As a kid growing up with three brothers in Tiruchy in the 1950s, preparing to go to the church on Sunday was as much a ritual as the religious service itself. The memory remains etched in my mind. On Saturday night, Mum would be busy ironing our clothes. Indeed, we kids loved to take turns clumsily running the heavy coal-heated iron over our clothes, often bringing back the creases that Mum had so carefully removed or singeing a shirt.
Rising with the crowing rooster well before dawn, we would troop off to the church for the 5.30 a.m. mass, dressed in our Sunday best. With Dad leading us, we would step gingerly across the glistening railway tracks, ensuring we didn’t scuff our polished shoes on the ballast. Clutched in our palms would be the coins Dad had doled out. We would slip these unobtrusively into the collection plate when it was brought round, making sure the kids next door didn’t see the paltry value of our offerings lest they teased us later!
Much to our amusement, Father Louis, the parish priest, would drive home crucial points in his sermon with dramatic gestures punctuated with bouts of sniffling—a chronic cold appeared to be his inseparable companion. As the homily dragged on we would become restless and fidget—only to be nudged and stared down sternly by Dad. Sometimes he would discreetly administer a painful pinch to one’s arm that left one squirming.
There were other diversions too. Squeaking sparrows would flit through the cavernous cathedral, occasionally strafing us with their droppings much to our dismay—getting ‘anointed’ by these pests could be messy. The diminutive organist, dwarfed by the massive organ, would grimly thump away at the keys while the conductor would swing his arms vigorously as he directed the choir, sometimes theatrically grimacing his disapproval when someone sang off-key. Now and then a bawling infant would make heads turn and Father Louis glare with annoyance.
The ever-alert elderly catechist would keep a sharp eye on the altar boys smartly attired in red cassocks and white surplices, reminding them by discreet gestures, when necessary, of what needed to be done next as the service progressed. And, of course, there was always the elder who dozed off during the mass, nodding intermittently and sometimes even snoring unmusically.But quite frankly, what really saw us kids through the lengthy church service was the appetising prospect of steaming dumpling stew that awaited us for breakfast—Mum’s Sunday special!