In the part of the old country where I was born and raised, there are a number of designated days to celebrate life, and to express gratitude. Tuesday happens to be one of those--ஆடி பெருக்கு (Aadi Perukku). On top of that, it is also the new moon, which is a day every month when the ancestors are remembered. This one is a special new moon.
Of course, I have no almanac here with me to keep track of these dates. My almanac is in the old country--my father.
"For the new moon, the food is usually simple. Austere. But, for the Aadi Perukku it is a feast. So, if the two are on the same day, then what will be the food plan?" I asked my father.
There is food for remembrance, and there is food for celebration. A cousin of mine, when he was young, asked his mother why she didn't cook one of those celebratory dishes--his favorite--more often. "That will take away what is special about it" my aunt replied.
My father didn't even pause to think about my question. "Oh, the Aadi Perukku dishes don't have onions and garlic anyway. Plus, we will be using the green plantains in the aviyal. So, that is not an issue."
In the old days, before the modern age of dams and reservoirs, this is the time of the year--after the monsoon--that the rivers and the canals would once again flow in plenty, much to the delight of the rural folk whose life depended on the precious water. Even I remember from the childhood days how the canal behind grandmother's home flowed with water gently lapping against the steps. Aadi Perukku was a time to celebrate the prosperity that a fully flowing river represented. Of course, with every river also being a god, this was also the time to offer thanks to the river.
Maybe tomorrow when I walk by the Willamette here, I will also offer a special thanks. Maybe you, too, can take a moment to offer thanks to the cosmos for the water that sustains life. The precious water, which makes our planet a special pale blue dot in the cosmos.
By Walt Whitman
Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves— the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?