Summer arrived in the evenings—a mix of temple incense and Cliff Richard, the sweetness of Panchamruta, and the steady, barefoot rhythm of my grandmother’s footsteps on the warm Mysore earth.
From April to June, my brother Sridhar and I would follow Avva to the Raghavendra Mutt near Subbarayana Kere. At seventy-five, she still refused footwear. To her, leather was animal skin, and animal skin was impurity. She walked with a spine as erect as a temple pillar, her pace unhurried, while we ran ahead—barefoot not out of conviction, but because we simply didn’t own shoes.
A Life Defined by Discipline
Widowed at nineteen in 1917, Avva wore a shaved head and saffron for the rest of her life. She didn’t explain discipline; she embodied it. She was unmoved by our childhood tantrums, yet in her silence, she was profoundly kind and unfailingly fair.
We went to the Mutt for two treasures:
* Panchamruta: A thick, heavenly blend of banana, ghee, honey, milk, and curds. We’d cup our palms as the priest poured it, drinking quickly while the honey trailed down our wrists.
* Jootata: The joy of racing across those cool granite corridors until a single glance from a priest froze us mid-stride.
Tradition and the Gramophone
Our home was a bustling Madhva household of nearly fifteen people. Life was governed by four uncompromising words: Enjilu. Musare. Madi. Mylige. The sacred always came first. The day began with puja and theertha; only then did we eat.
Yet, tradition and modernity lived side-by-side. At dusk, my brother Murthy would lower the needle onto the gramophone, and Cliff Richard’s “Summer Holiday” would waft through the air, mingling with the scent of fresh agarbatti.
Whenever the heat of summer returns, I see her again—Avva—walking through the heat of her century, barefoot, uncomplaining, and unbending.
What is the one taste or sound that instantly takes you back to your childhood summers?
#MysoreMemories #Avva #FamilyHistory #Panchamruta #MadhvaCulture #SummerNostalgia #Mysuru
