In the middle of a busy city, there was my grandmother’s house—a peaceful place full of stories and people. It was a big house, and it felt even bigger because of all the memories it held.
The courtyard was wide and filled with trees— Shammi (used in worship of Ganpati), Bel (worship of Shankar), tamarind (Chincha), mango, almond, berries (Bora), wood apple (Kavat), jackfruit, jhambhul, neem, lemon, custard apple and Ram phal (Jamaica Apple) and others. Birds like crow, sparrow, king fisher, owl etc. lived in them, and their shade kept the house cool in summer. Right in the middle of this green space was a large stone well. I was never allowed to go near it. My grandmother had a cow on whose milk I was nutured. And all this barely a couple of hundred meters from school.
Inside the well lived a tortoise. It had been there long before my grandfather came to stay—at least 25 years before I was born. It hardly ever came out. My grandfather said the well had natural springs and a lot of mud. “If you go near, you may slip and fall,” he warned me.
But my grandmother told me another story. She said this was the spot where the great Amrit-Manthan had taken place. Bhagwan Narayan, in the form of a tortoise—Kurma—was resting at the bottom, and we should not disturb him. I liked her story more than my grandfather’s. It felt magical.
I saw the tortoise only once. It was during the monsoon when the city’s rivers flooded. The water in the well rose up to the edge. My grandfather explained, “Water always seeks its own level.” That day, the tortoise came up with the rising water. Everyone was shocked. A few neighbors helped gently push it back into the well.
I remember running behind it, shouting, “Go back, Narayan, to your home!”
Each day in that house started early—around 4:30 AM. My grandfather would wake up and go to fetch milk, carrying an old six-bottle metal milk carrier. When he came back, my aunts would boil the milk. They were all highly educated—one had a PhD in biochemistry, the other two were scholars in Sanskrit and Hindi. They filled the kitchen with talk, laughter, and the sound of spoons on steel vessels.
Bathing was a joy there. Water was heated in a big metal drum, using wood from the trees around the house. The smell of smoke and fresh leaves stayed in the air.
After his bath, my grandfather would put on wet holy clothes and begin his prayers. It took him about half an hour. The idols were washed, sandalwood paste was prepared, and it was gently applied to the gods. He performed all of it with deep care and silence.
We then had a simple breakfast. Everyone had their own duties—studying, cooking, going to work. But the house never felt quiet.
Evenings were special. A small prayer was held every day, and on Tuesdays, there was a big maha-aarti. I always looked forward to it—the flowers, the ringing bell, the smell of incense. It felt like the gods truly lived in our home.
But the best part of my day was after school. My strict, serious grandfather would come to pick me and my younger sister up. After a quick meal, I would rush to my grandmother’s bed. She was partially bedridden then, but her mind was bright.
She would ask me how my day went and then begin telling me stories—of gods and demons, kings and villains. She spoke softly, yet every word came alive. The other children weren’t interested, so these stories were mine alone. Sitting by her side, I entered another world.