The Terrace That Stored Our Summers.. வெயில் மட்டுமல்ல.. நினைவுகளும்!
ஒவ்வொருவருக்கும் ஒரு மொட்டை மாடிக் கதை இருக்கும். ஒவ்வொரு கதையும் மனசு முழுக்க பச்சைப் பசேல் என படர்ந்து பரவி கலந்திருக்கும்.. உணர்வுகளோடு.
அப்படிப்பட்ட ஒரு உணர்வுக் கதைதான் வ. துர்காதேவி எழுதியுள்ள இது.. படித்து அந்த உணர்வுகளுக்குள் நீங்களும் சென்று மகிழுங்கள்.
Three decades ago
the house we lived in
held nearly ten families
within its narrow ground-floor rooms.
Above us
there were no houses—
only a vast terrace
open to the sky.
To our young eyes
it was nothing less
than a playground.
Summer holidays arrived
with journeys for many children—
trips to grandmother’s homes.
But for us,
the ten or twelve children
living under that roof,
the vacation rose every morning
from our own terrace.
It was the season
of making vaththal.
Mohana akka,
the most trusted cook among the women,
stood before a large vessel
stirring the bubbling rice porridge.
Rice from one house,
salt from another,
green chillies and cumin seeds
from many kitchens—
but the perfect balance
rested in her hands.
No one counted
the gas she used
or the time she spent.
Generosity lived easily
among people then.
In those days
nothing entered a house
without a real purpose.
There was no unwanted buying,
no shelves crowded with things
we barely used.
And none of the modern devices
that fill our homes today
had yet entered our lives.
Yet somehow
nothing felt missing.
Before sunrise
the fragrance spread
through the corridor—
warm rice porridge
mingled with cumin
and crushed green chillies.
That smell alone
woke the children.
The porridge moved
from the large vessel
into smaller ones,
and we carried them upstairs
with careful hands,
each step
a small adventure
against the heat.
By five in the morning
the terrace was ready.
Old cotton sarees
washed and dried
were spread neatly
across the wide floor.
With small ladles
we dropped circles of porridge
one by one—
tiny white moons
resting on cloth.
Twenty or thirty sarees
covered the terrace.
Each family
claimed two or three.
Then the sun
took over the work.
And we children
were placed as guardians.
Whenever a crow
dared to come near
we chased it away
with loud voices and laughter.
No umbrellas,
no clever arrangements—
just children
and their watchful eyes.
Evening arrived
and the sarees were folded.
Morning returned
and they were spread again.
Under the patient sun
the vaththal hardened
day by day.
Soon,
within three or four days,
they were ready.
And from that day on
for the next few months
our plates carried them daily.
Alongside them
we made saadham vathal—
mashed rice,
salt,
cumin,
rolled gently
by our small hands
and left to dry
under the same generous sun.
In our home
my mother cooked
with quiet devotion.
My father stood beside her
helping, tasting,
making sure
everything was just right.
A plate of hot rasam rice,
a crisp vaththal beside it—
one small bite
pressed together in the hand
tasted to us
like amritha.
And now
when I think of that terrace
I realise—
it did more
than dry food
under the summer sun.
It held our laughter,
our small duties as guardians,
and quietly
stored our summers
in memory.
(About the Author: Durgadevi V, Graduate Teacher, GHS Nesal, Tiruvannamalai District)