Granny (Part - II)

 Clap. Clap. Clap.

It was rhythmic, loud, and utterly defiant. It was Granny. She was standing up in the section reserved for the women, her small frame upright, her hands coming together with a force that seemed to echo off the temple walls. She didn't care about the decorum of the priest’s family or the hushed sanctity of the performance. She was cheering for her Somu.

The sound acted like a lightning strike. Samarth looked toward the back, and though he couldn't see her face clearly, he felt her presence, the same woman who would stay up all night with a hand fan just so he could sleep, the woman who was always, unapologetically, on his side. A sudden warmth flooded his chest, a surge of "water-clogged brain" confidence. He took a deep breath, adjusted the peacock feather, and let out a laugh that wasn't the laugh of a nervous boy, but the playful, cosmic chime of Krishna himself.

The lines returned to him not as memorized text, but as a living language. He moved with a grace he didn't know he possessed, his small hands gesturing toward the heavens as the temple drums finally caught his rhythm, thundering in synchronization with his heartbeat. By the time the scene ended, the initial murmurs had been replaced by a deafening roar of "Hari Bol!" from the five thousand plus devotees. He had enacted the role perfectly, not because he was a great actor, but because he was loved by a great woman.

That night, as he stepped onto the stage, the missing buttons and stained pants of his daily life were replaced by divine light. He had felt entirely connected to the world, a small part of a 300-year-old story.

Standing in the lounge now, in a tailored suit with a world of technology at his fingertips, Samarth realized he didn't yearn to go back to stay. He understood that the fast-track life had its own merits and achievements. He felt no tragedy that the Bajaj Chetak had been replaced by a high-end car or the temple drums by a digital playlist. Instead, he felt a quiet, sturdy sense of gratitude. These memories weren't a weight dragging him backward; they were a treasure he carried with him.

As the countdown to midnight began...Ten, nine, eight...the crowd grew louder. Samarth took one last moment to cherish the memory of the boy with the peacock feather, the taste of extra Horlicks, and the rhythmic swish-swish of a hand fan in the summer dark. He wasn't lost in the past; he was simply visiting home to make sure he remembered the way. He set his glass down, turned away from the window, and walked back into the party, feeling a little more grounded, a little more whole, and ready for whatever the new year had to say.

N.B : In the quiet intervals between the city’s relentless demands, Samarth finds himself reaching for a frequency that no longer broadcasts; the silent, sturdy language of a love that asked for nothing and offered everything. It was a grace found in the simple geometry of a silver plate and the way his grandmother’s eyes held him, a gaze that functioned as a mirror where he was always enough, long before he had anything to show for it. Now, as he navigates a world that measures worth by the height of one’s shadow, he realizes that his truest identity isn't something to be manufactured or fought for in the streets, but something to be remembered. He carries that unconditional warmth like a coal held deep within his palms, a soft, ancestral glow that keeps the modern chill at bay. The path ahead is crowded and the air is thin, yet he walks with the quiet optimism of a man who knows that no matter how far the world pulls him from that kitchen table, he is never truly lost; he is simply the living breath of a story that began with a devotion so pure, it became the very foundation of his soul.

In the velvet hush of the evening, when the modern world finally tires of its own clamor, Samarth feels the sudden, shimmering weight of a ghost-hand upon his shoulder, pulling him back to the creaking wooden floorboards of a childhood stage. He remembers the paralyzing fear of the spotlight and how it was her voice; a low, rhythmic anchor of unconditional belief that gave him the courage to lift the flute and step into the skin of Krishna, teaching him even then that his identity was not found, but summoned.  As he navigates the high-stakes maneuvers of this modern corporate landscape, he realizes that the grit he once reserved for the parade grounds has found a different, more quiet purpose. He isn't charging into battle with a rifle, but with the unshakable identity of a man who was loved enough to be "saved" from his own plans, understanding finally that his grandmother’s community feast wasn't just a celebration of a failed medical exam, but an investment in the person he was yet to become. Every time he faces a closed door or a blurry path in this crowded world, he hears the faint, mischievous clinking of her prayer beads and feels the warmth of that ancient prasadam, a divine reminder that some rejections are merely redirections orchestrated by a love that refuses to let him be anything less than his truest self. He steps forward not as a soldier of the state, but as a soldier of her legacy, building a life that is his own victory—one where the vision may be imperfect, but the heart sees with absolute, golden clarity.

Now, looking up at the stars where her soul surely keeps watch, he realizes that while he never wore the uniform, he was always guarded by the highest rank of all: a woman whose prayers were powerful enough to change the course of a life, leaving him not with a medal, but with the enduring, golden warmth of belonging. Though Granny's chair sits empty and her kitchen has fallen silent, she has not left him; she has simply expanded, her love diffusing into the very atmosphere he breathes, watching from a height where the stars seem like mere pinpricks in the fabric of her protective shawl. He looks up at the vast, indigo reaches of the sky and senses her there, a celestial architect still whispering cues to his soul, ensuring that even in this crowded, nameless city, he never forgets the divine spark she first recognized in a trembling boy. It is a breathtaking realization that he is never truly walking alone; he is a living prayer being answered in real-time, moving forward with the quiet, triumphant grace of someone who knows that the greatest love in the universe is still, and always will be, wishing him home...