Monsoon
Loy Vihar, room number sixteen. I woke up every morning listening to Vedic hymns and when the temple bells rang, they contained in them divinity. It was monsoon and it rained every morning. I would get up early everyday and yet I happened to be the last one to join for the morning session at college . The unending drizzling, birds chirping, little boys and girls in their school uniforms , their cackle and their vividly coloured umbrellas — everything caught my attention except my running wrist watch. I always missed my first hour class and would ultimately end up sipping coffee at the cafeteria, killing time.
I got along easily with the lass at the cafeteria. From the ‘theory of everything’ to the ‘life of pi’, we spoke about everything. I got free coffee every time I ran out of money. I borrowed her umbrella when it rained outside. The friend in her would eventually turn out to be my biggest inspiration.
Not far from the cafeteria was the chapel. It was at the heart of the city and was its major attraction. The guide at the chapel was a sculptor and he made figurines. He has spent his entire life as an artist. Ironically,while we were struggling to find a meaning for our lives, he made idols that possessed a sense of vitality! He was on a league of his own.
Occasionally, I paid a visit to a small temple in a village, quite far from the city. Isolated from the city and surrounded by forests, the temple was not everyone’s hangout place — the only reason for me to love the place. I was the only regular visitor to the village from the city and they treated me with love and respect. Sitting at the mandapa in front of the shrine room, I often found myself engaged in soft conversations with the localites.
We would gather in the evening at the mess for tea that Ajja had made for us. He was the chef at Loy Vihar. We did not know his name; we called him Ajja. I would later walk to the banks of the river Netravati and sit at an elevated place, watching people move across the river. More often than one might assume, a train would pass by and I would wave my arms at the passengers.
Three years have passed. I don’t go to the bus station anymore. Nor do I go to a temple, or engage myself in a conversation with total strangers like I did before. I do not even belong to that city anymore. Loy Vihar was demolished, and in the place was erected a new building. One may never know where Ajja left. With no young boy to rent room number 16, I will never know whether the temple bells still rings the rhythm of divinity. I believe it still chimes, and will forever.
