Growing up, my brother and I had the privilege of being surrounded by all four grandparents. My parents, brother, and I lived with our paternal grandparents, while the maternal folks resided just a short drive away. We visted and spent a lot of time at our maternal grandparents place, the house our mother grew up in.
Despite belonging to the same community and celebrating the same festivals, our households (Yes! We were part of both) boasted distinct traditions.
Take Pongal, for instance. At our paternal home, it was all about the sweet chakarai pongal paired with vadai, while our maternal folks opted for a subtler venpogal with an onion/garlic-free gotsu or sambar. As kids, we simply followed our mother's lead, reveling in the culinary diversity—a bowl of chakarai pongal here, a piece of vadai there, fully aware that the next course awaited at our maternal grandparents'.
This dichotomy wasn't exclusive to Pongal; it defined our Saturdays too. In the morning, our paternal grandparents hosted a 'Sani Kizamai Pooja' with neivedyam featuring vadai and a sweet, doubling as breakfast. Meanwhile, our maternal grandparents hosted the same pooja in the evening, treating us to sundal as prasadam—a delightful pre-dinner snack.
What I failed to recognize as a child was the incredible convenience and richness this duality brought to my life. Conflicts (two poojas or functions happening at the same time) were rare, and we grew up intimately acquainted with both families, immersed in their cultures, and, most importantly, spoiled with good food.
My brother's exclamation, 'It has been a good food day,' became a regular refrain for both him and I, after indulging in the culinary delights of both houses.
As for understanding Tamil months and their sequence, well, that was a mystery until I was around 8.
What I did know was that there was a month of evening lamps (Karthikai), followed by Margazhi, during which my paternal grandmother's early morning temple visits turned our into a wake-up alarm for the entire locality owing the the wails of our pet dogs who didn't want to be left behind at home and wanted to accompany her in her walk to the temple. Seeking refuge at my maternal grandparents' meant avoiding the canine commotion and waking up to the exquisite kolams drawn by my grandmother or the lovely househelp, Saroja.
Margazhi, with its early morning bhajans and vibrant kolams, eventually led to the pinnacle of our festivities—Pongal, marking the end of a month-long celebration.
Reflecting on those years, I realize how seamlessly the traditions of our grandparents intertwined, creating a childhood steeped in love, diversity, and, of course, delicious food. It was a privilege—one that has left an indelible mark on the fabric of my past.
