Why Did Dharmaraja Gamble?

“How could Yudhishthira be called Dharmaraja when he gambled away his kingdom, his brothers and even his wife? Wasn't it adharmik of him to gamble?”

Many people ask this question. 

After the Rajasuya Yagna was completed, Vyasa Maharishi blessed Yudhishthira. But he also gave him a terrible prophecy.

“A great war will take place in the future. The entire Kuru race will perish, except for the five Pandavas. And you, Yudhishthira, will be responsible for this calamity.”

Yudhishthira was devastated.

That very moment, he took a vow.

“I won’t allow this to ever happen! From now onwards, I will never speak harshly or refuse any request or do anything at all to displease anyone, especially the Kauravas! I will be even more alert in following the Kshatriya code of conduct.”

Some time later came the invitation from Dhritarashtra to play the game of dice.

Yudhishthira accepted it - because it was against the Kshatriya code to refuse an invitation, and equally, because of his vow.

The game began.

Yudhisthira did not question the terms of the game.

He didn’t object to Shakuni throwing the dice on Duryodhana's behalf.

He didn't protest against the outrageous stakes. 

Why?

Because his whole focus was on not antagonizing the Kauravas. 

He was desperate to prevent the calamity that Vyasa had foreseen.

Yudhishthira was trying to control the future. He believed that if he acted carefully enough, he could prevent the prophecy from coming true.

He had taken doership upon himself.

His intention was to avert a catastrophe. But in trying to control what might happen tomorrow, he lost sight of what he should do today.

In trying to protect the Kuru race, he neglected the welfare of his own brothers and wife who were his responsibility!

What could he have done differently?

Instead of taking the onus on himself, maybe he could have sought counsel?

He could have turned to Krishna for guidance?

We also often behave in this way. In the sense that we try to control every outcome in our life only by our own efforts.

We compromise on what is right because we fear what might happen if we don't.

We say we are being wise, when it is actually fear that drives our decisions.

Like Yudhishthira, we become so preoccupied with preventing an unpleasant future that we fail to see the harm we are causing in the present.

The Bhagavad Gita teaches us the best way out – do what is right, recognize the limits of your own control, and surrender the outcome to the Lord.

Seven Days to Live

Sant Tukaram’s wife Avali was known to be short-tempered and critical of the way he spent all his time in devotion to Vitthal.

A young man once approached Sant Tukaram and asked him:

“Maharaj, how is it that you are always so peaceful despite your wife’s argumentative nature? You never seem to lose your temper. You treat everyone with love. What is the secret of your calm?”

Tukaram replied, “Forget that, but I know a grave secret about you.”

“What is it, Maharaj?” the young man asked.

“You have only seven days left to live.”

Stunned, the young man went away.

On the seventh day, he returned to Tukaram.

“Maharaj,” he said, “my time is almost over. I have come to seek your blessings.”

Tukaram asked, “During these seven days, did you quarrel with anyone? Did you lose your temper or hold on to anger?”

“No, Maharaj,” the young man replied. “How could I? Because I had so little time left, I tried to spend it peacefully with my loved ones.”

He explained how he had stopped shouting at his mother when the food had less salt or more spice. He had given up arguing with people over small things, trying to prove himself superior. He no longer got triggered by whatever people said to him, or how they behaved with him.

Tukaram smiled.

“Remember the question you asked me, about how I stay peaceful always? Now you know the answer. I live everyday with the awareness that death can come at any moment. Why waste the little time we have in anger, quarrels and resentment? Why not live with love and kindness instead?”

The young man understood.

Can we?

Amavasya With a Twist

“What is the best time?”

“The day after tomorrow, on the day of Amavasya. Get your royal elephant to start marching. This will guarantee that victory is yours!”

This was the shocking conversation between Duryodhana and Sahadeva just days before the Kurukshetra yuddha.

Bheema entered just as Duryodhana left. He demanded to know why their arch enemy had come to their camp.

“Duryodhana came to consult to me regarding the most auspicious moment to begin the war.”

“I hope you told him the wrong time to ensure defeat of the Kauravas.”

Sahadeva was angry. “Of course not! How can I abandon the ethics of my profession as an astrologer? I told him the exact right time that will ensure his victory!”

Now it was Bheema’s turn to fume.

“The elder brother destroyed us by playing a game of dice, and the youngest one by being a righteous astrologer!”

At that very moment, Krishna entered and was apprised of the situation.

He had just one question for Sahadeva:

“What made you tell the truth to Duryodhana?”

“The courage that You are with us, O Krishna, and that You always protect those who follow dharma!”

Krishna smiled. The ball was now in His court.

The next afternoon, Krishna went to the riverside spot where Duryodhana was sure to see Him. He began performing the tarpana – the customary oblations offered to ancestors on the day of Amavasya.

Duryodhana was perplexed.

“Why are you doing the tarpana today, Krishna? Amavasya is tomorrow!”

Krishna laughed, “Who told you that, Duryodhana? Today is Amavasya!”

Duryodhana was aghast. He ran to march the royal elephant, for that was what Sahadeva had advised.

Watching this, the deities descended from Swarga.

Chandra and Surya came forward, and asked Krishna why He was doing tarpana a day before Amavasya. He laughed and asked them a simple question.

“Define Amavasya.”

“It is when the Sun and the Moon are aligned together!”

“Well, just look at your positions right now!” quipped the Lord.

Surya and Chandra were in perfect alignment!

“Till now it wasn’t Amavasya, but now it definitely is!” laughed Krishna.

Duryodhana finished marching the royal elephant and was relieved. Victory, he thought, was now assured. But inwardly, he was fuming at the treachery of Sahadeva, who had given him the wrong day for Amavasya.

As he rushed back, he encountered the grandsire Bhishma.

“Where are you rushing in such a black mood, Duryodhana?”

“I’m going deal with Sahadeva. He told me that tomorrow in Amavasya, and marching the royal elephant would guarantee me victory! The liar! I won’t spare him!”

Bhishma was confused.

“But tomorrow IS Amavasya! Sahadeva didn’t lie!”

“I knew it, Pitamaha! You’ve always been a supporter of the Pandavas, and hated us Kauravas! You’re also lying now!”

Unperturbed, Bhishma asked Duryodhana,

“Who told you that today is Amavasya?”

“Of course today is Amavasya! Go and see for yourself! Krishna is sitting by the riverside, performing the Amavasya tarpana!”

The next question from Bhishma made Duryodhana realize his folly.

“For whom is Krishna performing tarpana?”

Duryodhana had totally missed this point. Tarpana is performed for departed parents and ancestors. Krishna’s parents Vasudeva and Devaki were both alive and well in Dwaraka!

Duryodhana was now full of rage. Rage born out of despair. He had hastily moved the royal elephant the day before the actual Amavasya. That cowherd Krishna had outwitted him. Victory had slipped away from him!

He reached the riverside. Krishna had just finished the tarpana ritual and was standing up. Sarcastically, Duryodhana asked,

“Who is that fortunate soul for whom you performed the tarpana?”

Krishna had a hard look on His face.

“It was for you, evil Duryodhana! Your destruction in the Kurukshetra war is inevitable, so I performed the tarpana in advance!”

Yet again, Krishna had saved the Pandavas who had unconditionally surrendered at His lotus feet!

What lessons can we learn from this story?

1. Sahadeva knew exactly who was asking him for advice. He also knew what the consequences could be. Yet he did not manipulate his knowledge to favour his own side. He stuck to dharma.

Dharma means doing what is right even when it may be inconvenient for us.

2. Sahadeva did what was his duty, and left the outcome to Krishna. This, in a nutshell, is karma yoga.

3. Perhaps most important of all, this story teaches us:

यतो धर्मस्ततो जयः — Yato Dharmaḥ Tato Jayaḥ– where there is dharma, there is victory

Note: This story appears in the Villi Bharatam, a Tamizh adaptation of the Mahabharata authored by Villiputhurar in the 14th century. This narration of mine is largely based on the explanation of this episode by Dr. U. Ve. Thirukudanthai N. Venkatesh in his upanyasams.

This episode explains the origin of the Bodhayana Amavasya – the New Moon day observed one day ahead of the regular Amavasya.

It Started with Some Spoilt Bananas

“These bananas are spoilt.”

“Discard them, give them to some cow.”

“Where will we find a cow now?”

And, with that last, seemingly rhetorical question, I went and placed the bananas near the Tulsi plant.

If you’re thinking that it’s strange of me to be reporting this mundane conversation, wait till you learn of the stranger event that followed.

It was a normal relaxed Sunday morning.

I had just finished purchasing vegetables from the vendor who comes by my house, and was turning to go back inside.

Just then, a man leading a Basava (bull), began passing by. Even as I had the thought that I should offer some money to him, the guy called out,

“Akka, do pooja for Basava! Offer him a banana, at least!”

I agreed, went inside, brought a banana – a fresh one – and started to offer it while also extending the money towards the man.

He stopped me, saying,

“Give Basava some rice and jaggery also, Akka!”

As I turned to go inside again to get those items, the guy declared,

“Wait, Akka, I’ll bring Basava inside your house! You can do the pooja to him there itself!”

Now, I know that a cow entering your house is one of the most auspicious events that can happen. But I wasn’t too sure about whether that held true for a bull, too. But then, the Basava was carrying a vigraha of some deity, so I guessed it was good only.

The next moment, it struck me that the vigraha was adorned with 3 horizontal lines on the forehead - a direction that was obviously not in alignment with the 3 vertical lines of the sampradaya we follow!

And because of my relatively liberal upbringing, I didn’t know if this should be a cause for concern. But then, haven’t we often welcomed people with those same 3 horizontal lines on their forehead into our home, who have come asking for donations, and never sent them away empty-handed? Then, where’s the question of doubt now when their presiding deity is at the door?

Even as all these conflicting thoughts ran through my mind, the decision was made for me. The man started walking in through the gate, following me into the house, pulling Basava behind him.

I powdered some jaggery, mixed it with some rice in a plate and offered it to him. Then both me and my husband respectfully did pradakshina of the Basava, and the next moment, there was the gurgling sound of a holy outpouring from Basava.

“Don’t worry, Akka, it’s a blessing, only!”

The guy spoke pacifyingly, perhaps because he was worried about what these city people thought of such things, little realizing that if someone knows enough to let Basava enter, they know that this outpouring was a sanctification of the home, too!

Next, we offered some money and the man started leaving, tugging at the rope to get Basava to move out.

Was it a special kind of tug that Basava recognized as meaning “Stay, don’t move”? or was Basava really waiting for something else? I don’t really know the answer but Basava kept resisting the move.

Now the man told us that he was taking Basava to a place where a temple (of that deity on Basava’s forehead) was being constructed. And followed it up by saying that perhaps Basava wanted us to contribute money to that temple.

Now someone who has been willing to offer pooja for Basava is not likely to refuse this request, right?

So, some more daana was given and now, Basava walked out peacefully.

The entire episode was surreal, and left us in a kind of daze.

Because, remember the earlier conversation I reported about offering spoiled bananas to a cow?

Was that us tuning into the universe’s plan, or was the plan orchestrated by the Lord to let us fulfil our wish?

Either way, it feels like yet another occasion where the Lord has showered His ‘nirhetuka krupa’ – unmerited, unconditional grace – on us!

The Lord Who Did Exactly As He Was Told: Yathoktakari Perumal

In any temple dedicated to Lord Vishnu in the shayana, or reclining, form, He lies from left to right, on Adisesha, on His back or right side, with His right arm supporting His head or resting on a pillow. His left hand extends along His side.

However, in the Tiruvekka temple at Kanchipuram, this form is uniquely reversed, giving it the name Maaru Sayanam — the “Different Sleeping Posture.” Here, the Lord rests from right to left, with His head on His left arm. Not only is His posture different, He has a unique name too.

In Sanskrit, He is known as Yathoktakari, and in Tamil, Sonna Vannam Seitha Perumal. Both mean, “The Lord who did exactly as He was told.”

What did He do? By whom was He told to do it? And who was it that dared to give instructions to the Supreme Lord Himself?

When Tirumazhisai Azhwar was living near the Tiruvekka temple in Kanchipuram, an old lady served him with devotion. Pleased with her service, the Azhwar blessed her to regain her youth.

Charmed by her beauty, the king married her. But over the years, he noticed that while he was growing older, she seemed to remain young without ageing.

When he asked her about it, she revealed the secret of how she had regained her youth.

The king now wanted the same boon. So he sent word for Tirumazhisai Azhwar to come to the court.

The Azhwar wasn't there, so his ardent devotee, Kanikannan, went to the king's court to find out the reason for the summons.

The king conveyed his wish to Kanikannan.

Kanikannan replied that his guru would not use his spiritual power to fulfil a petty worldly desire of the king.

The king flew into a rage.

“How can your guru disobey me? Tell him that he must come to court and sing my glories!”

“My guru, Tirumazhisai Azhwar, only sings the glories of Lord Sriman Narayana. He will never use his tongue to glorify a mere human being.”

“If your guru won't do it, then you, his disciple, must do it!”

“My tongue only sings the glories of my guru. It will not sing the glories of anyone else!”

Furious, the king ordered Kanikannan to leave Kanchipuram.

Kanikannan returned to his guru and reported everything. He then started walking away, obeying the king's command.

Tirumazhisai Azhwar began walking behind him.

And then, Azhwar turned to the Lord of Tiruvekka.

“Kanikannan is leaving. I am leaving. You too roll up Your serpent bed and follow us!”

And the Lord did exactly that!

He rose from His serpent bed and followed Tirumazhisai Azhwar, who was following Kanikannan.

The three of them left Kanchipuram.

And immediately, the town lost its brilliance and prosperity.

The king rushed to seek forgiveness from the Lord, whose departure had plunged the place into darkness.

The Lord directed him to Tirumazhisai Azhwar.

Azhwar pointed him towards Kanikannan, who humbly accepted the apology and prepared to return to Kanchipuram.

Kanikannan began walking back.

Tirumazhisai Azhwar began to follow him.

Then he turned to the Lord and said:

“Kanikannan is returning to Tiruvekka. I am returning. You too roll up Your serpent bed and come back with us!”

And the Lord did exactly that!

Only, when He returned, in a hurry, He lay down from right to left instead of the original left to right position.

Or, as some Acharyas explain, perhaps He lay down in this unique position as a permanent reminder of how He bends to the will of His dear devotee.

This story tells us something profound about the relationship between Bhagavan and His bhakta.

The infinite Lord becomes bound to the words of a finite being.

Out of overpowering love, the all-powerful Lord gives up His power and simply obeys the instructions of His devotee.

We often think of devotion as our effort to reach God.

We travel to temples, undertake pilgrimages, chant His name, offer flowers, and we fold our hands and pray. Which is wonderful.

But Yathoktakari Perumal reminds us of something even more beautiful.

When the relationship between the devotee and the Lord becomes deep enough, the direction can reverse.

It is not merely the devotee going towards the Lord.

The Lord comes after the devotee.

When Tirumazhisai Azhwar said,

“I am going. You come with me.”

The Lord quietly followed him….

That is why, even today, the name of this Perumal carries the memory of that astonishing moment.

Not simply Vishnu or Narayana or the Lord reclining on Adisesha.

Yathoktakari. Sonna Vannam Seitha Perumal.

The Lord who did as He was told!

The Lord does not become smaller by obeying His devotee.

He becomes more lovable.

He has been waiting for us since eternity.

All that remains is for us to turn towards Him.

 

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.

A Night of Chaos, A Touch of Leela in Vrindavan

3rd June, 2026; 6.15 pm

We jostle through a sea of pilgrims flooding the narrow lanes of Vrindavan. The crowd is so great that e-rickshaws and cycle rickshaws have been stopped beyond a point. It’s the adhika maasa effect, we’re told.

For now, we’re blissfully unaware of what this will mean for the rest of our evening. They say that in Vrindavan, nothing happens by chance.

“It would be great if we had a bike to navigate these lanes,” my husband says.
“You don’t even know these roads—it won’t help,” I say.

I can’t see his reaction—I’ve taken off my glasses and stuffed them into my bag after a notorious Vrindavan monkey tried to snatch them.

We reach a small clearing when a lanky young man walks up to us. He’s overheard us asking for directions to Keshi ghat for the Yamuna arati.

“I’ll take you,” he says. On his bike.

Is this the handiwork of Krishna, deciding to grant my husband’s wish expressed just a minute ago?

But there’s no time to ponder because our biker is hurrying us up. He gets on first, and my husband sits behind him. I’m wearing a saree and can’t straddle the seat, so I have to struggle to fit myself into the leftover space, and I grab the rear metal rail for balance.

And then begins one of the most surreal, white knuckle rides of my life.

The bike twists and turns through blind-ended gullies that are barely wide enough for a pedestrian, yet crammed with bikes from both directions. The young men of Vrindavan seem to lack caution, but they more than make up for it with their devotion. Near-collisions only evoke a soft “Radhe-Radhe” from both riders.

Faces, houses, monkeys, movement—it’s overwhelming. I shut my eyes and begin chanting the Lord’s names.

Thirty minutes later, our biker drops us at Keshi ghat, and starts to leave. Some intuition drives my husband, and he asks the guy if he will wait and take us back. After a quick bargain, the deal is finalized by us paying him 1/3rd of the total cost as advance.

I take a picture of his vehicle.

I give a missed call to his phone to keep a record of his number in my call log for easy access later.

We get swept into the crowd and reach the ghat just as the arati ends. Moving further along, we find another pooja being set up. A young devotee guides us through a sankalpa and leads a recitation of the Yamunaashtakam of Sri Vallabhacharya.

After about 45 minutes, we decide to leave.

We reach the point where the biker had promised to wait.

And find no bike or biker waiting.

I pull out my phone to call him.

I open my call log and scroll once.

Then I scroll again.

The number isn’t there.

Doubting my own eyes because my glasses are still inside the bag, I hand over the phone to my husband.

He checks.

Nothing.

The number we had just saved has vanished.

We wait. Walk around. No sign of him.

An e-rickshaw driver nearby refuses to help. He says every road is completely jammed.

As we begin to worry about how we’ll get back, our biker suddenly reappears from a side lane, grinning. He says he waited, assumed we’d be late, and went to drop someone nearby.

We climb back on.

The return ride is even more terrifying. My slipper slips off at one point. We stop, retrieve it, and continue—squeezing past barricades meant to stop bikes altogether.

Hanging on for dear life, we marvel at our biker’s artful navigation through the labyrinthine gullies, a skill that would put even Google Maps to shame.

We reach our destination, but still need to cover almost 2 kilometres to reach our hotel. And impossibly, the crowd seems to have swelled even more.

Our biker says he can’t come beyond this point. We finish paying him. He then offers to find us another ride to the hotel, and engages another bike to ferry us there.

A few minutes later, we’re sitting in the cool environs of Govinda’s restaurant, eating our satvik meal.

As the noise of the evening settles, questions surface.

We wonder, “What was this entire experience for? Why did that biker’s phone number disappear from my phone? How did he miraculously appear, then disappear, and re-appear? What account from which past janma were we settling by riding precariously through these roads of Vrindavan?”

And then, I find my mind drifting to the numerous upanyasams I have heard, that describe how the Mischief-Monger ran around the houses stealing butter from the gopis of Vrindavan. 

We’ve been told that He stole not just the butter, but also the hearts of the Vrajawaasis. 

And that He steals the sins of those who listen to stories of His theft.

Maybe He brought us here and took us on this ride to steal our sense of doership, our feeling of being in control?

Was this biker more than just a biker?

Just as Parthasarathy guided Arjuna, he had been our saarathy—leading us through confusion, straight to Keshi ghat, to fulfil our wish for Yamuna darshan.

Who knows – perhaps he was some great-great-great-great-great-grandson of one of those gopis, or gopas, who had been fortunate enough to have danced and played with Krishna?

Maybe sitting next to him, and driving along with him, and offering him a small amount of money has multiplied our punya, and nullified our paapaas of some past janma?

Maybe the time spent with him has been the satsang we need to fuel our sadhana ahead?

Previously, I used to feel that our travels would be more fulfilling if we planned them with greater foresight instead of impulsively plunging into a trip. But after 25 years, you learn to stop resisting. So, this time, when this Vrindavan-Mathura detour got impulsively added to a planned Badrinath yatra, I went in without a murmur. Little did I know that this going with the flow would give me one of the most memorable yatra experiences of my life!

How boundless must His karuna be, to grant such wondrous experiences to ordinary people like us!