A Little Part of My Happiness

“Are we going to the temple tomorrow for Varaha?”

I was interested in sleep only. “What are you asking me for?” (not so clever evasion of the actual question) “Of course we’re going to the temple, even if nobody else goes. Varaha is the Big Pig Incarnation. Can’t miss that. What’s life for, anyway?”

I used to live in the temple. I went every morning, no question. I’ve recently suffered a relapse into late-nite, so-called living. As a result I haven’t been to the temple.

We arrived in the middle of kirtan. Parijata, one of my favorite singers, was leading guru puja. Then, mysteriously, someone handed the drum to me, and Parijata passed the mic off to my wife.

When it was time for class, I fetched a glass of water for the Bhagavatam speaker.

If I don’t I fetch a glass of water for the Bhagavatam speaker, I suffer mentally: “Should do it or does somebody else do this? Should I even be struggling with this thought at all?”

It’s a small but important service.

When the speaker feels like people care, and they want to listen, that’s inspiring. Often enough I’ve noticed that the speaker has no water, and that doesn’t make me happy—especially since I’m conscious enough to notice, and physically able to get up and pour a glass of water.

“We need help in the kitchen rolling chapatis.”

Since I practically started my temple career as Bhagavatam class chapati rolling help, I figured I’d go for it.

“I’m not going to take your shoes!” I said to the mataji who offered me hers upon my entrance to the chilly kitchen.

There were already two chapati rollers and one chapati cooker, but it turned out they needed an extra person to roll the hunks of dough into “lotuses” for easy rolling, and to slap the chaps on the griddles.

It turned into a choreographed dance. I would press the lotuses between my palms, looking over my shoulder for vacancies on the griddles. The chapati cooker was obviously expert, and merely had to indicate with a raised eyebrow and a pointed finger when it was my duty to slap a chap.

Unseen behind the back of Srimati Chapati Chef, I would carefully pirouette behind her, slapping the dusting flour of the chapati on my way to slap it down on the griddles to her right, as she proceeded to puff the chapatis on the open flame in the center of the stove.

To see more about chapati cooking, my cooking guru will show you how it’s done.

This went on for a solid forty-five minutes. The freshly washed coat I was wearing quickly became covered with flour, no matter how much I tried to brush myself off.

As I was leaving, a plate of upma in my hand, and my feet freezing, Madan Mohan–one of my favorite people–stopped to talk with me. He stops to talk with anyone who will stop and talk.

He said, “When I come to the temple and there are a lot of devotees, I’m happy. When there aren’t that many devotees, I’m not that happy. It’s not a festival if nobody comes. I consider each devotee a little part of my happiness. So please come.”