Climbing Chamundi Hill Read Online Free

day. He carried a long walking cane, a bag was suspended over one shoulder, and he was smiling broadly as he pointed at my feet.
    â€œYou’re going up Chamundi with bare feet—are you a seeker? Do you bear a gift of penance for Mahadeva or his beloved Chamundi?”
    His English was perfect. I found that rather common in Mysore and throughout South India, but he had startled me so, I remained silent for a few moments, which he took as an invitation to introduce himself.
    â€œP. K. Shivaram, retired librarian for KPTC—that’s Karnataka Power Thermal Corporation Ltd., namaskar,” he said with hands pressed together in greeting. “How do you do? I don’t think it’s a very good idea, my friend. Perhaps today you should make do with an offering of marigolds, or just devotion. Your feet,” he pointed, “are too soft. Look at mine.” He kicked off his cheap rubber thongs. His feet seemed huge for such a small man, flat and cracked and bony like old oars. “Our Shiva is no Jesus, of course, but he will accept even your sweat as a sign of love. Don’t kill yourself, young man.”
    As he talked in his unhurried way, I began to think how silly it would be to tell him that I was merely drying my sneakers, now tied around my neck. It may be dumb to attempt a barefoot climb up Chamundi Hill, but it was more embarrassing to imitate such devout behavior while acting as a porter for wet shoes. So I shrugged and asked if there was any harm in starting up the hill barefoot, then putting on my shoes when my feet began to hurt.
    â€œNo harm at all, my friend. Do what you can. I’ll tell you what…” he added, “I’m going up myself. I do every Thursday—of course, I take the bus down. Would you mind if I joined you, young man?” He did not pause for my answer. “I shall walk beside you if you walk slowly. I am sixty-seven years old, you know…Can’t go charging up the way I used to when I was your age. But I hope not to slow you down too much.”
    He was definitely a talker. The words flowed out of his mouth effortlessly, each one chained to the next and inexorably pulling it out. I felt impatient with his chatter and afraid he would slow me down, or worse—discover that I had lied to him about my intentions. But then he surprised me.
    â€œAs long as you walk with me, your feet will not hurt—I promise you that!”
    I was already at the first step. The stone was warm, even in the shade, and I could feel its rough texture under my soles. “What do you mean? How can you possibly prevent my feet from hurting?”
    â€œStories, my friend. I shall tell you pilgrimage stories. We have a tradition here. We tell each other stories as we climb up the steps—there are one thousand and one steps, just like the number of Shiva’s names. We walk up the mountain telling stories, and the stories have the same spiritual meritas the hardship of walking barefoot up the mountain, or fasting, or chanting the names of Shiva. Some enjoy telling stories because it’s an art, while others prefer to listen because of the pleasure that makes them forget the pain. If you pay attention,” he paused and added in a conspiring voice, “the stories might turn you into a true pilgrim and give you pleasure at the same time! Let me tell you a story, and we shall see how your feet feel.”
    I was up at the ninth or tenth step and already the skin of my feet was softening to the rock and warming to the red soil that the rains had washed off the mountain onto the path. Pleasantness would soon give way to discomfort, then to pain, and the old man was insinuating that he could see through me. Clearly the retired librarian was going to either embarrass me or drive me crazy. But before leaving, before putting my shoes back on and running away, I decided to give it a shot.
    â€œYes, I would love to hear a story. Is it about Shiva or