The Old Man and His God Read online

  Sudha Murty

  THE OLD MAN AND HIS GOD

  Discovering the Spirit of India

  Contents

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Preface

  1: The Old Man and His God

  2: Freedom of Speech

  3: Horegallu

  4: The Way You Look at It

  5: A Tale of Two Brothers

  6: The Journey

  7: An Officegoer’s Dilemma

  8: The Deserving Candidate

  9: The Business of Philanthropy

  10: A Helping Hand

  11: True Shades of Nature

  12: Made in Heaven

  13: The Grateful Tenant

  14: A Foreigner, Always

  15: The Line of Separation

  16: A Buddhist on Airport Road

  17: Sweet Hospitality

  18: Friends Forever

  19: The Perfect Life

  20: Hundred Per Cent Free

  21: Two Faces of Poverty

  22: India, the Holy Land

  23: Mother’s Love

  24: Village Encounters

  25: May You Be the Mother of a Hundred Children

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Sudha Murty was born in 1950 in Shiggaon in north Karnataka. An M.Tech in Computer Science, she teaches Computer Science to postgraduate students. She is also the chairperson of the Infosys Foundation. A prolific writer in English and Kannada, she has written nine novels, four technical books, three travelogues, one collection of short stories and two collections of non-fiction pieces, including How I Taught My Grandmother to Read and Other Stories (Puffin 2004). Her books have been translated into all the major Indian languages and have sold over 150,000 copies.

  For Infosys Foundation, that has shown me a world

  beyond, with immense gratitude

  Preface

  I have now written two collections of my real-life experiences which many say they have enjoyed reading. This is my third. All the experiences mentioned here are real, though the names have been changed in some places. People often ask me how it is that so many interesting things happen only to me. To them I reply that in life’s journey we all meet strange people and undergo so many experiences that touch us and sometimes even change us. If you have a sensitive mind and record your observations regularly, you will see your life too is a vast storehouse of stories.

  Of course there are some incidents here which happened to me because of the people I met during my work or in my travels. In all the cases I have taken care to take the permission of the people I have written about.

  I have often wondered what it is about these experiences that has been appreciated by readers in all corners of the country. I have come to the conclusion that it is because they are told simply and are all true. After all, there is something within all of us that attracts us to the truth. I have tried to hold up a mirror to the lives of the people of our country and attempted to trace that spirit within us which makes us uniquely Indian.

  I have dedicated this book to the Infosys Foundation. For many, the foundation is a charitable organization, a branch of a rich company. But for me, it is something closest to my heart. Initially I was a mother to it. I was there from the day it came into existence. Somewhere along the line, it has become the mother and I the child. Holding its hands, I have journeyed many miles, faced praise and criticism. It has been an integral part of my life. We have never abandoned each other.

  There are many people who have worked with me in the long journey that a book undergoes from the time it leaves the writer’s desk. I would like to thank them all. I want to thank Sudeshna Shome Ghosh of Penguin India, for her efforts, without which the book would not have been published.

  The royalty proceeds from this book will go to charity.

  November 2005

  Sudha Murty

  Bangalore

  1

  The Old Man and His God

  A few years back, I was travelling in the Thanjavur district of Tamil Nadu. It was getting dark, and due to a depression over the Bay of Bengal, it was raining heavily. The roads were overflowing with water and my driver stopped the car near a village. ‘There is no way we can proceed further in this rain,’ said the driver. ‘Why don’t you look for shelter somewhere nearby rather than sit in the car?’

  Stranded in an unknown place among unknown people, I was a bit worried. Nevertheless, I retrieved my umbrella and marched out into the pelting rain. I started walking towards the tiny village, whose name I cannot recall now. There was no electricity and it was a trial walking in the darkness and the rain. In the distance I could just make out the shape of a small temple. I decided it would be an ideal place to take shelter, so I made my way to it. Halfway there, the rain started coming down even more fiercely and the strong wind blew my umbrella away, leaving me completely drenched. I reached the temple soaking wet. As soon as I entered, I heard an elderly person’s voice calling out to me. Though I cannot speak Tamil, I could make out the concern in the voice. In the course of my travels, I have come to realize that voices from the heart can be understood irrespective of the language they speak.

  I peered into the darkness of the temple and saw an old man of about eighty. Standing next to him was an equally old lady in a traditional nine-yard cotton sari. She said something to him and then approached me with a worn but clean towel in her hand. As I wiped my face and head I noticed that the man was blind. It was obvious from their surroundings that they were very poor. The Shiva temple, where I now stood, was simple with the minimum of ostentation in its decorations. The Shivalinga was bare except for a bilwa leaf on top. The only light came from a single oil lamp. In that flickering light a sense of calm overcame me and I felt myself closer to god than ever before.

  In halting Tamil, I asked the man to perform the evening mangalarati, which he did with love and dedication. When he finished, I placed a hundred-rupee note as the dakshina.

  He touched the note and pulled away his hand, looking uncomfortable. Politely he said, ‘Amma, I can make out that the note is not for ten rupees, the most we usually receive. Whoever you may be, in a temple, your devotion is important, not your money. Even our ancestors have said that a devotee should give as much as he or she can afford to. To me you are a devotee of Shiva, like everyone else who comes here. Please take back this money.’

  I was taken aback. I did not know how to react. I looked at the man’s wife expecting her to argue with him and urge him to take the money, but she just stood quietly. Often, in many households, a wife encourages the man’s greediness. Here, it was the opposite. She was endorsing her husband’s views. So I sat down with them, and with the wind and rain whipping up a frenzy outside, we talked about our lives. I asked them about themselves, their life in the village temple and whether they had anyone to look after them.

  Finally I said, ‘Both of you are old. You don’t have any children to look after your everyday needs. In old age one requires more medicines than groceries. This village is far from any of the towns in the district. Can I suggest something to you?’

  At that time, we had started an old-age pension scheme and I thought, looking at their worn-out but clean clothes, they would be the ideal candidates for it.

  This time the wife spoke up, ‘Please do tell, child.’

  ‘I will send you some money. Keep it in a nationalized bank or post office. The interest on that can be used for your monthly needs. If there is a medical emergency you can use the capital.’

  The old man smiled on hearing my words and his face lit up brighter than the lamp.

  ‘You sound much younger than us. You are still foolish. Why do I need mone