The One Who is Memorious
I met him in the dining room of a hermitage I was visiting. He was mopping the floor as I was waiting alone for my lunch. Sun was blazing outside, letting know all beings of its ominous presence. From where I was sitting, I could see across the green meadows, until my eyes hit the dry shrubs and mountains beyond. From inside, it was a hermit’s retreat. From the outside, it was a group of stone caves. The lush green campus with few stone cottages was perched atop a small hill, one of the countless hills and mountains that constitute the Sahyadri range in southwest India near the city of Pune. I came here once before. Later I came to know his name as Shantaram. He remembered seeing me four months back taking photos of the place. This would have been totally fine until he ventured, “four minutes to ten on the thirteenth day of February.” I was amused, “How do you know?” But he was a stone-deaf idol, simply dressed in a khaki shirt …