The abode of Peace

I landed at the great being's abode , Prashanthi Nilayam after a grueling 7 hour journey by bus along the sometimes inhospitable terrain of Southern Andhra Pradesh. To my utter astonishment and later, displeasure, it only dawned on me at arrival that I had indeed taken the longest possible route to arrive at my destination. Self appraisal kicked in at its deceitful best and I blamed the ticket collector at the Cuddappah bus complex for the folly. Then, a strong sense of foreboding broke into my senses and assured me of a certain break down in the very particular bus that I would have boarded if I had chosen the shorter route. A mind full of guile can go distances to prove itself innocent, I thought. No more resentment, I had to indulge in the sanctity of the place ASAP, for time was running out. I had a mere 30 hours at my disposal to rake in whatever I could, whatever I wanted.

I checked in, as a 25 year old, unmarried male with one piece of luggage, a rucksack. Allotted the A-1 dorm at the North West-ish corner of the ashram, I walked along the imposing brick and mortar structure of the performance cum drama center, Poornachandra Auditorium, on the left with the red and yellow barricades that skirted the place along the greyish white balconies made of portland cement and its solitary escort, the bright red fire engine, that always stood there, weathering the heat of time and circumstance, with no signs of budging from its designated place. The master had decided.

Lord Shiva and Ganga, cast for perpetuity in the larger-than-life iron contraption stood stuck to the colossal wall of the auditorium. Riveted in the about 40 feet structure, like immortal custodians of time and space, they stared along into the nothingness of the moment, unflustered, unperturbed. They are here to stay.

As I walked past, the chirping of the birds had just started. The little ones, perhaps awake, waiting for their cuisine were singing in gay abandon. Slowly, the shrill was picking up and as I walked, I could see the flocks of birds, the parents, swiftly fluttering far away in the sky towards their little ones, concievably with food in their mouths.

Past the auditorium, as I walked along the concrete boulevard with the residential complexes on the left and the Southern Canteen on the right, the effervescently intangible scents of baking bread swept my senses as they smoothly jostled me into those forgotten days of foolhardy brawls over food tokens and lost footwear in childhood. Now I stand, at least a few metres tall, a hundred and eighty pounds, stubble on my face and a friable heart. Where am I moving?

I come across a sevadal member as my vision spanned across my left from one residential complex to another. He was pleasantly reclined in a duralumin armchair, dressed in an immaculately starched squeaky white kurta pajama. He must have been a man in his early fifties. Under the shade of the tree and the faint breeze blowing across his face, the silence of the place calmly slid him into a siesta. As his blue scarf with the Sanathana Dharma emblem emblazoned on it flickered in the breeze and the spectacles slithered down his nose, he seemed to be in utter paradise. I quietly muttered in a hushed tone to coolly muscle him out of his skumber, "Sai Ram".