A morning, a song and a memory for a lifetime.

Some memories stay with you. A few of them get hazy due to the inexorable march of time and age. Then there are some, that stay with one in all the original clarity. This is about one of mine that stayed.

It is a summertime, 45 years ago, when our father took us on a trip, to visit a few tourist spots. I am on a school break. It was a  much-awaited break from routine, when our family would travel the length of the country and reach the southern part of India. From the hot and dusty part of central India,  to the humid and warm south of India.

It was a visit to our hometown, as we referred to it.  The hometown being a sleepy village in the green and serene state of Kerala. Having spent a few days there among cousins, uncles, and aunts, my father decided to take us on a trip further south.

Kanyakumari, the southernmost tip of India, is the destination. A train and a bus trip later, we were in Kanyakumari. We spent a day walking around and visiting the usual spots like Vivekananda Rock and were now ready for the next stop. The stay overnight was in Nagercoil, the regular stop for all who come to visit Kanyakumari. The town was dark and brooding; the small hotel we stayed in was also just that – small. It was near the bus station and served our purpose.

We woke up early and catch a bus. The destination my father had in mind was a  temple and as he mentioned it we furrowed our brows. I did that for sure; I can’t vouch for my brother having a similar feeling. We boarded a green government bus, a little old and rickety but somehow still sparkling. Those were the days when Tamil Nadu’s local bus network was the envy of the country.

It was still early morning. The sky was shedding its night cover, a greyish-white hue spreading slowly as somewhere beyond the horizon, the sun dressed himself in his finest clothes, preparing to rise.

The bus was headed to Kanyakumari, and I remember wondering if we were going back to have another go at the beach. However, in a quarter of an hour, Father signaled that we have to get off the bus. The bus stopped on the highway and we stepped out.

What happened in the next fifteen minutes is still etched in my mind. A small minuscule bit of my life but imprinted firmly and still distinctly.

What happened in the next fifteen minutes has never left me.

Standing on that road as the dawn broke open around us was an immersive, almost overwhelming experience. Green paddy fields stretched out ahead. A small road cut through them, and in the distance, framed by trees that had lost some of their lustre to the summer heat, stood the ancient temple of Suchindram — built in the 9th century, renovated in the 17th, and glorious in the early light.

I remember thinking of it as a dream. As we soaked in the temple’s magnificent view from a distance, the sucker punch was delivered. Then I realized that it was not just the marvelous temple that was making this surreal. There was something else that was enriching the whole experience.

On some speakers hoisted onto tall coconut trees, a song broke out. Of all the moments in life, that is one I can never forget. A sharp and shrill voice boomed over that sleepy vista. The tone and pitch of that song just froze me up. It began with a sort of couplet, and with a string interlude. The singer then broke into the song at full tilt. I can still remember being told a bit later, by my seemingly all-knowing father, that it was Sirkazhi Govindarajan with his famous “Vinayagane Vinay Theerpavane.”

Never before or after has a song affected me as much. I had no idea of the language then. But the very tune, the nasal twang, and the setting of a temple on the edge of green fields made it almost unreal. It began at a very high pitch and continued from there. The shrill pitch stayed as it began, till the very end of that song. For me, it was mesmerizing. I knew no one felt the same, but then one is never sure what moves him till it happens. I didn’t understand a word, but I was still captivated by the flow of the song booming across the village in that bluish gray morning setting.

We went into the temple, saw the architecture in awe, and walked out an hour later. Soon we were on the bus, heading back to Nagercoil.

As the driver took off, the day was warmer and the fields brighter. The sound system had stopped, but my head was still filled with that mesmerizing voice and the setting from an hour ago. It has never left my mind since then. Even today, if I ever find myself next to green fields in the morning in a rural setting, the magical “Vinayagane” drifts in and transports me all the way back to that day. Fresh, clear, and crisp as ever is the memory of that gray morning almost a lifetime ago.

It was just a few minutes, but those moments have stayed with me for a lifetime. I could do with a few more of them moments, and so would the whole world, I assume

It was just fifteen minutes. But some quarter-hours are worth a lifetime.

Choose a morning; close your eyes. Listen to Sirkazhi and indulge me.

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