Maithily's Scribblings

The House That Aged With Time Our ancestral home, built in 1964, slowly weakened. Years of low maintenance made it unsafe. Now, when we visit the village, we only stand outside and look at it. The walls are tired. The roof fragile. We don’t dare enter. Yet every crack holds laughter. Every corner holds memories. It waits quietly — like an old guardian watching generations move on. **To be Continued**

Where My Mother Now Rests In 2015, my mother passed away. Her ashes were taken to our ancestral village. As per Hindu customs, a grave was built there, beside my great-grandparents and grandparents. From that day onwards, when I thought of the village, the first image that came to my mind was not the garden, not the house, but my mother’s resting place. We had chosen that spot intentionally. So that no matter how busy life became, we would return to the village at least once a year. That land held my roots. My mother’s mother was born there. My father was born there. My grandfather was born there. It was not just soil. It was history. **To be Continued**

   A Festival and a Truth Too Heavy In 2013, when my wedding was planned for the following year, we decided to visit the village for the temple festival — the oor kodai . It was my first time truly experiencing it. I participated in rituals like Mulai Pari and the grand Thaer Thiruvizha , where the chariot rolled through the village streets. Food was served three times a day in the temple itself. Those who couldn’t attend — especially the elderly — received food at their homes. The village still followed traditions with love and care. But behind my smile, a storm was brewing. Just before we left for the village, my sister and I had accompanied my mother to the doctor. That was when we heard the truth. My mother had a severe heart condition. She had only a few months to live. As the drums played at the festival, my heart felt heavy. As people celebrated life, I was silently preparing for loss. That festival was both beautiful and painful — joy and sorrow walking s...

When Silence Entered the Courtyard Not long after, my grandfather passed away. Without him, the heart of the house seemed to stop beating. My grandmother moved in with my chittapa and stayed with us occasionally. Slowly, the ancestral home began to remain empty. With my father busy with work and business, our village visits reduced. Temple festivals were missed. Family gatherings stopped. The house that once held generations now stood quiet. Walls aged. Plants overgrew. Memories remained. **To be Continued**

A Celebration Like the Movies  In the early 2000s, something special happened. My grandfather wished to conduct my puberty ceremony in our village home. My father agreed — believing it would be a beautiful cultural experience for me. Relatives poured in from everywhere. For two whole days, the entire village was fed — breakfast, lunch, and dinner — in grand traditional style. There was the turmeric bathing ceremony, the Thaimaman Seervarisai , music, dance, laughter, and rituals that felt straight out of a Tamil movie. In fact, whenever I think of it now, I remember scenes from the movie Kadhal — because my celebration was nothing less than that grandeur. The house was alive again. The courtyard echoed with voices. The kitchen worked nonstop. The village became one big family. I didn’t know then that those golden days would slowly begin to fade. **To be Continued**

 Summers of Togetherness Our village visits were incomplete without my cousins. They would arrive from Tuticorin, Madurai, and Salem, and suddenly the quiet house would burst into laughter. We bathed under the pump set, screaming when the cold water hit us. We fetched water from the well, carefully pulling up the heavy buckets. Sometimes we used the municipality pump when the elders allowed. We ran barefoot across the courtyard, played hide and seek behind coconut trees, and sat together sharing stories under the open sky. My grandfather’s house was the first one when you entered the village. Right opposite stood a small primary school. During breaks, teachers would come to rest at our house. My grandmother would serve them hot coffee, snacks, and sometimes meals. She always sent them back with tender coconuts, lemon pickle, or vegetables from the farm — not as charity, but with deep respect for their role in shaping young minds. As children, we would sit in the classroom with vi...