Growing up, I remember two magical places. I had written about one of them in my grandparents’ house that had opened the doors to a vast magical world of knights, emperors, talking animals and superheroes. Read about it here.

The other one was a house, no less magical than that book-filled room. It had all the trappings of a glamorous house in a magazine. Well, for an eight-year-old who lived in a two-room house with the most basic furniture, any house with a sofa, a big bed, a dining table, a sit-out with potted plants, a separate puja room – would look glamorous, right?

But it was not the house that enchanted me so much as my perima (mother’s elder sister), my mother’s paternal cousin who lived in that house. Oh, how she made a diffident kid feel grown up and important! For the duration of my visit, I would cease to be a much bullied, timid young girl, and transform into an interesting young person, who chatted confidently with her perima. If that wasn’t magical, what was?

What made her fascinating was that she was completely different from my mother and other female relatives of either side of my family. For one, she wore the regular six yards sari and not the nine-yard one, draped in the traditional Iyer style. For another, she didn’t have a nose-pin, where the other women of the family had not one, but two each! She wore plain and simple sarees that looked rather rich, and she always looked fresh and ready to step out without needing a change of clothes! Also, she didn’t observe traditional customs or religious rituals like our much more orthodox families did but was just as religious and had her own puja routines, which were much less rigid than ours. In short, she was someone exotic in my adoring eyes.

The biggish puja in the room adjoining the kitchen had a picture of Gajanan Maharaj of Shegaon, the Maharashtrian saint who was the guru of lakhs in the state. I was intrigued because he was shown smoking a beedi! Apparently, devotees even made offerings of it at the ashram. I used to be baffled at how a saint could smoke beedis, being only used to the image of the Paramacharya of Kanchi — Maha Periyava, who lead a spartan life. Everyone in our family and friend circle only followed this great spiritual Guru, with his photo and that of Adi Shankara in their puja. So much so, that I had not even heard of any other spiritual guru till I saw that picture in perima’s puja.

It was many decades later that I got to know about siddha purushas – self-realised beings who did not conform to conventional images of Gurus. Gajanan Maharaj was one of those siddha purushas, like Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and Ramana Maharishi. She would have explained it all to me, treating me as an equal if I had only asked her, but did it matter who she followed, when she was the most affectionate aunt?

Living within a short distance of our grandparents and a younger aunt, I used to be sent on errands to deliver messages or stuff their houses several times a week. Back then, the city roads were safe for young children and we could walk everywhere alone. All my relatives were nice to me and always gave some snack or fruit when I went to their house. But it was a treat given to a kid, who had been sent to deliver a message. I usually gobbled up the eats or took it back with me to munch on the way home.

But perima! She was different. Being sent to her place was a big treat, as you will see.

When I knocked on her door, she would open it and invite me in, all smiles, as if I were some VIP and not a little girl. Had I not been such a shy kid, I would have probably hugged her, so happy was I to be at her house! The transformation began right at the door, somewhat like going through a magic mirror into an enchanted land.

When I finished with the chore mother had sent me for, and turned to leave, she would say, ‘Wait, why don’t you sit down? Let me put on some shakkar-pani.’ That was her signature tea-making ritual. It was so different from how mother made tea. She had this small tea-stained brass vessel, in which she measured water, adding the required amount of sugar (shakkar pani!), and tea leaves. When it boiled, she added milk and boiled it some more. It was very sweet and milky.

Talking of sweet, it was at her place that I tasted the ubiquitous vatha-kuzhambu with more than a dash of sweetness, and I loved it!  A dash of it is recommended to balance the tastes of sourness and spice, but she was rather generous with it and I still like mine with that extra sweetness thanks to her introduction to her version of it.

Coming back to her tea, I loved watching her make it, and was especially fascinated by the tongs she used to lift the vessel off the wick-stove. It had regular tongs on one end and a contraption in the form of a semi-circle at the other end, that went round the vessel — sort of crucible tongs. I have never seen one like that anywhere else. When I had my own home years later, I searched for one high and low but never found one in any store, in any city we have lived.

I have digressed again. This is what happens when we go down memory lane!

Once she made and strained the tea in cups, she carried them to the table. It was an honour to sit at the table and drink tea in a nice cup and saucer with some biscuits. Sipping from a porcelain cup felt so sophisticated and grown up, especially since in our orthodox homes we drank tea, water or any other liquid – hot or cold, from steel tumblers — tipping our head back and pouring it into our mouth, without the tumbler touching our lips! In fact, we didn’t have cups and saucers at home at all.

And when Perima sat down with me and chatted as if I were an equal, keeping aside her chores, I was in some grown-up paradise! I don’t remember the conversations but remember the feeling of importance. Perhaps she did the same with my cousins too when they visited her, but I liked to think I was special.

We left some years later when father was transferred but returned during my teens. In college now, I went to perima’s house, not on any errand, but just to visit. Perima — older now — was still the same affectionate aunt, still put on shakkar-pani when I visited, still chatted with me. It was all good, but the magic?

I had perhaps outgrown the magic of those distant childhood days. But thankfully the memories of those magical moments remained, still remain, when a young girl transformed into someone much older and mature, even if for a short while.