As always, Rajan’s health challenges lay heavy on my heart. I did not share all my son’s medical challenges with my relatives and parents because it would worry them tremendously. His testes had not descended, and there was still concern over his kidneys and his small stature, but Rajan looked healthy and normal. He brought joy into our lives just by his presence.
In April 1984, I decided it was time to go to the Naina Devi temple. Years earlier, I made a pledge to Naina Devi, a goddess of Hindu mythology: “If you keep Rajan well during his surgeries, I will come to the temple and do pushups across the 1.5 mile distance up the hill to your first gate.”
There are many phrases, called jaikaras, chanted over and over by people who come to Naina Devi with their requests. A common one is “Jai Mata Di,” meaning, “You fulfill everybody’s wish.” On the appointed day, I would lie down at the beginning of the path with my arms stretched forward, and I would mark the dirt at the point my fingers reached. While saying my own jaikara in Hindi, “Please accept my plea,” I would stand up, move to the mark in the dirt, and lay down again, still chanting my chosen jaikara. This ritual was called a Dandhot, and I would repeat it over and over until I reached the temple gate.
When I arrived at the temple with my wife, my sons, and my parents, only Raj knew what I planned to do at the temple site. Neither my parents nor my sons knew anything. It was a matter I kept close to my heart, knowing I must be strong and determined to accomplish the strenuous feat.
We arrived at the parking lot two miles away from the Naina Devi temple. The steep steps leading up to the temple gates were unmistakable. I could see devoted worshipers climbing to the top. On either side of the steps, there were souvenir shops selling religious items. As my family members got out of the car and stretched, I tied a red bandana around my head, a symbol of a devotee of Naina Devi. A few minutes later, we walked together to the winding pathway that led up the hill and through the trees. My sons, who had been noisy and talkative in the car, were now quiet and observant, curious to see what would happen next. Before beginning our walk to the temple, we hired an Indian boy to carry Rajan on his back because Rajan was small and would have trouble walking up such a steep hill in his orthopedic shoes.
The steep path zigzagged, making the ascent much longer. My parents were amazed I was doing the Dandhot ritual, and they prayed for me to successfully complete it. As I ascended the hill, my mother and father spoke encouraging words to me while Raj and the kids walked a few steps behind. Thirty minutes later, I reached the steps where I took a short break. There were more than 450 steep steps, and since my mother could not walk up them, we hired two men to carry her in a palki, a chair roped to a long, thick wooden rod. With the men on each side of the rod, they began to carry her.
Gathering my strength and taking a deep breath, I climbed the steps in the same manner I climbed the hill. Other people were walking up the steps at the same time, and they looked toward me. Many of them chanted with me to help fulfill my vow. Others spoke encouraging words, saying, “You can do it. Not much farther to go.” The sun blazed hot on the concrete and marble steps. Subhash and Christopher walked behind me. Raj walked to my left, and the boy carrying Rajan was on my right. Rajan, seven years old, was too young to know that my prayers were for him, but I prayed all the harder, chanting until my throat felt raw. My lips were parched, and my bandana soaked the sweat from my forehead. I prayed for his health with all my might, and at the very last step, I remained prostrate a moment longer, saying my jaikara with as much feeling as I could muster. Tired and my shirt soaked with sweat, I smiled as I came slowly to my feet. I made it to the top, finally accomplishing what only the truest devotees would do as I fixated on the promise of my heart.
The Indian boy set Rajan on the ground, and the two men helped my mother out of the palki. Together, my family and I entered the temple, where I stood in front of the statue, praying, “Please accept my pledge and continue to protect and provide good health to Rajan.” It had been a good day, one of hope and joy, and despite the troubles Rajan faced, I knew his life would be blessed.
In May 1984, New Delhi’s temperature rose to a sweltering 120 degrees. During this time, Rajan would come home from school red-faced and sweaty. Without saying a word, he would go straight to the bedroom he shared with his brothers and sit in front of the A/C. When mealtime came, he was uninterested in any food we gave him, and he would go to bed in the
