Vemana: A clean heart matters most

Told in English, Telugu.

In a little village near the Godavari river, there lived a boy named Ravi. He was eight years old, and on this morning he was very, very busy. It was Vinayaka Chavithi, and Ravi had decided that this year, his puja would be the best puja in the whole house.

He woke up before the roosters. He bathed with cold water and did not even complain. He put on his new white shirt and his new veshti, and he lined up the patri leaves on a plate, one by one, neat as soldiers.

Then his little sister Sirisha came running in. She was five, with flowers in her hands and mud on her knees.

"Anna, Anna! I brought you yellow flowers for Vinayakudu! And look, I made a tiny clay Ganesha all by myself!"

Ravi frowned. "Sirisha, your hands are muddy! You will spoil my clean plate. Go away!"

He pushed her hand back, not very hard, but hard enough. The flowers fell. And the tiny clay Ganesha fell too, and its little trunk broke off.

Sirisha looked at it. Her lip shook. Then, without a word, she ran out of the room.

Ravi felt a small, uncomfortable feeling in his tummy. But he told himself, "She will be fine. I have to finish my puja."

In the kitchen, Nanamma was cooking. The whole house smelled of jaggery and cardamom. "Ravi, kanna," she called, "come and taste my payasam."

Ravi ran to her. Payasam was his favourite thing in the whole world. Nanamma gave him a spoonful from a small brass pot. He blew on it, put it in his mouth, and then his face went all wrinkly.

"Chee, Nanamma! It is sour! It tastes like pulusu!"

Nanamma smiled a quiet smile. "Ah, yes. I made it in yesterday's pulusu pot. I did not wash it."

"But why?" cried Ravi. "Everyone knows you cannot cook sweet things in a dirty pot! The good milk, the good jaggery, all of it is spoiled!"

"Very true," said Nanamma, and she wiped her hands on her saree. "Don't worry, the real payasam is in the big pot. This little one was only for you. Sit down, kanna. I want to tell you a verse."

Ravi sat on the low wooden stool. Nanamma closed her eyes, the way she always did when she remembered a poem.

"Long, long ago, there lived a poet named Vemana. He wrote short, simple verses that everyone in our land still remembers. At the end of each one, he says, Vishwadabhirama vinura Vema. Listen to this one."

And she sang it softly.

Aatmashuddhi leni aachaaramadi yela, bhaandashuddhi leni paakamela, chittashuddhi leni Shivapooja lelaraa, Vishwadabhirama vinura Vema.

Can you say the last line with me? Vishwadabhirama vinura Vema.

"What does it mean, Nanamma?" asked Ravi.

"Vemana says, what is the use of rituals if your heart inside is not pure? What is the use of cooking in a pot that is not clean? And what is the use of a puja if your mind is not clean? It is like that sour payasam, kanna. You can bring the best leaves and wear the best clothes, but if your heart has unkindness in it, the prayer becomes sour."

Ravi went very still. He thought about the yellow flowers on the floor. He thought about the little clay Ganesha with its broken trunk. He thought about Sirisha's shaking lip.

"Nanamma," he whispered, "I think my heart is a pulusu pot."

Nanamma laughed gently and stroked his hair. "Then wash it, kanna. Hearts are easy to wash. You only need a little water of sorry."

Ravi jumped up. "Sirisha!" he called. "Sirisha, where are you?"

She was not in the puja room. She was not in the front verandah. She was not under the big neem tree where she liked to play. Ravi's heart began to beat fast. He ran to the backyard. "Sirisha! Please come out!"

Then he heard a tiny sniff. It came from behind the haystack near the cowshed, where Lakshmi the cow was chewing slowly, as if she knew a secret.

Ravi tiptoed around the haystack. There sat Sirisha, hugging her knees, holding the broken clay Ganesha in one hand and its little trunk in the other.

Ravi sat down beside her in the straw, new white shirt and all.

"Sirisha," he said, "I am sorry. I was thinking only about my clean plate, and I forgot to keep my heart clean. Your flowers were beautiful. And your Ganesha is beautiful too."

Sirisha looked up. "But his trunk is broken."

"Then let us fix it together," said Ravi. "Come, I know where Thatha keeps the wet clay."

The two of them pressed the little trunk back on, very carefully, and smoothed it with their fingers until you could not even see the crack. Ravi's hands got muddy. His shirt got a brown spot. And for some reason, he did not mind at all.

When the family sat down for the puja, there were two Ganeshas on the plate. One was the big shiny one Amma had bought from the market. The other was a tiny clay one with a slightly crooked trunk. And all around them were yellow flowers, a little crushed, but bright as sunshine.

Ravi folded his hands. He did not think about whose puja was the best. He only felt warm and light inside, as if someone had washed his heart and set it out in the sun to dry.

After the puja, Nanamma brought the real payasam from the big clean pot. It was sweet and creamy and perfect.

"Now this," said Ravi, licking his spoon, "tastes like a clean heart."

And Sirisha giggled, and Nanamma smiled, and somewhere, long ago, Vemana must have smiled too.

Goodnight, little one. Vishwadabhirama vinura Vema.