Mar 25, 2026 THE BLOG
About my Grandfather, K.G. Madhavan:
©Nov. 10, 2020
By Vijaya Sundaram
I love walking. I think I got it from my maternal grandfather. He walked everywhere, and was fit until the day he fell down some stairs. He died a few months after that.
He was a lovely man, my Thatha. He loved all his children, and his grandchildren, and was a sentimental man who surprised me when he wept in movie theatres (I don’t remember which movie I watched with him, but it moved and pleased me to see him weep).
My sister and I used to visit him and my grandmother and aunts in Tirunelveli, Tamilnadu during our summer vacations. (My brother hadn’t yet been born, so he wasn’t with us on any of these visits). Their large, long, somewhat dark home (except for sunlight filtering in from dusty windows close to the ceiling in the grand living room) was a lovely place filled with magical things (a large, ancient transistor radio especially fascinated me, and a very large, “easy” chair made of wicker was also tempting). I remember we used to play an Indian version of a game which I later recognized here as Mancala. The feel of the cowrie shells we used was something I recall vividly. At least, I think it was cowrie shells – memory can sometimes mislead, even if the sensation of the memory is true.
There was the little room in which (so I had been informed) I was born, full of mysterious objects which, alas, have faded from memory. I would go in there, wrapped in visions of a past that weren’t exactly mine, maybe borrowed from other people’s accounts, but all these memories overlapped somewhat. I’d imagine my baby self, look around, make up stories, pretend I was the doctor with the black bag and come to check on mother and child. It smelled nice, that room – sort of like teak, like warmth.
Somewhere, at the other end of the house, was a set of stairs leading to an attic-type room filled with books which had belonged to one of his older brothers – gorgeously illustrated books, clearly printed in England, with stories about King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, and stories about Robin Hood and his Merry Men. I adored those books, and would always rush up there whenever I visited, and proceed to lose myself in them, imagining I had time-traveled to ye olde England, among either knights and ladies, or robbers in forests. Fun stuff!
Another thing I remember is this: A peacock would visit their terrace regularly in the evenings. Once I learned that that was the case, I never failed to hurry up to the terraced roof, and await this peacock, who would fly in, and appear at the other end of the roof. Rich, turquoise-blue, royal blue, and velvety green, this peacock would strut around at the edge of the terrace. I could never get my fill of him. I would gaze in awe every single time, never tiring of his beauty. And I’d take care not to go too close, or scare him off.
My aunt Chaaru Chitti would make beautiful, complex Kolams outside their door every morning, and stunning rangoli patterns all by hand (no gadgets), and fill them in with vivid colored powder. There’d be daily chanting of Vishnu Sahasranamam every evening at their place, and neighbors would join us. I memorized half of it at the age of ten, and would feel strangely moved by the sound of Sanskrit chanting, even if I didn’t really follow religious matters.
My grandmother Gomathy Paati would make us all manner of fantastic, crunchy South Indian savories and sweets, and make sure we were well-fed. And still, my Thatha would look at my sister and me, and say, “Want to go and get some cake?” My Paati would scold him, saying she had made us delicious goodies. Of course, we’d jump at the chance to head out to the bakery, and eat those cakes (pink, frosted, with coconut topping!), and my grandmother would be annoyed with him, but seemed to smile behind her hand. Of course, the truth was that HE wanted to eat those cakes as well, and WE provided the perfect excuse.
Thatha used to visit my family when we lived in Madras (now Chennai), and would sometimes say to me (a young pre-teen, or teen at the time):
“Want to go and have a tiffin and filter coffee at the Udupi Bhavan?”
We lived in T. Nagar, and there was a nice “hotel” (as we called restaurants then) somewhere in the vicinity, and he LOVED buzzing off to this place, and enjoying a little treat. This always puzzled me, because the food my grandmother made was, and still is, out of the world, and my mother’s cooking is also divine. I was always game to go, of course, because … why not?!
Later, of course, I understood that it was the act of going out and sitting among other people, generally taking in the world, and being served delicious restaurant food by waitrons that pleased him so much. I understood it better when I used to push off by myself to grade student papers at coffee-shops, or even Cafe Barada (when it was in Arlington in those days). I just liked being in the busy, or quiet, hum of a personal-impersonal space, and eating nice things made by people I didn’t know well!
Oh, and another thing: He used to embarrass me by burping and belching loudly and appreciatively after a good meal. He’d burp, and pat his slim tummy, and look over mischievously at me.
I’d say crossly, “Why do you ALWAYS have to make an aepam?”
And he’d reply, “That’s the way you let the person who made the food know you really liked it,” or similar words in Tamil.
Another thing that embarrassed me (there’s no end to the things that embarrass teenagers and young adults, as I found, to my pleasure as I grew into a middle-aged mom): He used to wear a “veshti,” no matter where we went. Not only that, but he’d hitch it into a skirt-like half-dhoti, and walk around in the summer. I was mortified. Later, I loved the fact that he didn’t CARE what others thought of it. He was comfortable. He was a very handsome man, tall, slim, square-jawed, with a permanent stubble, and a tiny kudumi (hair pulled into a ‘man-bun’ at the nape of his neck). He NEVER ever cut it. He reveled in sticking to his traditional Tamil Brahmin self, and didn’t cave in to Western ways, unlike the rest of us. I used to tease him about his skirt-like veshti, and his little kudumi, but he just scoffed at me. This, paradoxically, pleased me no end.
He was a loyal and deeply affectionate man, my Thatha. When my family went through hard times, he showed up, as if by magic, and took care of us in whatever way he could. So did my grandmother. As far back as my memory goes, they were always there for us.
When we moved to Poona (now Pune) to stay at my maternal uncle’s home with his family (before we found our own place), I had joined Fergusson College. My Thatha went with me to buy my bike, so I could avoid the slow, crowded, polluted, stinky Pune buses. I remembered being grateful for his help – buying a bicycle in a new (ish) city was intimidating (today, with our cell phones’ help, we can go anywhere, and buy anything, but it was way harder then.) And I loved my blue BSA bike, had it for the longest time, and went everywhere on it.
Later still, when he was dying at age 92, I couldn’t go to Pune to see him – I was stuck here in the dark winter, dealing with schoolwork, deeply sad. Warren saw him, though (he was in India, on a short Hindustani music tour). He told me that he had visited my Tatha, had held his hand, and had sung to him. My gratitude was profound.
Thatha died a couple of years before S appeared in our life. I wish he could have seen my baby. He would have been happy, profoundly happy. And he would have been thrilled that I’d chosen the name of a beloved goddess for her.
Thatha LOVED music, and adored my mother’s beautiful singing voice. He was a gentle soul. He was an Appreciator, a Rasika of all the good things that life offered.
And he walked EVERYWHERE.
K.G. Madhavan, my beloved grandfather, my Thatha, is still bright in my memory today. I don’t feel he’s gone. I missed him today, suddenly, unaccountably.
Hence, this post.
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