Bhagwad Gita.
The book that had been waiting for him when he had arrived back home from Sirmaur.
It was a massive book in hardcover, with translations and commentaries thickening it up to the size of one of his medical college reads. He had started reading it, then stopped after a few pages. Then again started it. Then again stopped. Work had been busy and he had kept putting it down because things just didn’t make sense. Even when he read the translations and commentaries multiple times. He was on the verge of completing it but had nothing he had retained, or learned, or felt.
One of Atharva’s suggestions had passed without much help. He looked up at his house. He hoped this one would work. Because currently, he was a man fuelled by nothing but hope.
Samar set all the bags down on the small verandah that led to the curved door. Everything was in shambles. He walked to the fuse box and tripped it up. He hoped the lights he had changed three years ago still worked.
He unlocked the main door and stepped inside. The smell of dust, dry grass and pigeons hit him. He toppled the light switch and it flickered on. Good.
Samar brought the bags in, and rolled up his sleeves. He had three hours to clean the house up and cook.
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“Sankalp kijiye, Daaxsaab.” The priest directed. “Ab aap apne parivar ke karta ho.[197]”
Samar held his hand out as he poured water into it. The hall was devoid of furniture but now overflowing with shraadh pooja samagri. Samar never thought he would ever be caught sitting in this house, in a white kurta and pyjama, performing a pooja for a father he did not respect, along with a mother he did not know.
“Kya kaha apne, sorry?[198]” He blinked.
“Maine kaha, ab aap apne parivar ke karta ho. Head of the family.[199]”
Samar scoffed inwardly.What family…he stopped. There would be a family. Amaal would be the family. He took a deep breath and nodded.
“Aapka naam aur gotra.[200]”
“Samar Dixit. Main gotra nahi janta.[201]”
“Aap Atri gotra ke hai, Daaxsaab.” He smiled. “Boliye.[202]”
“Samar Dixit, Atri gotra.”
“Purvajon ke naam.[203]”
His tongue stuck for a millisecond, but he said it.
“Nilambar Dixit,” he swallowed. “Indu Dixit.”
“Ab mere piche boliye…[204]” he began chanting in Sanskrit, and Samar mumbled behind him.
The pooja went on, as deities were invoked, Ganesh and Vishnu. Then, the names of his ancestors three generations over were recited. He did not know them but it was there in the books of his gotra. All names, all strangers, passed in a bloodline he had never identified with. Samar followed obediently, touching things, saying things, passing things.
“Yeh pind jo aapne banaye hai,” the priest pointed at the rice and sesame balls that he had made as per his guidance. “Yeh aapke purvaj ke deh roop hai. Yeh aap purvajo ki aatma ko arpan karte hai, ki unhe apne aage ke safar mein isse poshan mile. Aap yeh pind unhe daan karte hai. Boliye…[205]”
Hair stood straight on the back of his neck. He was forgiving his father. He was giving him life essence for his journey forward. He was making sure his mother went happily. With a clogged throat, he recited, kept reciting, kept following the directions. Until he had offered food, water, peace and liberation to those two people with whom he had never been able to bond.
And all of a sudden, this wasn’t for himself or for Amaal or their future. This was for them. Whoever they were, whatever they were, however they were. They were parents who were now gone, and he was an adult now that they were gone. The head of the family that they had started.
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Night was falling fast and mosquitoes were buzzing outside. Samar stood on the kitchen sink, letting the cool breeze hit his face as he washed the utensils from this morning. He glanced up at the ceiling of the kitchen. The fan was dirty, cobwebs hanging from corners.
Indu Dixit.
Would she have been ok with a kitchen like this?
His eyes shifted back to the window, at the gullies of the garden, dried and empty. Amaal would definitely not be ok with a garden that had dried up. Indu Dixit would not have been either.
