My father said that during his early years in Kumbakonam there was no electricity. His father woke him up as early as five o’clock and sent him packing to the banks of the river Kaveri before the crack of dawn. My grandfather followed a little later carrying a brass pot and a spare dhoti and angavastram. While my father croggily picked his way through the darkness, the hair in his arms standing out in the chillness of the morning, a few of his friends joined him en route. The group of boys headed to their haunt behind the temple that sat close to the water. They climbed up the gopuram and dived into the river splashing water and breaking the silence of the morning. They swam along the river to a distance carefully keeping clear of the currents and whirlpools.
My grandfather washed his clothes and had bath. Just at dawn when the sky broke into a riot of purple, standing in knee deep water, he faced east and performed his prayers that ended with the japam of the Gayatri. He collected water in the small brass pot to perform abhishekam to the vigrahams in his private temple at home. As he walked back home he recited slokas, pausing near the temple to call out to his son to hurry back home to get ready for the school. Just the way my father was reluctant to go to the river in the early hours of the day, he was reluctant to leave the river and go back home.
The sun fell on the pearls of water on the bare skin of my father, he had stripped and had a quick bath after perfunctorily washing his clothes. He wore the wet shorts and slung the wrung shirt on his shoulder. His hair stood out in spikes and he ran back home leaving a wet trail on the road.
My grandfather who was the Headmaster of Banadurai High School, was an voracious reader. He had an enviable collection of books in his room on the first floor. My grandmother and my father did not disturb him when he retired to his room. After his shombu of coffee in the morning, he spent two hours in his room reading. Bright rays of the morning sun slanted through the eastern windows in his room and the two hours that he spent reading was important for him because he came back from school close to sunset and could not read for long hours in the jaundiced light of the lantern that my grandmother lit for him.
Sharp at nine o’clock in the morning, my grandfather wearing a clean veshti and a sparkling white shirt, an angavastaram slung on his shoulder, descended from his room. He had hot rice kanji, he then wore his turban, took his bag and walked up to his school. His students from the Mutt street walked at a distance behind him. After my grandfather left, my father took his time to get ready. He would suddenly realize that he is late, he will shout to his mother to get him the kanji, gulp the scalding liquid and run to school just in time to join his friends for the morning prayers.
