The river flowed quietly, the water swirling in eddies in places, turning to molten gold as it was touched by the rays of the rising sun. The cold air made him shiver as he sat there after his bath near the steps, in front of the small alcove that served as a temple. He had lit the lamp after seeing the oil and the matchbox lying there. His heart had, unusually for him, for a moment whispered a prayer, asking for what he knew not. Now he sat his wet hair drying slowly in the vagrant breeze that teased it. He felt clean after a long time. The dip in the river had done him good, after the sweltering bus trip that had brought him here late last night. His sleep in the bus shelter, had been disturbed by not just the bugs but also by his dreams.

Unable to sleep he had woken up with the birds and as the sky lightened made his way to the river. The breeze now touched and tugged at his saffron robes, that were drying nearby. His eyes scanned the hills that surrounded him. This was a totally new place to him. In all his travels he had never come to this side of the country. Perhaps he would find some peace in this part of the world. He felt the familiar pangs of hunger. A few years of good living had kept it at bay but now it was back again to haunt him as always.

The sky was brightening swiftly and he heard footsteps approaching. Soon people from the village came in ones and twos for their morning dip. Most gave him a curious look in the passing but left him alone. He watched a middle-aged man approach the place where he sat and bending before the temple, mutter a few prayers. As the man finished his brief worship his eyes alighted on the stranger. His saffron robes vouched for him and the villager folded his hands in greeting.

 “Swami has just come here is it?” the villager asked. Raising his hands in benediction, he nodded. “From where has Swami come?” he, the villager continued. He pointed vaguely eastward and the villager nodded in acceptance. Sitting down now, he went on, with a respectful air, “If I am not being presumptuous, may I know Swami’s name”. “People call me Mani Swami”, he said and returning the courtesy, he inquired, “What is this son’s name?”  He always enjoyed patronizing these elderly people who assumed that a man in saffron was necessarily a step above them. “I am Balan and I am also the Panchayat president. My house is yonder,” he said pointing towards the village.

Mani Swami sat quietly waiting for the invitation that he knew was coming. After a few inquiries about the places and temples he had visited, Balan politely said, “I would be honored if Swami blessed my house by taking his lunch there today. I will come in a little while and take you there myself.” The Swami inclined his head acquiescing, secretly thanking his stars that his immediate need was being taken care of.

A few hours later, he got up, the banana leaf before him empty. As he washed his hands, he belched gently. The meal had been simple but very filling. He had been served unstintingly and was replete now as he stood before the villager and his wife who stood before him heads lowered waiting for his blessings. The stock phrases rolled off his tongue and he prepared to depart. The villager stopped him with queries about the length of his stay and his plans for the night. His replies were vague keeping up the appearance of being beyond such considerations. In truth he knew his country well and knew that a temple with a mantap in front and perhaps some prasad too could be found in any village.

He strolled away from the river and his feet took him past the row of houses uphill. Now there were fewer houses and they seemed more run-down than the rest. As he came past the last house, he paused wondering if he should walk further on. The place seemed very quiet, except for a crow that was cawing away and a scrawny stray dog that was searching through a rubbish heap for something to eat. “Swami, are you looking for something?” came a voice. Looking around he saw an old woman, clad in white, a bundle of hay in her arms. She was obviously about to feed the cow that was tethered to a tree near the last house. A calf lay nearby somnolent, its tail twitching at the flies. He shook his head in answer and still hesitated, wondering where to proceed.

The woman watched him for a minute in silence. Then seemingly gathering her courage, she ventured, “It is getting hot. Perhaps, you could rest awhile in this poor woman’s house.” He reluctantly turned towards her house. It was getting warm and the meal had made him drowsy. It would be nice to sit awhile, he thought. As he took his seat on the dais in front of the house, the old woman flustered first fell at his feet and then in a beseeching voice asked him, “Swami, I was there in President Ayya’s house and saw you graciously accept their hospitality and bless them. I am just a poor woman. I make my living selling milk. But I would like to offer you something. Will you please bless this woman too.” He eyed her silently wondering what she wanted to offer him.

“Swami, today Amma asked me to help in the house because you were coming for lunch and so I could not sell my milk. I have it all here. Can I make some payasam and offer it to you,” she continued. His face brightened. He loved sweets and it was one thing he never seemed to get nowadays. He nodded his head without showing his delight. The old woman vanished into the house and he stretched his legs. His thoughts took him back over the past..

His had become a sanyasin by chance and not choice. Running away from home, after his failure in exams, he had fallen in with a group of orange-clad pilgrims. They were going for a darshan of some saint or so they said. He had spent a year in that ashram, gaining at the end of the year, some saffron robes and a few verses. Restless he had started his wanderings, with nothing to show at the end of ten years, except for a smattering of different languages he had picked from brother ascetics and a dark beard and long unkempt hair. His looks however seemed to attract people who took care of his needs as he roamed the countryside. In truth he was a beggar who never needed to beg, nothing more and he knew it. But there had been no vice in him and his life would have continued uneventfully if he had not met those two men who were to change his life totally.

That they were con men, rogues and lechers was something he came to know much later by when he had got used to the good life and was willing to turn a blind eye. They had spotted the potential in his appearance that was sure to appeal gullible people and hatched up the plan of launching him as a new guru. His alarms had been allayed by their promises that he had to nothing more than what he was doing presently. “Just bless them and dole out handfuls of ash. That will bring the money pouring in,” said one. And it had worked. His rise had been meteoric. In five years the ashram had sprung up on a large piece of land and people were flocking to stay there and follow him.

The fall was resounding too. The raids following some complaints had revealed the true nature of the two men who had exploited his followers to the full. As the newspapers blazoned their activities, he had fled overnight. His appearance changed, he had moved from city to city always in fear of getting caught. The few valuables he had on his person had paid his way and now he was down to nothing, right where he had started. His mind came back from its tortured journey and he sighed. His only desire now was to live somewhere in peace, safe from the hands of law. He fingered the rudraksha that lay in his pouch, the only thing left there.

The lady who had offered it to him in those heady days had claimed that it had been in her husband’s family for many generations and was responsible for their well-being and prosperity. She had no one to hand it on and had considered him a worthy recipient. He had always felt guilty in keeping it with him. He deserved it so little. His reverie was disturbed and he saw the old woman, a glass of payasam in her hand, standing before him. The old woman must be a great cook, he thought, upending the glass for the last few drops. He had never tasted this good a payasam. The old woman stretched out the bowl offering more and greed overcoming him, he took a second helping, in the process finishing off the contents of the bowl. Nothing like a sweet to round off a meal he thought and benignly looked at the beaming old woman. “So grandmother, what would you like me to bless you with,” he asked acting out his part.

She smiling said, “Your kindness in partaking something in my house has filled me with such happiness. I only wish that all creatures of this earth be satiated as you are and feel the happiness that is in my heart.” His eyes misted and as he wiped his face surreptiously he felt as if the world had taken on a brighter hue. The stray dog was wagging its tail, the crow fell quiet and the hay slipped from the cow’s mouth. His heart felt a strange peace and his hand which had been rising in benediction folded in a quiet salutation.