our morning prayer and had a viboothi mark on her foreheads as proof. The kapi was followed by a compulsory reading session monitored by grand dad. He was one of those guys who managed to study all the way to a BA inspite of having to cross 3 rivers everyday to school. As a result, his English was flawless and old British. Since none of his own children managed to acquire his own love for the language and literature in general, he took it upon himself to pass it on to his grandchildren who seemed more receptive. He had a huge library with everything from PG Wodehouse and Jerom K Jerome to the complete works of Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle. We were free to choose our books, pull up chairs in the sun drenched courtyard and read for half an hour. This done, we were pretty much free to venture out on our adventures interspersed only with food breaks - a big lunch around 11AM, a coffee break at around 3 and dinner around 7.

Within a few days, a bevy of relatives, cousins and friends would all land and the house will be full of noises and laughter and people of all ages. Moms, aunts and grandmoms sitting in groups exchanging stories and making the best food I've ever tasted in my life. Fathers, uncles and grandfathers on breaks from their works making the most it by lazing around all day and once in a while giving in and joining the kids for our carrom board or card games. And kids of all ages running helter skelter all over the house, making a walk from the living room to the kitchen (for an occasional 'murukku') more difficult than crossing Mount road at rush hour without a traffic signal.

Mornings were usually spent in the cowshed building sand castles and gossipping with the cousins and friends. Occasionally, this would be partly replaced by a few games of cricket outside the house. Afternoons were a haze of carrom board, card games and board games. There used to be different groups engaged in different activities in different parts of the house. A closer look would reveal that some of the groups did not contain any family members, or even any familiar faces. That was how village houses were in those day. It was free for anyone to walk in and socialize. As the days went by and we approached peak summer, the dehydration and energy sapping conditions would make a siesta unavoidable - partly to avoid the sun and partly to save our energy for the rest of the day.

Evenings were meant for one thing, and one thing only - cricket. The grove nearby would be converted to a cricket ground for the duration of the summer vacation. By 4PM, a whole gang of cousins, neigbors, fathers and sons, uncles and nephews, local shepherds, cow herds and farmers would all descend there without need for invitations. The air would be thick with talk of new wicket keeper gloves, leg glances and slower balls. Once on the cricket field, we were all equals. My servant's son was free to swear at me without having to fear about his dad losing his job. The cricket was played with the cork ball which is hard as rock and did not have leather on it to soften blows. Gloves were a rarity and pads were non-existent. There was no speed limit and no age limit. Never mind if you were 14 or 40. If you thought you were man enough to face the music, you could step up to the crease. Year after year, I would take one ball flush on my thumb nail, watch blood slowly streak across with a sense of deja vu and be forced to retire hurt. Within a few days, the nail would fall off leaving the flesh exposed, and looking not very pretty, for a few days. Eventually, the nail would grow back, but I did not wait for that before I stepped back into the breach.

Nights were reserved for TV and more carom board and cards on those rare occasions when the electricity board decided to cooperate with us. But frequently, we lost electricity for hours, and sometimes for days, together. All was not lost. My grandmom would prepare food in a huge pot and make us sit around her. There, in the open courtyard, with the moon above us and a warm breeze wafting through, we would each extend our tiny hands where she would place the food with immense dexterity and speed. As we gulped it down ravenously, and competed with other hands for more, we would recount to each other the happenings of the day and our plans for tomorrow. You could reach out and touch the sense of bliss and utter contentment. In that moment, we came as close to heaven as was humanly possible.

For those of you who might have had a chance to read the timeless 'Malgudi Days' by R.K.Narayan, Swami and his friends could not have had half the fun we did. I cannot do justice to all my years in Sathanur with this one blog. A walk down memory lane would take up more time and space. As a dedication to my grandparents, I will make an effort to give words to my nostalgia in this series of blogs. I could never come close to painting the whole picture, but maybe in some small way, I could freeze these memories and recount the stories to my kids and grandkids, who will be unfortunate to have never seen a village in their lives.