"Digamma San Qoppa Sampi," mumbled the village priest in a furious attempt to rekindle the spirits of Lord Shiva.
He had already tenured over a decade at the local temple. Even still, his passion for his task, his dedication to his religion and his compassion for his people never abated one bit. He was charismatic, sympathetic, kind, polite, gentle and all those lovely positive adjectives you could come up with in your spare time. But the problem was that he had no family. He had no one to live for except his religion. The goodness resulting from his daily chantings were to his benefit and his only. When asked about it, he muttered, in his characteristic monotone: "I was born a bachelor, I shall die a bachelor."
But what this priest knew, nobody knew. He had the entire Bhagavad Gita at his finger tips. That was his graduate thesis. People proclaimed him the all knowing, the supreme, the one and only knowledgeable prodigy. That was his reputation. He knew everything — the mantras, the kamas, the sutras, the lords, the devils, their past, their present, future, you name it. He knew everything. Those were his publications. Not one bit would stand unknown. Furthermore, his ability to predict the stars was unfathomable. Astrology was second nature to him. When you asked him to foresee your fate, he would ask, in return, to see not your palm, but the inside of your shirt pocket. That was his eccentricity. He expanded astrology to the realm of human behavior, psychology and cognition. Those were his scientific inventions and discoveries. He knew so much. Often too much. Maybe that's why he couldn't understand the concept of an unknown variable x in algebra.
I used to think his bachelorhood had rendered him a riddle. When he died, not one soul wept.
That was his PhD.