Skip to main content

RAMA AND REMINISCENCES

The day ushered in a flood of memories and along with it, waves upon waves of pleasant nostalgia from decades back. The earliest clear memories I have of childhood are since age 4. 

Brought up in a household where we were taught never to fear God, but to love him because he loved us too, no matter what, prayers and devotion didn't come from a place of discipline, but as a way of life which blended into every sphere of activity. 

Every morning, my father, a staunch devotee of Lord Rama, would recite the Rama Raksha Stotra and I would listen to him intently. As every intonation embedded deeply in my subconscious, today I would like to believe that it did provide me with an invisible shield, protecting me all times just as a Suraksha Kavach would. 

What greater gift could a father give his child? Such was the pious ambience in the house that I chose to be in this lifetime.

As time went by, the first book which I held close to my heart was this very book. The book which was dear to my father as well. One day, in all curiosity, I peeked into it as he read it. 

From then on, my father would point out each word as he read it out to me. Although I was too young to decipher a lengthy printed script, I recognized the words just by phonics. He would patiently wait for me to grasp each word and for me to get it right. And apparently a day came when I did. Father would proudly tell everyone, even as I progressed into my early teens of this tiny achievement of mine…

Father also has bulky hardbound books in which he never fails to write Shree Ram Jai Ram Jai Jai Ram on a certain number of pages everyday.

Many years down the line, as these books piled up, they were stored away with as much affection as the rest of our valuables. As I relocated and my visits back home became an annual fare for only a couple of weeks, yet, I would see my father write dedicatedly in them without missing a day or even reading out his beloved stotras. Such is his unfailing devotion to Lord Rama.

Generational upbringing is the true treasure trove, a legacy which we inherit, to bequeath to our future lineage. My father too had embodied these traits from his parents. 

My paternal grandfather would always gift me and my brother, Encyclopedias, Ukrainian Folktales and Reader's Digest Select Edition on our birthdays. But the best was the Mythological Series from Amar Chitra Katha. 

Our bedtime stories would always be read by him from these books. Envisioning Gods like they were illustrated in these comics, I would never tire of listening to the interesting episodes which occurred in their lives. 

As the Gods and goddesses in the books looked at their devotees with benevolent and serene eyes, lotus in hand, my devotion for them only grew as the years went by.

 Grandfather had his own rituals and went about it without missing a beat. There was magic in the air, around people belonging to that era. They were cast in a different mold and I was so blessed to have been born to this household where education extended into a spiritual journey too right from a tender age.

****

On his passing, grandpa had bequeathed me his much cherished rosewood mantap. An altar which still exudes a divine aura for the years of worship it had been showered with.. 

Grandpa’s blessings are always with me, and as unfortunate as it may seem that I couldn't haul the mantap back to Singapore, I always look on the brighter side that, maybe there is a right time for me too, an auspicious 'mahurat', when I give his prized possession a grand homecoming. 

I'm still waiting for that day, but never a day goes by when I see it in my mind’s eye, sitting securely in my room, waiting to reunite with the one it is destined to be with…

I did bring along the Ram Raksha Stotra book with me years back, belonging to my father from almost a half a century ago. Foxed as it is and brittle to the touch, it remains by my bedside, protecting me through my deep sleep and rest. 

The bond that I have with Lord Rama had begun with this book. It has carved a long journey with me since the age of 4 and is still going strong! 

A humble and divine family heirloom which gives me courage, hope and strength through the many ancestral blessings that it holds!

Jai Shree Ram 🙏

©️ Sangeetha Kamath

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A-Z Blogging Challenge Theme Reveal

Hey everyone! April is almost upon us and it reminds me of my childhood summer vacations, visiting my cousins in different cities, playing with them and watching movies late into the nights, brunches, more outdoor skips and hops and when the boiling sun drove us indoors, how the tangy, icy lemonade pitchers awaited us.  April is also about April showers, new beginnings and of late —the month of blogging! I'm excited to announce that I'll be participating in the A-Z April Blogger Challenge , starting on April 1st! This challenge is all about pushing myself to create new content, connect with fellow bloggers, and have immense fun while doing it. Throughout the month, I'll be posting daily(except on Sundays) on a variety of topics, ranging from personal reflections to mixed random bags of thoughts especially bordering on memoirs and non fiction. That's something I excel in apart from writing fantasy and the paranormal.  2025 will see my blog Sanguine Allegory bustling wit...

THE BIG BAD WOLF( DAY 17, LETTER T)

                          CHAPTER 16                    THE BIG BAD WOLF  The pigs snarled like proper rascals, fixing their cold steely eyes on the Wolf's cottage. How dare he refuse to part with his cottage! When the pigs demand, it's given to them---no questions asked! Porkinn limped, Baconne was soggy, Swinedell rubbed a sore bump on his head, but they were far from defeated. Swinedell snorted, a crooked grin spreading across his face. "Wolf thinks 'e's posh, don't 'e? " Baconne sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring. "We want the cottage!” He growled. Porkinn cracked his fingers, his sly glance darting about.  The pigs crept towards the back door, their footsteps silent on the soft grass. They spotted the Wolf through the kitchen window, stirring a pot of steaming stew for dinner. They kicked the door in, the wood splintering jaggedly. The latch gave in....

ANAM CARA

The waves are soft and frothy. Laced with gossamer frills tenderly kissing the tips of my toes covered with the grainy sand of the rugged seashore where I'm sitting, wistful. A gust of briny breeze tousles my hair as I gaze as far as my eyes can see.  A flock of terns wheel overhead, their sharp, shrill cries punctuating the air as they dive and swoop over the surfs. A lone frigate bird , its crimson belly dazzling like a jewel skims majestically above, its long, slender wings outstretched as it rides the thermals high above the ocean. I absorb the sights and sounds of the late afternoon while absentmindedly scooping seashells beside me. As the afternoon phases, the furthest rim of the ocean is fringed in a gilded hem and the sleepy sun yawns, its dipping glow streaking the sky in a mellow tangerine and warm cherry. As I continue sitting there, the ships and yachts appear --specks of light from the portholes glimmering in the distance, reminding me of the phrase “That ship has sai...

ARIEL AND BLUE-BLOOD SHOES

  The waves crashed violently against the craggy mountainside and the moonlight shone on the lacy froths. As I waded through the water and stepped on the wet sand, I remembered another night which was many moons ago. The same glinting lights through the palace doorways and windows, the fireworks adorning the night sky like shooting stars and meteors. A royal celebration with all the works and the guests dressed up in their best finery and aristocratic jewelry. Of noble births they all were. Blue blooded as the matriarch had pointedly told me once.  That unholy night! That night of icy hearts and howling laughter, the echoes of cackling that followed me till I ran on wobbly legs to find my place of comfort where the land met water… Hot tears streaming down, I regretted those days when I lost my heart to a man so spineless. Had I not dragged him to the shore, he would have been a mangled mass after being torn apart by the piranhas and other monstrous maws.  How I regret…Oh!...

QUEST FOR THE BEARS (DAY 18, LETTER Q)

                      CHAPTER 17             QUEST FOR THE BEARS  The next day, the pigs trotted off to spread mischief in the woodland, their ricky-ticky steps scuffing the damp path into a mess of overturned leaves and broken twigs. Goldwynn stayed crouched behind the wonky rain barrel until the sound of their pig-trouble thinned, then thinned again, then dissolved into the larger quiet of the trees. She didn’t move right away. The woods had a way of listening after the pigs left, as if it wasn’t sure they were truly gone. The air held its breath with her. When she finally stood, the silence felt heavier than noise. No birds called. The light came down in broken pieces, the sun playing hide-and-seek through beech and alder, dappling the forest floor with spools of pale gold. The ground under her boots was soft and cold, a black earth that smelled of truffles gone to rot and old rain. It stuck to ...