A piece of chocolate.

 Stories awe. To learn from! the giving. Indeed.

In 1933, in Paris, a baby girl was born into a loving Jewish family. Her name was Francine. At the time, there was nothing to suggest that her childhood would be devoured by history.

Seven years later, the world she knew vanished.

In 1940, her father, Robert, was captured by the Germans and sent to a prisoner-of-war camp in Austria. From behind barbed wire and watchtowers, he found a way to send a message home. It wasn’t sentimental. It wasn’t long.

It was urgent.

Run. Leave immediately. Don’t wait.

Francine’s mother, Marcelle, listened. In the summer of 1942, she took her nine-year-old daughter by the hand and fled toward the border, hoping speed might save them. It didn’t.

They were arrested.

Because Robert was a French POW, mother and child were spared immediate deportation. Instead, they were labeled “hostages”—a word that sounded almost merciful until you learned what it meant. Over the next two years, they were moved again and again through France’s transit camps: Poitiers. Drancy. Pithiviers. Beaune-la-Rolande. Each stop was colder, hungrier, closer to disappearance.

On May 4, 1944, that fragile protection ended.

They were ordered onto a train bound for Bergen-Belsen.

Each prisoner was allowed one small bag. Marcelle chose carefully. Hidden among the essentials were two pieces of chocolate—a luxury beyond measure, meant for moments when despair or starvation might otherwise win.

Bergen-Belsen was not a place of sudden death. It was worse. It was decay stretched over time. Hunger gnawed constantly. Disease spread unchecked. Corpses were stacked like discarded objects. Hope thinned by the day.

Francine was ten years old.

One day, in the middle of that nightmare, she noticed a woman lying apart from the others. Pregnant. Alone. In labor. So weak she could barely breathe, let alone survive childbirth. Francine reached into her pocket. She felt the chocolate.

It was her last piece. Her mother’s insurance against collapse. Something that might have meant one more day of survival. She hesitated. Then she gave it away. That single act—small, almost invisible—changed everything.

The sugar gave the woman enough strength. Enough energy to endure the pain. A baby girl was born in a place designed to erase life. Against all logic, both mother and child survived.

Weeks later, Allied troops liberated the camp.

Francine lived. Her mother lived. And somehow, unbelievably, they found Robert again. A family scarred beyond repair—but alive.

Time moved forward.

Francine grew up. She became a teacher. Then something more: a witness. She devoted her life to Holocaust education, traveling, speaking, refusing to allow memory to fade into abstraction.

Decades passed.

At a conference many years later, a woman stood up before speaking and said she needed to do something first.

“My name is Yvonne,” she said. “I’m a psychiatrist from Marseille.” She walked toward the audience.

“I’m looking for Francine Christophe.” Francine raised her hand. Yvonne placed something gently into it.

A piece of chocolate.

“I’m the baby,” she said quietly. For a moment, no one spoke. Because everyone understood: this was not coincidence. This was history closing a circle.

Fifty years earlier, a starving child had chosen compassion over self-preservation. That choice had grown into a life—a doctor who now helped others heal. A life that existed because kindness had appeared in the darkest possible place.

Francine Christophe is now in her nineties. She has children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. She still tells her story. Still insists on remembrance.

That piece of chocolate was never just food.

They tried to destroy empathy. They didn’t. They tried to erase human worth. They couldn’t. In a camp built to strip people of their souls, a ten-year-old girl proved that love can survive even there.

Some acts of kindness echo for generations.

This one echoed for fifty years—until it was returned, not as repayment, but as testimony.

Testimony that humanity endures. That memory matters. That even in hell, people can choose to be human.

Bhooloka Vaikuntham

 When Being in Srirangam Itself Becomes Darshan

Among the sacred places of India, Srirangam holds a unique title —

Bhooloka Vaikuntham

Vaikuntha on Earth.

Pilgrims go to many temples for darshan.

But the stalwarts of the Sri Vaishnava tradition say something astonishing about Srirangam:

“Even if you do not enter the sanctum, even if you do not see the Lord, merely being in Srirangam is enough.”

This is not poetic exaggeration.

It is a spiritual experience echoed by saints, acharyas and countless devotees across centuries.

Let us understand why.

The Temple That Is a Living City

Most temples have a town around them.

Srirangam is the reverse.

The entire town is the temple.

Seven massive concentric walls surround the sanctum — like the seven worlds encircling Vaikuntha. Streets are named as prakaras. Homes, shops, chanting halls, flower markets, goshalas, kitchens — all exist inside the sacred enclosure.

Here, life itself happens inside the temple’s embrace.

When you walk through Srirangam, you are not approaching the temple.

You are already inside it.

“The Air Itself is Sacred”

Many devotees describe the same feeling:

A quiet stillness.

A gentle slowing of thoughts.

An inexplicable sense of safety.

The Sri Vaishnava acharyas believed that continuous worship for over a thousand years has saturated the very atmosphere with nama, mantra and aradhana.

Imagine centuries of:

Vedic chanting

Divya Prabandham recitation

Temple bells

Festivals

Tears of devotion

Millions of folded hands

Can such vibrations disappear?

Or do they remain, like fragrance in the air?

The saints say they remain.

The Palace Analogy

A beautiful analogy is often given:

Entering the sanctum is like entering the king’s private chamber.

But the entire Srirangam is the palace of the Lord.

If you visit a king’s palace: Even the courtyard feels majestic.

Even the corridors feel special.

Even the outer gardens feel royal.

Similarly, devotees say:

Being anywhere in Srirangam is being in the Lord’s residence.

You are already in His presence.

The Experience of Effortless Peace

Many pilgrims report something striking: They don’t feel the urge to rush.

In other temples, we hurry:

Stand in queue

Seek quick darshan

Move on

But in Srirangam, people simply sit.

On temple steps.

Near pillars.

Under mandapams.

On prakara streets.

They sit… and feel peaceful.

This is why elders say: “You don’t visit Srirangam. You rest in Srirangam.”

The Acharyas’ Assurance

Sri Vaishnava tradition holds Srirangam as the earthly abode of Lord Ranganatha, the reclining Vishnu who welcomes devotees with infinite compassion.

The acharyas repeatedly expressed a simple assurance:

If Vaikuntha is difficult to reach,

Srirangam is Vaikuntha that came down to us.

The Lord did not wait for devotees to reach Him.

He chose to live among them.

Darshan Beyond Sight

Usually we think darshan means seeing the deity.

But Srirangam teaches a subtler truth:

Darshan can also mean:

Feeling protected

Feeling quiet inside

Feeling held in divine presence

Sometimes the soul recognises what the eyes do not yet see.

A Gentle Closing Thought

Perhaps this is why devotees say:

Even if you do not enter the sanctum,

Even if you do not see the Lord,

Even if you simply walk the streets of Srirangam,

The heart slowly whispers:

“You are already in Vaikuntha.” 

Srirangam is called Bhooloka Vaikuntham.

But elders quietly add:

The same grace flows in Tirupati, Kanchipuram and Melkote.

Not because the temples are grand — but because the Lord lives there like a resident king.

Tirupati – The Mountain That Breathes “Govinda”

At Tirumala, devotees often say:

You feel the Lord long before you see Him.

The journey begins at the foothills.

The moment the hills appear, people spontaneously chant:

“Govinda! Govinda!”

Why?

Because Tirumala is not just a temple on a hill.

The entire hill is believed to be Adisesha himself, the divine serpent on whom Vishnu reclines.

Every stone, every tree, every step of the climb becomes sacred.

Many pilgrims say:

The mind becomes quieter on the ascent.

The air feels charged with devotion.

Even waiting in long queues feels bearable.

The belief is simple and powerful:

You are already in His abode the moment you reach the hills.

Kanchipuram – The City of a Thousand Temples

Kanchipuram is called “Nagareshu Kanchi” — the greatest among cities.

Here the divine presence is gentle and scholarly.

If Tirupati feels like devotion, Kanchi feels like wisdom and grace.

It is the city of:

Varadaraja Perumal

Kamakshi Devi

Ekambareswara

A rare meeting place of Vaishnavism and Shaivism.

Saints describe Kanchipuram as a place where:

Philosophy walked the streets

Acharyas taught under mandapams

Vedas were lived, not merely recited

People say the peace here is quiet and contemplative.

A stillness that encourages reflection.

Melkote – The Hill of Gentle Compassion

Melkote has a softer, more intimate feeling.

This is the land sanctified by Sri Ramanujacharya, who lived here for years and made it a centre of devotion.

The presiding Lord, Cheluvanarayana Swamy, is affectionately called “Selva Pillai” — the beloved child.

Melkote does not overwhelm.

It embraces.

Pilgrims often describe:

Silence

Simplicity

Warmth

It feels less like entering a grand palace and more like visiting the home of a loving elder.

One Beautiful Idea Behind All Four Places

Srirangam.

Tirupati.

Kanchipuram.

Melkote.

Different landscapes.

Different moods.

Different histories.

Yet one shared belief:

The Lord is not visiting these places.

He resides here.

And when a place becomes His residence,

the entire environment becomes sanctified.

The streets.

The air.

The silence.

The crowds.

Even the waiting.

Everything becomes part of darshan.

Perhaps this is why devotees say:

Some temples give darshan in a moment.

Some places give darshan through presence.

In these sacred towns, the heart slowly realises:

You came to spend time in His neighbourhood. 

Recently in Oct of 25 when we visited Nepal felt the same vibes there too. 

The Many Hearts of Rama.

Kamban – Tulsidas – Krittibas

How India Sang the Ramayana in Three Voices

There is only one Ramayana — yet there are hundreds.

This is not a contradiction. It is a miracle.

Valmiki gave the world the original epic of Dharma.

But India did something extraordinary: every region rewrote the Ramayana in its own emotional language. Each version is like a different raga played on the same divine theme.

Among these, three stand like luminous pillars:

Kamban Ramayanam (Tamil)

Ramcharitmanas of Tulsidas (Awadhi/Hindi)

Krittivasi Ramayana (Bengali)

If Valmiki gave the Ramayana its soul, these poets gave it a heart in every home.

1. Kamban’s Ramayana – The Ramayana of Majesty and Poetry

If Valmiki is the original sun, Kamban is the golden sunrise.

Kamban (12th century Tamil Nadu) did not merely retell the story — he turned it into a symphony of poetry and divine grandeur.

Rama in Kamban’s world

Rama is:

Majestic

Heroic

Cosmic

Radiantly divine

Kamban constantly reminds us:

This is Vishnu walking the earth.

His verses are rich, layered, philosophical and emotionally powerful. Every scene becomes larger than life.

When Rama lifts Shiva’s bow, the moment feels cosmic.

When Hanuman leaps to Lanka, the universe seems to pause.

When Ravana falls, it feels like a titan collapsing.

The emotional tone

Kamban’s Ramayana is dominated by:

Veera rasa (heroism)

Adbhuta rasa (wonder)

Shringara rasa (divine love)

This is the Ramayana of:

Kings

Warriors

Gods

Grand destiny

It is the Ramayana of royal courts and temple halls.

2. Tulsidas’ Ramcharitmanas – The Ramayana of Bhakti

If Kamban gives us the royal Rama,

Tulsidas gives us the beloved Rama.

Tulsidas (16th century) wrote during the Bhakti movement when devotion became the path for ordinary people. His Ramayana is not an epic to admire — it is a scripture to live by.

Rama in Tulsidas’ world

Rama is:

The Supreme God

Compassion itself

The refuge of the humble

Tulsidas’ greatest transformation: He makes the Ramayana a spiritual path.

The Ramcharitmanas is not just a story; it is:

Sung in homes

Recited in temples

Heard in villages

Wept over by devotees

The emotional tone

Dominant rasa:

Bhakti (devotion)

Karuna (compassion)

In Tulsidas:

Even chanting “Ram” is liberation.

Hanuman becomes the ideal devotee.

The story becomes a path to salvation.

This is the Ramayana of kirtan, satsang and tears of devotion.

3. Krittibas’ Ramayana – The Ramayana of the Heart

If Tulsidas brings Rama to the temple,

Krittibas brings Rama into the home.

Krittibas Ojha (15th century Bengal) transformed the epic into something intimate, tender and deeply human.

Rama in Krittibas’ world

Rama is:

Loving

Emotional

Gentle

Accessible

He laughs, grieves, worries and feels like a member of the family.

This Ramayana feels as if the story is happening in the next village.

Sita becomes a Bengali grihalakshmi

Sita is portrayed like a traditional Bengali wife:

Modest

Shy

Graceful

Deeply emotional

She blushes. She gestures instead of speaking.

The epic enters the world of everyday family life.

Even Ravana becomes a devotee

The most astonishing transformation: Many demons fight Rama to attain liberation from him.

War becomes: Not good vs evil, but

God granting salvation to all souls.

This is the Ramayana of:

Folk songs

Village gatherings

Storytelling nights

It became the living Ramayana of Bengal.

4. Three Ramayanas — Three Rasas

Poet

Region

Rama’s Form

Emotional Tone

Kamban

Tamil Nadu

Majestic Divine King

Heroism & Wonder

Tulsidas

North India

Supreme God & Savior

Devotion & Compassion

Krittibas

Bengal

Beloved Family Lord

Emotion & Intimacy

Together they show something beautiful:

India did not change the story.

India changed the emotion through which Rama is loved.

5. One Rama, Infinite Love

Kamban teaches us to admire Rama.

Tulsidas teaches us to worship Rama.

Krittibas teaches us to love Rama.

This is the genius of Indian civilisation.

We did not ask: Which Ramayana is correct?

We asked: How many ways can the human heart love Rama?

And the answer was: Endless.

Valmiki gave the world the Ramayana.

Kamban crowned it.

Tulsidas sanctified it.

Krittibas humanised it.

And together they made Rama eternal in the hearts of millions.

The Many Faces of Rama Beyond India

If India sang the Ramayana in many languages,

Asia turned it into a civilisational bridge.

Few stories in human history have travelled as far, as gently and as lovingly as the Ramayana. Without armies, without conquest, without force — the story of Rama crossed oceans, mountains and cultures, carried only by traders, monks, poets and storytellers.

And wherever it went, something beautiful happened:

Each land adopted Rama as its own.

The result is a breathtaking cultural map of devotion stretching across Asia.

The journey through these lands where Rama still lives.

1. Thailand – Rama the Ideal King (Ramakien)

In Thailand, the Ramayana became the Ramakien — the “Glory of Rama”.

Here, Rama is not just a divine hero.

He becomes the model of kingship.

Thai kings even adopt the title “Rama”. The current dynasty is called the Chakri dynasty, whose kings are numbered Rama I, Rama II, Rama III… up to the present Rama X.

The Ramakien is painted on the walls of Bangkok’s Wat Phra Kaew temple, stretching across hundreds of panels — a visual epic of devotion.

Changes in the Thai version:

Hanuman becomes a charming, playful hero.

The story emphasises royal duty and political ethics.

The narrative celebrates loyalty to the king.

Here, the Ramayana became a mirror for governance and kingship.

2. Indonesia – Rama in the Land of Temples and Volcanoes

Indonesia, the world’s largest Muslim-majority nation, still preserves one of the most vibrant Ramayana traditions.

The story arrived over a thousand years ago and flourished during Hindu-Buddhist kingdoms.

The Indonesian version is called the Kakawin Ramayana.

At the Prambanan Temple in Java, the Ramayana is carved in stone, and every full-moon night the famous Ramayana Ballet is performed against the backdrop of ancient temples and volcanic hills.

Unique features:

Strong influence of Shaiva and Buddhist philosophy.

Emphasis on spiritual symbolism.

Elegant courtly aesthetics.

It is one of the most moving examples of cultural continuity:

Even after religious change, the story was never abandoned.

3. Cambodia – The Ramayana as Sacred Art (Reamker)

In Cambodia, the epic becomes the Reamker — “The Glory of Rama”.

Here, the Ramayana transforms into:

Temple carvings

Classical dance

Royal drama

The walls of Angkor Wat and other Khmer temples carry magnificent Ramayana reliefs.

Cambodian classical dance tells the story through:

Graceful hand gestures

Symbolic movement

Sacred theatre

The Reamker highlights:

Moral conflict

Loyalty

Cosmic balance

It feels mystical and symbolic — almost dreamlike.

4. Laos – The Ramayana as Buddhist Wisdom (Phra Lak Phra Lam)

In Laos, the Ramayana becomes Phra Lak Phra Lam.

Here something fascinating happens: Rama and Lakshmana are treated as Bodhisattva-like figures.

The story is reinterpreted through Buddhist philosophy:

Karma

Compassion

Moral righteousness

The epic becomes less about war and more about ethical living.

5. Myanmar – The Ramayana of Drama (Yama Zatdaw)

In Myanmar, the Ramayana becomes Yama Zatdaw.

This version lives mainly in:

Theatre

Dance

Puppetry

Traditional Burmese puppet theatre still stages the Ramayana.

The epic is vibrant, musical and theatrical — meant to be experienced by the whole community.

6. Malaysia – The Hikayat Seri Rama

In Malaysia, the Ramayana became the Hikayat Seri Rama.

Here the story adapted to an Islamic cultural environment and survived in folk storytelling and shadow puppetry.

Even with religious changes, Rama continued to be respected as a noble and virtuous hero.

This shows the story’s universal appeal beyond religion.

7. Nepal – The Ramayana of Janaki’s Land

Nepal, the land of Janakpur (Sita’s birthplace), holds deep emotional reverence for the epic.

The Nepali Ramayana emphasises:

Sita’s purity

Family values

Devotional living

Here, the story is intertwined with pilgrimage and living tradition.

8. Why the Ramayana Spread So Far

What allowed the Ramayana to cross borders so effortlessly?

Because it speaks of universal human ideals:

Duty

Love

Loyalty

Sacrifice

Righteous leadership

The victory of good over evil

Every culture saw its own values reflected in Rama.

The story was flexible, welcoming and adaptable — yet its moral core never changed.

9. A Civilisation Connected by a Story

Long before modern globalisation, the Ramayana created a cultural commonwealth across Asia.

From India to Indonesia…

From Thailand to Cambodia…

From Laos to Malaysia…

Different languages.

Different religions.

Different customs.

Yet one story.

One hero.

One ideal.

Closing Reflection

India asked: How many ways can we love Rama?

Asia answered: How many cultures can adopt Rama?

The Ramayana is not just a book.

It is a shared civilisational memory of Asia.

And perhaps that is its greatest miracle:

A story that travelled without conquering,

yet conquered every heart it touched. 

The blessing.

 “Rakṣishyati iti viśvāsaḥ”

“Firm faith that He will protect.”

This is a precious and deeply symbolic image. the abhaya hasta of Sri Ranganatha – Namperumal of Srirangam, covered with the sacred ornament called “Hastābharaṇam / Hastam” (often lovingly called Hastam or Hamsam by devotees). The palm that blesses becomes the focus of meditation for many Sri Vaishnavas.

The Hand That Blesses – Namperumal’s Abhaya Hastam

In the crowded streets of Srirangam during a procession, thousands may stand shoulder to shoulder. Jewels sparkle, lamps flicker, conches roar, Vedic chants rise — and yet, the eyes of the devotee search for only one thing.

The raised palm of Namperumal.

Because in that palm lies the promise of refuge.

The Gesture of Fearlessness

The hand shown  is the Abhaya Mudra — the gesture that says:

“Do not fear.”

This is not merely symbolic reassurance. In Vaishnava theology, this hand is considered a divine vow.

The Lord is not blessing casually.

He is giving assurance of protection.

The Bhagavad Gita echoes this divine assurance:

“Mā śucaḥ — Do not grieve.” (Gita 18.66)

And the verse that Sri Vaishnavas hold closest:

“Aham tvā sarva pāpebhyo mokṣayiṣyāmi mā śucaḥ.”

“I shall liberate you from all sins. Do not fear.”

The raised palm is this verse made visible.

Why Devotees Look First at the Hand

During Srirangam processions, elders say:

“First see the hand. Then see the face.”

Why?

Because the hand represents dayā (compassion) before majesty.

Before the Lord asks anything of you,

He assures you that you are safe.

Swami Desika beautifully captures this spirit:

“The Lord’s hand rises faster than our fall.”

The Jeweled Palm – Why So Many Gems?

Look closely at the palm ornament.

It is covered in rubies, diamonds and precious stones arranged like a radiant yantra. This ornament is not mere decoration; it represents:

The auspicious marks of Vishnu’s palm

The Sun and Moon shining from His hands

The power to grant protection and prosperity

Tradition says the Lord’s palm bears divine symbols:

Chakra (discus)

Shankha (conch)

Lotus

Flag

When the Hastam ornament is placed, it signifies that all these blessings flow outward toward the devotee.

The Hand that Accepts Surrender

In Sri Vaishnava sampradaya, surrender (prapatti) is central.

When a devotee surrenders, they say:

“I hold Your feet.”

But the Acharyas gently correct this.

They say:

“It is not you who hold Him. It is He who lifts you.”

Pillai Lokacharya writes in Srivachana Bhushanam:

“The burden of protection belongs to Him, not to the soul.”

Thus the raised palm is the Lord saying:

“You are no longer carrying your life alone.”

The Palm as the Gateway to Grace

Many saints have sung about the Lord’s hands more than His crown.

Why?

A crown shows kingship.

A weapon shows power.

But a raised palm shows relationship.

Nammazhwar cries in the Tiruvaymozhi:

“Those hands that lifted Govardhana —

will they not lift me?”

And Andal sings with tender intimacy:

“Your hands that measured the worlds —

place them upon us.”

The same hand that holds Sudarshana Chakra becomes soft and open for the devotee.

The Psychological Beauty of Abhaya

Why does this gesture move the heart instantly?

Because fear is the deepest human emotion.

Fear of:

loss

failure

aging

death

uncertainty

And the Lord’s first message is not instruction, not judgement, not philosophy.

It is simply:

“Do not fear.”

This is why one glimpse of the Hastam can bring tears to the eyes of devotees in a crowded procession.

The Hand in Srirangam Tradition

Srirangam is called “Bhooloka Vaikuntham” — Heaven on Earth.

Here the Lord does not sit distant and inaccessible.

He comes out in the streets.

And when He comes, the first thing He shows the world is:

His blessing hand.

Not His weapons.

Not His throne.

Not His glory.

His compassion.

The Secret Prayer of the Devotee

When devotees fold their hands before Namperumal’s raised palm, an unspoken dialogue happens:

Devotee: “I am afraid.”

Lord: “I know.”

Devotee: “I cannot manage life alone.”

Lord: “You were never meant to.”

The Eternal Promise

Ultimately, the Abhaya Hastam is the visual form of the greatest assurance in Vaishnavism:

“Rakṣishyati iti viśvāsaḥ”

“Firm faith that He will protect.”

That is why in Srirangam, amidst jewels and garlands and music,

the heart seeks only one sight:

The hand that blesses.

Sapta

The famous picture of seven white horses running toward the rising sun is not just decoration — it is a deeply symbolic spiritual reminder.

1. Origin — The Sun God’s Chariot

In the Vedas and Puranas, Surya (the Sun) rides a chariot driven by seven horses.

Rig Veda (1.50) praises Surya as the cosmic light riding a radiant chariot that moves the universe into activity each morning.

These horses are called:

“Sapta Ashva” — the Seven Horses of Time and Light

The Sun is not just a planet in Sanatana Dharma.

He represents:

Life force (Prana)

Time (Kala)

Intelligence (Buddhi)

Success and vitality (Tejas)

So the seven horses are the forces that pull life forward.

2. Why exactly Seven?

In Vedic thought, seven is the number of cosmic completeness.

The horses symbolize many sacred “sets of seven”:

(A) Seven Days of the Week

The Sun governs time.

The seven horses represent the seven days pulling the chariot of life forward.

This implies: Life must keep moving.

No stagnation.

(B) Seven Colours of Sunlight

White sunlight splits into seven colours (VIBGYOR).

The rishis intuitively understood this long before modern optics.

The horses symbolize:

Unity becoming diversity

Divine light becoming worldly experience

This is why the horses are always painted white —

white contains all colours.

(C) Seven Chakras in the Human Body

This is the most beautiful interpretation.

The Sun outside corresponds to the inner sun (Atman).

Seven horses = the seven chakras being pulled toward awakening.

They represent:

Stability

Creativity

Power

Love

Expression

Wisdom

Enlightenment

Thus the image silently says:

“Let your life move toward illumination.”

(D) Seven Vedic Metres (Sapta Chandas)

The Vedas are composed in seven primary poetic metres.

These metres are considered the rhythm of creation.

The Sun riding seven horses means:

The universe moves in cosmic rhythm.

3. Why the Horses Must Be Running

You will never see them standing still.

Running horses symbolize:

Progress

Momentum

Victory

Forward movement

In Indian symbolism, running horses = unstoppable success.

A stopped horse = stagnation.

A running horse = destiny in motion.

4. Why placed on the EAST wall?

This is where Vaastu Shastra enters.

East is the direction of:

Sunrise

Beginnings

Health

Growth

Opportunities

When you place the seven horses in the east, the symbolism becomes:

Every morning, success runs into your home with the rising sun.

It is a psychological and spiritual alignment with:

Optimism

New beginnings

Active energy (Rajas)

Vaastu says the east wall should contain symbols of movement and growth — never sadness, war, or stillness.

Seven horses perfectly match the energy of the East.

5. Why white horses specifically?

White represents:

Purity of intention

Clarity of mind

Honest success

Dharma-based prosperity

Black or coloured horses are never recommended for this image.

This picture is not about power or aggression.

It is about pure, righteous progress.

6. Why this became a household tradition

Over time, people noticed something subtle:

Seeing this image daily creates a subconscious reminder:

Move forward

Start early

Stay energetic

Think positively

Keep life in motion

It became a symbolic daily affirmation before the modern concept existed.

The Rishis understood the psychology of symbols deeply.

7. The deeper spiritual meaning

Ultimately the message is this:

Your life is a chariot.

Your soul is the Sun.

Your senses and energies are the horses.

The prayer hidden in this image is:

“May my life move steadily toward light.”

Simple Vaastu guidelines for the picture

If placed:

Horses must run into the house, not away.

Should be odd number (preferably 7).

Should not show a rider or battlefield.

Ideal place: East wall of living room or office.

This is why the seven horses are considered sacred.

They are not decoration — they are a symbol of light in motion. 

Patient wait.

 The Reawakening of Konark: Opening the Mukhashala After 122 Years

Sometimes history does not arrive with noise — it arrives quietly, like the slow opening of an ancient door sealed for a century.

Such a moment has begun at the Konark Sun Temple in Odisha, where the Mukhashala (Jagamohana) — the great entrance hall of the temple — is being opened and studied after 122 years of being sealed shut.

This is not merely conservation work.

It is the reopening of a civilizational time capsule.

Konark: The Temple That Became a Legend

The Konark Sun Temple, built in the 13th century by King Narasimhadeva I, was conceived as a cosmic vision in stone — the chariot of Surya, the Sun God.

The temple was designed as a gigantic stone chariot:

24 wheels representing the 24 hours of the day

7 horses symbolising the 7 days of the week

Sculptures narrating time, life, movement, and cosmic rhythm

It was not merely a place of worship.

It was a statement: Time itself is divine.

Yet destiny intervened. Over centuries, invasions, natural forces, and neglect led to the collapse of the main sanctum tower. What remained standing was the Jagamohana or Mukhashala, the grand hall that welcomed devotees before they entered the sanctum.

This hall became the last majestic survivor of the original temple.

Why the Mukhashala Was Sealed in 1903

By the late 19th century, the British administration faced a frightening reality:

The remaining structure was on the verge of collapse.

Unable to restore it scientifically, they adopted a drastic solution in 1903:

All entrances were sealed.

The entire interior was filled with tons of sand.

The hall was turned into a solid block to support its own weight.

It was an emergency measure — crude, but effective.

The structure survived.

But the price of survival was silence.

For more than a century, no human being saw the inside of the Mukhashala.

It became a sealed chamber of history.

Why It Is Being Opened Now

Time changed the situation.

What once protected the temple began to harm it.

Scientists discovered that the sand inside had started causing:

Moisture retention

Internal pressure on the walls

Stone displacement

Structural stress

The protective measure of 1903 had become a threat in the 21st century.

And so India made a historic decision:

Remove the sand. Enter the structure. Study, conserve, and restore it scientifically.

After 122 years, the doors of the Mukhashala are opening again.

Opening a Time Capsule

Imagine a room sealed in 1903.

Inside may lie:

Fallen stones from the medieval structure

Hidden architectural features

Clues about how the main temple collapsed

Evidence of ancient engineering techniques

Original interior details never seen by modern eyes

For archaeologists, this is not routine work.

It is like opening a century-old archaeological vault.

The Mukhashala has silently guarded secrets from the past.

Now it is ready to speak.

From Colonial Emergency to Scientific Conservation

This moment also symbolizes a deeper shift.

In 1903:

The goal was survival.

The method was emergency filling with sand.

In 2025:

The goal is understanding and restoration.

The tools include laser scanning, structural engineering, and modern conservation science.

The message is profound:

India has moved from saving ruins to restoring heritage.

A Temple Slowly Awakening

Konark today functions mostly as a monument.

But for centuries it was a living temple of Surya.

The reopening of the Mukhashala feels symbolic — almost spiritual.

For many, it feels as though the temple is slowly awakening from a long sleep.

Stone remembers.

Space remembers.

Civilizations remember.

And sometimes, they begin remembering again after a hundred years.

Why This Moment Matters

This event is not just about archaeology.

It represents:

Renewal of heritage consciousness

Respect for ancient engineering genius

A bridge between past and future

A quiet revival of civilizational pride

Konark has always symbolised time.

The temple itself is a monument to the movement of the sun, the passage of hours, the rhythm of days.

How fitting that after more than a century, time itself has brought us back to its doors.

A Final Reflection

The Mukhashala was sealed to prevent collapse.

Today it is opened to prevent forgetting.

What was once filled with sand will now be filled with knowledge.

And perhaps, in a deeper sense, Konark is reminding us:

Civilizations do not disappear.

They wait — patiently — until their descendants are ready to listen again.

Caurapañcāśikā

Bilhaṇa and the Kashmiri Princess

The Story Behind the Verses

Bilhaṇa was an 11th-century Sanskrit poet from Kashmir, gifted not merely with scholarship but with a lyrical heart. From a young age, he was steeped in Vyākaraṇa, Kāvyā, and Vedānta, and his fame as a learned man travelled faster than he did.

During his wanderings, Bilhaṇa arrived at the court of a Kashmiri king (often identified by tradition, though names vary in retellings). Impressed by his erudition, the king appointed him as the tutor to the princess—a role that demanded discipline, restraint, and distance.

But poetry is rarely obedient.

Love in the Guise of Learning

What began as lessons in śabda and artha slowly became exchanges of glances and silences. Bilhaṇa and the princess fell deeply in love—

a love that was secret, forbidden, and intensely alive.

Their meetings were hidden, their joy fragile. In many tellings, the princess herself becomes the muse who awakens Bilhaṇa’s most profound poetry. Love, here, is not indulgence—it is transformative fire.

Eventually, the secret was discovered.

Prison and the Birth of Immortal Verses

Enraged, the king ordered Bilhaṇa to be imprisoned, and in some versions, sentenced to death. As Bilhaṇa was led each day toward execution, he was asked to recite a verse—perhaps to test his composure, perhaps to mock his fate.

And it is here that poetry defeats death.

Each day, Bilhaṇa recited a verse remembering his beloved—

not her body alone, but moments, sensations, glances, shared silences.

Thus was born Caurapañcāśikā

(“Fifty Verses of a Thief”)—

the thief being the poet who had stolen love from the palace.

The Verses: Memory as Devotion

A famous refrain runs through the verses:

अद्यापि तां कनककान्तिमतीं स्मरामि

“Even today, I remember her, radiant like gold.”

Each verse begins with “adyāpi” — “even now”.

Even now I remember…

Even now her face…

Even now her laughter…

These verses are not erotic in a coarse sense. They are smaraṇa—remembrance so intense that it becomes sacred. In Indian aesthetics, this is śṛṅgāra refined by viraha (love matured through separation).

The Ending: Mercy or Loss

The endings differ across traditions:

In one version, the king, moved by Bilhaṇa’s dignity and poetry, pardons him.

In another, Bilhaṇa survives but loses the princess forever.

In yet another, the verses themselves become the only surviving union between lover and beloved.

History fades—but poetry remains.

Why Bilhaṇa Still Matters

Bilhaṇa’s story is remembered not merely as a romantic scandal, but as a profound truth:

Memory can be stronger than possession.

Love remembered becomes wisdom

Poetry can turn punishment into immortality

For a devotee’s heart, Bilhaṇa’s verses almost echo bhakti—

replace the beloved with the Lord, and the adyāpi becomes the devotee’s cry:

“Even now, I remember You.”

Bilhaṇa teaches us something subtle and deeply Indian:

What is remembered with purity does not bind—it liberates.

This is why these verses survived centuries, why they still move readers, and why they sit so close to the language of viraha-bhakti.

Here are five well-known verses from Bilhaṇa’s Caurapañcāśikā, each with a gentle explanation and the story-feel behind it. I’ll keep them contemplative, not academic.

1. Adyāpi… — The ache of first remembrance

अद्यापि तां कनककान्तिमतीं स्मरामि

अद्यापि तां मदनविह्वललोचनान्ताम् ।

अद्यापि तां सुरतकेलिनिमीलिताक्षीं

देवीं गुणैरनुरतां हृदि चिन्तयामि ॥

Meaning:

Even now I remember her—radiant like gold,

even now her eyes, trembling with love.

Even now I remember her closed eyes in moments of union,

that divine woman, full of grace, dwelling in my heart.

Behind the verse:

This is not a man clinging to the past—it is a man living inside memory. The repetition of adyāpi (“even now”) tells us that time has not healed love; it has sanctified it.

2. Love as lived detail, not imagination

अद्यापि तां मृदुलगात्रलतां स्मरामि

अद्यापि तां नवकुरङ्गविलोचनान्ताम् ।

अद्यापि तां सुललितस्मितभूषणाढ्यां

मत्तेभकुम्भविभवोरुयुगां स्मरामि ॥

Meaning:

Even now I remember her tender, vine-like form,

even now her eyes like a young deer’s.

Even now her gentle smile, her natural grace,

her majestic bearing that filled my world.

Behind the verse:

Bilhaṇa remembers specifics—not fantasy. Real love survives on detail. This is why the verses feel lived, not composed.

3. Separation sharpens love

अद्यापि तां प्रणयविह्वलवाक्यजालैः

संरम्भसौम्यवदनां स्मरामि देवīm ।

अद्यापि तां नयनपातनिमीलिताक्षीं

ह्रीलोलमीलितमुखीं हृदि भावयामि ॥

Meaning:

Even now I remember her gentle face,

softened by loving, faltering words.

Even now her eyes lowering in shy glances,

her face half-hidden by modesty, living in my heart.

Behind the verse:

Notice—there is no complaint, no anger. Prison has not embittered him. Love, when remembered purely, becomes quiet and luminous.

4. The beloved becomes inner presence

अद्यापि तां हृदयवर्त्मनि संस्थितां तु

त्यक्त्वा शरीरमपि नैव जहाति चेतः ।

यामेव चिन्तयति नित्यनवां कवीनां

सा मे मनःकुसुमसौरभमादधाति ॥

Meaning:

Even if the body perishes,

she will never leave the path of my heart.

The poets may imagine ever-new beauties,

but her fragrance alone fills the flower of my mind.

Behind the verse:

Here, the beloved has crossed from outer life to inner being. This is where śṛṅgāra almost becomes bhakti.

5. Love remembered becomes immortal

अद्यापि तां स्मरति चेतसि मे प्रवेश्य

कालः क्षणानिव गणानपि लङ्घयित्वा ।

नाशो न मे प्रणयिनोऽस्ति न चास्य दोषः

स्मृत्या हि जीवति जनो न तु देहयोगात् ॥

Meaning:

Time has leapt over countless moments,

yet she still enters my heart.

Love does not perish, nor is it at fault—

for one lives by remembrance, not by the body alone.

Behind the verse:

This is Bilhaṇa’s final victory. The king may command the body, but memory belongs to the soul.