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!

Krishna Returned for Him: Nammazhwar

Krishna had returned to Srivaikuntham after completing His avataram. The very next moment, Kaliyuga began on earth.

Sometime later, the residents of Srivaikuntham noticed that Krishna seemed upset. Before anyone could ask why, He disappeared from there and returned to Bhuloka.

He appeared before a young boy deep in meditation under a tamarind tree in Thirukkurugur.

The tamarind tree standing tall even today (Azhwar Tirunagari, Tamil Nadu)

Sensing Krishna's presence, the boy opened his eyes and smiled with joy.

Krishna smiled too.

This was the devotee He had missed meeting by a mere 42 days.

“Show me how You destroyed the asuras,” the boy said.

Krishna granted him the experience of Putana, Shakatasura, Keshi, Bakasura and more.

“Now show me how You stole butter from the gopis!”

The Lord complied.

“And when Yashoda tied You up? I want to see that too!”

He showed that as well. How the Lord of the Universe allowed Himself to be bound to a grinding stone by a simple gopika.

Overwhelmed by this boundless compassion, the boy fainted and did not wake for six months.

Can we even begin to imagine such devotion?

He longed for the Lord. And the Lord longed for him.

Krishna left Srivaikuntham just to grant His divine experience to this one devotee—the very “Mahatma” He described in the Bhagavad Geeta.

वासुदेव: सर्वमिति स महात्मा सुदुर्लभ:
vāsudevaḥ sarvam iti sa mahātmā su-durlabhaḥ (7.19)
Rare indeed is the soul who sees Me as everything.

How do we know this boy was that Mahatma?

Because he sang in ThiruvAimozhi (6.7.1):

“uNNum sORu parugu nIr thinnum veRRilaiyum ellAm kaNNan emperumAn…”

The food I eat, the water I drink, even the betel leaves I chew—everything is Lord Kannan.

To him, Krishna was dharaka, poshaka, and bhogya—everything.

This boy, to whom Krishna Himself appeared and revealed His leelas, is the great saint Swami Nammazhwar.

Blessed with an all-consuming, deeply personal love for the Lord, his outpourings from divine revelations became the Tamil Veda. So profound was his devotion that he is revered as the very embodiment of Krishna bhakti, and known as “Krishna-Krishnaa Tattvam.”

Today, Vaikasi Visakam, marks the birth star (Thirunakshatram) of Nammazhwar.

If you have visited a temple on Vaikuntha Ekadashi, you would have walked through the “Vaikuntha Dwaram” and received the “Shatari” blessing. Both are closely associated with Nammazhwar.

Vaikuntha Ekadashi is the day he attained moksha and ascended to Srivaikuntham. Walking through the Vaikuntha Dwaram reminds us that with sincere devotion and surrender, Nammazhwar leads us to that divine abode.

The Shatari placed on our heads represents Nammazhwar’s sacred feet. To receive it is to receive his grace—and through him, the grace of the Lord Himself.

Who’s the Best Devotee?

Have you heard this shloka being recited during bhajan sessions or pravachanas / upanyasams?

प्रह्लाद नारद पराशर पुंडरीक
व्यासाम्बरीष शुक शौनक भीष्म दाल्भ्यान् ।
रुक्माङ्गदार्जुन वसिष्ठ विभीषणादीन्
पुण्यानिमान् परमभागवतान् स्मरामि ॥

prahlāda nārada parāśara puṇḍarīka
vyāsāmbarīṣa śuka śaunaka bhīṣma dālbhyan
rukmāṅgadārjuna vasiṣṭha vibhīṣaṇādīn
puṇyān imān paramabhāgavatān smarāmi

Meaning: “I remember (meditate upon) these holy, supreme devotees of the Lord — Prahlada, Narada, Parashara, Pundarika, Vyasa, Ambarisha, Shuka, Shaunaka, Bhishma, Dalbhya, Rukmangada, Arjuna, Vasishta, Vibhishana, and others.”

This shloka lists some of the great bhaktas / bhaagavataas in Sanatan Dharma.

But there’s someone missing from this list – read on to find out who that is!

So, did you get the answer to the question of who was the greatest devotee of the Lord?

Yes, the gopis of Vrindavan!

Also, did you notice something in this story?

Narada is very proud that he is a great devotee.

Moments later, Krishna says He wants the foot-dust of a devotee to cure His headache.

Narada didn’t wonder at how the Omnipotent Lord can ever have a headache. Because he was a bhakta, he forgot his jnana for the moment. All he focused on was that the Lord was suffering, and something needed to be done very quickly.

But then, why doesn’t Narada offer the dust of his own feet?

Why does he instead rush to find other devotees?

Did he forget he is a devotee?

No – it’s more likely that like the rishis, he too was afraid of the “sin” – because this is what he cautions the gopis against.

The gopis were actually the most supreme devotees, because they were willing to even go to naraka if their foot-dust could ease the pain of Krishna!

And Krishna, what does He think about all this?

Here’s another story that gives us the perfect answer!

Once, Arjuna sees Krishna performing pooja to a box.

He is amused beyond words.

“Krishna, I know many people worship You as the Supreme Lord. But whom are You worshipping?”

Krishna’s headache was a pretense, but the tattva He teaches through this episode is a supreme truth.
The Lord values His devotees so much that it is their foot-dust (bhakta-pāda-reṇu) which is supremely sacred to Him!

What better way to please Krishna than to strive to become His bhakta?

Special Note: I had often read/heard the first story. The second story came as a pleasant surprise when my respected brother-in-law Sri. K. S. Venkatesh narrated it to me recently. Gratitude to him for the value-addition of the punch to this post!

 

Bharata's Arrow, Rama's Will

It was past midnight, but Bharata lay awake in Nandigram, tossing and turning, counting and re-counting the days left for Rama’s vanavaas to end.

Suddenly, he saw a huge-bodied asura moving across the sky, carrying a mountain in its hand. Worried that it would be a threat to his Rama’s Ayodhya, Bharata immediately lifted his bow, mentally praying to Rama, and shot an arrow at the ‘asura’.

The arrow struck its mark, and the being hit the ground hard, falling close to where Bharata stood.

In the stillness of the night, Bharata heard it cry clearly. “Raamaa…..”

Had he foolishly erred like his father by hastily shooting the arrow?

Aghast, Bharata rushed to the spot, and saw a huge monkey sprawled on the ground, carrying an entire mountain in his hand.

To his complete astonishment, the monkey greeted him by name.

“Pranaam, Bharata Maharaja! I am Hanuman, the daasa of Rama.”

Quickly, he outlined the entire set of events to the unwitting Bharata.

Ravana’s abduction of Seeta. The ongoing battle. The grave injury of Rama and Lakshmana and all vaanaraas. Jambavan’s bidding to carry herbs from the Sanjeevani mountain. His own inability to identify the herbs and hence, uprooting and carrying the entire mountain.

Bharata was distraught.

“How could I make such a terrible mistake? Why couldn’t I see your real form? How could I think of a devotee like you as being an asura?”

“Fret not, O dear brother of Rama! You were not wrong in what you saw.”

“What? But you’re a bhakta, not an asura!”

“In the moment when you saw me, that’s exactly who I was,” explained Hanuman. “As I sped across the sky with the mountain, for just one tiny moment, I worried whether I would reach on time. For that fraction of time, I forgot that Rama is the doer, and I’m nothing more than an instrument in His hands. I took on the kartrutva, the doership of the action. No wonder I appeared like an asura to you!”

Bharata, still filled with remorse, tried to smile.

“You were already in a hurry, and I have delayed you further. Let me make amends. I’ll shoot an arrow to carry you to Lanka at once.”

Hanuman had learned his lesson. He didn’t wonder if the tiny arrow of Bharata had the strength to support his mighty form and the huge mountain. He only bowed in gratitude, seeing the will of His Rama in the words of Bharata.

Invoking the name of Rama, Bharata made his sankalpa and shot an arrow.

The next moment, Hanuman landed in Lanka in front of Jambavan and Vibheeshana with the herbal mountain.

Even a humble devotee like Hanuman, steeped in the spirit of servitude, was touched momentarily by the sense of ego, the feeling of doership, which, we understand from this story, is an aasuric quality.

When Hanuman faltered thus, the Lord did not punish him; but rather, corrected him, through another devotee.

How much more important, then, is it for ordinary mortals like us, who are so full of self-importance, to seek the company of other devotees, through whom the Lord can correct us?

This incident does not appear in the Valmiki or Kamba Ramayana. It was narrated to me by someone who heard it from a genuine source who said it was probably in some other regional version of the Ramayana. We may not know the origin of the story, but that need not stop us from appreciating the value of this principle in our life and sadhana.

Women in the Ramayana

Women’s day is when we talk about aspects of women empowerment. So I thought of choosing the lens of the Ramayana to see what we women can learn and implement to elevate our lives.

First, let’s have a small quiz. Here are the names of the woman character, and you must give me the name of their husband – ready?
1. Seeta
2. Sumitra
3. Urmila
4. Ahalya
5. Sunayana
6. Sarama

(You probably knew all the answers, except 5 & 6? Sunayana's husband is Janaka Maharaja and Sarama's husband is Vibheeshana)

Now let’s consider the behaviour of some of these women in the Ramayana and talk about what’s the lesson for us in it.

1. Seeta followed Rama into forest for vanavasa – stand by your spouse through the tough times. Marriage is for sharing both joys and sorrows together.

2. Urmila stayed back in Ayodhya while Lakshmana went to vanavasa – sometimes it’s your duty to hold the fort at home while your spouse fights his battles elsewhere. Have the maturity to accept and handle such situations.

3. Sumitra blessed Lakshmana when he insisted on following Rama to vanavas – when your child chooses the right path, although it may be difficult for you to see him suffer, give him your blessings. 

Now let’s see what NOT to do

4. Kaikeyi – was fond of Rama – but when Manthara evoked jealousy against Kausalya, Kaikeyi lost her power of judgement. Jealousy is the greatest monster that destroys our ability to think and reason. Be wary of it. Associate with positive and broad minded persons who uplift us, not those who pull us down!

5. Ahalya – fell prey to temptation – recognized that Indra was not her husband Gautama, but lost her head thinking that her beauty had captivated Indra himself. Steer clear of those who approach you with unholy intentions. Character of the woman is the most crucial to moral behaviour in the family.

6. Shoorpanakha – her immoral desire became the vehicle to cause destruction of entire rakshasa clan. When the woman of the house has ever-growing demands, it can drive the family to destructive ways of life.

7. Sunayana – Janaka’s wife – mother of Seeta. No mention at all of what she did when Seeta chose to go to vanavasa – let your married daughters take their decisions – don’t interfere with their life in a negative way!

8. Sarama – wife of Vibheeshana – retained her good and satvik nature even when in the middle of other rakshasis in Ashoka vana. Didn’t allow their evil behaviour to change her attitude. Stay committed to the right values in life no matter what others around you are doing.

Finally, here are two stories.

Story 1

After the killing of Ravana, when Hanuman went with good news to Seeta, he asked her permission to kill the rakshasis. She refused, saying they had only done what their king had ordered. She further said that all of us make mistakes – it is noble to forgive. Seeta’s mistake – to want the deer, and then speak harshly to Lakshmana. Rama’s  mistake – to listen to Seeta’s words and ignore Lakshmana’s. Hanuman’s mistake also – to stand and listen with interest about mistakes of Rama and Seeta!

Story 2

When pushpaka vimana was bringing back Rama, Seeta and Lakshmana and all vanaras from Lanka, they decided to take with them the vanara wives too.

Those vanara women were very curious to see the famed beauty of Seeta for whom the entire battle had been fought. They judged her on the vanara scale of beauty.

One said “Such big eyes Seeta has!”, another said “Such small waist she has”, third one said, “Forget all that – she has no tail only!”

Seeta heard all this – but only smiled. She who had forgiven the rakshasis who tortured her was not likely to take offense at the jabbering of the vanara women!

What's the lesson for us here? There will always be someone who has standards different from yours. Understand that their viewpoint is valid for them – don’t get annoyed by their comments, but don’t let that dictate your standards, either!

 Learn to draw a protective armour around yourself – "Not my circus, not my monkeys!”

The Fourth Rama

The two young daughters of the Srivaishnava Acharya Uyyakkondar were returning after bathing in the Kaveri. The path was blocked by a wide stretch of thick, slushy mud.

The little girls stopped, wondering how they would cross it.

Just then, Rama Mishra, their father’s shishya, arrived there.

Without another word, he lay down across the puddle, and said, “Don’t worry. Please cross over on my back.”

The girls were shocked and hesitated.

He coaxed them in a loving, but firm voice, and full of reverence, the girls crossed over gently, using his body as their path.

News of this reached Rama Mishra’s acharya, Uyyakkondar, and he summoned the disciple.

“My child,” he said, “what a great spirit of seva you have! Tell me what you desire, and I will grant it!”

Rama Mishra replied, “Swami, I desire nothing but to serve you always.”

In that moment, the guru knew that this shishya was no ordinary soul, but one who could be trusted to carry forward the guru Parampara.

From that day, everyone began calling Rama Mishra as “Manakkal Nambi.” The word “Nambi” is a title for a man who is full of divine gunas. “Manakkal” means “the one who bore the sandy footprints on his back.”

Years later, as Uyyakkondar prepared to depart this world, he called Manakkal Nambi close.

“There is one task you must fulfill,” he said. “The son of Ishwara Muni – Yamunai-thuraivar – you must guide him to carry forward our sampradaya.”

This Yamunai-thuraivar had been a brilliant young scholar. After winning in an intellectual debate, he had won half the kingdom to rule and was known by the name of Alavandar. Administrative duties, royal comforts, and worldly responsibilities slowly distanced him from his spiritual path. This was the person whom Manakkal Nambi had to transform.

When Manakkal Nambi came to see Alavandar, the palace guards refused entry. Nambi did not protest. He simply found another way.

Every day, Nambi brought a type of spinach called thuthuvaḷai keerai and gave it to the palace cooks, requesting them to cook and serve it to Alavandar. They did so, and Alavandar began to enjoy the dish greatly.

One day, the cooks stopped making the dish. Alavandar enquired why, and the cooks replied, “An elderly Srivaishṇava used to bring it. He has not come.”

“Find him,” Alavandar ordered.

A few days later, Manakkal Nambi returned, and was immediately taken to meet Alavandar.

“Swami,” he said respectfully, “please be seated. Tell me what wealth I can give you for your service.”

Nambi smiled. “I don’t want to take your wealth. In fact, I have come to give you a wealth that has been bequeathed by my Acharya.”

From that day, Manakkal Nambi began teaching Alavandar the meaning of the Bhagavad Geeta.

Slowly, Alavandar became a disciple again.

One fateful day, Manakkal Nambi explained the meaning of the Charama Shloka of the Bhagavad Geeta, which preaches surrender at the lotus feet of Krishna. He took Alavandar to Srirangam for darshan of Lord Ranganatha.

As Alavandar stood before Ranganatha, his heart melted. In that moment, the king vanished, and the bhakta was born again.

Eventually, Alavandar took the Srivaishnava sampradaya ahead, and it was he who “found” Ramanujacharya to be annointed his successor in the Acharya Parampara.

But for the intervention of Manakkal Nambi, these events would have been impossible. Paying homage to him in his Yathiraja Saptati, Swami Vedanta Desikan says,

अनुज्जित क्षमा योगम् अपुण्य जन बाधकम् ।
अस्पृष्ट मद रागं तं रामं तुरीयम् उपास्महे ॥

Anujjita kṣamā yogam apuṇya jana bādhakam
Aspṛṣṭa mada rāgam tam Rāmam turīyam upāsmahe

Meaning:

We meditate upon this fourth Rama – Rama Mishra (Manakkal Nambi)
who never abandoned patience, who never caused harm to any being,
and who was untouched by pride or worldly attachment.

There were three great Ramas known to the world before him:

Parashurama (whose rage was uncontrollable)

Dasharatha Rama (who killed the rakshasas)

Balarama (who was filled with attachment)

But this was the fourth Rama. Rama Mishra.

A Rama of perfect patience, perfect compassion, and perfect humility.

He did not fight any great battles. All he did was restore one soul to the fold, and by this, he ensured that the world continues to be guided and led to liberation through the teachings of the Srivaishnava acharyas.

Today, on the tirunakshatram (holy birth anniversary) of Manakkal Nambi, let us offer our obeisances to him, and pray to be guided to lead a meaningful life, filled with the wealth of seva.