On my morning walk today, around 6 am, when the streets are devoid of noise, cunning and chaos. I entered a tiny lane for my everyday conversation with my Ganesha ( Hindu deity, supposedly the son of Shiva & Parvati), stashed in the confines of a very tiny temple. I had thought that the fallen leaves and I were the only occupants of the street, but then I chanced upon this man. Perhaps he was a laborer somewhere, on his way to his work in the morning. I saw him quietly open his slippers and stand in unbelievable grace, hands folded in an embrace to the Gods. Most such laborers in India belonging to lower castes are not allowed entry into the temples that are often governed by upper caste Brahmins. But this did not deter the man. His feet did not touch the inner sanctum or the boundaries of the temple and yet there was something in his prayer that was so beautiful. A moment of surrender, and utter privacy. I clicked from a distance and felt strangely touched. A prayer is but this, as I know it to be. A Hindu and a Brahmin, I did not enter the sanctum too that day, a far greater sense had taught me all that needed to be learnt.
