There have been so many mornings when I’ve hated this song.
Every festival, especially Diwali when Mom put the Suprabhatam tape on while it was still dark outside--not to gently nudge Lord Vishnu from his deep slumber as the song intends, but to shake my sister and me out of REM sleep at 5 AM. No matter how many pillows I pressed on my ears, M.S. Subbulaxmi’s voice was a relentless gong. Mom would then plonk us in the bathroom to wash our oiled hair, don brand new clothes and rush to the temple. I’d curse this song under my breath--surely no God or mortal would be happy to be jolted into consciousness like this.
But my mother knew that slackers who walked into the temple late had to bear disapproving glances from the elders and worse--no tasty prasadam! It was a competition of sorts in the Tamil Brahmin community and I know now how much my mother wanted her girls to win at everything.
By the time I was seven, I stopped complaining about having to get out of bed so early on a school holiday. I knew what Mom would say. “I wish I’d had a mom to wake me up. My little brothers and I never even had Diwali or new clothes, so be thankful.” And then she would look up from the kolam she was drawing on the doorstep and add, “My mother, your paati, used to sing the Suprabhatam and many other songs on All India Radio in Palakkad. My aunts tell me she had the sweetest voice.”
I couldn’t care less. I didn’t understand the song--it was in Sanskrit. I had never known my paati or been to Palakkad (where was it?). All I wanted to do was run downstairs and burst firecrackers with my friends on the street and come back home to gobble up chakalis and laddoos my mother had made from scratch.
Now I’m many years and thousands of miles away from those memories. But I miss the smell of ghee those laddoos left on my fingers. Since I’ve moved out of India, Diwali only means a customary temple visit and a potluck with friends, where we reminisce about our childhood Diwali celebrations. We light diyas and play card games--something I’ve never been good at. My kids get new clothes all the time, not just at Diwali; it’s not special for them. They don’t understand why I’m so excited. Store-bought sweets and savories have become the norm--I have the will, but not the energy to make them myself.
Diwali or any other festival hasn’t felt the same in forever. But I wish to give my children a glimpse into my childhood and hope they make memories of their own.
So, I do the only thing that reminds me of my childhood festivities--I put on the Suprabhatam on Youtube, although not that early in the morning--I’m still not a morning person. M.S. Subbulaxmi’s clear, confident voice fills the house, but in my head, my paati sings. Magically, my house smells of camphor and sambrani. My kids and husband collect around the table where I’ve laid out sweets. I video-call my parents and my sister and bring the iPad to the table. The family’s all here--including my paati and my grandfather in spirit.
“What song is this, Mama?” My seven-year-old daughter asks through a mouthful of laddoo. “I don’t understand it, but it’s nice.”
“Venkateswara Suprabhatam.” I say. “Do you know your great-grandmother, my paati used to sing this on the radio?”
My mother’s face on screen breaks into a wide smile.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-VzQZowjBE&t=122s
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Hema Nataraju is a Singapore based flash-fiction writer and a mom of two. Her work has appeared or will be coming soon in Atlas & Alice, Mac(ro)Mic, Ellipsis Zine, Moria Online, Spelk Fiction, Sunlight Press, and in print anthologies including Bath Flash Fiction 2020, Best MicroFiction 2020, and National Flash Fiction Day. She tweets about her writing and parenting adventures as m_ixedbag.