The walk before sunrise

4.30 AM

A cycle bell tinkled on the road outside followed by a low growl from a dog disturbed from deep slumber. It was not what had woken her up. Her eyes had already flickered open a few minutes before. Just the momentous opening of the upper eye lids. She lay on her back, on her simple bedding on the floor, wide awake. From that second on, her eyes would stay bright and alert for the rest of the day.

It was dark outside. And still darker inside. The large fan that hung from the ceiling was moving at the fastest speed it could. There was no breeze to show for it. There was a big square clock on the wall to her right. The ‘tic toc’ were the only rhythmic sounds in the early hours of the morning. She did not have to turn her neck to look at the time. It was 4.30 AM. She knew. Her body clock was always right.

It was warm. And balmy. The summer humidity ever present, making itself felt, even before sunrise. It was still April. It would get worse as the days flowed into May. The swarm of mosquitoes that had buzzed around and bit and stung everyone the previous evening and late into the night, had gone away. It was the prefect time to sleep. To sleep deeply and undisturbed. For everyone else.

There were people sleeping around her. Her visiting children and grandchildren on their annual visit. They would come around into the world a few hours later.

She sat up in one quick movement. Her legs straight, her feet rose together about a foot off the bed. It gave her the leverage she needed to pull her upper body straight up to sitting position. Bending her knees, she pushed her palms on the bed and hoisted herself up to stand and walked towards the inner room, making as little noise as she could. She did not switch on the lights. She knew her home. She had got it built and lived in it for two decades. She brushed her teeth and washed her face, opening the tap for water, only as much as required. It wouldn’t do to waste water. And in case the flow of water stopped, she could not switch on the motor for the water pump at this hour. The roar would wake up the neighbourhood.

Prayer to the Gods

Making her way across the kitchen, she went to the room that housed the small temple with framed pictures and small brass and silver idols of the Gods. The previous night, she had washed the silver lamp, poured oil inside it and placed a wick in position. This had been her last activity everyday before going to bed, for as long back as she could remember. Opening the matchbox, she flicked a matchstick and lit the lamp. Folding her hands and joining her palms, eyes closed, she prayed silently for a few minutes. Not just a general prayer. She knew a number of Sanskrit Slokas and verses. She knew which of these were appropriate for different occasions. She would recite the one most suitable for her first morning prayer.

Making her way back to the kitchen, she closed the doors leading to the room of the Gods and the rest of the house. Now, she switched on the light. A small hand mirror on the open shelf served as the early morning dressing table. Adjusting and partly retying her cotton saree and ensuring the presence of a large red ‘Pottu’ — a dot on the centre of the forehead, were the two activities she indulged in. The two things that her culture necessitated. The two things that catered to her vanity too.

She was the envy of the neighbourhood for her choice of exquisite earthy toned sarees, that were uncommon. The ‘Pottu’ in the middle of her forehead was large, quite a bit larger, than the average size of the dot that women usually sported. It made her face distinctive and eye catching. She wasn’t particularly pretty and yet her face was arresting and not easily forgotten. The two elements — the saree and the ‘Pottu’, somehow seemed to bring her strong, definitive character to the fore.

Picking up a can, money purse and the key to the front door and the outer gate, kept ready on the kitchen platform, she made her way to the front door, staying close to the wall, stepping gingerly, to avoid the unpredictably spread out and occasionally moving arms and legs of her family sleeping on the floor. The hall was the dormitory style bedroom for the entire family during such visits.

Gently shutting the front door, she climbed down the four steps and on to the ten feet long path leading to the locked gate. She unlocked the heavy old padlock. The small gate would squeak. It always did. No amount of oiling the hinges helped. A quick swing to open it and an equally quick swing to shut it would keep the sound to the minimum.

She stepped on to the road that was a few inches higher in level. It was a narrow tar covered street that connected the main road to the inner streets and lanes. She looked towards the right. The Ganesha temple at the intersection that was just two blocks away, had its gates wide open. This allowed an unrestricted view of the main idol within. The priest was busy making the preparations for the day ahead. The regular morning devotees would soon be here. The idol was clearly visible, lit up by the oil lamps in front of it and on the sides. Taking a few steps to the centre of the road, bringing herself directly in line with the temple idol, she folded her hands once more. It had become a habit with most people on this street. To acknowledge and send out a quick prayer requesting GOD to take them through the day without hurdles.

Turning away, towards left from her gate, she was faced with two choices.

The road ahead

Her mind quickly switched to the task at hand.

It would take her about twenty minutes to cover the distance. At her speed. She was not one of those who took long strides and walked fast. Short deliberate steps, allowing time for her feet to get a firm grip on the ground below, that is how she walked. Slow and deliberate — thats how she seemed to do almost everything. She lead her life being methodical, neat and precise.

She could turn to her left and continue on the tar road. Or cross the street and step down into the open piece of land on the other side. She could cut across diagonally over to the three vacant ‘plots’ [the locally used term for privately owned land on which residential houses were yet to be constructed] and get on to the next parallel road, thus reducing about half a kilometre from the distance she had to cover.

She could see the parallel road across the open plots. It was a main road. The bus route. The road was wide, smooth and had bright street lights. The vacant land in-between her street and the main road was dark with ominous looking dark shapes along the sides. They were wild bushes, she knew. A winding length of clearing from one end to the other was the path everyone used. Milkmen ushered their cows and buffaloes via this short-cut too. So did stray goats and dogs. A path that had been created by human and cattle footsteps. It was safe to walk here. Safe, inspite of the cattle dung that dotted the path, the frogs that hopped around and the occasional snake that slithered from one bush to another.

The tar road was narrow and bordered by a sand and gravel layered downward slope leading to ditches. The ditches served as storm water drains as well as created a distance between the houses on the street and the people using the road, giving the owners a feeling of privacy. Most houses had barbed wire fences held together with concrete poles. Typically, thorny bushes were planted along the fence, to keep out people and grazing cattle. The road had not been tarred recently and the usage over the years had made the surface to turn quite uneven.

A sideways glance at the house on the right, next to the vacant plot and her decision was made.

The one storied house had its lights on, indicating that the family members were awake. The light on the outside of the house on the rear, near the vacant plot were switched on too. Someone was drawing water from the well. Passing by there would mean an unavoidable conversation with the senior lady of the family. Today, that conversation would be a long one.

Have your daughters come for vacation?

How long will they stay?

The previous summer they had stayed for a whole two months, isn’t it?

Has your younger granddaughter started learning music yet?

Why not? Traditional skills have to be inculcated early in life or else…….

Your elder granddaughter has grown so tall — I saw her in a frock! She must be 14, right? Same as my grand daughter…you should tell your daughter to be careful with the clothes…they should dress from head to toe…Its is not a good world around you see. Do you know what happened to …..

How are you going to manage cooking three meals a day for so many people for so many days? Do your daughters help you? In fact they should give you some rest and do the entire kitchen work themselves, isn’t it? In our days, we were so responsible and hard working…..

She was in no mood for it. It was a delight to have her family around. She didn’t mind the effort.

A long walk never hurt anyone.

Turning left, she continued to walk slowly on the tar road.

Temple town

The road, [maybe ‘street’ was a more suitable term], was deserted and dark. The faint moonlight provided a little light, just enough for someone who knew the street, to find their way ahead. There were no street lights. The local municipality had not considered it necessary to provide for them at the time of planning of this suburb, about 25 years ago. It still wasn’t a priority for the administration, apparently.

The occupants of the small and large private homes on both sides of the road seemed still in slumber. It was peaceful and silent around.

The suburb she lived in, was outside the city limits, close to the domestic and international airports. Land was relatively cheap as compared to realty prices within the city, making it a viable choice for a large home. Earlier her city bred relatives let their displeasure be known periodically. Meeting her meant a long travel away from the city. A visit to and fro took up half a day. Close family ties and affection ensured they visited anyway.

Over the years, the neglected and rather secluded area was the recipient of divine blessings. Scores of Temples of the numerous Gods got constructed by the people who had chosen to move away from the city and live here. It was now a temple town. It had become a much desired residential area for the religious minded. The road and rail connectivity had improved. The realty prices had gone up. The relatives were less unwilling to make the trip now that a pilgrimage of sorts got done as well!

During the early hours of the morning while people slept, there was activity within the temples. The lights were on in all the temples that spotted the area. She had to pass a number of them on the way. The lights from within the temples provided her a sense of safety. The occasional temple priest passing by, acknowledging her, was almost always a known face.

Continuing on the winding tar road, she passed a small hospital — the one they frequented in case of small ailments. To the left was a small board at the corner of another street ‘Hanuman temple — this way’. The temple was yet to be constructed. The 30 feet tall black stone idol was visible at a distance, even in the faint light. Just below the board was another board ‘Raghavendra Swamy Mutt — this way’. An ashram built by the followers of the saint, was on the same street as the hanuman temple. A few blocks further was a ‘Guruvayoorappa temple’ — a large place enclosed by a wall housed it.

The street eventually joined the main road, the one she had seen across from her house. There was a little more activity on, on this one. A few people, cans or vessels in hand, making their way towards the cowshed, just like her. The main road had big independent houses for a stretch, and then huts for the rest of the distance.

She reached the end of the road where it met with a larger road perpendicular to it. This was the start of another suburb, one with a different pincode and had a different municipal body governing it. A church stood prominently at the junction, the large cross on the top lighted up in red. Bordering the church wall, was a cowshed — her destination.

The milkman sat on a crate at the entrance, at a height suitable for milking cows. Right then, he was focused on ensuring the milk from the cow’s udder, jet sprayed directly into the large aluminium milk can that he had propped up between his feet and knees. About ten cows were tied to bamboo poles on the other side. There was grass spread out near their mouths that they were chewing on.

She waited behind for him to look up.

The milkman and the cow

The can was almost full and the milkman shooed the cow away. It slowly made its way to a vacant slot somewhere in-between its’ shed mates. The milkman looked up at her and nodded in acknowledgement.

‘How much?’ He asked, meaning how much quantity of milk did she want?

‘Two litres’ she said.

He smiled. He had known her for many years. Her family must have come for the vacations. She usually took just half a litre. She would buy more milk for a while.

He got up and went up to his line of cows. A small pale cow stood at the end of the line. He loosened the rope around its neck and led it towards the crate which he sat on during milking. He usually did not milk this one. It was thinner and looked weaker than the others in his shed. But that was only in appearance. The cow was healthy, probably the healthiest in his lot.

As was the practice then, milkmen ritually injected hormones into the dairy cattle to increase their milk produce. Customers usually did not bother with such details. It was none of their concern. So lost are people in their own needs. They haggled over the price and took milk home.

This lady was particular about every small detail. She did not appreciate the ill treatment meted out to the animals. One look at a cow or buffalo was enough to tell her if it had been pumped with antibiotics and hormones. ‘You can see it in their eyes’, she had told her grand children. ‘If the animal is medicated, the eyes are watery, they bulge and have a stony look’.

She was particular that the milk she bought, was from a cow that was not injected. The smell, consistency and taste of the milk differed, she claimed. He knew she came all the way to his cowshed, by-passing others on her way, just to get milk that was ‘pure’.

He washed his hands and took a small unused milk can and sat down to milk her favourite cow. It was his favourite too. He did not resort to artificial methods to increase milk produce out of choice. He was a poor man who could only afford to own so many cows. He had a family to feed and provide for. He felt compelled to adopt commonly followed practices, to make a living.

Silence reigned while he did his job and she watched keenly. Two litres were measured and poured into her can and money exchanged without anymore talk.

Picking up her can, she turned to walk back home. She had to wait.

A gang of buffalo was being herded along the road. About 20 of them spread right across the width of the cross road she was at. Strolling lazily and craning their necks to bite off any grass or shrubs they came across, the gang was moving very slowly. A man bringing up the rear end of the gang, presumably the owner, seemed to be in no hurry. He had a stick in hand, but did not prod his cattle to move faster to clear the road quickly. It was early still and no honking vehicles to deal with.

She had to wait till the troop went ahead. Thankfully, none of the grandchildren had tagged along, she thought. They would have been petrified and snuggled behind her clasping her saree and made whining noises.

It was still dark. The world around would stir to life soon.

Kolam and coffee

Walking slowly, slower than before, she made her way back home. Slower, because she now had a can full of milk. She had taken care to bring a can large enough to hold three litres of milk, giving enough room for the two litres to move around within, without spilling through the gaps in the lid.

Most of the houses had their lights on, now. From some, she could hear the squeaks from the pulleys, as people drew up water from their wells. From some others, she could scent the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Women were splattering water in front of the gates of some of the homes. Women, who had had a bath and tied their wet hair up in white towels. They would smoothen the damp ground with their palms and create traditional designs on it.

‘Drawing a ‘Kolam” — a design made with white ground rice flour or chalk powder on the ground, was a skill that required practice. A skill every woman needed to have. It was done standing with the legs a little apart and bending down at the hip. Having decided on the pattern to be drawn for the day, they would make a quick mental note of the area to be covered. The spacing between the dots, the flow of every line and curve, and the final result, was pictured in the mind’s eye. Picking up a pinch of flour between the forefinger and thumb, they would move their arm to hover over the area where the drawing was to be done. Gently rolling the two fingers against each other and releasing just as much of the flour as required, caused the loose powder to fall on the ground to create the dots and lines to match the mental image.

It was a ritual start to the day in traditional households. Every home would have one and a beautifully done Kolam was a matter of pride. They were conversation pieces!

Almost everyone in the neighbourhood knew her, either as neighbours, living in the same area for many years or because of the business she ran. Acknowledging and greeting the familiar faces along the way home, she planned for the kolam she would draw up at her gate.

As she neared her home, there was a reddish hue on the sky, it was day break. It must be 5.30, she thought. The sun would be up soon. She could see her husband sitting cross legged on the granite platform at the porch. His eyes were closed in prayer.

Going into the house, she saw that everyone else still asleep. Entering the kitchen and shutting the door behind her, she started the preparations for the first hot drink of the day.

She was half way through boiling the milk and making the coffee decoction in the two levelled percolator, when her husband came into the kitchen asking if the coffee was ready. ‘In just five minutes’ she said without turning around. She knew he would not wait to talk to her or for the coffee. He would go back to sit on the platform in the porch and wait for her to bring the coffee to him.

They sat at the two ends of the long platform, each holding a tumbler of coffee. Every few minutes, they would tilt their heads backwards, and pour small quantities of the hot liquid into their open mouths and down the throat, till their tumblers were empty.

The brass bells began ringing insistently from the temples around. The first rays of the sun banished the darkness of the night. Another day had begun.