Summer in sirkazhi - two worlds

 

Two Worlds

Looking back, I realize that those summers gave us two completely different versions of the same place.

Alancheri was almost untouched by modern life. The old house, the mud walls, the cows, the bulls, the fields, the well, the pump set, the bullock cart and the complete absence of electricity made it feel like we had travelled several generations back in time.

Sirkazhi itself was different. There was electricity, running water, bicycles, electrical repair shops, radios, biogas and late-night rummy games.

Yet both were worlds away from the Delhi in which we were growing up.

Delhi was a melting pot—different languages, cultures, foods and people all thrown together into one large, slightly chaotic city.

Sirkazhi was different.

There was a comforting uniformity to it.

And yet, even within those three miles, there were enormous differences. One world went to sleep with the sun. The other stayed awake until midnight playing rummy and eating roasted peanuts.

As children, we didn't think about any of this.

We simply lived it.

We climbed tamarind trees while waiting for buses. We chased calves around the cowshed. We sat under the roaring water of the pump set until our fingers wrinkled. We ate mangoes with our bare hands until juice ran down our arms. We rode bullock carts, swam in the Cauvery, cycled through paddy fields and waited impatiently for the popsicle man.

We didn't know that we were collecting memories.

We thought we were simply having a summer.

That is perhaps what I miss most.

There was no hurry to get anywhere. There was no television to tell us what we were missing. No phone was ringing. Nobody was checking email. There were no screens competing for our attention.

The day began when the sun came up and ended when it went down.

And somewhere in between, there was always something to do.

A calf to chase.

A tree to climb.

A mango to eat.

A river to swim in.

A bicycle to ride.

A grandfather to follow.

A grandmother to feed us.

Now, decades later, I can see how extraordinarily lucky we were.

The people who made those summers special are mostly gone. The old house in Alancheri, I suspect, is no longer quite the house I remember. The fields have changed. The roads have changed. The way we travel has changed. Even the idea of childhood has changed.

But the memories have remained stubbornly intact.

I can still see my thatha walking through the fields.

I can still hear the pump set roaring.

I can still feel the cold water hitting my head after walking through the scorching sun.

I can still see patti standing by the griddle, making yet another dosa because we had somehow managed to finish the last one.

I can still taste the sour tamarind picked straight from the tree and the sweetness of a mango eaten without a plate.

And somewhere in those memories is the sound of a bullock cart making its way toward Sirkazhi, the bull knowing the road better than any of us did.

Those summers were not luxurious.

They were not easy.

But they were full.

Full of people, animals, food, heat, water, laughter, dirt, sweat and an extraordinary sense of freedom.

At the time, I thought we were simply visiting our grandparents.

Today, I realize we were being given something much more valuable.

We were being given a childhood.

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