The Game

Back in the days, in a small town in south India, when Pushkarnis used to be clean, there was a certain ritual being imposed by a small boy on an old man. This ritual, for an outsider, perhaps, somebody sitting on the tabular steps of the Pushkarni, may have seemed a bit like torture. Or maybe like ragging. The old man did not seem to have an anguished face; however, the boy had that look of a ‘ragger’. This ritual must have gone on for at least a year and almost on a daily basis. The ritual began one late morning when the old man was just going about his business; just washing and performing his prayers.

A Pushkarni is a stepped temple well. It’s quite unlike an open well and has systematic and safer access to its water because of its beautifully designed steps; hence ‘stepped well’. Some of the Pushkarnis are very broad, which allows for gentler steps, whereas this one, was an exception. This one had steep steps from the top to the bottom; much for the boy’s delight.

No matter which season, the distilled, clear water lapped on the surface of the buff sandstone steps. One could see from the watermarks on the steps that the level must have been higher and that would have meant easier access to the water. The old man had a lean figure, maybe in his early 80s, a baldish head and a wheat complexion. The nine-year-old boy, who had only one friend in town, on the contrary, was fat and had trouble even making one round trip between the water and the surface. 

“Go back down”, ordered the boy. The old man started climbing down the steps even though he had just finished the routine. On reaching near the water, the old man gently turned around with a smile, as if waiting for his next order. “Come back, up!” said the boy. With his left hand clutching a towel and a lota, his right hand gripping his knees to manage the pain as he made his way up. Reaching the top step, the boy yelled to ensure the same routine. On the third trip back up, the old man, simply sat down, unable to bear his knee pain. With no anger on his face, but simply taking his towel to wipe the sweat, he looked at the temple gopuram with a sense of familiarity. The boy kept yelling, repeating his orders, however, this time the old man was done. He left the Pushkarni, making his way back to his house, the boy yelling in the background. The bully, disappointed, sat on the steps, now distracted with a bunch of pigeons near the water, started chasing them.

“If it makes him happy a bit then why not, after all, I do it because I can do it. There will be a day when I cannot move, then the game is over, isn’t it?” I overheard my grandfather telling my father once. With years gone by, the Pushkarni is now dry. The temple is now in ruins. The birds no longer visit the water and of course, I no longer want to chase it. My pleasure, his pain, both, was a game for him. The pain was just a part of it. For him, which I realized many years later, it was just being part of a game. The message will stay till my last breath - it is more about being a player; more about doing what you can; more about knowing when the game ends; and what the players learn from it. I love you, grandpa!