Gohkulvani Krishnan
“Endhiruchu thola mani 7 achu” would be the usual greeting I’d wake up to, while i controll my lament on random sunday morning, because you certainly dont want to start your day with glasses thrown at you. Well, before I begin my narrative, let me give a brief description about the home i grew up in. We are a family of four: myself (being kicked away to a boarding school when i was 8), my mother (a teacher whose home is practically the school), and then there is my dad and my elder brother (just two chill guys who moved in with us). We lived in a small house perfect enough to fit the four of us, it consisted of two bedrooms that had never seen us sleeping there, except when we had guests over; a hall that was an all – rounder which witnessed us dining, sleeping , fighting , and losing our minds; and a compact kitchen which breathed the aroma of masala, few gossips, and perfect signal for making calls.
Back when i was a day-scholar, I witnessed the live scene of what “hurry” meant. Those who tell bengaluru streets are rushed probably didn’t grow up in a household like mine. Most days, I would wake up to my mom’s screeching voice or the neighbourhood’s “Suprabhatham” and other days, it would be my dad waking me up with great patience, sprinkled with love, even after hearing my “2 minutes pa” and getting bashful from my mom.
But 2013 was a nostalgic year. I woke up as usual in my favourite corner of the hall with my hugging pillow to my ma‘s occasional sweet tone asking us to wake up, which only happened on random days. I sat in circles with my family after i freshened up, the three of us sat holding on to our respective tumblers around the bowl which carried the secret ingredient to make the day beautiful — coffee.
My mom didn’t seem to mind the bed not made, the sheets unfolded, and our pillows scattered this time as She quietly poured coffee for the three of us. while they had it in their cups, I, as usual got it poured in my mom’s tumbler after she took a sip of the coffee just for the taste ( thats what she says). The coffee always was accompanied by either good day or milk bikis, I developed this habit of drinking the coffee by dipping the biscuits from my dad which soon became a routine. A well brewed coffee with the right warmth, one that doesn’t submerge the biscuit and hits the right spot while you drink, is the inclination towards a perfect day. We all sat quietly drinking the coffee while my mom asked questions regarding what we want for breakfast, even though she was going to end up making Upma.
After rejecting, questioning, and reasoning with the curated menu suggested by my brother, my dad, and myself, she agreed to make Ven pongal for the morning and asked my dad to hurry to the market to get fish and some chicken for the afternoon. I gulped my coffee with utmost satisfaction that my biscuit didn’t break while dipping, as it usually does, and quickened up to get ready to accompany my dad to the shop. My dad wasn’t that excited as me, since he couldn’t sleep in like my brother, who fell asleep minutes after drinking his coffee.
As my dad went to take the scooter key, I rushed to the gate, welcomed by the chaotic morning scene: streets filled with some aunties sprinkling water on their lawn, while others sat down flaunting their rangoli skills; children riding bicycles and showing off their tricks; voices of the vendor selling vegetables in carts; and the street indulged in the aroma of boiling fish curry in somebody’s kitchen. As our iron man’s shop radio played “Chinna Chinna Asai” in the background, I sat in the front of the scooty with my dad, smiling brightly, looking up at the sun that never rose again.
AMIDSTCHAOS 