Today is Special. That was the first thought that struck him as he lay in his bed, woken up by the 5:00 am arati . Like every morning, the chants of the medieval mantras , the beating of the khols and the tinkling of the manjiraas , had together spun a magical weave into his dreams, even before he himself got out of them and embraced the risen world. The distance between the temple where the morning arati was going on, and his house was about one average-sized pond long, which, for you educated lot means about 50 metres or so. Every morning, he wakes up and slowly walks to the hand-pump in his front-yard, brushes his teeth and gargles loudly, frightening the sparrows gathered around the water source. And then on most days, he solemnly looks around, not particularly at anything. By the time the temple crowd disperses after the arati session, he wanders into the vegetable garden. He checks for new coconuts on the palm tree, young lady’s-fingers hanging upside-down on the rough-ste
Articles, Poetry and Short Stories by Proma Ray.