My Y2K memories

 

My Y2K memories

It was the summer of 2000. I was ten years old and believed the world had somehow "reset" with the arrival of the Y2K year. Everyone was talking about computers crashing and satellites falling. But my thatha, Shri Srinivasan Iyengar, Cheenu Thatha as I fondly called him said something quite different: “Y2K year? Let me make it memorable for you.”

Now, mind you, Thatha was a retired government servant, living a quiet life on a modest pension, with no family properties to boast of only rich values and rock-solid character inherited from generations before him. He had also fought and survived multiple myeloma since 1975. But what he lacked in material wealth, he more than made up for abundant love in heart and courage to travel.

That year, he planned a trip for me, my dear Pattu Paatti and my Periamma to Pandharpur and Mantralaya. It was my first time going anywhere beyond South India. It felt like boarding a rocket ship.

The train journey itself felt like an adventure. I remember clinging to the window bars, staring at the changing landscapes, breakfasts of coconut chutney turning into dry puris served with mysterious sabzis. Somewhere around Solapur, I got introduced to “sukha bhel”—and fell in love, thinking, Wow, chaat can be crunchy and dry?

We reached Pune first, where we stayed at a relative’s place. As a typical South Indian girl used to her sambhar-rasam cycle, I remember how the smell of vendakkai vathakozhambu wafted through their home. That first bite of rice, hot ghee, and that familiar tangy-spicy pull of tamarind—it was not food, it was home on a plate. I still remember licking my fingers and feeling like I had won some culinary lottery.

From Pune, we set off to Pandharpur. When I entered the temple of Shri Panduranga, I was utterly awestruck. The idol wasn’t black like the granite deities in Tamil Nadu, it gleamed in a polished, creamy, marble-like sheen. My young brain went, "How is God white and shiny here? Is this North Indian magic?"

And then came the biggest cultural shock of my life.

I remember tugging at Paatti’s saree and whispering, “Aren’t they going to get yelled at?” There was no loud “THODAATHA, MELA PADAATHA”. The air smelled of camphor, marigolds, and the dust of old bhajans. I joined the crowd, put my little hand on the feet of Shri Panduranga, and I swear, I felt something shift inside me. Even at ten, I knew this was big.

After the darshan, we drove back towards Pune Junction through sugarcane fields dancing in the breeze, and nimbu paani was sold in roadside. I still remember my periamma’s warning me, “Don’t even think of a second glass; your bladder will burst, and with no washrooms in sight, you’ll have to graduate from the roadside Open University with a major in Emergency Pee Management!”

Our next and final stop was Mantralaya. The landscape softened here. The Thungabadra River flowed like poetry—serene, ancient, unbothered. I remember dipping my feet in holding the hands of my paati, watching the ripples stretch. My cheenu thatha’s dark-skinned face gleamed with the brilliance of the pure white Vadakalai Thiruman, a mark he wore with quiet pride. Clad in a dhoti as white as milk (which washed with his own hands each day), he was the very embodiment of self-discipline to me.

At the temple, we had darshan of Shri Raghavendra Swami, or Shri Raayar, as we lovingly call him. The atmosphere was meditative and gentle. Thatha stood silently, palms folded. His eyes were closed. I looked at him and wondered—what was he thinking? Was he thanking God for letting him live past cancer? For this journey? For pattu paati ?

I didn’t ask. Some silences are too sacred to fill.

Eventually, the train pulled back into Chennai Central. I was tanned, slightly sunburnt, and deeply transformed.

Over the years, I’ve had other vacations—fancier, more luxurious. But none of them ever matched what that trip gave me: a slice of my soul, a memory stitched with faith, simplicity, and love.

24^th April 2025 marked the 18th death anniversary of my beloved Cheenu Thatha. And even now, I feel his presence in the smallest things. He didn’t leave me land or gold. He didn’t build mansions or write his name in history books. But what he gave me is more powerful than any inheritance: willpower, authenticity, self-respect, and discipline.

Every time life gets noisy, I close my eyes and hear him say, “Let’s make it memorable.”

And I try.

Because, if a retired man with no wealth, just a government pension and a faith could create a lifetime memory for a ten-year-old girl in the summer of Y2K—then I, too, can live with that level of heart.

Forever grateful. Forever proud. Forever your granddaughter.

— Saranya Sriram