The bell tolled loudly and she came awake with a start.
Ugh! Every morning! Would there ever come a point when the sound would not startle her out of sleep?
It tolled each morning. The head priest or Swamiji as everyone called him would rise at 3:30 AM promptly, bathe, dress, apply his tilak and make his way to the temple at 4:15 AM to chant. The Vishu Sahasranama and 30 slokas from the Ramcharitmanasa took him 85 minutes. At 5:40 AM, he’d put the texts away, slowly rise and make his way to the big bell near the east end of the temple.
Grasping the old, frayed rope, he’d take a deep breath and begin to tug – dong! dong! dong!
108 times it tolled slowly as Mythili would shuffle out of bed and onto her yoga mat. Taking long breaths, she would gently stretch out her body before heading to the bathroom to brush, bathe and perform her ablutions.
In the final 15 dongs, she’d begin counting down as she raced to dress and pull her thick hair into a ponytail that fell past her waist, cursing herself for taking too long with the stretches. She’d hurriedly apply the tilak she was still learning to put on, cursing again when it went awry and she had to start again.
She’d shove her feet into her now-worn out rubber chappals and race down to the temple just as the final dong! sounded. She’d plonk down on the mat near Swamiji’s texts and prostrate, heart beating fast – out of breath because of her run, yes.
But also out of love.
She’d take her time pulling herself up, settling herself cross-legged on one of the cushions on the mat, adjusting her posture and smoothening out her dress as Swamiji made his slow way inside the temple to perform the Aarthi. It was only when she heard his sonorous voice begin the first verse that she allowed herself to look up at the idol in front of her.
No words can describe what it is like to fall in love with God.
She remembered the early days, when she’d gaze awestruck at Swamiji as he chanted morning and evening, day in and day out, like clockwork. Nothing broke his routine – not rain, not shine, not a storm, not a gale.
Doesn’t he ever question his place in life, she’d wonder. Doesn’t he ever feel restless, bored?
Coming from the big city, figuring out what one wanted from life and taking one’s time with it was the norm. At least, that’s what she’d always thought. And she’d assumed it was the same everywhere.
Yet, here was this man, looking utterly content and at peace with his lot in life. He always had a gentle smile for everyone, a beatific countenance and utter joy on his face as he sang to Bhagvan.
Is this what it is to be living with purpose?
Mythili had only ever known a purpose-driven life to be one where one worked 8-12 hours of the day in a race against the clock and fellow humans, earned promotions, took paid vacations and was financially well-off. If you were moving up at work, you were living purposefully, masterfully and fully.
She’d been well on her way to achieving that. But here she was, racing against a different clock now – to experience God before her life ended.
“You said you were finding your purpose, Mythili!” her father had roared down the phone when she’d told him she wouldn’t be coming back. “You didn’t go there to become some kind of… some kind of… ascetic! Come back this instant.”
Through her tears, she had tried to explain. She knew she had come back to India only for some time off. But how could she put into words the yearning that had awakened in her the first time the chants of Hare Krishna, Hare Rama rang through the room? How could she even begin to share the tears that had coursed down at her face at the sight of the Lord, decked up in His finery and the garland she had specially strung together for Him on her birthday? What could she tell of the pull to her homeland so strong she knew she’d never go back?
Her life in California seemed like a distant dream now.
“You were the one who always told me, papa,” she’d said thickly. “Remember? ‘Find out who you are and do it on purpose’?”
She was met with silence but she’d forged on.
“That’s what I found, papa. This is my purpose. I can’t explain it. But I just know this is what I’m meant to do. I’m sorry, papa. I don’t want to hurt you. Please forgive me, papa. Please.”
There was more silence. Then, “We’re done, Mythili. We will speak again when you decide to come back.”
The Aarthi ended and Mythili was brought back to the present as cries to Bhagvan rent the air. She knelt to touch her forehead to the ground.
It had been 574 days since that morning. Perhaps her father would come around in this life of hers, perhaps he wouldn’t.
But she had learnt to let go.
That first morning she had seen Swamiji and felt his serene presence, she had both longed for it and resolved that she would work for it herself. If he had it, so she could she.
The purpose of her life had turned out to be something completely different from what she or anyone around her had ever envisioned for her.
Everything she lived for and worked for had only been to lead her here though, to this life and place where she belonged, mind, body and soul. This was her real life – her only reality.
And the journey was just beginning.
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