Kartik

A priest at a wayside shrine watches in awe as the goddess Kali appears before him in the form of a woman who reaches out to steady her husband among the throng of pilgrims making their way up the path.

Kartik Joshi took one last bite of food, drank some water, and washed his hands in the thali. Then he got up and made his way through the doorway to the shrine on the pathway outside.

“I am going,” Kartik said to his wife, Savita, “You rest. The doctor said the fever will go down with one tablet.”

“Don’t worry,” Savita murmured, “I am okay.” Then she washed her hands with the thali water and sat down to eat the breakfast leftovers.

Embers glowed and a wisp of smoke curled up to meet the fog as Kartik looked around the small shrine he had set up on the pathway. Today would be a good day. Many tourists and pilgrims would pass by on their way to the top. He wiped an imaginary speck of dust from Kali-mata next to him. His mind wandered to the ‘Sweet Memories’ album of his student days in Vadodara. He turned away, trying not to think about the life he had left behind as he touched Mataji’s feet for her blessings before he settled down for the day.

The tourists and pilgrims started arriving. Kartik spent all morning scooping out ash from the holy fire and anointing the faithful. The excited chatter and hustle-bustle of the pathway drowned out thoughts of Savita as she swept the floor of their small room, washed clothes outside in the back, put away the clean dishes, and prepared the afternoon meal.

Kartik watched the crowd flowing past him as they made their way up the path. The death of his father ten years ago had brought him back to Pavagadh and taught him so much about people. He could tell in an instant whether a person was going to weave his way from the endless procession and stop at his shrine to ask for blessings.

He watched idly as a foreign tourist couple came up the pathway. They were tall, head and shoulders above the sea of humanity flowing around them, their smiling eyes fixed on each other, their hands lightly clasped together.

Kartik could not remember when his eyes had last met Savita’s. His hands did not know the feeling of holding hers.

As he watched the two foreigners float up the path, he saw the man trip and stumble forward. For an instant, the crowd parted and Kartik saw the woman brace herself as she took the weight of her companion, the startled concern on her face replaced by a steely resolve to not let him fall, no matter what.

The man recovered his balance and put his arm around the woman’s shoulder as they paused at the shrine. Without thinking, Kartik reached out and put a tilak on her forehead.

The couple stopped, unsure of how to react. Kartik raised his hands in a blessing and waved them on. The crowd swept them away.

It began to dawn on Kartik that he had just been blessed by Mataji’s darshan. She was the shakti that kept men from falling every day.

Late that night, when Kartik sat down for his dinner, he looked up at Savita.

“Come, sit here with me. Let’s eat together,” he said.