The House in Gobichettipalayam
My summers were spent in Pudukkottai and Gobichettipalayam — Gobi, as we called it. Away from school and homework, those months were filled with the easy warmth of grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. Summer was the time to let loose.
We would take the overnight train from Bangalore to Erode, and from there a bus to Gobichettipalayam — Gobi.
We usually arrived early in the morning at Seethammal Colony. My paati, already awake and waiting near the door, would greet us as soon as she heard the metal gate creak open. The smell of freshly brewed filter coffee would drift out from the kitchen. I would run straight into her arms.
“Vaada Kannu,” she would say, her eyes beaming with happiness.
“Vaada Krishna, Vaa Raji,” she would call out to my parents.
Slowly, the rest of the house would stir. People in the living room would wake, and within minutes the house would be buzzing with energy — even in the quiet hours of the morning.
Mornings would begin with easy conversations and light banter. As a child, I was obsessed with toy cars and trucks. My paati would invariably have one waiting for me when I arrived. I still remember a motion-controlled car I once received. Clap once and the car would move. Clap again and it would stop. This was the eighties — the technology felt magical.
One thing about that house was certain: food was always being served. It didn’t matter who came by. Coffee or tea, murukku or mixture — there was always something on the table from morning until night.
The house was rarely quiet. Family gatherings, engagements, birthdays, and other celebrations often filled it with people.
My father often tells me that when they first moved into the house in the 1950s, he switched on the radio and it happened to be playing the song “Olimayamana Edhirkaalam En Ullathil Therigiradhu.” The line means, “I can see a bright future in my heart.”
I would tag along with my paati everywhere. No one ever left the house without her insisting they eat something first. I still remember riding my tricycle down the dusty unpaved road to Parvathi Akka’s house, nearly half a kilometer away.
For many years there was no television. We spent our days with cousins, wandering around aimlessly, chatting with whoever happened to visit the house. Simple pleasures, really.
The first floor had a large open space and two rooms that belonged to my uncles. We played simple games there. The backyard had a small seating area where people would gather and talk, and the front verandah was just as lively. Guava, mango, and coconut trees surrounded the house, with plantain trees lining the side yard.
My paati passed away when I was finishing my master’s in the United States. My grandfather passed away in 2017. I still think about my paati often. She was a generous person, and in many ways that generosity still feels present in the family.
The house, meanwhile, remains. My uncle and aunt live there now.
Even today, when we visit Kunnathur to pray at our family temple, we stop at the Gobi house for a while. It feels like reconnecting with a different time.
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