Two Temples. One Reminder.

Mathura. Krishna Janma Bhoomi.

I stood in a fast-moving queue, carried along by the quiet urgency of devotees around me. The next moment, I was before the very place believed to be His birthplace—the small, unassuming prison cell where Krishna was born.

The Bhagavatam says that simply hearing of His birth in that prison loosens the fetters of our own existence—the endless cycle of birth and death, of samsara. Standing there, in that tiny space, the weight of that thought overwhelmed me. Tears came unbidden remembering the Sowlabhyam – the accessibility of the Supreme Lord. He chose to enter the world in chains, only to free us from ours.

I stepped out, still carrying that feeling within me, and walked past a small shop selling devotional items. I bought a tiny Krishna vigraha. When the shopkeeper handed it over to me, I was about to put it into my bag. He gently stopped me.

“Don’t just put Him inside like that,” he said.

 “Call Him lovingly—‘Lalla, come… let’s go home.’”

In that simple instruction lay a depth of devotion that gave me new vision. Through this simple shopkeeper, Krishna was reminding me that He was not an object to be carried but a presence to be invited.

Humbled, I lifted the small vigraha, touched it to my eyes and forehead, and silently did as he said. Lalla, come… let’s go home.

Today, He sits in my pooja room—quiet, compassionate, watching over the many things we do right and wrong. And yet, through it all, He continues to bless.

Another journey few days later.

Bhavishya Badri. The place where it is believed that Lord Badrinath will reside in the future, when the present-day Badrinath Dham becomes inaccessible.

Reaching there was a pilgrimage within a pilgrimage—a 45-minute jeep ride from the main road, taking us deeper into stillness. The landscape unfolded into an untouched, pristine space. There was no noise of the world—only the wind whistling through trees, weaving its way between mountain peaks and valleys. The air itself felt different—pure, gentle, filled with a kind of sattvik calm that is hard to describe.

At some point, I noticed that not only was there no internet connectivity, there wasn’t even a trace of a mobile signal.

After darshan, as we made our way back to the jeep, we came across a man selling hot herbal tea. He had a simple setup, offering samples for ₹20. A few of us tried it.

When it was time to pay, almost instinctively, my husband asked, “UPI?”

The man smiled.

“No phone network here, Sir,” he said.

And then, with a quiet conviction that made us all pause, he added,

“Here, everything is only Narayan network.”

We all laughed—but I was struck once again by the profound faith of this herbal tea seller that allowed him to feel and rely on the unmistakable divine presence. A connection that did not depend on signals, towers, or devices.

And it made me wonder… if only I could remain aware of this Narayan network—this constant, unbroken connection we carry within us—even after leaving Badri and return to the noise and rush of everyday life in Bengaluru… how different would my life be? How much lighter, how much steadier, how much more anchored would it be?

Perhaps the true purpose of this yatra was not just His darshan, but the realization that our connection with Him is constant wherever we may be.