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The Years They Will Remember

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Akhil and Sahana with thatha. Akhil is in sixth grade. Sahana is in fourth grade. My own fourth grade feels like a blur, but I remember sixth grade quite well. Mrs. Vijayalakshmi was our class teacher. She was outstanding at teaching English. At BP Indian, grammar, punctuation, and the structure of a composition mattered. Some of my classmates had a natural flair for writing, and I loved reading how they put their thoughts on paper. I came third in class that year and received a merit prize. I still remember the books: Five Have a Wonderful Time by Enid Blyton and Grandmother’s Tale by R. K. Narayan. I still have my copy of Grandmother’s Tale . Inside is the school’s prize label: third rank, Class VI D, 1992–93, awarded to Subbarathinam—the name I went by then. My sixth-grade merit prize. I still have the book. ...
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When the Temple Was a Walk Away

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A five-minute walk required so little thought. I could simply step out. In Malleswaram, a friend turning up at our house in the evening usually meant we were going for a walk. A couple of friends from school or college would come over, and we would head to the nearby Hanuman temple. Afterward, we would stop at the railway station to watch the trains go by, talking, pulling each other’s legs, and figuring out where to get our next plate of bhel or masala puri. Uncomplicated. Even on days when nobody came, I would take the walk to the temple. There would inevitably be a few familiar faces to greet. Then I would lay out a plan with Hanuman so that he could help me figure out whatever was worrying me. A lab exam, a semester exam, a job interview. There was usually something coming up that required his attention. It was comforting to put everything before him. I could tell him what was on ...
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Temporarily Lost Forever

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Once, we walked to a friend’s door. Now, we hesitate to call. Two months ago, I called a friend I have known for twenty years. He didn’t answer. We still haven’t spoken. I don’t know why he hasn’t called back. But I know the hesitation myself: seeing an old friend’s name on the phone, wanting to talk, and somehow not feeling ready for what should be a simple conversation. I remember a time when visiting a friend meant going to his house without knowing whether he would be there. Mobile phones weren’t part of our lives, and even a landline wasn’t something every household had. You went, knocked, and found out. There was anticipation on the way, disappointment if he was absent, excitement if he was home. If you missed him, you might try again the next day. None of this felt like too much trouble. Now, the same friend is an instant message away. Yet we can go months without speaking. ...
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Krishna, Dharma, and the Mahabharata I Thought I Knew

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Krishna and Arjuna at Kurukshetra When I was growing up, I used to listen to so many stories from our epics and mythology—whether it was reading Amar Chitra Katha books or listening to my paati narrate tales of bravery and valor, the purpose of the divine, and the importance of adhering to dharma. Stories of Shiva and Vishnu found their way into my life through various forms. As a child, it was fascinating to see the power wielded by the Gods. And the message I took away was very simple: if you are devoted to the Gods, no harm can befall you. The Mahabharata, Ramayana, Nala-Damayanti, tales of Muruga and Ganesha, Draupadi, the Pandavas, the Kauravas—the army of characters was endless. To say they fascinated me would be a big understatement. I have read the Mahabharata many times, through various authors, and listened to many narrations of it. Every single time, I walk away with a new meaning. Kri...
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Ākāśāt Patitaṃ: Many Forms, One Reality

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Adi Shankara: The image that's stayed with me forever Sanskrit and shlokas have always fascinated me. The sheer vastness of Sanskrit literature is humbling. There are enough verses, texts, commentaries and traditions to occupy many lifetimes, and still leave one feeling that one has barely scratched the surface. But I didn't think much about any of this when I was growing up. I would recite shlokas in the morning and evening without fail. They were simply part of life. The words were there, the rituals were there, the temples were there—but much of it happened in the background. I was busy with academics. There was no time for Sanskrit or Vedanta. At least, that is what I used to tell myself. Of course, time was never really the problem. I could spend five days watching a Test match from morning to evening and somehow consider that perfectly legitimate use of my time! The truth was simpler: Sanskrit and Vedanta had not yet become priorities. Gr...
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A Week Without “Appa”

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Quiet. How I'd like it to be sometimes. I went to the temple almost every day. I didn't have anyone asking me, “Appa, are we done?” I could just cement myself there, without hurry, for a few hours. I could recite the Rudram without somebody tugging at my sleeve. And yet, every now and then, I would think that it would have been nice to have the kids there too. I didn't have to worry about picking up Akhil or Sahana from somewhere. I didn't get messages from my wife asking me to make a pit stop at the Indian store or Costco. I didn't have to look at the clock and suddenly remember that someone had basketball or tennis. It was as though life had come to a standstill. And I liked it. In the middle of a normal workday, I could be in an important meeting when Akhil would come charging into the room. “Appa, please approve.” For a brief second, I wouldn't even understand what he was asking. Then I would realize that I had absentmi...
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When the Building Came Alive

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Kasturi Dhama Apartments — the play area where many evenings came alive. The lights would go out without warning. For a brief second, the entire building would fall silent. Then, from somewhere in Kasturi Dhama Apartments, a chorus would erupt. “Yayyy!” It is difficult to imagine children celebrating a power failure today. But in the Bangalore of the nineties and early 2000s, a power cut did not always feel like an inconvenience. Especially in the late evenings, it felt like permission. Permission to stop whatever we were doing, leave the darkness inside our homes, and step into the building outside. Before Kasturi Dhama became home, we had moved through a few different parts of Bangalore. My family had begun in Srirampuram and Vyalikaval before gradually cementing ourselves in Malleswaram for the next few decades. My earliest memory is of living in a vatara —a Kannada word loosely used for a building or a cluster of homes—on 15th Cross, near Karur Vy...
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