Seven Days with Him

Every summer, the temple near my home held Bhagavata Saptahas. Those seven days were devoted to reading out the Bhagavata and interpreting the story to a rapt audience that mostly consisted of children and old women- more children during my childhood and mostly only old women in more recent times. The Saptaha masters- sanskrit scholars or monks- came in duos. The guy who interpreted the story assumed a leading position, maybe because it needed greater skills-oratory, the ability to capture the essense and imbue emotion. By the time Saptaha started the summer season of goddess festivals were mostly over- the fields were dry and vacant, houses smelt of ripe mangoes and yellow laburnum blossoms showed up everywhere. Those seven days took an entire generation of children around the temple, as yet unaccustomed to television, on a trip to distant lands and ages- populated by great kings,mighty demons who dared challenge even the Supreme One, and children too. Above all, the stories spoke of love for the One. The master sang and wept and called out Govinda Govinda and the audience couldn't help but be moved to tears. Right from my childhood till now I attended Saptahas whenever I could. My understanding changed with time; every time I came back with something new to mull on. The attraction never ceased.