The Recluse in My Class (944 words)

 In my school days, around seventh grade, there was a classmate I​faintly remember as Dandapani, ​though his face remains vivid in my memory—especially his prominent, beak-shaped nose. Slightly built, he had a soft face with a constant, puckered smile. He was quiet, rarely mingling with others, and seemed content being left to himself. He preferred solitude and didn’t participate in sports or most of the usual classroom activities. An ash mark was always visible on his forehead, and he wasn’t particularly remarkable in his studies, except for his interest in Sanskrit, History, and Moral Science. In other subjects, he barely scraped through.

I vividly recall one incident when our class teacher asked us to write an essay on what we wished to be when we grew older. Excited by the idea, we eagerly penned our dreams—some aspired to be engineers, others as teachers or businessmen,​ and a tiny few sportsmen. As we discussed our ambitions, this boy stood apart, showing no interest in the conversation. We didn’t think much of it at the time.

Later that afternoon, the teacher gently called him to the front of the class and asked him​ softly to share his dream. He hesitated, clearly embarrassed. Encouraged by the teacher’s kind words, assuring him there was nothing to feel shy about, the boy finally spoke: “I wish to be a monk, to retreat to the forest, and meditate on my God until I receive His darshan.”

There was a stunned silence. Even the teacher wiped tears from his eyes.

When the class was over, the teacher approached the boy, patting him gently on the shoulder. “I’d like to meet your parents this evening,” he said softly. “I want to pay my respects to such fortunate parents.”

But the boy quickly protested. “Please, sir, don’t mention this essay to them. They’re already unhappy with me because of my poor marks and my ways.”

The teacher, concerned, asked, “Why aren’t you studying well? What are you doing that displeases them? Shouldn’t you listen to your parents?”

The boy looked down and quietly replied, “I’m a devotee of Sri Ramachandra and Sri Anjaneya Swami. I have idols of them, and I perform puja every morning and evening. I don’t want to do anything else. But my father is against all this—he thinks it’s a waste of time and a distraction from my studies. He wants me to stop and go out to play with the other boys. He beats me when he finds me sitting in front of my idols, so I’ve hidden them on the terrace and perform my puja there, secretly.”

 The teacher remained silent. Later, he learned from the boy’s parents that everything the boy had said was true. They were disheartened and had given up hope of “reforming” him. The boy did not mix with his siblings and spent all his waking hours with his idols, dressing them and singing bhajans. The teacher, sensing that this boy was different, an uncommon soul with a clear and unwavering goal, chose not to interfere with the boy’s spiritual progress.

Years passed, and I lost touch with him after leaving school, though the memory of that essay never faded. It was decades later that I happened to meet​,​ ​opposite Dandapani's house​,​ his younger brother, who had also been in the same school. Through him, I learned that ​D​andapani had gone on to graduate in Sanskrit, remained unmarried, and became a Sanskrit pundit at a school. After his parents passed away, he lived alone, receiving food from a nearby temple. His life revolved around his spiritual ​pursuits, and he spent much of his time at the Sri Ramakrishna Mutt and Sri Gaudiya Mutt, caring for the sick and needy. He had distanced himself from his family, even giving away his share of the family property to charitable institutions.

The last, his brother heard, he had moved into an old age home in a temple town, spending his final days in the temple’s quiet presence. He discouraged contact with him, fully embracing the reclusive life he had always desired. It seemed he had found his true purpose, realising his spiritual identity and recognising the divine in everything.

 Impelled by my curiosity and wish to visit the famous temple, I went there. I chose to visit the temple first hoping he may be there. After the darshan of the presiding Deity and His consort, I went around the corridor looking sideways. As I reached the rear, I saw Dandapani sitting in a dark corner close to Anjaneyar sanctum. There was no chance of mistake in recognising him though he had become old, frail and in a faded ochre robe. His personage and sharp eyes, evoked awe and respect as I  stood before him with folded hands.

"Namaskaram, I am Partha your classmate in elementary school. I came to know about you from your brother," I said.

He did not reply and looked at me intently for a moment with an imperceptible nod before closing his eyes. I continued to stand before him till a devotee touched my shoulder and said," He is observing a strict mounam(silence). Please leave him alone."

Looking back, I am convinced he was no ordinary soul. He was an evolved being, one who belonged to this world yet was not part of it. I recall his penetrating gaze, which often seemed distant and otherworldly. Life, for him, was a journey of liquidating past karmic debts. I can only proudly tell my children and grandchildren that I had the privilege of studying alongside a karma yogi who had realized himself.

 “The winds of grace are always blowing; it is for us to raise our sails.”