Not an Eulogy

A cool pleasant morning. You wake up and set out to freshen up – all the toiletries are provided. You get dressed in well pressed clothes; the purchase didn’t come from your pocket, they were a gift of love. You then go to the dining area – a sumptuous spread comprising of the best of cuisines in the land is laid out. You have your fill and step out and you are treated with deference almost bordering on reverence - firmly closed doors are opened and queues bypassed. Time for lunch and once again you are greeted with an extravagant spread in an exclusive area. A brief rest and you are invited to the evening festivities area; prime seats in concerts rendered by the “who is who” of the music and dance world. A pleasant evening and another opulent dinner sends you to bed, to prepare for an equally luxuriant next day.

I have not described a day in the life of royalty or of celebrities, even their days may not be so pampered; this was a life that I, a student belonging to the lower middle class economic strata, enjoyed during November of 1995, thanks to a single tag  - that of a student of Swami.

What ode do you pay to one who is in more frames of your life’s play than you are? What is the story to be written on the epitaph of the one who is the author of all the stories? The wound is too deep for words, too raw for eulogies. He was the actor before, now He would be like the screen – always present but never seen.