I carefully apply the sacred ash in three distinct lines across my forehead, ensuring they do not overlap. I comb my tuft and tie it with precision. I retrieve the tiny yellow bag, worn but tidy, and tuck the panjapathram and utharini inside.
Boarding the Mumbai local is, as always, a struggle. The compartment is packed. Nothing new. A young woman notices me, rises from her seat, and offers her place. I sink into it with gratitude. My station is still an hour away, and my old feet ache with a vengeance.
Beside me sits a young man in a full-sleeved shirt and tie. He lives in the same apartment complex. These modern youth often unsettle me, and I usually keep my distance. But today, something draws my gaze back to him again and again.
I am en route to conduct a religious ceremony. It is my profession. But I carry with me a gift: one I neither advertise nor exploit. At times, without warning, I experience flashes of clairvoyance. They arrive unbidden, vivid and precise. I often dismiss them, only to later marvel at their accuracy.
I have never sought to profit from this gift. It is divine, and I believe it must remain untouched by personal ambition.
As the train rattles forward, I close my eyes briefly. And then, it comes: a moment of piercing clarity. An epiphanous moment. I open my eyes and glance once more at the young man. Should I ignore it, as I often do? Or act?
The train slows at the next station. He gathers his briefcase and prepares to leave. I reach out, gently taking his hand. He looks startled. I lean in and whisper, “Don’t skip it. Attend that interview.”
He freezes, stunned. Then, without a word, he rushes out.
Almost a year has passed, and the moment has faded from my memory. One afternoon, as I descend the stairs of our building, the young man approaches me, hesitant.
“I was on my way to an inter-departmental interview that day,” he begins. “If selected, I’d get a chance to go to the U.S, a dream I’d long held. But I knew I wouldn’t make it. Despite being prepared, I’d decided not to go and waste my time. Then you told me to attend, and I did. Just as I expected, I wasn’t selected.”
He pauses, eyes gleaming with quiet disbelief.
“But then, something strange happened. One by one, those who were chosen couldn’t go, for one reason or another. Yesterday, I got a call from management. They asked if I could take the spot instead. I’m going. On my dream project. Only because I showed up that day. Because of you.”
He looks at me, searching for answers. I offer none. Some things are not meant to be explained.
Panjapathram and Utharini: A silver glass and a tiny silver spoon used in Hindu rituals.
