Grow old along with me

As a kid, I hung around our neighbourhood temple—less out of devotion, more for the prasad. It was not a grand temple, but it certainly had the grandest pujari, who was addressed as Pujariji.

- K.C. VERMA

An encyclopaedia of Vedic trivia and Sanskrit, he conducted the aartis with rare grace. He performed the ritual five times a day, starting with the mangal aarti at dawn to say, 'good morning' and ending with the shayan aarti to say, 'good night' to the deity. Pujariji fluently recited shlokas and flourished a ghee-fuelled lamp like a demented pyromaniac, while simultaneously translating Sanskrit to street Hindi for the benefit of us clueless kids.

Years later, this same Pujariji presided over my wedding ceremony, insisting that he be addressed as Panditji because he was wearing a different hat. As my bride and I circled the sacred fire, Panditji solemnly announced that every couple whom he had bound in matrimony had enjoyed lasting domestic peace and a bumper crop of kids. I protested, but Panditji told me to 'shut up!' and not argue about the number of my future progeny while doing the agni pradakshina.