Room in our Hearts and Other Stories

By K L Chowdhury

These are the tales of our times, of ordinary people, their joys and sorrows, their hopes and fears, their beliefs and doubts, and their desire to get along in life in spite of multiple challenges. Of people who have been uprooted from their homes and are trying to find their moorings again, of the people they left behind, and of the unbreakable bonds that connect them in spite of the forces of disruption and discord.
KL Chowdhury draws upon his experiences as a physician and a keen observer of people to present this colourful bouquet. The author's sympathetic eye and humanity shine through each of these stories.
The duality of human nature-the good and bad, the indulgence and indifference, the trust and skepticism, the love and hatred-resonates in all the stories and make Room in Our Hearts a riveting read.
KL Chowdhury's first two volumes of short stories-Faith and Frenzy and Why Don't You Convert?-have won much critical acclaim, and this third collection is even finer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Jul 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9789388912952

K L Chowdhury

Born in Kashmir, Kundan Lal Chowdhury is an acclaimed poet, essayist and storyteller. His poems, diary extracts, essays and short stories have appeared in national and international journals. A recipient of several awards- including the 'Best Book Award' in English language from the Jammu and Kashmir Academy of Arts, Culture and Languages-he has published four anthologies, a travelogue, and two volumes of short stories. Dr. Chowdhury is also an academic, researcher and a practicing physician. He runs a charitable hospital at Jammu and has researched and written extensively on the Health Trauma of Kashmiri Pandit Refugees. A popular radio personality, his talks have become a big draw globally for Kashmiri speaking people.

Book preview

him.

A FORGOTTEN VOW

Tulsi Nath lives the life of a retiree at Bhavani Nagar, Jammu. He spends his days in prayer and ritual worship, browsing journals and newspapers, reading the epics and other scriptures. Greying lightly at the temples, looking much younger than his years, he retains sharp memory and loves to reminisce about interesting events of his long tenure in the Telecom Department.

During his last nine-year stint as a vigilance officer, he had the rare opportunity to travel to different cities, investigating cases of fraud, false claims, and scams. In the process, he got to fulfil his wish of visiting several places of pilgrimage. But there is one pilgrimage he can’t forget, which he recounts with great enthusiasm. It was a pilgrimage that he performed with his family very early in his career. Although his colleagues and relatives credit his belated engineering degree, and his rapid rise in the department to the fruits of that pilgrimage, he feels that would be trivialising an incredible experience whose temporal design, meaning, and significance transcends the concept of piety and reward.

Tulsi Nath was born in 1939 at Rainawari in Srinagar in the Kenue Mohalla. He has no recollection of his father who died when Tulsi Nath was four and his unborn younger brother just a three-month foetus. His mother nurtured him with a sense of extra responsibility, bringing him up rooted in the religious traditions of the family. Like hundreds of other devotees, she would send him for the morning circumambulation of the Hari Parbat hillock dotted with several temples at the base, in the heart of Srinagar. On the way, he would pay obeisance at each place of worship, often climbing to the fort on top of the hill where goddess Durga, seated in her temple, kept vigil on the denizens of the city. Traversing the hallowed four-mile trail every day inculcated in him a sense of discipline, a deep religious feeling, and a passion for morning walks.

When he was nine, while walking to his school one morning, Tulsi Nath saw his older cousin engaged in a lively discussion with his friends near a small bookstore. They were looking at pictures of deities and gods on display. The cousin was holding a picture in his hand and looking at it with deep interest. It was a black and white photograph of an exceptional figure, somewhat like the gods in the epics and religious texts at home, yet different.

‘‘May I see it, bhaisahab?’’ he asked his cousin.

‘‘Go to school, kid; you are getting late,’’ Baisahab snubbed him.

‘Please tell me about this picture. I have never seen anything like it.’ He was an inquisitive, impressionable young boy.

‘It is Balaji. Now push off or your form master will ask for another navishta and mother will be mad at you.’

‘Balaji? Who is Balaji?’ He would not go without knowing.

‘Lord Balaji, the great god Vishnu.’

‘But we have a picture of Vishnu at home in our Thokur Kuth, don’t we? He doesn’t look anything like this. This is a strange face. I can’t see the eyes at all; they are covered. Is it really the picture of a god?’

‘Yes, it is god Vishnu. This is how they imagine him.’

‘Who?’

‘The denizens down south.’

‘Doesn’t god look the same everywhere? Why should the people there imagine him differently?’

The cousin shook his head in exasperation. His friends looked on amused.

‘Look kid; don’t get into a discussion on gods. You are still a baby; when you grow older you will know,’ one of them said sarcastically.

But the kid was unfazed. ‘Where in down south?’ he asked.

‘Tirupati.’

‘Tirupati?’

‘Yes, there is a grand temple of Balaji at Tirupati.’

‘I will go to Tirupati. I will see Balaji.’

Everyone laughed.

He was cut to the quick. ‘Why do you laugh?’

‘Because you make us laugh. Tirupati must be a thousand miles from here.’

‘Is it in some foreign land?’

‘It is in India, deep south, beyond your comprehension. Have you ever been anywhere more than a couple of miles from here?’ he taunted him.

This was a deep affront to the kid. He did not like the mischief in his eyes, the arrogance in his tone.

‘If it is in India, I will visit the place one day,’ he retorted.

They roared with laughter.

‘I will; you all will hear about it,’ he shouted as he trotted toward his school.

Even as he smarted under the insult, no sooner than he reached school, he forgot about the incident.

Tulsi Nath grew up into an intelligent boy, passed the Matriculation examination with credit and joined S. P. College to graduate in arts. He had his heart set on engineering but the family lived from hand to mouth. His younger sibling was in high school and mother deserved a reprieve. He accepted the job of a clerk in the Telecom Department and settled down in married life to sire two children in five years. His superiors liked him for his keen intellect and sharp wit, for his devotion to his job, and an exceptional flair for problem-solving. More than these attributes, there was something striking about his bearing that made him stand out in a crowd. It was his large square head with a thick crop of slightly wavy hair, solidly sitting on a short thick neck and a stocky frame, a genial smile playing in his eyes behind the thick-rimmed glasses. Over the years, he rose in the department to become a supervisor.

Winter of 1975 started on a chilly note right from the second week of November. Tulsi Nath had appeared in the entrance test for an engineering degree, a burning desire that had remained unfulfilled even as he was approaching his thirty-sixth birthday. He had done well and hoped to secure admission into a prestigious college. If he could get into the merit list, he would seek permission from his department for study leave. He had never gone for a holiday and hardly ever taken his family out to see places. Here was the chance before he enrolled as a student for the second time in his life. Now that his children had grown up and would have a break for winter vacations, why not go out for a few weeks to the Indian plains to escape the harsh Kashmir winter? By a coincidence, starting that year, the Government of India had accepted the recommendations of the First Pay Commission on LTC – Leave Travel Concession. It entitled central government employees and their immediate family to free travel anywhere in the country once every four years. Tulsi Nath looked at the map of India and chose the southernmost tip as his destination. He would travel by bus from Srinagar to Pathankote, and by rail from Pathankote to Kanyakumari via Delhi.

It was the first such experience for the family, the first time they were travelling together beyond Kashmir, the first time they were travelling first class to which Tulsi Nath was entitled. The journey was comfortable. There was no pushing and jostling for space and no scuffles; the rail functionaries were courteous and the food was clean and tasty. They savoured tea and snacks at different railway stations where the train stopped. Tulsi Nath enjoyed the newspapers and journals from the book stalls, the kids their comics. Fellow passengers were friendly and courteous. They were mostly people from the southern states whom the Kashmiris referred to as Madrasis whether they were from Tamil Nadu, Andhra, Karnataka, or Kerala, for they looked darker, spoke with a heavy accent, dressed scantily in a dhoti and shirt, and smeared their foreheads horizontally across with ash or vermilion.

At Vijaywada, a ticket checker in a short black coat and white trousers materialised in their carriage and walked straight towards them. Tulsi Nath hastily produced the tickets from his pocket. The ticket checker gave him a friendly smile and sat beside him.

‘You are from Kashmir?’ he asked.

‘How did you know?’

‘From your looks, and from the dress of this lady, your wife I suppose.’

‘You are right.’

‘What do you call that ornament hanging from her ears?’

‘Dejhour.’

‘I have not seen anything like it; is it special to your women?’

‘Yes, it symbolises a woman’s married status.’

The ticket checker looked at their tickets. ‘Travelling LTC and going to Kanyakumari?’

‘That is as far as we can go on LTC.’

‘Kashmiris make the best use of LTC, travelling the furthest distance from the north to the south for free,’ he beamed.

‘I have never travelled beyond Delhi,’ Tulsi Nath said almost apologetically. ‘It is time to see the south. We have heard about the beautiful temples, the great architecture.’

‘Since you seem interested in temples, and now that you have come all the way, you might as well visit the Tirumala Venkateswara Swamy Temple. It surely is one of the holiest pilgrimages. You may not get another chance to come this far with your family.’

‘I never heard about it. Where is it?’

‘Tirupati.’

‘What do we have in the temple at Tirupati?’

‘Lord Balaji, the incarnation of Vishnu.’

Tirupati, Balaji, Vishnu, deep south. The words rang in his ears as if from a distant past, from a faraway planet.

Suddenly, he heard the mocking laughter from his cousin and his friends. Suddenly, he saw that teasing and the arrogant look on the face of his cousin’s friend. Suddenly, the black and white picture of Lord Balaji, eyes camouflaged behind a long flap, floated in front of his eyes. He had never thought again of that childhood incident. Now it came clear like the early morning sun throwing into sharp relief the shimmering snow peaks cradling the valley of Kashmir. Suddenly, he was reminded of his vow, his daring declaration as a boy of nine that he would visit Tirupati one day.

Tulsi Nath smiled as he recalled the incident. If he had forgotten about it, so must have everyone else. Now to boast to his cousin and his friends that he had made good his promise would not be of much meaning. They had all moved on in life. Except for his cousin, he did not even know anything about the others who had taunted him. Besides, he would have to break the journey, find connecting routes, make new bookings, and go through a lot of hassle. The whole schedule would get disrupted and he would not like to drag his young children and wife into all this, just to fulfil a resolution that he had made on the spur of the moment when he was nine, and then forgotten all about it.

‘What are you smiling about?’ the amused ticket checker asked. ‘You seem to have drifted into a reverie?’

‘You are right; I was reminded of an incident nearly three decades back. But it will be of no interest to you. In fact, it has lost its relevance to me.’ Then, pointing to his wife, ‘Even she doesn’t know anything about it.’

His wife looked at him in curiosity. ‘Why don’t you tell us?’ she asked him fondly.

The ticket checker was in a genial mood, sitting there like any other passenger, ready to listen. ‘Tell us,’ he urged.

Tulsi Nath related the incident in minute detail. His children looked on in admiration, his wife in awe, the ticket checker with deep interest.

‘After hearing your fascinating story, it seems to me that Lord Balaji has ordained it long back and he wants you to visit him,’ declared the ticket checker.

‘Let us. Let’s fulfil the vow you made as a boy,’ his wife pleaded.

‘Yes, we want to visit Tirupati,’ the children chorused.

‘Look, I have forgotten all about it. I was just a kid then. It was nothing but bluster.’

‘Yet I feel it was not without purpose. There is a force greater than we can imagine that sees the past and the future as clearly as the present. Your visit to the temple has been listed when you were a child,’ she explained.

‘It will be bothersome to break the journey and reroute it. It will disturb our whole schedule.’

‘It was not bluster. It arose from the depths of an innocent boy’s heart. It remained there in hibernation all these years, to awaken at the first opportunity. That opportunity awaits you now,’ the ticket checker spoke like a sage. ‘Besides, you don’t have to change any trains. You can get down at Renigunta. From there it is barely 16 kilometres to the abode of Balaji.’

‘Do you mean we have to just make a detour of 16 kilometres?’

‘Exactly. The whole temple complex is on a hill, something that will remind you of Kashmir. You can visit the temple, return to Renigunta and continue your onward journey.’

‘You said something about a hill?’

‘Yes, the Tirumala Hill. It is about 2,500 feet above sea level and comprises seven peaks. The Venkateswara Swamy Temple is on the seventh peak, also known as the Temple of Seven Hills.’

It was tempting to hear about the locale. ‘We have a temple on top of a hill which I would frequent in my childhood.’

‘It may be a chance of a lifetime. Tirupati is the most visited place of worship in the world. People go there from every corner of India and from every country; thousands of pilgrims every day.’

‘What is so special about it?’ Tulsi Nath was asking questions like an inquisitive child.

‘The idol of Balaji. No human hand has made it. It is self-manifested, like the lingum of snow that waxes and wanes with the moon inside the holy Amarnath cave in your part of the country. In our religious lore, one can attain mukti just by one darshan of Balaji.’

This was tantalising. Besides, there really seemed to be a design in it. How did the picture of Balaji land in that remote tiny bookshop near his home at Rainawari? How did he make that averment when he was just a kid that he would visit Balaji one day although he had no idea what he was speaking about? Wherefore did the ticket checker single him out from amongst the many passengers, to engage him in a conversation? Why was he insisting on their pilgrimage to Tirupati?

Tulsi Nath looked at his wife. She was beaming with the excitement of a possible darshan of the great lord she had not even heard about. She had nurtured the desire to perform all the pilgrimages prescribed for a devout Hindu—Haridwar, Mathura, Amarnath, Kedarnath, Badrinath, etc. She had heard about some pilgrimages in the south of India but they seemed a far cry, an impossible dream. Here was an opportunity knocking at the door. It was like the lord coming to them rather than the other way. How could they even think of missing this chance, especially since they would not have to make any radical changes to their timetable?

‘This is a godsend; we can’t miss it,’ she pleaded.

‘You can reschedule your travel dates at the ticketing counter on reaching Renigunta,’ the ticket checker reminded him.

The train stopped at the next station. In the rush of passengers getting off and boarding, the ticket checker appeared to vanish as mysteriously as he had appeared. The train moved on. Tulsi Nath had made up his mind.

The train halted at Renigunta. Tulsi Nath and his family got off and took a bus to Tirumalai Venketeshwara. It was a picturesque drive through hill country and dense foliage reminiscent of Kashmir. The sky was deep blue, stray lovelorn clouds hovered over the peaks. The Tirumala Hill was a huge plateau, a mini town bustling with human activity. There were several smaller temples for different deities in the town, with hundreds of inscriptions engraved on their walls. The main temple complex with a golden-roofed tower shining bright lay on the southern banks of a holy water tank. The place was teeming with pilgrims milling in the temple yard and the waiting halls. Tulsi Nath and his family were overrun by touts even before they could check in for board and lodge.

‘Sir, it will take you nearly two days to get your turn for a darshan,’ a tout alerted him. ‘And then, you will hardly get the time for a fleeting glimpse of Balaji—not more than a few seconds. We can arrange a special darshan for a little gratification.’

Tulsi Nath had remained scrupulously honest all his life, never bribed anyone and never accepted a bribe. How could he break that rule in the very house of God? That would make him unhappy for the rest of his life. God had ordained this meeting, predetermined it three decades back. God was paving the way for it now and Tulsi Nath was here in good faith and with a pure heart. He would wait for his turn like every devout pilgrim. If it took two days so be it.

They checked into a tourist hut, deposited their baggage and went for a quick dinner. The hotelier informed them that there were special categories of pilgrims for an early darshan, if they so desired—a separate queue for people with tonsured heads and another one for belly walkers. He was amused to hear this and wondered if he should try any of the two options.

He would not mind a tonsure. He had tonsured his head twice, the first time when he wore the sacred thread and the second time when his father had died. There was no harm in getting a third tonsure now, but what about his wife. He had neither seen nor heard any woman tonsuring her head for any reason whatsoever back home in Kashmir. He would not ask his wife to do it just to gain an early entry.

As for belly walking, it would not be difficult for him to crawl on his belly, but to get there on bellies before others seemed to him a travesty of a sincere pilgrimage. Why crawl on bellies when the Lord wants you to come to Him upright in stance and upright in your heart and soul, as a seeker of truth and not a cringing slave?

Just as he dismissed these options for an early darshan from his mind, a stranger approached him. ‘Are you ready for the tonsure, sir?’

‘Why should tonsured pilgrims get preferential treatment?’ Tulsi Nath asked him.

‘Because the Lord has ordained his devotees to render their hair to him,’ he said.

‘Pray why must the Lord need my hair when he can grow his own to cover the whole universe?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘So it goes to Neela Devi, the Gandharva princess.’

‘Is there a legend?’

‘Yes, sir. Once upon a time, Lord Balaji was hit on his head by a shepherd. The injured portion of the scalp turned bald. The Gandharva princess cut a portion of her beautiful hair and planted it onto the scalp of the Lord. He gave her a boon that all devotees coming to him would offer their hair to her in thanksgiving.’

‘But you need not inveigle pilgrims into getting a tonsure to claim preferential entry for the darshan. Offering of hair should be voluntary and without any reward. I will prefer to stand in the regular queue and wait my turn.’

The sarvadarshan, darshan for everyone, began every day at three in the morning. The place started humming with pilgrims from midnight—men, women and children standing in a number of long rows. A bandanna tied around his head, a saffron tilak in the centre of his forehead, and mantras on his tongue, Tulsi Nath took his place in one of the queues, his family in tandem—the kids with flower stalks in their hands and wife carrying a thali of flowers, almonds, coins, saffron and sindoor. It was an endless column of humans, bodies in close contact, jostling, moving at a snail’s pace. Someone asked his wife why she was carrying the thali.

‘To do the puja,’ she replied.

That brought guffaws from everyone. ‘If you get just a wink at the Lord you should feel vindicated,’ they said.

She blushed.

‘How far from here is the darshan?’ Tulsi Nath asked.

‘As you proceed and reach the gate of the garhba griha, the sanctum sanctorum, you will look left while you are moving forward; you will get a glimpse of the Lord inside the sanctum for a brief moment. You are not allowed to stop, ask any questions, nor cause any distraction; you just move on.’

If that is how it has to be, so be it, thought Tulsi Nath. What did it take the Lord to create the cosmos? A bang. A fraction of a moment in time. If that is enough to create the whole universe, how much do we deserve of his darshan? Even a fleeting glimpse should be enough. Just one look; one look of eternity.

Great thoughts indeed, but he still cherished a good, mighty and lingering glimpse, now that his forgotten vow was being realised. After all, it was the strange picture that had provoked his curiosity when he was a child. It would take some time to see if that matched with the original that he was about to confront.

The queue moved slowly, endlessly, like a lazy stream before rainfall. Tulsi Nath had no idea when his wish would fructify, when he would see the Lord face to face.

Then something incredible happened.

A man dressed like a priest appeared as if from nowhere and called out. ‘Hey, you; come out of the queue; come out.’

Everyone standing in the queue turned their heads towards him, not sure whom the priest was addressing.

He pointed at Tulsi Nath and shouted, ‘Step out of the queue.’

‘Why do you single me out, sir? I have done no wrong. I am with my family. We have been standing