After stuffing all our T-shirts into the car—it was already four to five bags by now—we took a collective sigh. The Tiruppur sun was relentless, and my brother had started whining, "Naaku pasi daan, pasi!" (I'm hungry!). We were all hungry, to be fair, so we started searching for a mess that served simple, home-style meals.
We found a humble, shaded mess run by an elderly couple. The menu was scribbled on a whiteboard: Veg meals, Non-veg meals, Omelet, Fish fry, Chicken curry. Simple. Clean. Just what we needed.
Appa and I ordered non-veg meals while Amma and my brother stuck to vegetarian. The meals came on steel plates, served with hot white rice, sambar, rasam, kootu, poriyal, pickle, and papadam. For the non-veg, we got chicken curry and spicy fish fry on the side. The food had the taste of a kitchen that cooks with love. I wiped my plate clean.
Amma, however, was not entirely pleased. I could see it in her eyes as she slowly ate her food without speaking much. Later, she brought it up subtly.
"Nila, naan veg irukradhula perumai padaren. Namma sampradayam, namma kula deivam ellam veg thaan." (Nila, I take pride in staying vegetarian. Our traditions and our family deity all follow the vegetarian path.)
I nodded respectfully. I knew what she meant.
We belong to the Saiva Pillaimargal community. The name itself says it all—'Saiva' denotes devotion to Lord Shiva and a strictly vegetarian lifestyle. Our caste has traditionally been known for two main roles: serving as accountants and assisting in temples, especially in duties that follow the main rituals done by the pandits. This expected us to be clever, honest, and deeply spiritual. It's not just about the food on our plates—it's about a worldview rooted in discipline, devotion, and dharma.
We later migrated and settled in Erode, a region predominantly populated by the Kongu Vellalar Gounders—a caste famous for owning vast stretches of fertile land, their business acumen, and their strong emphasis on wealth preservation. Known colloquially for being "penny pinchers", the Gounders might be frugal, but they also know how to build and sustain wealth across generations. Amma would often say, "Paathukkittu irukranga. Kadaisila kasu kaimi vara koodadhu-nu." (They always watch their spending. They believe you shouldn't end up empty-handed, no matter what.) And honestly, there's a lot to learn from their style of household management and community strength.
Our kula deivam (family deity) is a Shiva temple nestled in the quiet foothills of a mountain range, about 50 km from Ambasamudram toward Tirunelveli. The temple is built around a suyambu lingam—a naturally emerged Shiva lingam believed to have come out of the ground on its own. It's serene, remote, and filled with a sense of timeless divinity. For generations, our maternal family has worshipped there, considering it the spiritual guardian of our lineage. Even if we moved elsewhere, the temple remains a thread connecting us all.
This is how caste and family traditions once worked. In ancient India, the caste system was essentially a way to divide society based on occupations—priests and scholars (Brahmins), warriors and rulers (Kshatriyas), merchants and traders (Vaishyas), and laborers and service providers (Shudras). Over time, these categories became hereditary, and restrictions around food, marriage, and worship got more rigid.
Though India has moved forward and many no longer follow occupations defined by caste, some cultural markers remain. Caste-based rituals, temple festivals, and social gatherings still bring people of the same community together. There's a strong sense of identity that gets passed down—sometimes proudly, sometimes critically. In many towns, caste associations still host festivals, run marriage bureaus, and maintain community halls. So even today, people stay within close-knit caste circles, often due to familiarity, culture, and shared customs.
In our society, marriage is more than just two people coming together—it's families, values, and even entire communities aligning. Traditionally, people are expected to marry within their caste. It's not always about pride or ego; sometimes, it's just about familiarity. People of the same caste usually lived in the same region for generations, followed similar traditions, and shared a rhythm in their daily lives—how they celebrated festivals, ran businesses, cooked food, or even spoke.
Because of this, there's a belief that marrying within the caste ensures compatibility. Character traits are thought to be inherited not just by blood, but by community. For instance, in my caste,Saiva Pillaimargal—honesty, spirituality, and intellect are valued. We were traditionally accountants and temple assistants, and so people expect us to be clever, responsible, and precise. That's why Appa still checks fabric quality with such sharp eyes, or why Amma can account for every rupee spent without a calculator.
In regions like Erode, where Kongu Vellalar Gounders dominate, people are admired for their tight household management, land ownership, and their proud sense of identity. They are famously frugal, but smart with their wealth. A Gounder household knows how to stretch every rupee and make it count. These strengths, shaped by community values, make them respected within their circles.
Over time, even as people migrate and castes get mixed across cities, the instinct to marry within the community hasn't fully disappeared. Many families believe it keeps traditions alive. Sometimes it's also about maintaining moral boundaries—the community stepping in to ensure values are preserved. There are political groups, caste unions, and local sabhas that still quietly (and sometimes loudly) nudge people into "correct" choices. From setting up marriage bureaus to organizing community events, these bodies still shape how people see marriage, not just as love, but as a legacy.
And somewhere in between, people like me are trying to make sense of it all, between inherited values and chosen paths. Since I have resided in Erode, I learned how to be frugal, and home finance through my friends and neighbours,s and honest and spiritual because of my family.
In our family, the expectations of caste and tradition are not enforced with rigidity, but Amma does feel a little ache when I choose differently. I respect her values deeply, but I also carry Appa's more flexible spirit in me. And food, for me, is a bridge, not a wall. I want to taste the world, one meal at a time.
That afternoon, after we finished lunch, I noticed Appa watching me, proud but silent. I had chosen the chicken, yes—but I also said thanks to the server, helped Amma with her plate, and made sure my brother didn't drop curry on his T-shirt.
As I was waiting for my brother to complete the food, I found myself thinking—about Amma, about Appa, about who I was expected to be and who I wanted to become. I was raised in a house where prayers were said daily, where food was offered to God before anyone else took a bite, and where our caste identity quietly shaped how we lived, ate, and even whom we were expected to marry. I understood all of it. I even respected it. But I also knew that my path wouldn't always look the same.
I wanted to travel the world. I wanted to try every cuisine—from sushi in Tokyo to croissants in Paris. I wanted to speak new languages, walk unfamiliar streets, and eat food that didn't come with a backstory I already knew. Not to escape where I came from, but to expand what I carried within me.
Being born into a tradition is not a choice, but living with awareness and openness—that is. I wasn't going to break rules out of rebellion. I was going to bend them with love, with understanding. My story would hold both: the rhythm of temple bells and the thrill of airport announcements.
And somewhere between coconut chutney and Korean kimchi, I'd find myself.