Thaatha's Pongal

Wednesday, Dec 16, 2009

Today, in small measure, I became my Thaatha and Ammani, my dear grandparents. Today, on the first day of Margazhi, or Dhanur Maasam as my Thaatha called it, I rose at the crack of dawn. Well, dawn does arrive conveniently around 6:30 in December, here in Northern California, so that was no hardship. Today also happens to be Amavasya and so I decided to follow in the footsteps of my mother and her mother before her.


Theerthamaadal ('head bath')--check
Towel binding wet hair----------check
Madisaar (dress in nine yards sari)--check
Srichurnam (red line on forehead)----check
Light Perumaal Vilakku (Altar lamp)--check
Say prayers quietly----------------check

Today, as always, doing some of the things my grandmother did everyday of her life and what my mother still does on every 'naal-kizhamai' (auspicious days) made me feel elementally connected to them, and proud that I am carrying the torch for some heartwarming traditions.

Today, unlike any other, I started the day by making Pongal. It was while offering this steaming Prasaadam to the lord and singing Margazhi Thingal that it hit me, this great upsurge of memories that shook my heart and burned in my throat, threatening to choke my lungs until I put pen to paper. I had to write!

Today, I can see it all, as if it happened but yesterday; cold Marghazhi mornings in Secunderabad, meant to snuggle into the folds of our bedsheets, Thaatha and Ammani made them special in their own particular ways. Thaatha would awaken at the Godly hour (during Margazhi and Deepavali anyway) of 4:00 A.M, bathe, wear sparkling white Veshti and Angavastram drawn from lines tied high up near the ceiling. While Ammani swept and sprinkled water outside before laying out intricate kolams, Thaatha would deck out in the requisite 12 thirumans and get the Perumaal Sannidhi ready for Aradhanai. That done, it was time to start the Pongal which would cook slowly until final Arathi.

Today, as I prayed quietly, I could hear Thaatha's voice chanting the Thirupallandu and Thirupalliyezhuchi  in his deep, school master's voice, while my mamas, chithi, my brother and I slumbered on close by (much like some students probably did in his Political Science class) Several times during the Aradhanai, we would hear the melodious tinkling of Thaatha's bell, but it was the six o'clock bell that would finally drag us out of our 'kamblis' (woolen rugs). That final Arathi meant prasadam was imminent. My brother and I would scramble to brush and wash our faces in cold well water before rushing back to stand dutifully behind Thaatha. 

My Thaatha and Ammani

Thaatha would finish up, turn around and bestow upon us his satirical yet benign smile. From his big silver pot, he would first dole out "Theertam", an amazing concoction of cloves, edible camphor, cardamom, saffron and water. After three helpings of Theertam, Thaatha would give us a couple of Tulasi leaves each, and then, having built the angst, he would reach for the dish we awaited so eagerly. Ever so lovingly, he would roll out golden balls of pongal and drop them into our greedy palms. Somehow, they were always the right temperature, never too hot or cold, just meltingly warm. Barely savoring the divine smell of cashews, ginger and pepper fried in ghee, my brother and I would instantly start our quarrels about who got more cashews. Thaatha would simply smile and dig out for us the rare cashew piece that was left. Cashews notwithstanding, I have not, until this day (even at the most famous temple kitchens) encountered anything remotely comparable to Thaatha's Dhanur Maasa Pongal.

Today, yet again, I wonder if it was a combination of it all: The cool December mornings, Thaatha's Aradhanai and Tiruppavai, (love songs to Lord Krishna) the delicate and rhythmic tinkling of his bell, the cold well water upon our tender faces, the divine theertham followed by the slightly ascerbic tulasi, Thaatha's smile, his loving hands rolling out the balls of pongal, eating that warm and delicious pongal out of the palms of our little hands...could it have been the brass pot in which Thaatha unfailingly cooked? Perhaps it was the lack of excess cashews, which made us appreciate what we did get even more. Wait, could it have been that my Thaatha who never cooked otherwise (probably not allowed to!) had a Nala-Baaham. (Mythical Nala who was reputed to have the best cooking hand) Thaatha was after all a connoisseur of good food! It could have been one or the other, or just all of the above that make Thaatha's Pongal an unforgettable memory, some 18 years since I ate a ball of Thaatha's pongal.

Today, on the first day of Margazhi, as I make little balls of Pongal for my sons, as we sing Margazhi Thingal together, I feel powerfully connected to my Thaatha as well. I realize how amazingly fortunate I am to have lived this life with my Thaatha and Ammani in it. My Dhanur maasams are forever colored with their gracious devotion and gentle love. They live in the traditions and culture they passed on to us, simply by living the way they did. Thaatha also made fantastic Chakrai Pongal and to-die-for Ksheerannam. The one or two occasions during Dhanur Masam that Thaatha did make Ksheerannam were days we looked forward to the whole year. Ammani cooked delicious food for us, made yummy snacks, vadaams, vethals, appalams...day after day, all the years through. And yet, today, it is the memory of Thaatha's pongal that makes me drool and cry shamelessly! 

P.S For Thaatha's Pongal recipe, check out:Thaatha's Dhanur Maasa Pongal