Siberian birds migrate in winter. The SJS clan migrated every summer holiday, and flocked to the parental nest in what was then Upper Palace Orchards. Now known as Sadashiva Nagar, Bengaluru.
Some of my most vivid childhood memories are from this period. We had wonderful holidays with the other grandparents in Delhi too. Shall write about those another time. But my brother and I were the only children on that side for a very long time. Here in Bengaluru, there were cousins who came in from Delhi, Jamshedpur and Chennai. Deep bonds of affection were formed during those carefree years. There were two clusters of cousins, with a rough dividing line about halfway through the age range. I am not sure how much the younger set remembers. But there were at least 6 of us who were at just the right age to get the best out of those stays, and 6 more who probably have hazy memories. If I remember right, the 13th grandchild was born after Sankriti was sold.
The house was called Sankriti, after my grandparents’ gotra (ie lineage). After many decades in Delhi, my grandfather was reluctant to go back and settle in his ancestral town Trichy. He had moved to Bengaluru in 1962, to take over as Chairman of Hindustan Aeronautics. He and my grandmother both loved the weather, the gardens, and the cosmopolitan vibe of Bengaluru. So they decided to look for a plot here, to build themselves a home. The Maharaja of Mysore had a large palace in the city. Large chunks of the grounds were being sold off at the time, divided into relatively affordable plots. The area was called Upper and Lower Palace Orchards. Within easy reach of established neighbourhoods such as Vyalikaval and Malleshwaram, yet new enough to be more open and less congested.
This photo of Sankriti was probably taken in the very early days. Later on, there were flowering trees in the compound. The house had an impressive blend of traditional and surprisingly modern features. An open patio, then an enclosed verandah that served as a study and a holding centre for visitors. A more formal living room with a Persian carpet and sofas. Brass plates on the wall. A dresser with a radiogram, vinyl LPs, 78rpm discs, bookshelves and displays of bric a brac from round the world.. A dining table – I can’t remember if it sat 6 or 8. A surprisingly efficient fridge, and an electric toaster which was the ultimate mod con at that time. When the house was full, the adults sat at the table, while we children sat cross legged on the floor at mealtimes. Almost always, we ate together, 3 generations in one sitting. No gender segregation or hierarchy. Breakfast rota included upma , idli-dosa-uthappam and toast. Rice with sambhar, rasam, vegetables and yoghurt at lunch time. Rasam served in a special spouted kettle so that the ‘bits’ flavoured the dish, but did not fall into the plate. Avial, vadai and payasam on special occasions. Tea and biscuits or snacks at 4. Chapati, kootu, pickles and yoghurt for dinner. 1 ladle of rich, solid yoghurt. Followed by unlimited portion of delicious, runny, cooling, healthy buttermilk. And in summer – Mangoes! Lots of them. Hot milk at bedtime. Cow’s milk, specially bought for the nightcap. Coffee and yoghurt were made using buffalo milk .
Two of the bedrooms opened into the enclosed verandah, the third into the dining room. All three bedrooms had ensuite bathrooms, with Western style loos and geyser tanks for hot water. Marble-effect mosaic chip flooring, decorative grille rather than bars on the windows. Very standard international layout, this half of the house. Behind these, the working half of the house was more interesting social history. A good sized and airy kitchen, where the cook had a gas hob and worktops so she could stand and work, instead of having to crouch on the floor and fan a smoky flame. A Puja room, with floor-to-ceiling framed religious pictures, and a gopuram with sculptured moortis and other puja items. My grandmother’s domain, children admitted only by invitation. If I close my eyes, I can still smell that characteristic mix of camphor, incense, jasmine and parijata flowers, and hear the murmured mantras and the tinkle of the little brass bell . A store room on which I based my British larder – large tins and drums of dry groceries and spices. To be inspected by Ammamma and issued to the cook each day, with a detailed menu for each meal. The corridor outside these three rooms was where the children could sit in a row at mealtimes. Outside, there was a hand pump as well as piped water for washing clothes and dishes. Thimmi, the cleaning lady, would sit on her wooden stool and scrub the mountain of pots and pans. A granite slab in the courtyard to slap the clothes that had been soaked earlier in plastic buckets. Up a narrow flight of stairs for the staff quarters and washrooms – one set for our cook Leela her husband, son and ancient father in law. The other was part of the upstairs unit, which was let out to tenants. As children , we were not aware of any orthodox religious rules being followed, nor of any social pecking order being maintained. It is only after I experienced more traditional Tambrahm housekeeping and saw middle class British houses…. that I realised how seamlessly my grandmother had merged these two lifestyles!
My father and Sudha’s father rarely took time off work to join in these holidays. But my Jamshedpur uncle was often there. His parents were also Bangalore-based. He was a favourite with all the children, and had infinite patience with us. One or both of my mother’s brothers and their families would join us when possible. At night, we turned the living room into a dormitory for the younger generation. Sheets, pillows and coverings on the long carpet. Bed-wetters placed at the end of the row to limit damage. Much giggling and teasing and chattering long after lights out. My grandfather was a believer in early to bed, early to rise. Every 10 minutes from 9pm on, he would call out Goodnight, the tone getting firmer as we pushed the boundary to 10. By which time one or two of the youngest would whimper for their mummy, and have to be escorted to the correct room.
During the day, mealtimes were bonding times, of course. But there were also vast supplies of reading material. Old British magazines with knitting patterns and recipes for scones and gushing articles about Prince Philip. Stacks of Readers Digest. PG Wodehouse, Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie. I was never any good at cards, so I’d usually escape to curl up with a book. Saturday mornings began with Venkatesha Suprabhatam by MS. In the heat of the afternoon, I played my favourite records over and over again – Habib Wali Mohd singing Ghalib and Zafar, Mukesh singing Matwali Naar. There was also Fall of the Bismark, and Harry Belafontaine singing Coconut Woman Calling Out. Music curated by my uncles and older cousins – imprinted on my mind as one half of the soundtrack to my childhood. In Delhi, there were records that contained the other half.
Between two of the bedrooms, there was the Safe Room. No natural light, no outside wall. My grandmother’s most precious saris hung in the wardrobes in this room. Probably jewellery too. But we were most definitely not allowed to say the j word, in case the thieves got to hear. My grandmother had garlands of sandalwood shavings on the inside of her wardrobe doors. So the old silk saris were deeply infused with the most magical fragrance. It was a special privilege to be allowed a sari. I remember one particular Murshidabad silk with an exquisite little pattern of hearts, clubs, spades and diamond shapes. Maybe the playing card theme would look naff now. But when I was 15….the delicate cream coloured fabric with its subtle sheen…..I think that was the exact moment when I fell in love with saris and sari wearing.
It was good to see my mum and her sisters relaxed and carefree in their parental home. Towards the end of our stay, there would be an industrial scale production line of food packaging in the kitchen corridor. Sambhar powder, rasam powder, avakkai mango pickle, salted citron pickle, mahali root pickle with the aroma of freshly crushed bedbugs. Packets of sweets – Mysorepak included. Packets of savoury snacks. Pappadams, appalams, vadaams. Some of us volunteered to seal the plastic bags by holding them to a candle flame. Sankriti was the Central Supply Store and Depot. All branches of the family were stocked up with spices and other essentials for an entire year.
Thatha also liked to repaint all the metal ‘trunks’ each year. My cousin Vijay and I usually got roped into helping. V as skilled painter; your truly as brush holder, brush washer and general sucker.
Krishnaswamy Tailor would be sent for. My grandmother would write him a letter in Tamil, using a reply-paid post card. He would arrive each morning for a week, set his sewing machine up in the verandah. He enjoyed the tea and food that was brought to him regularly, and he used the staff loo when he needed to. A large ‘thaan’ of white material would be bought. Large scale production of pyjamas, petticoats, slips and shifts, banians and other clothes for daily wear. KT was old, cranky and almost toothless. He wore very thick glasses and squinted angrily at the needle each time he had to thread it. And felt free to be negative about anyone who did not fit into the clothes he stitched for them. But he enjoyed his summer job as much as we enjoyed annoying him.
For more fancy clothing, we would go shopping in Malleshwaram, Basavangudi or Commercial Street. For my 10th birthday, I had a pink dress with white lace, made by Fazal Tailor in Commercial Street. His dialect was eloquent and expressive. Perhaps that was the moment I fell in love with Dakhini Urdu. Sometimes, we’d go to MTR for Bisi Bele Bhat. Or pick up piping hot gulab jamuns to take home.
Ammamma would chat with us about our sweater preferences. Most years, she managed to hand knit at least one item of winterwear for each of her grandchildren.
Thatha would regale us with old stories. Not always 100% accurate, in the narrow sense of the word. Punchline took precedence over pedantry. Sometimes, when the story got to a semi scandalous stage, Ammamma would walk in and censor it. NOT in front of the children, please. I have a vast archive of unfinished tales in my memory. Dare not ask anyone to tell me the endings, in case they are ruder than I expect . On the rare occasions when my dad joined us, he would defy the censor and finish the tale. Thatha would wink, shrug and pretend he could not stop the son in law of the house. Sometimes Sumitra’s grandpa Raju mama would join, or Shivaraj periapa or Ganeshan athimber – some of the relatives who had links to both sets of grandparents. I wish I had recorded some of the wit and repartee and rollicking verbal humour that rocked the room when that set got together. Puns and wordplay, sometimes in three languages all at once, with only filter coffee for fuel.
Random Rambles 