The Brave Pedestrian

For me, Ganesha is there-yet-not-there. I don’t worship God in the form of Ganesha. I probably never will. Ganapati idols and pictures evoke no reverence or feelings of sanctity in me. And yet… and yet… This happened on 18th September 1998: Back then, I was fanatically regular about my daily morning swim, driving to a nearby club in my little green Maruti 800. Dad and Mom often accompanied me. That day, Dad was terribly busy and wouldn’t come. Neither would Mom. “Krish, won’t you stay home and help me out?” Dad pleaded. He isn’t someone who normally asks for help. He isn’t the sort of  guy who would ask me to cancel my swim, knowing how much it meant to me. But that day, he asked, he pleaded. “No, Dad… sorry. I can’t miss my swim.” Blunt refusal. Somewhere inside me, a little niggling voice was asking whether I was doing the right thing, but I brushed it aside. As I drove out of our neighbourhood, its narrow link to the highway was totally blocked, all du...

…was pressing the blunt heavy chopper to his throat unnecessarily hard, grinding it into adam’s apple. “Die, you filthy monk! You lying dirty bastard! You betrayed the trust with which I sent my wife to prostrate before you… swine! Now you die!” he was screaming into his ear. Guru Vaastava wished his disciples would learn to express even anger in a gentle whisper. A trickle of blood soaked the saffron cloth on his chest. His mind was numb from the sudden attack of this obedient disciple, Ramana, in the dead of night. Oh yes, he remembered Ramana’s wife… how could he not remember those perfectly-formed white thighs? How could he forget the look of surprised pleasure in her eyes? He remembered how he had bid her to lie on her back in the prayer room, in front of the black stone linga that she had so lovingly rubbed with sandalwood. Under the stony gaze of the hooded serpent, he had gently caressed her toes and feet as she lay whimpering in passion… caressed her calf-muscles with a c...