Tales From My Summer Vacation At Grandma's

Tales From My Summer Vacation At Grandma's

Every year at the beginning of summer, I leave for my grandmother’s village in Southern Kerala to spend my summer vacation. Childhood summer vacations at her place were not meant for endless hours of lying idle on the bed. Rather, it was my time to be the dutiful grandchild, always available to run errands at her beck and call.

I took on this role like a professional and followed her footsteps with the utmost sincerity that a five-year-old could summon. One consistent routine during these vacations was to accompany her to the village temple every evening. This was not a grand temple but a simple structure with plain white walls that could barely convince a child of its holiness.

Part of this daily ritual was for me to pick fresh white Chrysanthemums from my grandmother’s modest garden, wash them gently under the cold tap water, and carry them safely in the confines of my tiny hands until we reached the premises of the temple. On one such walk, I asked her why it was so important that we walk every day with these freshly picked flowers to a seemingly ordinary temple that conjured no special devotion from me.

She answered in the gentle yet firm tone that grandmothers are often gifted with — that this was not a mere leisurely walk. This was her daily pilgrimage.

For a woman in her 70s who had never been able to travel out of her village, this was akin to the grand pilgrimage to Kashi or Tirupati. The orderliness with which she picked the flowers and the discipline with which she set out of her house at sharp 6 p.m. turned her walk into a holy pilgrimage, and the seemingly austere village temple turned into a divine sanctuary. Since that day, I made sure to pick the prettiest flowers and rinse them gently to ensure that my grandmother’s mini-pilgrimage was completed daily.