I have begun my preparation. I had begun it even when I was not, could not be, altogether conscious of doing so, and continue it even when I believe I am immersed in other things. Long before the actual day arrives, you begin the sacrifice, you hand over your life, you allow bits and pieces of yourself to be taken from you. At the same time, you are loved, not for what you are (and what are you, anyway, what were you before all this began?) but for what you can give, and the immense gift you will bestow on everyone in the future. That day has not yet come. In the meanwhile, in the last, extraordinary days of my preparation, I accept, with good grace and humility, the curiosity and reverence that others direct towards me. There are a few who spit on me, because they think I am not worthy.

The Old Masters

The Old Masters

HE GLANCED at his watch and made an attempt to finish the tea in his cup; he was waiting for a call, and it was his second cup of tea. Five minutes later, the phone began to ring.

“Pramathesh?” said the voice at the other end; and he could tell, from its slight note of insouciance and boredom, that it was Ranjit.

“I was waiting for your call, old man,” he said, trying to muffle his irritation with his usual show of joviality. “You were supposed to call half an hour ago.” He didn’t know why he even bothered to mention this, since Ranjit, who was never known to acknowledge he was late, would take this to be an unnecessarily pedantic remark, a remark that pointed to the actual, if generally concealed, gulf that distinguished their temperaments.

“Trying to send the boy off to school … didn’t want to go this morning,” Ranjit muttered. “That boy’ll cost me my job one of these days.”

“Come, come, don’t blame it on poor Mithu. He has enough troubles being an innocent bystander in your life. Are we ready?”