Whose Strength is it, Anyway?

Once, Sudarshana Chakra grew proud of his power and achievements.

“Who does the Lord rely on to protect His devotees and destroy evildoers, if not me?” he thought. “Was it not I who slew the crocodile that seized Gajendra? Was it not I who severed Shishupala’s head? And when Durvasa Rishi pursued Ambarisha, was it not I who chased the great sage across the universe and humbled his pride?”

Lord Jagannath of Puri perceived this growing pride. He summoned Sudarshana and said, “Go and tell Hanuman to come to Puri at once.”

Sudarshana was taken aback. And angry.

“I am so powerful, and the Lord sends me on an errand?”

Yet, he could not disobey the Lord. He set off to deliver the message.

Hanuman listened and replied calmly, “Very well. You go. I’ll come.”

Sudarshana hurried back to Puri, still seething with resentment. Determined to prevent Hanuman from entering the temple, he assumed four forms and whirled furiously around its four entrances, guarding each one.

Hanuman understood what was happening.

He assumed a gigantic form with eight arms. With four of them, he seized the four forms of Sudarshana Chakra. With two others, he continued to sing the Lord’s praises, while the remaining two were joined in reverence to Lord Jagannath.

To this day, this eight-armed form of Hanuman is worshipped as Chaari Chakra Hanuman at the Jagannath Temple in Puri.

Humbled, Sudarshana sought the Lord’s forgiveness. Lord Jagannath relented and, according to one account, granted him pride of place atop the temple, where he is revered as the Nila Chakra.

Another account holds that Sudarshana was punished for his arrogance and came to be represented as a pillar, or stambha, beside Lord Jagannath.
                       

Garuda, the mighty vehicle of Lord Vishnu, had a pact with the serpents, his natural prey. Each day, one serpent would be offered to him as food.

One day, it was the turn of Sumukha, a serpent whom Matali, the charioteer of Indra, had chosen as his son-in-law.

Unwilling to let Sumukha meet his fate, Matali sought Indra’s help. Indra, in turn, directed Sumukha to Lord Vishnu. The Lord granted him protection.

When Garuda learnt that Sumukha had been granted refuge, he flew to the Lord in a fury.

“How could You do this to me?” he demanded. “Is this the reward I receive for carrying You and Your consorts wherever You wish to go?”

Lord Vishnu smiled.

“Garuda, do you truly believe that it is you who carries Us? Come here. Lift My little finger. Surely, that should be an easy task for one as mighty as you!”

Confident of his strength, Garuda approached the Lord and tried to lift His little finger.

But he could not.

As he struggled, the weight became unbearable, and he found himself crushed beneath it. His strength, of which he had been so proud, was powerless before the infinite might of the Lord.

At last, Garuda understood. Whatever strength he possessed, whatever service he had rendered, had been possible only through the Lord’s grace.
                                 

Today is Ayudha Pooja, the day we worship the tools and instruments through which we carry out our work.

Sudarshana Chakra and Garuda remind us that even the mightiest instruments of the Lord have no power independent of Him.

And what of us?

We take pride in our knowledge, skills, achievements or the positions we occupy. We believe that our hard work alone has brought us success, or that an institution, a family or a team cannot function without us.

This Ayudha Pooja day, let us learn from the examples of Sudarshana and Garuda.

तेन विना तृणमपि न चलति।

Tena vinā tṛṇam api na calati.

Without Him, not even a blade of grass can move.

As we conclude this Navaratri series, let us pray that the Lord may bless us with the wisdom to recognize all the ways in which His grace guides and directs our life!

Taking the Blame

Seeing Manthara, Shatrughna rushed angrily towards her. Bharata stopped him.

"Do not harm her, Shatrughna. Leave her alone."

"But she is responsible for everything! She must be punished!"

"No, Shatrughna. Manthara was only being a loyal servant to her mistress. She cannot be faulted!"

"Then Mother Kaikeyi should have had the wisdom not to get carried away by her words!"

"No, it is not Mother's fault either. She was doing what any mother would do—trying to secure her son's future."

"Then Father is to blame! He could have refused Mother's demands and proceeded with Rama's coronation."

"No. Father had given his word. Belonging to the noble Ikshvaku lineage, he could not go back on his promise."

"Then surely Rama is at fault! He could have refused to go into exile and insisted on his right to the throne."

"No! Rama would never go against Father's word. Obeying our father is his sacred duty. How can we blame him for doing what is right?"

Shatrughna was bewildered. "If Manthara, Mother, Father, and Rama are not to blame, then who is responsible for this calamity?"

Bharata's answer shocked everyone.

"Na Mantharaayaha na cha maathulasyaaha,
Dosho naraagnyaaha, na cha Raaghavasya,
Mat paapamevaartha nimitasya aaseet,
Vanah praveshe Raghunandanasya!"

“Not Manthara, not Mother, not the King, nor Raghava—it is my sin that has become the cause of Raghunandana (Rama) being exiled to the forest!”

Overcome with grief, Bharata lamented:

"If I had never been born, Mother would never have sought the throne for me at Rama's expense. And even if I had been born, had I remained in Ayodhya instead of visiting my maternal grandfather, I could have prevented this calamity. I would have stopped Mother, and Rama would have been crowned king. I alone am responsible!"

Bharata had played no part in the conspiracy. He was not even in Ayodhya when these events unfolded. Yet he took the burden upon himself!

The Sri Vaishnava acharyas celebrate this extraordinary nobility in Bharata. They explain that his name is especially apt: Bharata, the one who bore the burden—even the burden of blame that was never his!

Sri Parasara Bhattar, the great Sri Vaishnava acharya and devotee, stood before Lord Ranganatha, singing the Lord's glories.

Some devotees engaged in temple service were jealous of Bhattar. Standing nearby, they spoke loudly among themselves, criticising him in an attempt to insult him.

Bhattar approached them with a sweet smile. Removing his shawl and some of his ornaments, he respectfully handed them to the one speaking the loudest.

Everyone was shocked.

"Every Sri Vaishnava has two daily duties: to sing the Lord's praises and to lament over his own faults. I became so absorbed in the first that I neglected the second. Thank you, Sir, for doing it for me!"

What others considered an insult, Bhattar received as an opportunity for spiritual growth.

What can we learn from these two incidents?

When something goes wrong, we instinctively explain why we are not responsible. When criticised, we justify ourselves, challenge the critic's judgement, or retaliate.

Accepting a mistake threatens our ego. Taking responsibility when others are at fault is even harder.

If we are busy defending ourselves, where is the room for self-examination?

If we believe the fault always lies elsewhere, will we recognise our own shortcomings?

If every criticism provokes resentment, how can we discover our blind spots?

We may not be able to emulate Bharata or Parasara Bhattar. But we can begin with smaller steps: admitting when we are wrong, apologizing without excuses, listening without defensiveness, and examining criticism before dismissing it.

Who Won the War?

Warriors across the land began arriving and setting up camp for the Kurukshetra war. One young warrior marched with just a bow and three arrows in his quiver. A brahmin met him and asked who he was.

“I’m Barbarik, the grandson of Bhima and son of Ghatotkacha, and I’m going to fight in the Kurukshetra war.”

“With just these 3 arrows?”

“Sir, these are divine arrows. With the first arrow, I will mark out the target. With the second one, I will mark what is to be spared. The third arrow will destroy whatever has been marked by the first arrow.”

“Really? Let’s see if you can hit every leaf of this peepal tree.”

The brahmin secretly pressed a leaf under his foot.

Barbarik took aim and released an arrow. It pierced every single leaf of the tree and began hovering over the brahmin’s foot.

“You have hidden a leaf beneath your foot, haven't you? The arrow is searching for it. Please move your foot, or it may pierce you along with the leaf.”

The amazed brahmin now asked Barbarik:

“So, you will fight for the Pandavas and ensure their victory, right?”

“Actually, I promised my mother that I would always fight for the weaker side. Right now, the Pandava army is smaller, so I will fight on their side. But when the Kaurava army becomes weaker, then I will switch sides and fight for them!”

“Have you considered what might happen if you do that?”

Barbarik had not.

The brahmin explained, “Your intention is to protect the weaker side, but have you considered the consequences of your promise? If you keep changing sides, your power will destroy both armies. This war is a dharmayuddha, and it is dharma that must triumph. But your actions may prevent that.”

Barbarik fell silent. Then he looked at the brahmin with greater respect.

“Who are you, and why are you so concerned about this.”

Krishna now stood in front of Barbarik.

“Will you give me whatever I ask for, Barbarik?”

Barbarik bowed and agreed.

“Give me your head.”

Barbarik understood why Krishna was making this extraordinary request.

“If You deem it necessary, I’ll give You my head. But grant me a boon. I want to witness the entire war.”

Barbarik sacrificed his head, and Krishna placed it on a hill overlooking the battlefield. The head watched the entire war.

The 18-day war was over. The Pandavas had won. They sat talking about their great exploits. Krishna watched with a gentle smile. Soon, each of the Pandavas was claiming that it was his actions that turned the tide of the battle.

“Well, Barbarik witnessed the entire war, perhaps we should ask him,” suggested Krishna.

So they went to Barbarik, and asked:

“Tell us, who was the greatest warrior? Who truly won this war?”

Barbarik replied:

“I couldn’t see any single warrior winning. The only thing I saw constantly was Krishna’s Sudarshana Chakra whirling across the battlefield, cutting down everyone!”

                                         
Pleased with Barbarik's devotion and sacrifice, Krishna blessed him. He granted that Barbarik would be worshipped in the Kali Yuga by His own name, becoming a refuge for those who felt defeated or helpless.

Thus, Barbarik came to be revered as Khatu Shyam, often addressed as Haare Ka Sahara — the refuge of the defeated. Thousands of devotees flock everyday to the Khatu Shyam Ji temple at Sikar, in Rajasthan.

What we get to learn from this story is that firstly, all that happens is by the sankalpa, the will of the Supreme Lord. Our duty is to act sincerely as instruments in His hands, allowing Him to work through us, without feeling proud of our achievements.

Equally important, we learn that possessing power is not enough. We also need wisdom, and viveka, the power of discrimination to use the power responsibly. Compassion for the weaker side is good, but it must never turn into support for adharma.

Let us pray that like Barbarik, we should be guided by Krishna to recognize when to use our strength, when to exercise restraint and how to act in service of the larger purpose of dharma.

Three Kings, One Journey

The King Who Fell from Heaven
Yayati was a great king of the Chandra Vamsha who ruled with dedication and performed great charity. His punya earned him the rare privilege of sharing Indra’s throne in Swarga.

Indra was miffed. He, the king of the gods, had to sit with a mere mortal!

He begged Guru Brihaspati for a way to remove Yayati from the throne.

Next day in court, Indra asked Yayati:

“Tell us how you came to be here.”

Yayati began recounting his achievements.

"I have performed great sacrifices. I donated lot of wealth in charity. I fed the poor, helped the needy and cared for my subjects…."

As he continued, Yayati started slipping, little by little, from the throne.

Indra posed one final question.

"Yayati, who in this world can equal you in generosity?"

"No one!" declared Yayati. "There is none to match me!"

Now, Yayati was thrown completely off the throne and began falling from heaven.

He begged that he should land somewhere in the company of noble souls.

He fell at the spot where the sage Ashtaka was performing a yajna. Later, his daughter’s son Pratardana instructed him in the path of sharanagati — surrender at the lotus feet of Lord Narayana.

What Do I Own?

King Raghu of the Ikshvaku dynasty was renowned for his generosity.

Once, he performed the great Viśvajit sacrifice and gave away all his wealth, emptying his treasury completely, keeping just a few earthen pots for his use.

One day, two people passed by just as he finished sandhyavandana with those pots.

"Look at Raghu Maharaja! He has given away everything. Who can equal his generosity?"

Raghu was angry.

"Why do you say such things?"

"Maharaja, you have given away all your wealth. Surely, you deserve to be praised!"

"Am I the owner of all these things? Does anything truly belong to me? Is not everything the property of God? If I have given some of it to others, why should I be called a great donor?"

The two men fell silent.

The King Who Renounced

Once a king approached a guru.

"Acharya, I wish to renounce the world. Please accept me as your disciple.”

"You talk of renunciation, but you are still wearing your crown. Go back. Return when you are ready."

The king returned.

But the guru again refused, giving no reason.

The disappointed man went into the forest and began living under a tree, spending his days in meditation.

One day, the guru passed by. He called out, "O Rajan!"

No response.

Next day, the guru passed by again, calling out, "O Tyagi!"—O renunciant!

No response.

The man under the tree did not turn towards the guru, nor did he claim the title of renunciant.

Now the guru accepted the disciple.

Yayati teaches us not to be proud of the good we do.

Raghu reminds us that we are only custodians of what God has entrusted to us, not its true owners. 

The renunciant king shows us that even the identity of being a giver-up must be given up.

Indra cannot tolerate someone sharing his throne.

Sriman Narayana on Adisesha is waiting to welcome us to Srivaikuntha.

As Swami Ramanuja explains, He is “Achyuta” (अच्युत), “the One who never allows His devotees to fall.”

Note: The Yayati story appears in the Adi Parva of the Mahabharata. The Raghu and renunciant king story are based on stories narrated in the pravachan of Malook Peeth Shri Rajendra Das ji Maharaj.

The Arrow That Waited for Rama

Ravana turned to his ministers.

“Tell me, who in these three worlds is more powerful than I am?”

One minister hesitantly replied, “Maharaja, King Raghu of the Ikshvaku dynasty is renowned for his valour. His power comes from his wife’s extraordinary chastity and devotion.”

Determined to defeat this rival, Ravana approached Raghu, who was performing his evening prayers by the Sarayu River. He bowed and asked to become his disciple.

During the Aghamarshana rite, Raghu perceived a lion attacking a brahmin’s only cow in southern Bharatavarsha. The desperate brahmin wished that Raghu were there to save it. Without leaving his place, Raghu flung the consecrated water southward, killing the lion and saving the cow.

Ravana was astonished at this ability.

A few days later, he invited Raghu to Lanka. With a twig, Raghu drew a detailed map of the city on the ground, identifying its gates, palaces and trees. Ravana was shocked to realize that Raghu knew his city without visiting it ever.

As he moved, Raghu’s hand accidentally brushed against a corner of the drawing.

“Oh! What have I done? Ravana, a part of your Lanka has been lost!”

Ravana stared. “What do you mean?”

“The part my hand brushed has sunk into the sea. Go and see for yourself.”

Ravana returned to Lanka and discovered that Raghu had spoken the truth. His admiration of Raghu turned first into fear, then into hatred.

Remembering that Raghu’s power was linked to his wife’s chastity, Ravana disguised himself as Raghu and entered her chambers. She recognized him immediately.

“You may imitate his appearance, Ravana, but you cannot imitate his conduct or character!”

Raghu was furious. “You came to me as a disciple, and I welcomed you. You have betrayed my trust. I shall kill you!”

He raised his bow and fitted an arrow to the string. Brahma intervened, revealing that Lord Vishnu would incarnate as Rama in Raghu’s lineage to destroy Ravana. Since the consecrated arrow could not be withdrawn, Brahma promised to preserve it for Rama.

Years later, Ravana obtained that very arrow from Brahma as a boon and concealed it inside a pillar in his private chambers, believing he had outwitted destiny.

When Rama invaded Lanka to rescue Sita, his arrows failed to kill Ravana. Vibhishana revealed that Ravana could be slain only with Raghu’s ancient arrow.

Hanuman entered Lanka disguised as a young brahmin and approached Mandodari, who feared for her husband’s life.

“Please bless my husband! Rama is no ordinary warrior,” she pleaded.

“Why fear, Devi? Is not the arrow safe?”

“Yes! No one can kill Ravana without it.”

“Then worship it with flowers, sandalwood paste and akshata,” Hanuman advised.

Mandodari hurried to the pillar concealing the arrow and performed the worship. As she left, Hanuman transformed into a tiny fly and followed her. Once she was gone, he resumed his enormous form, smashed the pillar and retrieved the arrow.

Rama fitted the arrow to his bow and released it.

The arrow meant for Ravana had finally reached its destined mark!

Ravana’s pride, jealousy and lust led to his destruction. Raghu’s spiritual power, his wife’s pativrata dharma, and Hanuman’s wisdom remind us that when strength is rooted in dharma and surrendered to the Divine, it becomes invincible. No power or cunning can prevail against the will of the Lord, for ultimately, where dharma prevails, the Lord’s grace prevails.

Note: This story does not appear in the Valmiki Ramayana. It is a re-telling from the narration of the kathakar Pujya Indresh Upadhyay.

 

Bhishma’s Vows, Krishna’s Vision

“Why aren’t you killing the Pandavas, Pitamaha? You have always loved them and hated us, Kauravas! You’re my army commander, but where does your loyalty lie?”

Stung by Duryodhana’s accusations, Bhishma declared:

“I will kill all five Pandavas tomorrow!”

He took five arrows, marked each with the name of a Pandava, and infused them with the tapas he had accumulated through a lifetime of brahmacharya.

Duryodhana was thrilled. But what if the old man changed his mind?

“I’ll keep the five arrows tonight and give them to you tomorrow morning.”

A little later, a veiled woman entered Bhishma’s tent noiselessly and fell at his feet.

Hearing her bangles jingle, the grandsire uttered the customary blessing for a married woman:

“Deergha Sumangali Bhava!”

As the woman rose, her veil slipped, revealing Draupadi!

Bhishma was stunned. He had just blessed with a long and auspicious married life, the very woman, whose husbands he had vowed to kill tomorrow.

“Who brought you here?” he thundered, rushing outside.

One glimpse of that familiar Pitambara, and he knew.

“Very well, Krishna! If you have made me break my vow, I shall make you break yours!”

Krishna smiled.

His task was only half done.

A hooded figure entered Duryodhana’s tent, startling him.

“You! How did you get here? Why have you come?”

“I have come to claim the boon you promised me,” replied Arjuna.

Duryodhana’s face paled. The memory of that incident still rankled.

During their vanavasa, Duryodhana had camped near the Pandavas, hoping to insult them. Instead, he was the one humiliated when the Gandharvas captured him. The righteous Yudhishthira had sent Arjuna to rescue him. Grudgingly, Duryodhana had offered Arjuna a boon for saving his life.

Arjuna had declined, saying he would ask for it later.

How had Arjuna remembered that boon now?

“What do you seek?”

“I want the five arrows Bhishma has empowered with our names.”

Bound by his own word, Duryodhana had no choice but to hand over the arrows.

Disaster was averted.

As the war raged on, Bhishma inflicted enormous damage on the Pandava army. Arjuna still hesitated to strike him.

Krishna could take it no longer.

“Arjuna, it seems you are unwilling to fight your Pitamaha. I will have to do it myself!”

Leaping from the chariot, His uttariyam (upper garment) trailing behind Him, Krishna picked up the wheel of a broken chariot, and charged towards Bhishma.

Bhishma immediately laid down his bow and folded his palms.

“I welcome death at Your divine hands, O Puṇḍarīkākṣa!”

Arjuna rushed and caught hold of Krishna, pleading:

“Krishna! Remember Your vow not to lift a weapon during the Kurukshetra war! How can You break Your own word? Come back!”

Krishna smiled. He is Śāntaḥ (शान्तः), the One who is eternally tranquil.

Bhishma had vowed to make Krishna break His vow.

Such is the compassion of the Lord that He is willing to break His own vow to uphold that of His bhaktas!

The battle continued, but Arjuna could not bring Bhishma down.

On the night of the ninth day, Krishna led the Pandavas to Bhishma’s tent.

With folded hands, Yudhishthira asked:

“Pitamaha, tell us how to defeat you.”

“I have a longstanding vow. I will not fight anyone who was born a woman or appears to be one. Let Arjuna stand behind Shikhandi and aim his arrows at me. I will not resist.”

Shikhandi was Amba in a previous birth and had taken an oath to destroy Bhishma.

And so, on the tenth day of the war, the grandsire finally fell, his body pierced by Arjuna’s arrows, decisively changing the course of the war.

Three different situations. Three different solutions. All orchestrated by One Protector of the Pandavas.

The Pandavas had to face danger. Arjuna had to fight. Difficult choices had to be made. But Krishna guided and delivered them from each crisis.

God’s protection does not always come as a miracle that makes every difficulty disappear. Sometimes, it comes as wisdom when we are confused, a timely reminder when we have forgotten, or a way forward when every path seems closed.

The question is – are we prepared to trust Him completely and surrender to Him, like the Pandavas did?

The Unbroken Yawn

https://youtu.be/l6184L76vGA

A Father, a Son, and a Test of Dharma

Kesini's swayamvara was approaching. Two suitors sought her hand: Virochana, the Daitya prince, and son of the famous devotee Prahlada, and Sudhanva, a Brahmana.



In the assembly, when Virochana invited Sudhanva to share his golden seat, Sudhanva refused.

Virochana declared himself superior and ridiculed Sudhanva, saying that a mat of grass was more fitting for him than a seat beside a prince.

The conversation soon turned into a contest of pride. Who was greater — the Daityas or the Brahmanas? Who deserved the higher place?

Sudhanva would not accept the insult. He insisted that wisdom and knowledge was far more important than the power of the sword. Words led to arguments and the two men were ready to stake their life itself on the outcome.

But who could judge such a contest fairly?

Virochana refused to approach either the gods or human beings. Sudhanva proposed an unexpected judge — Virochana's own father, Prahlada!

How could he trust the father of his rival?

Because Sudhanva believed that Prahlada would never speak an untruth, even to protect his own son.

The two approached Prahlada and explained their dispute.



Prahlada now faced a terrible test that no father would ever wish for. One contestant was his own son. The other was the man whose claim he had to judge. A false verdict might protect Virochana, but at what cost?

After some time in thought, Prahlada the judge, declared his verdict.

“Sudhanva is superior to Virochana.”

But the next moment, Prahlada the father turned to Sudhanva, to make one final appeal: “Spare my son's life.”



Sudhanva relented. “Prahlada, you have chosen virtue even at the cost of your own son. I therefore grant him his life.”

Thus, truth prevailed, and mercy followed.

In the Vidura Neeti part of the Udyoga Parva of the Mahabharata, Vidura narrates this story to King Dhritarashtra. His intention is to hold up Prahlada as a role model, and to warn the king against letting his attachment to Duryodhana to override Dharma.

What’s the lesson we can learn?

Prahlada upheld the truth even when his own son's life was at stake. This teaches us that we must not excuse wrongdoing just because it is done by a loved one. The real test of how dharmic we are comes when truth conflicts with our self-interest. If a loved one is doing wrong, will we still show the courage to stand by dharma?

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!

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.