Something I missed - PS Thayir Saadham

The finish of every meal in such settings, as reminded by some of the commenters would be the final bits/morsels or what is literally polished off the vessel. And that is supposed to have wish fulfilling powers as we heard while growing up. Or it usually came with a blessing. When I was way younger, my granddad used to feed me sometimes. He, I thought at that time, was kinda slow. Or rather not as fast as paatti. Figured out, again in retrospect that he was just softer. But then he used to be the one saying "adikatti yaanaikutti". Paatti didn't bother about all those embellishments mostly. She would at times say dheergaayush. Once the ritual was over she would just circle the vessel/plate around my face and get up with an apppppaaadaaa. I have never heard that word that way from anyone else to this date.
And then there used to be times, when I used to come home from school angry, or would bawl. That would be paatti's cue to say pasi vandhurthu.. saadhatha kalandhundu vandhu adaicha seriya poidum. The interesting thing is the treatment used to be same for Periamma and my mom too. If she saw someone getting the least bit angry the next thing we had food fed in our mouths. Inspite of mom's resoluteness there used to be moments where the rare tear would escape her eyes. Not much would be spoken. But things would be OK after such a session, whether it was 4 in the afternoon or 11 in the morning. And this ploy worked every time. Lesson here I think is when angry/upset, eat. Eat healthy. You can work out tomorrow. I was a silent spectator to many such exchanges.
Paatti was not a great cook. Something or the other would not be right. But despite all that I craved for her weak kozhambus more than I would crave for a gourmet meal. When we used to say.. paattiiii kozhambu poarala.. idhu seriyala .. adhu seriyala.. but still eat nonetheless, paatti's standard response would be... yaen da kanna... seriyaadhaane panninaen.... And that would be our cue laugh. Then she would say enakkenna teriyum.. naan padikkaadha Jayam. Her name was Jayalakshmi. While we were in Mumbai, as a child I could speak only Marathi. Paatti could speak only Tamil. Nevertheless, God knows how we communicated. I still remember her teaching me the first letters in Tamil on a slate with flourescent green beading. Slate and Balpam.
Thatha was very English. A thorough Gentleman. I remember when he lost the power in his legs that he could only drag himself around when he wanted to move. He was 90 then. But when someone came home to visit, I remember his saying, I request your permission to excuse myself as my body does not cooperate as much as I would like it. Age has caught up. Our visitor was struck dumb for a minute and then he found his bearings. But thereafter, I found our visitor visibly straightening, posture correcting and gave a little more thought to what he was saying. during the conversation thereafter. That was another lesson learnt that day, we learn by example. No matter who/what/where the example is (from). Even at 80 Thatha was particular about walking from our residence in Besant Nagar to my aunt's in Adyar. Definitely about 4-6 kilometers if I am not mistaken. And he was extremely brisk. He was my hero. Still is. He spoke immaculate English, was a thorough Gentleman. I have heard people in my family say he had a temper too. But I don't remember any incident personally. The problem is when you grow up with a man like this and then you look around, most of the men do not measure up. Neither intellectually nor in bearing. A Kate and Leopold setting would work perfectly for me. Ah well.
It would not be rare to hear grandparents say they are having one foot in the grave. Or that its not long before they go and things like that. A lot of times, I have heard ladies in my family closer to their 70-s or 80-s wishing that they leave their mortal shell a sumangali.
In this case thatha would categorically, and at times, vehemently tell paatti that there can be none of this. And that he cannot exist without "my dear wife" as he used to refer to her often. Sure they fought quite a bit too. And then, paatti would also say enakku sumangali a poga vaendaam. Avara enna maadiri yaarum paathukka mudiyaadhu. Paravailla, She would say. Thatha had his wish. He was 92. Paatti was 81.
And in the recent Thayir Saadham episode, Maami reminded me of the traditional finish of the meal. With the last bit of the thayir saadham came the blessing, Maharaajiya, amoghama manasukkaetha maadiri vaazhkkai amaiyanum.
I write a lot of such things not only with the intent of sharing, but also with a selfish intent of immortalizing these memories. And that is why there are in the WWW. I might not be blogging forever but hopefully I would have a backup of all this. And it would serve to refresh my memory. And be a parent as my mother and grandparents have been.
One of the biggest traditions of transfer of knowledge is the aural tradition. Our country has thrived on it. For most of us who are blessed to have our grandparents around, even if some of the things they say might seem boring, they will be the memories that you want to refresh when you want that familiar warmth creep in to your heart. Your first award, your first achievement at work, the most of your first anything else has a tendency to pale in comparison. Listen to them speak. Spend time with them. And most of it is applicable to parents too. Our parents still have a first hand experience of the era gone by. And they have the wisdom transferred in them in most cases. And just as time takes people away from us, never to return, the only thing we would be left with are memories. And when you are reminded of them, its like you can see them again and can hear them again. And the blessing at the end of a meal is as real as you want it to be.