The ice in Samarth’s glass rattled softly, a small, rhythmic sound that seemed to anchor him as the heavy bass from the corporate DJ party thrummed through the soles of his Italian leather shoes. It was New Year’s Eve, the transition point between what has been and what is yet to come, and he found himself standing by the window of the high-rise rooftop Aer lounge at Four Seasons, Worli, looking past the neon skyline, the high-rises of south Bombay aka Sobo. He wasn’t exactly lonely, but he was elsewhere. His mind had slipped away from the global buffet and the sterile chill of the air conditioning, wandering back to a time when luxury was a ride on the back of his father’s Bajaj Chetak and the world was measured in the dusty golden hue of a winter afternoon.
As the party guests clinked champagne flutes, Samarth could almost feel the rough bark of mango trees as he scrambled up their branches, his laughter lost in the rustle of leaves. Life then was the tension of a kite string against a calloused thumb and the weight of a cork ball hitting a bat held together by hope and rusted nails. When the heat became a physical weight, he and his friends would sprint to the pond, the water a shocking, muddy embrace.
He remembered emerging with wrinkled skin, knowing a scolding was waiting. He could still hear his Granny’s voice, sharp as a whip yet warm as the sun, chiding him for his "water-clogged brain" as he dripped onto the porch. But the scolding was always a façade.
It was an open secret in the household: Granny was shamelessly partial to Samarth.
He recalled the mornings in the kitchen, the air thick with steam. While his cousins received their standard measures of milk, Granny would check over her shoulder, her eyes twinkling with conspiracy, and heap a towering, extra spoon of Horlicks into Samarth’s glass. "Shh," she would whisper, stirring it vigorously so the evidence would dissolve. "You run more than them; you need strength. Don't tell your mother."
If Samarth’s mother or uncles ever raised their voices at him; perhaps for a broken window or a lost textbook, or at times hitting some other kid; Granny became his iron shield. She would stand between the trembling boy and the angry folks, her small frame suddenly formidable. "Let him be," she would snap, waving a dismissal at her own grown sons. "He is a boy, not a soldier. If you want discipline, go join the army. Here, he breathes."
Talking about the Army, Samarth finds himself smiling at the memory of a battle he never realized he was losing: the tug-of-war between his soldier’s ambition and a grandmother’s fierce, protective devotion. He remembers the sharp crease of his dreams as he stood twice on the precipice of the Indian Army’s gates, a Gentleman Cadet in spirit, only to be undone by the subtle treachery of his own vision, or perhaps, as he now suspects, by the relentless "bribes" of coconut and prasadam she offered at Radhamadhav ji; lord of their ancestral temple. While he navigated the grueling rigors of the SSB, she was waging a celestial campaign of her own, bartering with the Divine to keep her boy grounded safely within her reach. When the medical disqualification finally came, it wasn't a failure in her eyes, but a miraculous victory; he can still hear the exuberant lilt of her voice thanking the Lord for his "poor eyesight" as she turned his heartbreak into a community feast, celebrating his return as if he had won a war by never leaving. It was a beautiful, chaotic kind of madness; an unconditional love so vast it dared to defy his destiny just to keep his heart close to home.
And then there was the food. Even on days when her knees ached and a fever made her hands tremble, if Samarth merely whispered a craving, the kitchen would come alive. He could almost smell it now, the nutty, rich aroma of desi ghee tempering the spices. She would make his favorite Dalma, that quintessential Odia delicacy of lentils and vegetables, slow-cooked until it melted on the tongue, paired with hot Khichdi. "Granny, you’re sick, you shouldn’t be cooking," he would say, feeling a pang of guilt even as his mouth watered. "My sickness is in my body, Somu, not in my hands," she would retort, ladling a generous amount of ghee over his plate. "Eat. The doctor gives me medicine, but feeding you gives me life."
But the memory that hit him hardest, standing in the cold air-conditioning of the lounge, was the heat of the Odisha summers.
When the power would cut out, plunging the village into a suffocating, humid darkness, the heat would radiate off the walls like an oven. Everyone would toss and turn, slick with sweat. Everyone except Samarth. He remembered lying on his cot, drifting into dreams, feeling a steady, cool breeze washing over him. He would open one sleepy eye to see Granny sitting beside him, her saree pallu tucked in at her waist, rhythmically moving a palm-leaf hand fan back and forth. "Go to sleep, Granny," he would mumble, half-conscious. "Your hand will hurt." "I am sleeping with my eyes open," she would lie softly, never breaking the rhythm. She would fan him the entire night, sacrificing her own rest so her "Somu" could sleep peacefully.
Fifteen years since that fan stopped moving, since the Dalma tasted right, since anyone looked at him with that unconditional, fierce devotion.
Samarth swirled his drink, a lump forming in his throat. As a child, he had taken it for granted; the extra Horlicks, the midnight fanning, the defence against many. He had thought it was just how grandmothers were. Only now, amidst the transactional relationships of the modern era, did he realize how rare that attachment was. He wished, with a desperate, silent ache, that he could go back. Not to change anything, but just to hold her hand one more time, to stop the clock and sit in that kitchen while she cooked.
The transition from those domestic comforts to the sacred discipline of the month of Kartik was the true heartbeat of his youth. As the grandson of the head priests of the Radhamadhav Temple, Samarth’s childhood was governed by a higher rhythm. For the entire month of Kartik, he was strictly prohibited from eating non-vegetarian food, a discipline that felt heavy for a small boy but connected him to a lineage centuries old. The small town would begin to glow, illuminated with music and light, peaking at the grand festival of Kartik Purnima. He remembered the awe of seeing the 300-year-old idols of Radhamadhav being moved from the inner sanctum to the massive wooden chariot outside. Despite his age, Samarth had to perform specific rituals alongside his uncles, his small hands trembling as he held the heavy brass lamps amidst a sea of 5,000+ devotees.
The festival was a three-night marathon of storytelling. One night would be a soulful Kirtan, the next a contemporary social drama, but the crown jewel was the mythological play on the first night. Samarth remembered the sheer weight of the peacock-feather crown and the silk dhoti when he was chosen to play the role of young Krishna. Standing in the wings, paralyzed by the sight of thousands of expectant faces in the audience, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Granny.
She leaned in, her eyes reflecting the flickering oil lamps. "Granny, I’ve forgotten my lines. The crown is too heavy," he had whispered, his voice cracking. She didn't offer empty praise; she simply adjusted his sash and looked him in the eye, the same fierce love in her gaze as when she defended him from others. "The crown isn't heavy, Somu, your ego is. Forget you are a boy. Today, you are the one who holds the universe. Do you think the Lord worries about lines? Just speak with your heart, and the drums will do the rest."
When Samarth finally stepped onto the stage, the reality was far from divine. The glare of the spotlights blinded him, and the silence of the massive crowd felt like a physical weight. He began his opening monologue, but his voice was a thin, tremulous reed. He stumbled over a word, paused, and the silence stretched a second too long. He could hear a faint murmur of disappointment from the elders in the front row. He was failing. The boy who was supposed to be the Lord of the Universe looked, in that moment, like a very frightened child in a cheap costume.
Then, breaking the oppressive silence of the elite rows, a sudden, sharp sound erupted from the back of the pavilion.
Cont...
