What I Missed While Walking Past the Kanchi Mutt

A place I passed every day without really understanding it.

As a kid growing up in Malleswaram, devotion wasn’t something we discussed — it was just in the air. The smell of agarbathi in the evenings. The noise of vendors lining up on 8th cross before a festival. The quiet expectation that you showed up, bowed your head, and moved on.

Ganesh Chaturthi. Varalakshmi Vratam. Deepavali. Janmashtami. Ugadi.
The calendar moved, but the pattern stayed.

The Kanchi Kamakoti Peetham in Malleswaram was part of my daily route to school.
Not something I questioned. Not something I deeply understood. Just… there.

Every morning, on my way to school, I would slow down for a second in front of the Mutt. Just enough to bow my head toward Kanchi Kamakshi from outside the gate — and then hurry along before the school bell.

It was a ritual for as long as I can remember.
I don’t know if it came from devotion.
I did it because my parents did it.

The street I walked every day — school on one side, the Mutt on the other.

Whenever the Kanchi Seer — Sri Jayendra Saraswathigal — visited, the energy around the Mutt would shift. Sometimes, Sri Vijayendra Saraswathigal would accompany him. My mother would get visibly excited. Her reverence for the Gurus was deep, unquestioned, and contagious.

“You should take their blessings,” she would say. “You won’t get this opportunity often.”

So we went.

Looking back, I’m not sure what I felt in those moments. Respect, perhaps. Or maybe just participation in something larger that I didn’t fully grasp.

As we grew older, the Mutt didn’t become “deeper” to me — it just became more familiar.
It was part of the landscape of my life.

If I went to 8th cross, I would often take a quick detour for darshan.
My friend Subramanya lived right next to the Mutt. I’d stop by, call him out to the gate, and we’d spend a few minutes talking about whatever felt important at that age — school, cricket, nothing in particular. Then we’d go our separate ways.

The Mutt was always there in the background.

During one visit, I asked a Ghanapatigal if he could teach me Rudram.
He said, “Come tomorrow at 5AM.”

I remember agreeing immediately. It felt like an opportunity.

The next morning, I didn’t go.

Not because I couldn’t — but because waking up at 5AM felt harder than the idea of learning Rudram felt meaningful.

For a few days after that, I avoided that part of the Mutt.
I was embarrassed to even show my face in front of him.

But that didn’t last long. I went back.

When I finally saw him again, I apologized.

He smiled and said,
“You have no idea how many people don’t show up.
Only if you are destined to learn Rudram will you learn Rudram.”

At that age, I didn’t think much of it.

I just moved on.

Years later, during my engineering and early work days, I would return to the Mutt for discourses — on Vedanta, on the lives of the Acharyas, on ideas I was only beginning to understand. I would listen, pick up a thought or two, and leave.

I like to believe that my interest in Vedanta today is a continuation of those early years.

But that might be giving my younger self too much credit.

It might simply be that I am trying to understand now what I never really paid attention to then.

At that time, it never occurred to me that this was something I could lose.

Even now, when I visit Malleswaram, I find myself going back to the Mutt. I try to call Subramanya, meet him at the same gate, and talk — though what feels “important” has changed.

The place hasn’t changed much.
I have.

Today, I find myself chanting Rudram — nearly 5000 miles away from the Kanchi Mutt.

I sometimes think of what he said that day.

I still don’t know if I didn’t learn it then because I wasn’t meant to —
or because I simply didn’t show up.

And maybe that’s the uncomfortable part —
that I lived so close to something I now seek…
and still managed to miss it.

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