Just-In-TIme-Jitesh

The hot summer day began to the steadily rising whine of the mill siren; it sounded for the first shift at six o’clock. The sound of faint bells and chanting reiterated that it was time to get up; the daily morning-prayer routine was almost over.

I lazed for one more moment in bed; I could visualize my grandfather at his rituals. He would be bare-chested, the sacred ash fragrant and pearly-white against his brown skin. His fringe of hair would be encrusted in a halo of curls at the back of his nearly-bald head. The hair was so white it could have been used to advertise his soap. His eyes would be closed as he recited the Sanskrit prayers; I could tell the time by the words I could hear.

Grandfather liked us all to be present at the time for handing around the final blessing, the ‘mangal-aarti’. He also then distributed the food he would have offered to the Gods. A savoury lentil and rice khichdi cooked in the purest of ghee and there was 'panchamruta' too, a blend of milk, honey, dried fruits that was better than anything I had ever tasted. We got only a spoonful each, and whether it was the small portions or the devotion in making them; the taste was never replicated when made at other times, even with the same ingredients.

My feet hit the floor with sudden alacrity and I grabbed my change of clothes from the line hung outside the back-door. It was easy to recognize my shorts and vest amidst the brightly coloured flags created by my various aunts' and cousins’ saris.

I raced to the stone-flagged courtyard; two cubicles were created with brick and tin sheets at the far corner of the east boundary. This was where we children were allowed to perform our morning ablutions.

I raced into the rickety structure and more or less up-ended the bucket over myself, as one finger made a few cursory passes at the teeth. I held my breath and winced at the onslaught of cold water. The sudden cold torrent never failed to give me an unpleasant feeling of drowning in an icy river, in spite of doing this rudimentary splash-and-dash bath everyday. Nobody could better my ability for a quick wash.

I had barely thrust my head through the neck of my vest when I started to race across the courtyard to the puja-room. I still had time; the second last prayer was just ending.

Splat! Something wet and sticky had splashed onto my head; I looked up to see the offending crow in the branches of the enormous Gulmohur tree that overhung the east wall. It was no use; I would have to go back and wash again. The experience of having bird-droppings land on your head was supposed to be ‘lucky’ in folk-lore; in reality it meant I would be late for the puja again. I would get that pained look from my grandfather; the one that reproved without a spoken word.

I must have scorched a trail back to the washing area. My arms were going at it like a windmill as I dragged off one set of clothes, cleaned off my head, dampened my body and pulled on another set.

I can’t explain why it was so important to appease my grandfather. He was neither martinet nor grouch; he never scolded or harangued. It was just that he set such high standards himself, that I wanted to be like him. An eight-year-old boy finds it difficult not to lapse when the pleasures of tree-climbing and pond-swimming call out in the holidays. I hoped to at least appear to be tractable and well-behaved. That is why I plucked a large sunflower from the plant that had appeared two seasons ago, between two cracked flagstones.

I managed to reach the prayer-room just as the last two lines of the shloka, or invocation to God, ended. Before grandfather could reach out for the aarti tray; I bent down to place my floral offering at the feet of God. I then turned a little, still bent over, touching my grandfather's feet in customary obeisance. His hand was placed on my head in blessing and he ruffled my hair as he took it off.

I straightened up, taking the tray to hand around to the others, and he remarked, “Just-in-time-Jitesh, you have made this a fine art” His eyes twinkled.

That was my name from then on, in the family. Just-In-Time-Jitesh.


Word count:772
Prompt to use the words in bold font. Word count between 500-2000 words.