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!

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.