Saturday, January 31, 2026
Morning Hustle
He was huffing and puffing as he fought to keep up. The moment he had been waiting for a full year. He had wrestled his eyelids against the stubborn pull of his bed. And now he was in a race.
Flower ladies were busy stacking their baskets of paneer roses, filling the air with their heavenly fragrance. Lotus buds were being prepared for display, awaiting the first rays of the Sun to unfurl themselves. Dense garlands of Tulasi were already in brisk demand.
The clash of cymbals reverberated through the air, accompanied by melodious singing. He could even hear the words. Looked like he could still get to the procession in time.
He continued to jog — or rather, walk as fast as his knees would permit — strategically avoiding the elephant dung that announced itself to the nose before the eyes. Carts lined the street, and his eyes were drawn to the bullocks chewing on discolored and torn banana leaves.
A whiff of ghee hit him. And a noticeable trail of ants to the warm jaggery solidifying on the leaf could mean only one thing. The sign he had been waiting for.
He picked up pace as he hit the temple street. Fresh flowers were strewn around, the large rangolis outside each home disfigured by wheel marks and footsteps.
The procession was just ahead, having turned the corner. The long tail was still following. More people with banana leaves in their hands.
Panting, he scanned his surroundings, seeing bystanders gobbling up Puliyodharai — easy to identify with its distinctive individual morsels of rice in a deep yellow color from mixing with a tamarind and turmeric sauce.
Interesting, but not particularly surprising.
He continued to walk, turning around the corner to catch up with the chariot that seated the Lord on his morning jog. He paid his obeisance and accepted a sip of the holy water and sprinkled some on his head.
And for the second time this morning, a whiff of ghee caught his attention. He turned around to see a lady battling to keep a semi-solid prasadam from flowing off her plate.
Behind her, a small pillar of steam curled into the air, catching the gold of the rising Sun.
His eyes were now wide open, and he regained strength in his knees. He was no longer panting.
A wide grin spread across his face as the warm aroma from a large pot of golden brown Chakkara Pongal washed over him.
Labels: Short Stories
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