A Mother’s Courage: Memoir by a Son

Part 1 Introduction:

“A Mother’s Courage: Memoir by a Son” is a tribute to a life lived with quiet strength, resilience, and unspoken love. In these pages, I recount the journey of my mother, whose courage carried our family through countless challenges. This narrative is not intended to be a polished biography, but rather a personal reflection, shared from the heart, of the sacrifices and enduring bond between a mother and her son. It is a glimpse into the past, where each decision, each struggle, and each act of love shaped not only the lives of those around her, but also the future of our family. As I share these moments, I hope this memoir will serve as a reminder to cherish the small things in life and recognize the profound impact of those who quietly serve, love, and protect without expecting recognition.

A Memoir of My Parents’ Journey

Part 2: My Parents – Beginnings

I was born in 1952, the third surviving child of a woman who knew poverty long before she knew me. My mother was the 14th child in a Purohit family rooted in the Samaveda tradition. Out of so many siblings, only two elder brothers and one sister survived infancy. Education was a luxury, and by the time she completed 8th standard, her formal schooling ended. Her world was steeped in orthodoxy, and her path—like many women of her time—was set for her by others. Her marriage was initially arranged with another poor Purohit, but her mother opposed it. Instead, my mother’s cousin—who lived in Trichy—stepped in and arranged her marriage to my father, a man nearly 18 years her senior. He had already lost two wives and was raising an infant from his second marriage. Despite the loss and the age gap, she accepted this new life. But tragedy visited again—within six months, the infant passed away. It was not until five years later that my mother conceived her first child, only to lose it in a miscarriage. But in time, life found its way: my eldest brother was born in 1948, the second in 1950, then me in 1952, followed by a sister in 1954. Another child arrived in 1959, and the last, born around 1961, lived only for a few days. In all this, my mother carried her grief and strength quietly. During the Second World War, my father earned a lot of wealth through hard work. But he also had responsibilities. He supported not only us but also his elder brother’s family and his widowed sister who came to live with us, bringing along her mentally challenged daughter. Despite the weight of these burdens, my mother treated everyone with kindness and care. She was the silent pillar of our home.

Part 3: Life in Vrudhachalam

Then, everything collapsed overnight. The bank where my father had deposited his savings declared insolvency. On the same day, a boat carrying silk sarees he had sent to Ceylon for business capsized. He went from a man of means to a man with nothing. My mother’s father offered her shelter, asking her to come stay with him until things settled. But she refused. “Wherever Rama is, that is Ayodhya for Sita,” she said. “I have shared in his wealth all these years. I will share in his suffering too.” She stood by him. That’s why, even later in life, she never allowed her photo to be kept alone—it always had to be with my father’s. And when I wanted to name our house in Mathigiri as ‘Mangala Nilayam’ in her honour, she corrected me: “Without your father, you would not be here. Include his name too.” And so it became ‘Mangala Moorthy Illam’ [Samba Moorthy Iyer and Magalam].

When my father went to Chennai in search of work, leaving her with four children, he disappeared for months. Then came a postcard: a simple call to come to Chennai with the children and whatever we had. Thinking things had turned around, she packed up and left. But what awaited her at the station was not the man she remembered. An old man, frail and toothless, came to receive us. She couldn’t believe it was him—until he called each of us by name. He had been bedridden with typhoid and hadn’t recovered well. He had no money, no business, and was entirely dependent on his elder brother, who was already struggling. Though my father had cared for his brother’s children when they were younger, tensions were now high. My mother sensed it. She had already endured insults—some even blamed her horoscope for my father’s misfortunes. Such things were said then, and sadly, they are still said now. Determined to protect our dignity, she urged my father to leave Chennai and start over. And so, our journey back to Virudhachalam began—a new chapter shaped by loss, love, and her unshakable loyalty.

The Story of My Parents The decision to move to Vrudhachalam was not sudden. My father had originally shifted his business from Vrudhachalam to Trichy due to various family reasons. One of the main reasons was to support a large extended family and to escape the trouble caused by my grandfather. He frequently interfered in my father’s business, bringing unnecessary contention—not only within the family and among neighbors but even with customers who came to buy cloth from my father’s shop. After completing his high school studies, my father was offered employment in the railways. But considering the meagre salary of twenty rupees per month, he chose instead to start a cloth business. At that time, my grandfather was earning a small income by reading horoscopes for clients and also running a small hotel. He was a well-known astrologer in that region, having been brought to Vrudhachalam by a zamindar from Kuthur in the Tanjore district. I had the opportunity to visit Kuthur on September 27, 2023.

However, my father’s elder brother had gone with their grandfather to Varanasi and stayed there. My father’s grandfather had already settled in Varanasi and become a sannyasi. He lived in a small ashram that he had established himself, where he had also built a shrine dedicated to the goddess of Vrudhachalam—Balambika. This shrine still stands in Hanumanghat. I have taken my parents, my aunt, my brother, and his wife there several times. My younger sister also visited it when she went to Varanasi with her family. My father’s elder brother, who went to assist them, eventually began a silk cloth business and shipped the goods by train to my grandfather. After completing school in Chidambaram, about 25 km from Vrudhachalam, my father initially helped my grandfather with both the hotel and cloth business by selling door to door. Later, at his grandfather’s request, he went to Varanasi and spent a few years there learning the silk cloth business. Banaras silk sarees had a huge demand in South India.

Eventually, he returned to Vrudhachalam, started a small shop, and after earning good profits, bought an old house in the bazaar. He rebuilt it as a large double-storeyed building and established a flourishing silk saree business. Ancestral Village On my recent visit, I was able to go to our ancestral village called Kuthur, near Thirukattupalli and Kallanai in the Tanjore district. From here, my great-grandfather went to Varanasi, and another branch of the family moved to Trichy and then to Vrudhachalam. It is an interesting coincidence that Vrudhachalam is also known as ‘Vruda Kasi’—meaning ‘elder Kasi.’ According to a local proverb, the spiritual merit gained in Vrudhachalam is considered slightly greater than that of Kasi: ‘Kaasiyilum veesam adiham.’

I visited the Agraharam, where traditionally only Brahmins lived. Like many such places in Tamil Nadu, it now looks deserted, with only a few families remaining. Among them, only two families are originally from this village; the rest have settled here from elsewhere. Fortunately, I met Sri Sangara Lingam, a man born, raised, employed, and retired in this village. His children now live in Trichy, Bangalore, and Chennai. At present, there are five Gurukal (temple priest) families and two Smartha (our community) families.

The house I visited, like most in the Agraharam, has seven sections from front to back: Thinnai (where I was sitting, with a large wooden box behind me in the photo), Rezhi, Koodam, Muttam, Kitchen, Pozhakadai, and Kollai. These are very hard to translate into other languages. The village is located on the banks of the river Kaveri. Before visiting this village, I went to Thiruvaiyaru, where the famous Carnatic composer Saint Thyagaraja lived. I visited both the grand Shiva temple and the Thyagaraja Samadhi, where every year a grand music festival is held. All the leading Carnatic musicians perform during this festival, which I had the joy of attending as a boy several times with my father. The samadhi is situated right on the banks of the Kaveri. The Shiva temple, also called South Kailasha, is renowned for its architecture and shrines. My father once told us that our ancestral home was located very close to this place, from where my grandfather later migrated to Vrudhachalam.

Part 4: A Changing Life

My Grandfather

My grandfather, a man of very difficult character, often created problems for my father’s business. On days when wealthy customers came to buy wedding cloths, he would declare the day inauspicious. He was an esoteric figure—he had run away from home several times as a wandering mendicant. Eventually, when he was around 30 years old, he was married to my grandmother, who was just 8 or 10 at the time—a fact she herself once told me.

He had memorized hundreds of songs related to astrology and horoscopes and passed many of them on to my father. Both of them could recite these verses by heart. My father, who kept his extended family under one roof—his four nephews, a widowed sister with her mentally challenged daughter, his second wife, and his own parents—was no stranger to small domestic tensions. But my grandfather, harboring a grudge against his son, would often recite inauspicious verses aloud whenever customers came to buy marriage cloths. He also frequently picked fights with neighbors.

One such incident, which my father narrated, involved a next-door neighbor who ran a shop manufacturing and selling iron vessels. Their shop, as our house, extended from the bazaar to a back street, and when customers asked for modifications, the workers would hammer and reshape vessels right at the shopfront—causing a constant racket. Despite my father’s repeated requests to reduce the noise, they refused. In retaliation, my grandfather would light a fire in a small clay pot, toss in dried red chili seeds, and fan the toxic smoke toward the neighbor’s shop, claiming it was to repel mosquitoes. When the neighbor complained, my grandfather would respond by picking a quarrel.Unable to bear his father’s interference any longer, my father eventually moved the business to Trichy, leaving his parents behind in Virudhachalam and taking the rest of the extended family with him. At that time, Trichy was a booming center for the cloth trade.

While in Trichy, my father’s second wife passed away, leaving behind a newborn baby. He then married my mother—his third wife. She was just 18 years old when she entered a large extended household already filled with her husband’s relatives. This was common in those days. Girls raised in joint families were married early and simply moved into another joint family as daughters-in-law.

Back to Virudhachalam

Understanding all of my father’s past, my mother eventually urged him to move back to Virudhachalam from Chennai. He agreed. But when he stepped off the train at the Virudhachalam station, unsure where to go, he recognized a horse-cart driver and called out to him by name. The man, assuming he had found a customer, approached. But when my father told him who he was, the driver was shocked. He remembered my father from the days when he ran a big cloth shop in the same town. Saddened by his fall into poverty, the driver nonetheless brought all of us to a chaultry called Nattukkottai Chettiyar Sattiram, which still stands on South Street in Virudhachalam.

The driver went and informed some of my father’s old friends. For more than two weeks, we lived in that chaultry, surviving on cooked food and provisions from weddings being held in another section of the same compound, which had designated areas for both marriage functions and travelers. With the help of his friends, my father managed to get a small piece of temple land—about 300 square feet on rent, five rupees per month—near the river and right at the corner of the old bus stand. A small hut was erected there with their help.

For several years, we didn’t even have a proper door—just a small bamboo flap without a lock.—we continued to live in that hut until it was gutted by fire in 1971.

My mother would often sing a line from a Tamil film song:
“Kaattru rani kottaiyile; kadavugal illai;
Ingu kaval kaakka kadavulai andri, yaarume illai,”
which means,
“In the castle of the forest queen, there are no doors—none but God stands guard.”

We had no immediate neighbors, only the Harijan street behind us with 15 to 20 scavenger families. Opposite us was the bus stand, and beyond that, some shops. Only later did a businessman open a shop across the street. For years, we lived in a place without a real neighborhood.

Since we couldn’t afford a rental house in town—especially in the Agrahara, where only Brahmins had traditionally lived—my siblings and I grew up without any sense of caste prejudice. We had no reason to think about it. Of course, daily social interaction was minimal. But when my mother went into labor with my second sister, it was an elderly woman from the Harijan community who came to help. The same thing happened during her next delivery, though that child did not survive. Even then, I remember no rituals being performed to “purify” our house afterward.

Part 5 Education and Struggles

Another memory stands out. In front of our house, steps led down to the river, where we bathed, washed clothes, and even attended to nature’s calls, as we had no toilet at home—a common situation for many in town at the time. Behind our house, at the end of the scavenger street, there was another spot where the water was deeper, making it perfect for jumping and swimming.

Sometimes my friends took the main road and entered the river from the temple side, which was a shortcut from other parts of town. Wanting to join them quickly, I occasionally took the shortest route—through the scavenger street, which I could cross in just two or three minutes.

Whenever I did, some elderly people sitting outside would rebuke me, telling me not to pass through their street. Their concern wasn’t that I, a Brahmin, would feel “polluted” by proximity to them. Rather, they feared that my presence—too close to their homes—might bring misfortune upon them, perhaps even a fire accident. This wasn’t an unfounded fear, as the following scholarly excerpt illustrates. But I would simply smile and run past, knowing they wouldn’t physically stop me. (See: The Theory of Reincarnation among the Tamils, George L. Hart III, in Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty, Karma and Rebirth in Classical Indian Traditions, Motilal Banarsidass Publishers, Delhi, 1983; Notes 12, p. 126, and Kane in the same article.)

Electricity came to our house very late, so most of my student days were spent studying under a kerosene lamp or by the light of a streetlamp. I often went to the main temple and did my homework in the quiet of the temple veranda, where there was electric lighting. Until a hand pump was installed years later, we relied on the river next to our house for all our daily needs—bathing, washing clothes, and even answering nature’s call. For drinking and cooking, we brought water from the temple well.

My father did various jobs to take care of us. He started a small street-side cloth shop right outside the very house where he had once run a large cloth business. Then he opened a small hotel, later began selling food at the Taluk office, and once even had to carry the funeral pyre of a Brahmin to earn four annas for family expenses. Eventually, he began writing accounts for shops and, with experience, started doing audits for them. He finally died as an auditor, having received certification from the Income Tax Office.

But during our childhood, we knew only poverty. My mother couldn’t even attend her own mother’s cremation because we couldn’t afford the bus fare. We always had limited food and usually ate only two meals a day. My father ate only once a day—and continued this practice until his death. My mother had only one saree and often wore my father’s old dhoti inside the house. Still, despite such poverty and struggle, my parents managed to send us to school. In those days, the concept of private schooling didn’t exist for us—we studied only in government schools.

Fortunately, there was no requirement for school uniforms, so we managed with just two sets of clothes until they were completely worn out. We had no chappals to wear. As we four siblings were born two years apart, the three of us brothers ended up studying in the same school, each in a different grade. We reused our eldest brother’s textbooks.

There was no recreation, no entertainment—maybe one movie a year, and even that with the cheapest ticket around ten paise of modern time. However, we never missed any music or dance programs held at the temple during festivals.

Though my parents struggled immensely, they never sought help from relatives—especially from my father’s side—even though he had supported them generously when he was wealthy. The only exception was my aunt, Kamachi, with whom my grandmother lived. She often visited us, bringing along her mentally challenged daughter. Till the end, she was the only relative we truly knew. I was very attached to her and often visited her village when I was working as a Sales Representative. I even took her along with my mother on a North India tour, visiting Ayodhya, Badrinath, and Varanasi.

From my mother’s side, one of her elder brothers—who was physically challenged and never married—occasionally lived with us. Apart from him, we didn’t have much personal connection with other members of her family, except for her cousin’s wife, who kept in touch with us until her death in 2020 in Hosur. I had also moved to Hosur by then and lived with my mother in Mathigiri, a suburb of the town. Of course, during some family functions, my mother met a few of her nephews, but I don’t remember many of them. We had visited my maternal grandparents’ home during our school summer holidays, but even then, we didn’t build close ties. So, on both sides of my parents’ families—except for my Kamachi aunt and my mother’s cousin’s wife and her children—we never really had any deep personal relationships.

Though my parents couldn’t afford proper clothing for us, all of us children cooperated in every possible way, never demanding anything they couldn’t provide. Meanwhile, my father gradually established himself as a reliable accountant and later as an auditor. Slowly, we managed to build a more stable house—though with only a thatched roof—which we lived in until 1971. Two or three times, floodwaters entered our house, but we stayed put and managed to survive, never moving away even temporarily.

As there weren’t many houses near ours, we didn’t have much social interaction, except for occasional visits to school friends’ homes. However, we had a warm and friendly relationship with the Harijan families living just behind our house. In fact, when my second sister was born, it was a Harijan woman who helped my mother with the delivery.

Part 6: Family Dynamics and Changes

Our house was located at the corner of the then-bus stand, where political meetings were often held. Because of this, we never really felt lonely. I still remember standing outside our house, holding a Congress flag attached to a small stick, when a DMK party meeting was being held—showing our traditional support to the Congress. I also recall how the then Congress candidate would first come to our house to seek my parents’ blessings before filing his nomination and beginning his poll campaign. This gave me the opportunity to see many of the leading political figures of the time, as most public meetings were held right in front of our house, known as Thilahar Thidal (Thilahar Ground).

After my eldest brother completed school and got a government job, our financial situation improved a little. My second brother also got a government job after finishing school. But neither of them could pursue higher education, as they had to take care of the younger siblings. The last child born to my parents died within three days, so out of seven children, five of us survived.

After I completed high school, since my brothers were now earning, I was sent to study at National College, Trichy, followed later by my first younger sister. Though her stay was arranged in the college hostel, they couldn’t afford the same for me. So, I stayed in a free hostel run by a charity exclusively for students. We all had to stay in two separate halls and use five common toilets, with no enclosed bathrooms—so we bathed in the open. The same food was served twice daily, almost every day, except on Sundays, when an extra vegetable would be added.

When a fire accident reduced our house to ashes and we managed to save only a few belongings, my father finally decided to move back to Trichy to provide relatively better education for the remaining three children. After that, my sister and I stayed in our own house with our parents and another sister who had joined college but later discontinued her studies.

So, we moved again to Trichy in 1971, and my father resumed his Income Tax practice and managed to earn a relatively good income. After completing my B.A., since I couldn’t get admission to my preferred Master’s course in Tamil, I didn’t pursue further studies. Instead, I took up a salesman job in a private agency after doing some odd jobs following college.

Meanwhile, my eldest brother’s marriage was arranged in 1973. Sadly, he passed away in 1975, leaving behind a baby. Though his wife got his job and moved to her parents’ house in the same city (Trichy), Shanti, my niece, stayed with us until his death. My first sister’s marriage took place just six months after that.

Due to various family needs and problems, my mother and my second younger sister, went to stay with my second brother, and I continued living with my father in a veranda of a house, where we were allowed to keep our belongings in one of the rooms after paying rent. As I worked as a Sales Representative, I was mostly on the move—staying with my mother, aunt, father, or friends.

Then, two more crises struck my parents: my second sister’s marriage to a boy from outside our community, and my decision to become a Sannyasi. But this is not the place to go into more details about those.

Later, my second brother’s marriage was arranged, and my parents stayed with him for a few months, but eventually had to return to Trichy. Though I had become a Sannyasi and wandered in various places, mostly in North India, I remained in touch with my parents and helped them as much as I could. Eventually, at my brother’s request, they helped him build his house in Chidambaram and went to stay there, while he and his wife lived in Neyveli, where she worked as a high school teacher.

My sister who got married moved to the Andamans with her husband. After an initial period of estrangement, because of my continuous efforts, she began visiting my parents during the summer holidays when they returned to the mainland. My father passed away in 1997, and my mother continued to stay in the same house, where my brother’s brother-in-law also moved in after his marriage.

When I moved to Hosur in 2000, my mother started visiting and staying with me for several months, going back to Chidambaram only occasionally. After my brother’s retirement—and his wife’s voluntary retirement—they moved permanently to their house in Chidambaram. Meanwhile, with the help of my mother’s savings, my sister’s support, and borrowed funds, I managed to construct a small house in Mathigiri, where my mother came and stayed with me. Even when I went on a North India tour, she managed to live alone. Occasionally, she stayed with my brother for a few weeks before returning to Mathigiri.

When my brother and his wife moved into an old age home in Kumbakonam, they also booked a room there for my mother. Later, he left the old age home and returned to his house in Chidambaram, where he still lives. Though she stayed there for a few months, she preferred being with me and often returned. As per the wishes of some of my shishyas, we started the ashram (where I now live and where my mother also passed away) in 2007. We both moved into the ashram that year, but returned to Mathigiri in 2014 due to her medical needs.

We shifted back to the ashram on September 5, 2021, because I found it increasingly difficult to live in a noisy place. Though my mother initially hesitated to return to the ashram, she soon adjusted and even refused to stay with my siblings, despite their repeated requests. Even when she went to visit them, she would come back to me immediately.

There were several ups and downs in my parents’ lives. Once, when I rebuked her for nagging over trivial matters, my Mami—her cousin brother’s wife who had arranged her marriage and was staying with her son in Hosur—told me, “Don’t scold your mother. I personally know how much she suffered in life after your father lost everything in business. Now she is happy only with you. Try to understand her feelings and never fight with her.” Of course, my mother and I often had playful fights, but as one of my shishyas once said, “You both lived as a model mother and son.”

I learned a lot from my parents—my father for his detachment and sense of dharma as a husband and father, and my mother for pouring her life into her family, standing by her husband through all difficulties, and sacrificing her comforts and desires for her children. Still, I was always my mother’s pet child, something my siblings often blamed her for. But she always remained my dear Amma, with whom I shared a deep bond from childhood.

Part 7: The Loss of My Mother

Even as a child, whenever she needed help, my mother would call only me. She always trusted that I would take care of her. When she was admitted to the hospital in Thally just days before her death, I asked her tearfully, “Amma, what do you want?” She replied, “What else do I need? Only you.” Those words still echo in my ears and bring tears to my eyes.

This is not a biography of my parents. But as I wanted to post their photos on Facebook—mainly to preserve them in a safe place—I felt it necessary to write this short narrative, so that others, especially the next generation, may come to know a little about their journey and perhaps learn something meaningful from it.

After my mother passed away, I wrote many poems mourning her loss. On the tenth-day ritual, when I broke down in tears while offering food and feeding her for the last time, my brother remarked, “He never cried this much when our father died. Now he cannot control himself—even though he calls himself a sannyasi.” I honestly don’t know why I couldn’t control my tears. It wasn’t just emotion—it was a deep, unexplainable bond, perhaps beginning right from the umbilical cord.

But I am grateful. Grateful that both my mother and God gave me the opportunity to serve her until the very end, just as she wished. She passed away peacefully on 26-12-2022, after receiving a final few spoons of milk from my hands. That moment is etched in me forever.

One thing I know with certainty: no one can ever replace a mother’s place in one’s life—whether one is a layperson or a sannyasi. The body may be gone and the ātman may have moved on, but the relationship continues—beyond time, beyond death.

If you still have your mother with you, never miss an opportunity to serve her. You may not realise it now—but one day, when she is no longer with you, you will miss her deeply. Even if you are surrounded by people who love you, her place will remain empty.

So now you will find here the songs that I wrote after my mother passed away.

Conclusion

Though my mother has passed on, the relationship we shared transcends time and death. Her lessons, sacrifices, and love remain deeply embedded in my life, and I will carry them with me as long as I live. This memoir is not just a reflection of the past but a message to the present and future generations: cherish your loved ones, especially those who give everything without asking for anything in return. And if you still have a mother, never let a moment pass without showing her your love and gratitude—for there will come a time when you can no longer hold her hand.

May this story of a mother’s courage and devotion continue to inspire others as it has shaped me.

“Revised on May 11, 2025, at the Ashram. I revised this today to post on my blog, unaware that it is Mother’s Day. But for me, everyday is a Mother’s Day.

The family photo was taken during my father’s 60th birthday celebration, known as Shastiyabda Poorthy.

In the photo, my parents are in the centre, wearing garlands. On my father’s right is my elder brother Ramaswami (named after our grandfather), and next to him is my grandmother [Meenakshi].  Next Beside her is my second elder brother, Radhakrishnan.

Sitting at the centre is me, holding a little girl—the sister of my elder brother’s friend—who came for the function and also took this photo. (In those days, calling a professional cameraman to a family function was hardly thinkable.) To my right is my first younger sister, Jayalakshmi (alias Banu), and to my left is Nagaratha.

Standing at the back are my father’s cousin brother’s wife, Veerasami (a driver whom my parents considered their first son), Kamachi aunt (my father’s younger sister), and our Hindi teacher’s mother from Kerala.

This function was held in the very same thatched-roof house that was gutted in a fire accident in 1971.

The year was 1966.