A recent study says memories retain remarkable fidelity even as we age. Encouraged by this assurance, I recall my early student days, across the gulf of almost seven decades. We had a monotonous and busy schedule during the academic year. The summer vacation extending over a couple of months, therefore, held out hopes of long, carefree holidays.
Invariably, the last in the series of annual examinations would be the geography paper which was abracadabra to most of us. Almost everybody would step out of the examination hall about half an hour before time. Boys would discuss in groups their plans for vacation, even as the burly supervisor on rounds shouted in a stentorian voice, “Please leave the hall.”
There was no question of attending special classes or summer coaching institutes. While the affluent went to summer resorts in Ooty or Kodaikanal, others hostellers go back to their hometowns to rejoin their parents. A few would assist their parents in family enterprises. The rest would spend the holidays at home playing cricket on the street or visiting relatives and family friends.
One summer, after my repeated entreaties, my parents finally allowed me to spend a month in our village near Thanjavur where my grandparents lived. It was a great moment when the express train with me in a window seat steamed out of the Tambaram station. I was in cloud nine as if I was leaving on a round-the-world trip.
As the train picked up speed, I could watch with delight the telegraph posts and the railway track dance and fly past me. I was excited at the sight of verdant fields, gardens, flowing channels and dry water courses. Huts entangled by pumpkin plants gleamed out impressively from among clusters of swaying coconut trees. For one who had been only in the city, the sight of the countryside was indeed delightful.
My daily routine underwent a radical change in the village. My grandfather, a stickler for discipline, insisted that I rise with the lark and accompany him to the river for a bath. He did not seem to notice my sleepiness and protests. As we returned after the bath in the gentle morning breeze, I felt rejuvenated. Grandpa taught me to recite prayers and hymns, which are still green in my memory.
I had to switch over to millet porridge flavoured with cinnamon and cardamom for breakfast, missing my usual steaming coffee. A walk along the paddy fields with my grandfather regaling me with interesting stories now punctuate by anecdotes glorifying rural life and cultivators. He made me understand that farming was the fabric of village community. I developed an attachment for the polite and helpful villagers.
It was with a heavy heart that I returned. Back in school, my friends told me that I looked fresh. Rural air and millet porridge had asserted their virtues.
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