I’m sure the train would have taken us up to Madras. From there, how did we travel? I have absolutely no memory. And then, from wherever the nearest station was to the hidden village, we must have traveled by bullock carts—not a wild guess, but it must have been that. It probably took half the time it took us to travel from Delhi to Madras.

Some incidents do come to mind. We had an elder aunt who was a teacher. She would take us to the school so that we wouldn’t be bored, as compared to the liveliness of Delhi, where activities seemed to be in suspended animation. We were like exhibits. All the kids would gather around and stare at us as if we were extraterrestrials, though without antennas. To top it off, our elder aunt would, in a grand public display of love and affection, give my brother and me oranges and bananas. The other kids, with drooling lips, would watch us. Maybe that’s where my stomachache originated!

I’ve already written about the toilet routine: polluting the coconut groves—or fertilizing them, depending on one’s perspective—and running with our pants down across the road, along the bunds and banks of the Cauvery River to “feed the fish” and cleanse ourselves.

My grandfather was not only strict but also miserly. Even a single paise had to be accounted for. Jokingly, we used to say even a single grain of rice had to be accounted for. Toilet time was spent counting the coconuts in the trees to ensure none had been surreptitiously taken. The eating routine was also alien to us. There were no plates, cups, or spoons. We sat around our junior aunt with our arms extended in a begging style. She had a slightly larger vessel containing mixed sambar rice or curd rice. Under my grandfather's watchful eye, she would make small rice balls and hand them to each extended hand in turn. A small amount of curry would be placed on top. My grandfather had two more sons and a daughter, all almost our age. My younger aunt and uncle were even younger than us—how do we call them?

This elaborate process was carefully designed to ensure that not even one grain of cooked rice was wasted. Mostly, we went half-hungry. Who dared ask for more from the scowling grand old man?

Another story comes to mind. In Delhi, all of us had received smallpox vaccinations. During this village visit, a vaccination team suddenly showed up. They knew the villagers shunned vaccinations. My older aunt, younger aunt, and uncles all went into hiding. We escaped since we had already been vaccinated, while they managed to avoid it by using their hideouts.

Though my grandfather owned a coconut grove, I don’t recall ever tasting a tender coconut or its water.

On our return, we had to take tuitions for the classes we had missed and, thankfully, passed the exams.

The third visit happened when I was 10 years old. Nothing special happened except the same routines I’ve already described.

Since then, I’ve visited the village three more times, each time just to pray at the local temple.

Continued in 150. Stillness Ripples