Where "Long winded" Hari thinks he is Jean-Paul Sartre!

I don't remember clearly how I used to wake up in Ranipet. Perhaps I felt my shoulder shaken roughly or amma's voice pleading me to wake up and trying to convince me that the sun was up(Like it had to do anything) and that I was late as usual. Or, it could have been the loud music that was played in our house. It was Swami Haridas Giri on bad days. Not that I hated Swami Haridas or anything, infact, I always thought he was rather cute(I thought he was singing of "Poori and Kuruma" half the time ). But, he was not a very accomplished singer and tended to shout quite a bit. On other days, it was either M.S. or Old Tamil songs or some incomprehensible devotional album. But, some days, at least early on, amma or appa would have Chitra's and Yesudas' albums on Krishna on. I still remember how much I used to enjoy Chitra singing "Theeradha Vilayattu Pillai" or Yesudas' "Guru Kripa Anjana".

Not that it made any difference to my mood, anyway. I guess I was a pretty grumpy child and mornings were never a favourite time of the day. But, amma would have none of that. In her endeavour to make better people of us, she insisted that my Brother and I attend a series of self improvement courses, from Music and Hindi to Karate and Computers. Although, I eventually managed to thwart all of her ambitions for me, there was a period when I had no choice but to attend these life draining classes. The worst of them all was Yoga. We had to get up at 5 am every day and walk to the local temple when it was still dark, where one of the priests there would instruct me on the different Postures. I remember how I used to walk the half a Kilometer in the fog with a blanket wrapped around to ward off the cold, scared to death of the stray dogs which used to trail us all the way. They seemed to have the notion that I was responsible for their misery and barked at me till I reached the temple.

Adiparashakthi or Amman, as folks affectionately refer to her, was housed those days in a rectangular cement hut with three entrances, two on the longer sides and one on one of the shorter side.... Well, there was no wall on that side and a path led from the temple to the Priest's living quarters. On the opposite side we had the sanctum sanctorum. I cannot remember the idol itself now, I only remember yellow light, perhaps from a bulb inside the alcove that formed the sanctum sanctorum. Behind the enclosure was the mandatory Snake Hill. Thankfully, though I've never seen a snake there. The priest-Shakthi, we called him, used to ring a bell in time with his prayers in the morning and evening. Maybe the snakes just couldn't stand the din and migrated.

Anyway, we reached the temple by five fifteen and began our Yoga. Since Shakthi was a busy man and had to complete a lot of chores in the morning, he would greet us warmly and request us to start with the Yoga and pretty much leave my brother and yours truly to our own devices. Badri initially used to faithfully try out the different poses.Me? Let's just say that I don't respond very well to attempts aimed at getting me out of the bed earlier than I want to. I would first catch a nap sitting down and pretending to meditate. Then, I would lie down on the blanket and practice shavasana, which basically involved just lying down and relaxing. Of which, obviously, I was an expert! Then I would do Sarvangasana, which was basically lying down with your feet in the air, and catch another snooze. Shakthi would have known that I never did anything. But the nice man that he was, he knew that he couldn't shove Yoga down my throat nor did he have the heart to complain to mom. Badri soon began following my example and started cheating too. Then I began malingering which led to mom realizing that I was never going to be a Deepak Chopra or a Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and resigned herself to making me a Hindi Pundit. The way I foiled that is probably a story for another day.

For years afterwards Shakthi would stop me on the road and inquire if I was practising my Yoga knowing very well that I didn't bother to and would exhort me to take care of my body. I could sense his disappointment with me and started avoiding the roads leading to and from the temple. He just didn't realize that I was the type who was fated to contract everything from Diabetes to Ulcer to Blood Pressure to Cholesterol by the time I reach my thirties. Or, may be he did and just couldn't let go. He actually gave a damn about the overweight, stubborn, disrespectful, lazy bum that I was (and am). I heard one day that his health was failing and on another that he'd passed on. I never went to the temple after that nor did I ever spare a thought for that man in all the self absorbed search for instant gratification that has characterized my teens and most of my twenties.

When I try to remember him now, I see a dark, wiry man. Neither too tall or short. He was cleanshaven, with a wide mouth and a peaceful expression. He was fairly young. Perhaps in his mid thirties when he died. When he was in the temple, he would wear just the red veshti that all the priests of the goddess are supposed to wear, with his chest bare. Whenever I met him outside, he'd be clad in a white veshti and a white shirt of a simple tamil everyman riding a bicycle. For all this, I realize, I don't remember him at all. I cannot picture his face. He has faded away. Soon, no one will remember him.

It's only when I try to remember the long forgotten details about Shakthi that I realize my own Mortality. Death, not the anthropomorphic figure with a serious lack of Fashion-sense, but in the world carrying on as if I never existed and I suddenly feel a giant emptiness in my stomach. I sense my own insignificance and it scares me, funnily enough, halfway to death. I can see it looming ahead and every breath is only carrying me closer and closer to the inevitable. I realize that the hopelessness of all my actions and its consequences. However, I also realize that there is salvation, a reprieve, albeit momentary- memory. Death would not be so complete or so final if some one somewhere remembered me for a moment like I now remember Shakthi. That is all I can spare. That is all I can ask for!