A Longing for Kashi
(A Short Story Inspired by an Anecdote from Shekharan Channar’s Life)
Late one breezy afternoon, Shekharan Channar sat by the open veranda at Alummoottil, his gaze fixed on the sun dipping into the horizon. He was uncharacteristically still, lost in thought. Normally a man of swift decisions and restless industry, Shekharan was wrestling with a different kind of dream—a journey to Kashi, the sacred city by the Ganges.
That very morning, a wandering Gosayi had arrived at Alummoottil, carrying a tattered cloth bundle and a well-worn walking staff. Drawn by tales of Shekharan’s openhandedness, he had come to the great merchant’s door in search of patronage. Upon hearing of Shekharan’s wish to visit Kashi, the Gosayi offered to teach him Hindi, promising it would ease his travels through northern lands.
From that day onward, the two formed an unusual sight in the courtyard. Each dawn found them seated on a stone bench, the Gosayi guiding Shekharan through the unfamiliar rhythms and phrases of Hindi. The mansion’s household—accustomed to witnessing deals over land, storerooms, or trade routes—soon became fascinated by the intonation of foreign words drifting through the halls.
Initially, Shekharan’s progress was steady. He practiced simple greetings, learned prayers, and recited lines from worn scrolls the Gosayi carried. During midday breaks, they would sip spiced milk as the Gosayi recounted stories of the Ganges at sunrise, the throngs of pilgrims dipping in the holy waters, and the ancient temples glowing with lamps at dusk. Enthralled by these vivid images, Shekharan’s excitement grew. He envisioned himself on a long pilgrimage, leaving behind the comfort of his estate for the dusty roads leading to Kashi.
Yet fate had a different plan. Just as Shekharan’s lessons reached a confident stride, urgent matters within the family demanded his attention. Word came from distant farmland of a boundary dispute with another clan. Some newly acquired properties required legal defense. Family elders implored him to intervene. Court summonses in Kollam and appeals from local landholders suddenly absorbed Shekharan’s days, leaving little time for language practice or travel plans.
The weeks slipped by. The Gosayi lingered, hoping Shekharan would soon be free to embark on the journey north. But pressing concerns continued to multiply. Shekharan found himself drawn deeper into the labyrinth of family obligations—adjudicating conflicts, supervising harvests, and resolving legal cases. Gradually, the morning lessons waned. The conversation around Kashi fell silent.
One evening, Shekharan’s steward brought him news: the Gosayi had decided to depart. He left a simple note expressing gratitude for Shekharan’s hospitality and wishing him success in all his endeavors. Sighing, Shekharan slipped the note into a chest. Though he had learned much, he knew his dream of Kashi must be postponed indefinitely.
From time to time, he would glance at his notes on Hindi phrases or recall the Gosayi’s stirring tales of holy rituals by the Ganges. And though life steered him away from that pilgrimage, the memory of that aspiration lingered—an echo of longing for a distant city he had once hoped to see.
Years later, people at Alummoottil still recalled the short season when Shekharan Channar paused his busy dealings to learn a strange language for a sacred journey. They would nod sagely, calling it one of those stories that revealed the depth of his character: ever curious, ever seeking—yet ever bound by the weight of duty and devotion at home.
