She knew he was coming. One day. Some day. She waited till her hair turned from the color of a starless-moonless night to that of a full moon. And she knew it all along that one of these days his path would cross hers. This autumn she was more certain than others of his much-anticipated arrival.
Every day she cleaned the path that started from her hut and disappeared into the woods with her own hands, the fragile twigs. All the marigolds from her little garden were laid out on the all the roads in the forest to welcome him, just for him. Her little bamboo basket was always full of wild berries.
“He will like them,” she said to herself. She picked every single one of them herself and tasted them to ensure that the berries were not bitter.
Shavari, a spinster from the untouchable caste, who ran away from her blind parents because she could not let innocents goats and lambs be sacrificed for her wedding, was living by the woods now. She had told herself that the pursuit of bigger cause is more important, even when her heart trembled with the flowers she plucked, even in those lonely nights when the pearls of her teardrops outnumbered all the stars in the moonless sky. She waited for him to come.
As a woman she could not read the Vedas, she was not a literate in the first place. She knew all along that she would serve a greater purpose. She believed in it while she sought for shelter on the woods. She had faith while she cleaned out the pebbles and thrones from the path near the woods for the passers by. A subtle voice that never really died told her that she was never alone, not even in the dark forest.
Some sages who had decided to find out who cleaned the road for them everyday were hiding in the woods. One day they spotted Shavari. The untouchable was discovered. One friendly face among the sages dropped the elixir words in her waiting ears: “He will come. Just to meet you. Trust me, I know that he will.”
Today these words were echoing with her heartbeat, as vivid as that sunny day she ran to the forest decades ago. The air was all golden. Everything smelled of fresh piety. Sparrows, her friends, were coming home with songs in their beaks. Shavari was humming a melody of his name, “Ram! Ram!”
She was spreading marigolds on the narrow trail that climbed up the hill from the woods to her hut and singing to herself, “He will come”
“Can you give me directions, Mother? I am new to this place.”
The gentle voice blended to her ears like the tender notes of the flute. Lifting her stooped back from an arch to meet the gaze, she saw a young ascetic, who was smiling at her, as if he had known her all his life.
Every day she cleaned the path that started from her hut and disappeared into the woods with her own hands, the fragile twigs. All the marigolds from her little garden were laid out on the all the roads in the forest to welcome him, just for him. Her little bamboo basket was always full of wild berries.
“He will like them,” she said to herself. She picked every single one of them herself and tasted them to ensure that the berries were not bitter.
Shavari, a spinster from the untouchable caste, who ran away from her blind parents because she could not let innocents goats and lambs be sacrificed for her wedding, was living by the woods now. She had told herself that the pursuit of bigger cause is more important, even when her heart trembled with the flowers she plucked, even in those lonely nights when the pearls of her teardrops outnumbered all the stars in the moonless sky. She waited for him to come.
As a woman she could not read the Vedas, she was not a literate in the first place. She knew all along that she would serve a greater purpose. She believed in it while she sought for shelter on the woods. She had faith while she cleaned out the pebbles and thrones from the path near the woods for the passers by. A subtle voice that never really died told her that she was never alone, not even in the dark forest.
Some sages who had decided to find out who cleaned the road for them everyday were hiding in the woods. One day they spotted Shavari. The untouchable was discovered. One friendly face among the sages dropped the elixir words in her waiting ears: “He will come. Just to meet you. Trust me, I know that he will.”
Today these words were echoing with her heartbeat, as vivid as that sunny day she ran to the forest decades ago. The air was all golden. Everything smelled of fresh piety. Sparrows, her friends, were coming home with songs in their beaks. Shavari was humming a melody of his name, “Ram! Ram!”
She was spreading marigolds on the narrow trail that climbed up the hill from the woods to her hut and singing to herself, “He will come”
“Can you give me directions, Mother? I am new to this place.”
The gentle voice blended to her ears like the tender notes of the flute. Lifting her stooped back from an arch to meet the gaze, she saw a young ascetic, who was smiling at her, as if he had known her all his life.
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