In the early afternoon, the sun cast a golden hue over the city of Dwarka. A peculiar, mingled scent—a blend of many different things—hung in the air. Atop the towering spire of the Dwarkadhish Temple, a new divine flag fluttered against a sky that seemed faded from centuries of prayers.
Stepping out into the grand courtyard, Doyel adjusted the end of her cotton saree against the breeze and immediately locked eyes on the pair walking ahead.
They were an older South Indian couple. The gentleman was comfortably portly, carrying himself with the tranquil, deliberate elegance of a retired professor who had long made peace with the universe. He walked a half-step behind his wife, perfectly content to let her navigate the crowd of pilgrims, cows, and souvenir peddlers. She, on the other hand, was draped in a traditional, heavy Kanjivaram silk, her forehead adorned with three crisp, horizontal lines of white sandalwood paste. As she walked, her lips moved in a rhythmic, silent chant of Sanskrit meters, her posture as straight as a temple pillar.
“Observe,” Doyel murmured, her voice carrying that quiet, mischievous tilt her husband knew all too well. A subtle smile played at the corners of her mouth, her signature prelude to an unsolicited observation.
Arko glanced over, clutching their footwear tokens. “Observe what?”
“That, my dear, is your future,” she whispered, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. “Take notes. Notice how serenely he follows? Pay rapt attention. That is the exact level of meek compliance I expect from you forty years down the line.”
“I am already practice-drilling for it every single day,” Arko muttered under his breath, though his own smile betrayed him.
Doyel couldn’t pass by interesting strangers. Within ten minutes, helped along by her uninhibited loquacity, the two couples were standing near the shadow of the temple gate, exchanging warm pleasantries.
“Granny,” Doyel asked, her bright eyes wide with playful inquiry, “why exactly three lines on the forehead? Is there a strict geometric quota?”
The old lady paused, her face breaking into a serene, timeless calm; every word she spoke carried a gentle and balanced tone. “They are symbolic, my child,” she explained softly, her voice carrying a deep, cultured cadence, “let me tell you, one for the physical body, one for the mind, and the third for the spiritual entity. None of them truly belong to us, so we offer them back to the Almighty.”
“That is so beautiful,” Doyel said, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. “Though, jokes apart, you don’t actually have to look at them yourself. But Grandpa here can’t escape seeing them every time he looks at you! It’s a constant reminder for him, isn’t it?”
The old man let out a sudden, hearty chuckling rumble, and his wife’s lips twitched into a rare, bright laugh. “You are not entirely wrong, child,” the old man chuckled, his demeanour impossibly warm.
Later, over cups of lukewarm filter coffee and sweet-sour Gujarati snacks in a noisy roadside restaurant, Arko looked across the laminate table at Doyel.
“Listening to her chant back there… there really is something enchanting about the rhythm of classical Sanskrit, isn’t there?” Arko mused, stirring his tea.
“Charming indeed,” Doyel agreed, nibbling on a dhokla.
“You know,” Arko began, leaning forward with the confidence of someone who had recently read an internet article, “I read somewhere that Sanskrit is actually the most ideal language for computer programming.”
Doyel raised an eyebrow. “That is a myth, Arko. It’s an internet urban legend, floating around like unsolicited WhatsApp forwards.”
“A myth? Really?”
“Ask Google,” she teased, flashing a quick smile. “Sanskrit doesn’t need fake digital credentials. Its actual literature is vast, developed over millennia as the supreme vehicle of expression for ancient thought, long before modern classifications existed. From the Rig-Veda right down through the classical period of Kalidasa and Bhavabhuti, it captured every slice of human experience.”
“Even love stories?” Arko asked, amused by her sudden turn into a walking encyclopedia.
“Oh, especially love stories. Kalidasa’s Meghaduta, the Cloud Messenger, is literally about a lonely, exiled lover asking a drifting storm cloud to carry a message to his distant wife. It’s pure, soaring lyricism.”
Arko grinned, swirling the last of his tea. “Sending messages via clouds? Sounds terribly impractical but quite a superb romantic thought. Though if I tried asking a cloud to deliver a message to you, I am sure it would probably rain on my parade.”
“Don’t be so prosaic,” Doyel laughed, shaking her head as they stood up to leave.
They retrieved their bags and car keys from the shrine’s locker room, where the attendant looked on with open amusement, listening as Doyel effortlessly commanded the local Gujarati dialect while Arko struggled through halting, heavily accented East Indian Hindi.
Doyel adjusted her hair over her shoulder, whispering close to his ear as they stepped out into the dust, “You know, darling, it would really be better for your dignity if you just spoke in English.”
“Why?” Arko asked, puffing out his chest defensively.
“Because the accent in which you speak Hindi is an acoustic hazard. It attracts unnecessary public curiosity.”
“I think I sound rather charming,” he sniffed, though he promptly switched back to English anyway.
By late afternoon, the couple took the popular ‘Dwarka Darshan’ ferry across the sunlit, choppy waters toward the island of Bet-Dwarka. The sea air smelled heavily of salt, diesel fumes, and wet rope. To their pleasant surprise, the elderly South Indian couple was seated just across the wooden deck, watching the sea-gulls wheel overhead.
Arko, ever the inquisitive youth, leaned toward the old gentleman as the ferry lurched gently over the waves.
“Grandpa,” Arko asked, balancing himself against the railing, “what do you think truly defines us in the modern age? Is it our ancient texts, the epics, the pilgrim circuits, or our philosophy?”
The old man stroked his chin thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the shimmering horizon. “None of the noisy things, my young friend,” he said softly. “We do not need to constantly boast about historical flying chariots or ancient plastic surgeries to validate ourselves. Real strength lies in quieter things, tolerance, quiet complacency, and an indomitable, serene faith that doesn’t feel the urge to conquer or convert others. We simply welcome. And we endure.”
Doyel, sitting beside the old lady, couldn’t help herself. She gave a warm, mischievous grin. “Grandma, seeing how gracefully you two walk together… what is the real secret behind surviving fifty years of marriage?”
The old lady, who had spent the entire morning maintaining a quiet, dignified silence, broken only by gentle smiles and Sanskrit chants, turned her eyes toward Doyel. Her face remained smooth, but a sudden, razor-sharp spark of wit glinted in her eyes.
She leaned in slightly, her calm demeanour shifting just an inch.
“Well, honey,” the old lady began, her voice dropping into a breezy, perfectly accented, mid-Atlantic American drawl that hit the young couple like a sudden bolt of lightning, “it’s pretty simple math, real talk.”
Doyel froze, her mouth slightly open. Arko nearly dropped his water bottle.
“You see, sweetie,” Granny continued smoothly, utterly unbothered by their stunned expressions, “out there in the world, one plus one equals two. That’s basic arithmetic. But in the context of marriage, is it the same? No. One times one has gotta equal one. You don’t go competing with your spouse like it’s some kind of corporate rat race. No ghosting, no secret baggage, no passive-aggressive drama. You just step up, stay totally transparent, and back each other up when the going gets rough. Period.”
Arko stared, speechlessly blinking. Doyel blinked twice, utterly robbed of her usual loquacity.
“I… I…” Doyel stammered, then managed to find her voice. “Grandma… your English is… incredible! If you don’t mind me asking, what did you both do before retiring?”
The old gentleman smiled gently, gesturing toward his wife with immense pride. “Well, I ran a modest travel agency back home,” he said.
The old lady adjusted her heavy Kanjivaram pallu, her sandalwood-marked forehead catching the evening light, and offered a casual, nonchalant shrug.
“And me?” she smiled, her eyes twinkling with boundless mischief. “Oh, I was just a senior satellite tracking scientist over at ISRO. Rocket science, literally. But honestly, honey… managing this man after retirement? That’s the real rocket science.”
As the ferry pulled into the harbour, Doyel and Arko bowed down deeply to touch the old couple’s feet in reverence. The retired scientist and her husband raised their hands together, offering the serene, timeless gesture of the Abhay Mudra, blessing the young couple with a quiet, knowing smile that said far more than any words ever could.
