Murari's Promise (1256 words)

Murari, come sit beside me. I want to tell you something important. I hope you’re not sleepy,” said Govindan, a frail man in his late seventies.

The ten-year-old hurried to his side.

“Tell me, Thatha. I’m not sleepy at all. You look tired. Would you like a plantain? Rukmini aunty gave me two, and I saved one for you.”

The old man smiled. “What a thoughtful boy you are. I only wish I were younger and stronger. There is something you must know. You are all I have. Your mother, my only daughter, took her own life when you were two. She could no longer bear the cruelty of your father. A man consumed by vice, he abandoned you in my care on the very day of her funeral. It may have been the only decent thing he ever did.”

“I know, Thatha,” Murari replied softly. “And Grandma died soon after because she couldn’t bear the grief. Please tell me what you wanted to say.”

“Listen carefully and don’t interrupt,” Govindan said gently.

“After I’m gone, you will have no one except Rukmini. She is a distant relative and your grandmother’s dearest friend. She lives next door and has promised to care for you if the need arises. The income from my small piece of land in the village will be entrusted to her for your upbringing and for her own needs. Life has not been kind to her either. Since her husband died, she has earned a living by selling idlis and dosas.”

He paused to catch his breath.

“Shall I bring you some water, Thatha?”

“Yes, child.”

After sipping a little water, Govindan continued.

“My grandfather once went on a pilgrimage to North India. There he met a yogi unlike any he had ever seen, ageless, radiant, and magnetic. Overwhelmed, my grandfather fell at his feet.

“The yogi smiled and handed him a small yellow pouch containing a Saligram, a sacred black stone representing Lord Hari Narayana. He instructed him to worship it every day with flowers, water, and Tulsi leaves.

“My grandfather prostrated before him again in gratitude. But when he rose, the yogi had vanished.”

Murari listened with wide eyes.

“My grandfather obeyed those instructions faithfully for the rest of his life. After him, my father continued the worship. When my father lay dying, he made me promise to carry on the tradition, and I have done so ever since, until illness prevented me a month ago. Now it is my turn to entrust the Saligram to you.”

Murari looked puzzled. “What exactly must I do, Thatha?”

“Nothing elaborate. Keep the Saligram in a clean place. Light an oil lamp, offer flowers and Tulsi leaves, and chant ‘Hari’ or ‘Narayana’ ten times. Treat that space as sacred. Keep it clean and respectful. Will you promise me that you will do this every day?”

“I promise, Thatha.”

“Good. Watch me perform the puja today so you can learn. Remember, this is no ordinary stone. It is the Lord Himself in this form. And if circumstances ever make it impossible for you to continue, give the Saligram to the Krishna temple. Never neglect it.”

Murari nodded solemnly.

A week later, Govindan passed away peacefully in his sleep.

After the funeral rites, Murari prepared to begin the worship. But life had suddenly become complicated.

Rukmini’s little food business was growing. Her tiny house could no longer accommodate the increasing number of customers. She kept her kitchen there and converted Murari’s larger hall into a dining area.

She rose at four every morning to cook. Murari helped before school in various ways, fetching water, cleaning, and cutting plantain leaves for serving food. By the time he returned from school each afternoon, more errands were waiting.

Business improved further. Soon, Rukmini added vadas and bondas to the evening menu.

Murari was happy for her, but his days became crowded with responsibilities. Homework suffered. Rest became scarce. Most painful of all, he found himself unable to keep the promise he had made to his grandfather.

When he first mentioned beginning the puja, Rukmini asked him to wait a little longer until things settled down. Another fortnight passed. Deep inside, Murari knew that things would not change soon. The Saligram deserved daily worship and a clean, sacred place. Instead, it sat neglected.

Remembering his grandfather’s instructions, he made a difficult decision.

The next morning, carrying the small box containing the Saligram, he set out for school but turned instead toward the Krishna temple.

Tears filled his eyes. “Forgive me, Thatha,” he whispered. “Forgive me, Lord. I cannot keep my promise.”

The temple was crowded. The priest was busy inside the sanctum, and devotees stood waiting for darshan.

As Murari waited, a boy about his own age approached him.

He wore only a simple dhoti with sandal paste on his forehead. Yet there was something extraordinary about him. His eyes sparkled, his smile was enchanting, and his voice carried an irresistible sweetness.

“What are you carrying so carefully?” he asked.

Mesmerised by the boy’s presence, Murari replied, “It contains a sacred Saligram of Lord Hari Narayana. My grandfather made me promise to worship it every day. I can no longer do so, and I’ve come to give it to the temple.”

The boy listened attentively.

 “Will you give it to me instead?” he asked. “I will care for it with devotion. It will never be neglected.”

Murari hesitated. “My grandfather told me never to give it to strangers. Only to the temple.”

The boy smiled. “Then I am not a stranger anymore. You can see me here every day. Consider me your friend. I live here.”

There was such warmth and sincerity in his voice that Murari found it impossible to refuse.

“You’ll see me tomorrow,” the boy said, extending his hand. “And you’ll be happy to know that your Saligram is safe. I promise.”

Almost as though under a spell, Murari handed him the box.

The next morning, the temple priest unlocked the sanctum and froze in astonishment.

Around Lord Krishna’s neck hung a garland of yellow thread bearing a black Saligram pendant. The ornament had not been there the previous night. The sanctum had remained locked. No one could have entered.

Overcome with devotion, the priest fell at the Lord’s feet.

News of the miracle spread quickly. By midmorning, the temple was overflowing with excited devotees eager to witness the wonder.

At nine o’clock, Murari arrived eagerly to meet his new friend.

He searched every corner of the small temple. The boy was nowhere to be found.

Then he heard people speaking excitedly about a mysterious Saligram that had appeared around the deity’s neck.

His heart raced. Pushing through the crowd, he stood before Lord Krishna. There it was, his Saligram. Forgetting everyone around him, Murari cried out,

“Where are you? You promised I would see you today. I came to meet you and see the Saligram.”

At that very moment, the air filled with the fragrance of sandalwood and fresh flowers. Temple bells began to ring on their own. The lamps burned brighter than before.

And Murari heard a voice. “I am standing before you, wearing the Saligram you gave Me. Look upon Me whenever you wish. Your grandfather is happy, for you have kept your promise.”

Murari slowly lifted his head. For the briefest instant, he saw not the stone image of Krishna, but the smiling boy who had taken the Saligram from his hands. Then the vision vanished.

But the smile remained forever in his heart.