remembrance of a thing past

As far as I can remember my childhood, I had always been amidst prayers and piety. All elders in my family were deeply religious; both my grandfathers would wake up early and conduct a full length puja in the prayer-room before going to work. It was convention that the eldest member in the family had to perform the puja and therefore my dad filled in my grandfather's role when the latter used to be away or ill. It was on weekends and holidays that I experienced the smell of my house in the mornings - the incense and camphor were so strong that I used to be woken up by their smell. When I was with my maternal grandparents, I would be woken up by my grandfather's chants. His voice was stentorian, passionate and pious but his way of recitation had also a deep sense of melody and meter. In contrast to my paternal grandfather who recited his prayers in a colourless monotone my mother's father used to sing his verses rather than chant them. I believe the tunes were his own compositions but what is remarkable is that they could easily diffuse into the memory of even a casual listener like me. I confess that I have never said a prayer sincerely throughout my life whenever I was asked to offer one either at home or in a temple. Post some recent reading, deliberations and introspection (more about them later) I consider myself an atheist and have successfully removed the last vestiges of God and the associated notions of intelligent design from my mind and my heart. But I was surprised today to hear myself singing out Kalidasa's Shyamala-dandakam that was one of my grandfather's favourite shlokas that he set to his own tune. Though I don't remember it in its entirety I still find it remarkable that these three-four verses flowed out of a long abandoned memory cave. The poetry sounded beautiful and the meter was perfect. I don't know the meaning of the words (indeed why would one bother to find out the meaning of a song which hitherto one did not even know existed in one's memory) but I confess that the words have a beautiful sound. Legend says that Kalidasa, India's most famous poet of the classical era was a dim-witted and illiterate simpleton who fell in love with a beautiful princess. When he expressed his love to her, she mocked his ignorance and humiliated him in front of the courtiers. He then went and cried at the feet of the village goddess and asked for redemption. He wept and cursed himself for a full three days at the goddess's feet. All of a sudden a flash of light appeared in the sanctum sanctorum and Kalidasa felt invigorated. Then, as if it were a miracle, he found that he could compose poetry. Shyamala-dandakam was his first composition that he dedicated to the goddess whose benediction had endowed him with the talent and the language that he had longed for. My grandfather, among all his stories that revolved around gods and their miracles told me this one too, enunciating that the Shyamala-dandakam was a symbol of knowledge that came from divine provenance. Reciting it daily, he said, would bring one intelligence and forbearance. My maternal grandfather is a remarkable man (every grandson would say this way about his grandfather but I wont say the same about my other grand-dad whose life and times have never taught me anything that I particularly treasure) and there is possibly no family member whom I respect and revere as much as him. Notwithstanding that I confess that I never believed in what he said about Shyamala-dandakam then or now or ever. But although he was unsuccessful in indoctrinating me with his piety, he did unconsciously manage to show me that beauty need not buttress itself on the stilts of faith.