Turns grief into street laughter.

The Malla Kings of Nepal

The Malla dynasty ruled much of the Kathmandu Valley for several centuries, roughly from the 13th to the 18th century. The word Malla means “wrestler” in Sanskrit, and the title was associated with strength and royalty.

The Malla period became a golden age of:

 Temple architecture

Wood carving and sculpture

Dance, music and festivals

Literature and scholarship

Hindu–Buddhist cultural traditions

The great palace squares at Kathmandu, Patan and Bhaktapur owe much of their splendour to the Malla kings.

Why did the kingdom become divided?

Initially, the Kathmandu Valley was more unified. But eventually the Malla kingdom split into three rival kingdoms:

Kathmandu (Kantipur)

Patan (Lalitpur)

Bhaktapur (Bhadgaon)

Each king wanted his city to be more magnificent than the others. Ironically, their rivalry produced some of Nepal's greatest architecture!

They competed by building:

Taller temples

More elaborate palaces

Beautiful public squares

Golden gates and windows

Extraordinary carvings

The famous Malla king

One of the best-known rulers was King Bhupatindra Malla of Bhaktapur, remembered for his patronage of art and architecture.

Another important figure was Yaksha Malla, whose reign represented a powerful period for the kingdom before its later fragmentation.

The end of the Malla kingdoms

The division into three competing kingdoms weakened them politically. In the 18th century, Prithvi Narayan Shah of Gorkha began conquering the Kathmandu Valley.

By 1768–69, the Shah kingdom had defeated the Malla rulers and unified Nepal under a new dynasty.

The great irony

The Malla kings lost their kingdoms—but their cities survived as their greatest legacy.

Even today, when one walks through Kathmandu, Patan or Bhaktapur, one sees the extraordinary world they created:

Kings disappeared, kingdoms changed, but their art turned entire cities into living museums.

Gai Jatra — The 400-Year-Old Nepali Tradition That Turns Grief into Street Laughter

How can a festival connected with death and bereavement become one of the most colourful, humorous and lively events in a country?

Nepal's Gai Jatra, or the Festival of Cows, offers a remarkable answer.

This centuries-old tradition, closely associated with the Malla period of Kathmandu, brings together grief, remembrance, community, humour and laughter in a way few other traditions do.

A King's Grief and a Queen's Sorrow

A popular account connects Gai Jatra with King Pratap Malla of Kathmandu in the 17th century.

The king and queen lost their young son. The queen was overwhelmed by grief, and nothing could bring her consolation.

The king then asked families who had lost a loved one during the previous year to join a public procession. Each bereaved family would participate in the streets, traditionally accompanied by a cow, considered sacred in Hindu tradition.

Where a cow was unavailable, a child could symbolically take its place.

As the procession passed through the city, the grieving queen witnessed something profound.

She saw that sorrow had visited countless homes.

She was not alone.

When Laughter Entered the Procession

But the king wanted more than simply to show the queen that death was universal.

According to tradition, he encouraged jokes, comic performances, costumes and satire.

The streets came alive.

People laughed.

Performers mocked social customs and powerful figures.

Humour became part of remembrance.

And slowly, a remarkable tradition emerged—one in which grief was not hidden behind closed doors but shared openly with the entire community.

The Cow and the Journey Beyond

In Hindu belief, the cow holds a sacred place and is associated with helping the departed soul on its journey.

Thus, the procession was also an act of remembrance and spiritual support for those who had died.

Families remembered their loved ones.

The community acknowledged their loss.

And the festival reminded everyone that death, though deeply personal, is also a universal human experience.

A Festival with a Powerful Message

Gai Jatra carries an extraordinary philosophy:

Grief should not isolate us.

No one is alone in suffering.

Remembering the departed is an act of love.

Laughter need not insult sorrow.

Humour can sometimes help the human heart survive what it cannot change.

That is the great paradox of Gai Jatra.

A procession born from bereavement becomes filled with colour, costumes, satire and laughter.

From Sorrow to Strength

Perhaps the deepest lesson of Gai Jatra is this:

We do not overcome grief by pretending it never happened.

We carry our memories with us.

We meet others who have suffered.

We realise that sorrow is part of the human journey.

And somewhere along that difficult road, we may discover that it is still possible to smile.

For more than four centuries, the streets of Nepal have echoed with this unusual wisdom.

Tears and laughter can exist together.

Memory and celebration can walk together.

And even a grieving heart can slowly rediscover life.

Gai Jatra is therefore more than a festival.

It is a gentle message from history:

When grief becomes too heavy to carry alone, let the community share it—and perhaps, one day, let laughter lighten the burden.

Marvel by the sea.

Murud-Janjira — The 500-Year-Old Fortress That Defied the Sea 

How can a massive stone fortress stand for centuries amid crashing waves, salt spray, monsoon storms, and the relentless Arabian Sea?

Off the coast of Maharashtra stands Murud-Janjira, one of India's most remarkable sea fortresses. Rising dramatically from the waters near Murud, this island stronghold has survived for nearly five centuries—and, famously, was never conquered by military force.

A Fortress Built Against the Ocean

The Janjira fort was developed under the Siddis, a community of African origin who became powerful rulers and naval commanders on India's western coast. Its strategic position in the sea made it extremely difficult for enemies to attack.

The builders understood something fundamental about marine construction: a structure fighting the sea must be designed to endure it, not merely resist it.

Its enormous stone walls, rounded and massive bastions, carefully chosen masonry, and strategic foundations helped the fortress withstand:

Constant wave action 

Salty sea air

Heavy monsoon rains

Strong coastal winds

Centuries of weathering

The Mystery of Its Extraordinary Durability

Modern reinforced concrete can deteriorate rapidly in marine environments when salt penetrates the material and corrodes the steel reinforcement within.

Murud-Janjira, however, was constructed primarily using massive stone masonry, without depending on modern steel reinforcement. Its thick walls and traditional mortar systems have proved remarkably durable.

There are popular claims that ancient lime mortars could undergo limited chemical changes over time and seal tiny cracks. While traditional lime-based mortars can indeed possess properties different from modern cement, calling the entire fortress “self-healing” requires scientific evidence and should not be exaggerated.

Its real secret may be even more impressive:

Good engineering, suitable materials, intelligent design, and centuries of endurance.

The Fortress That Remained Undefeated 

Murud-Janjira faced some of the greatest powers of Indian history. The Marathas made repeated attempts to capture it, yet the fortress remained unconquered.

Its sea location was its greatest defence.

Approaching the massive walls by water exposed attacking forces, while the fort's bastions and artillery positions gave its defenders a commanding advantage.

Even today, Janjira stands as a reminder that military strength is not always about the size of an army.

Sometimes, location and engineering decide history.

Fresh Water in the Middle of the Sea 

Perhaps one of the most fascinating features of Janjira is that, despite being surrounded by salt water, the island fortress historically possessed freshwater sources.

A fort could not survive a prolonged siege without drinking water. The availability and management of freshwater therefore formed an essential part of its defensive planning.

This reveals the extraordinary foresight of its builders.

They did not simply build walls.

They created a self-sustaining military settlement in the sea.

An Engineering Lesson from the Past

Murud-Janjira teaches us an important lesson.

Ancient engineering was not primitive engineering.

The builders may not have possessed computers, modern structural software, or reinforced concrete—but they possessed generations of practical knowledge about:

Stone and masonry

Water and waves

Local materials

Foundations

Climate

Defence

Maintenance

Five centuries later, the Arabian Sea is still testing Murud-Janjira.

And the fortress is still standing.

 Some structures are built for a lifetime. Others are built with such understanding that they become part of history itself.

Murud-Janjira is not merely a fort in the sea. It is a monument to the engineering wisdom of those who understood how to build with nature—and survive it.

A fever engulfs

 Legends are often not consciously created. Circumstances create the challenge, and the individual simply keeps responding to it. Only later does the world look back and call that person a legend.

The life of P M Narendra Modi can be seen through this lens. Whatever one's political views, his public journey illustrates how an individual can move from an ordinary and difficult beginning into a position of extraordinary national prominence through sustained ambition, discipline, opportunity, and circumstances.

“a pitched fever draws you to achieve greater heights” fever here means an inner fire—an intense drive that does not allow a person to remain where they are.

How Legends Are Made Without Knowing It

Legends are rarely made by people who set out saying, “I want to become a legend.”

They are made quietly, almost unknowingly, through circumstances.

A difficult childhood may teach endurance. Poverty may create hunger for achievement. Failure may produce determination. Opposition may strengthen conviction. Responsibility may force an ordinary person to discover extraordinary abilities.

At the time, the individual is not building a legend. They are simply trying to overcome the next obstacle.

Then something changes.

A challenge leads to an achievement. That achievement brings a greater responsibility. The greater responsibility brings an even greater challenge. Step by step, the person's life rises beyond anything they may originally have imagined.

It is almost like an inner fever—a burning restlessness that refuses to let a person remain still. One achievement is not the end. One mountain crossed reveals another mountain ahead.

The life journey of Prime Minister Narendra Modi is often viewed in this way. From a modest background, his path moved through years of organisational and political work, increasing responsibility, leadership in Gujarat, and eventually the highest elected office in India. Whatever one's political opinions may be, the larger human story demonstrates how circumstance, ambition, discipline, perseverance and opportunity can combine to create an extraordinary journey.

But this is true of many great figures in history.

Abraham Lincoln did not know that his struggles would make him a symbol of perseverance.

Swami Vivekananda did not know, as a young seeker facing uncertainty, that his voice would carry Indian philosophy across the world.

Mahatma Gandhi did not leave India as a legend. His encounters with injustice gradually transformed both his life and his mission.

Perhaps this is the real secret of greatness:

Legends are not manufactured in a single moment.

They are formed through hundreds of moments when a person could have stopped—but chose to continue.

Circumstances provide the fire.

Challenges provide the testing ground.

Character determines the response.

And history, much later, gives it a name. LEGEND

it is not really about one political leader—it is about the mysterious way in which circumstances awaken greatness in human beings.

Qualities of a Legend

A legend is not created merely by fame, power, or success. Legends are often shaped when character meets circumstance.

Some of their defining qualities are:

Sincerity — being genuine in purpose and action.

Truthfulness — remaining anchored to what one believes is right.

Determination — refusing to give up when circumstances become difficult.

Courage — facing criticism, failure, danger, and uncertainty.

Commitment — staying with a cause for years, sometimes a lifetime.

Contribution — working for something larger than personal gain.

Resilience — rising again after setbacks and defeats.

Conviction — possessing a deep inner belief that gives direction.

Discipline — converting ideals into sustained action.

Leadership — inspiring others to discover their own strength.

Sacrifice — being willing to give up comfort for a larger purpose.

Humility — remembering that greatness is ultimately measured by service.

Vision — seeing possibilities that others cannot yet see.

Legacy — leaving behind an influence that continues beyond one's lifetime.

The Making of a Legend

A legend may not set out to become a legend. Circumstances challenge an ordinary individual, and something within refuses to surrender. Sincerity gives purpose, truth gives strength, determination gives endurance, and contribution gives meaning. Over time, repeated struggles transform a person—and the person transforms the circumstances around them. That is how legends are made.

Sometimes, as said earlier, it is almost like a burning fever within—an inner force that keeps pushing a person towards greater heights, often before they themselves realize what they are becoming.

Feel unfair.

Why Mountains Can Suddenly Turn into Rivers

Mountains appear solid, permanent and unmoving. Yet during heavy rain, they can suddenly produce some of the most powerful and destructive flows of water on Earth.

How does this happen?

Mountains Collect Water

A mountain is not simply a high piece of rock. It has slopes, valleys, forests, soil, cracks in rocks, streams and underground water channels.

When rain falls over a mountain range, water lands over a very large area. Much of this water begins moving downhill under the force of gravity.

Thousands of tiny trickles may join together.

A trickle becomes a stream.

Streams join other streams.

Small rivers join larger rivers.

Soon, an enormous quantity of water may be rushing through a narrow valley.

Why Does the Water Continue for Days?

This is one of the remarkable things about mountain floods.

Even after the rain becomes lighter or stops, water may continue flowing strongly for several days.

This is because the mountain has temporarily stored water in:

wet soil,

forests,

underground rock cracks,

springs,

ponds and small streams,

snow and ice in some regions.

All this stored water slowly continues draining downhill.

Therefore, the river below may remain in flood long after the storm itself has passed.

Mountains Are Natural Funnels

Imagine pouring water over a large sloping roof.

Eventually, all the water reaches the gutters.

Mountains work in a similar way, except on a gigantic scale.

Rain falling across kilometres of slopes is gradually directed towards valleys and river channels. A valley can therefore receive water not only from the rain falling directly upon it, but from an entire mountain region surrounding it.

This is why a seemingly small river can suddenly become a roaring torrent.

When the Ground Can Absorb No More

Normally, soil absorbs part of the rain.

But after prolonged or extremely heavy rainfall, the ground becomes saturated.

It is like a sponge that is already full.

Any additional water cannot soak in. It must flow across the surface.

On steep mountain slopes, gravity makes this movement extremely rapid.

Water Becomes More Dangerous as It Travels

Fast-moving water can carry:

mud,

sand,

stones,

huge rocks,

uprooted trees,

vehicles,

and sometimes parts of buildings.

The flood is then no longer simply water.

It becomes a moving force carrying everything it has picked up along the way.

This is why mountain floods and flash floods can be so devastating.

The Role of Landslides

Heavy rain can also loosen soil and rocks.

Entire sections of a hillside may collapse into a river.

Sometimes this temporarily blocks the river. When the blockage breaks, a sudden surge of water may rush downstream.

Thus, rain, rivers and landslides can combine to create a much greater disaster.

Why Mountain Floods Can Be So Sudden

People living downstream may see clear skies above them.

Yet far away, high in the mountains, there may have been intense rainfall.

The water from that rainfall can travel down valleys and reach communities many kilometres away.

This is one reason mountain floods can sometimes appear to come without warning.

A Mountain Is a Giant Water System

Mountains are often called the world's water towers because they collect rain and snow and feed rivers.

Under normal conditions, this is a wonderful natural system.

Mountains provide water for:

rivers,

farms,

forests,

towns and cities,

wildlife,

and millions of people.

But when rainfall becomes exceptionally intense, the same system can become overwhelming.

The Lesson of the Mountain

A mountain may look silent and still.

But inside and around it, water is constantly moving.

Rain enters the soil. Springs emerge from rocks. Small streams join larger ones. Rivers carve valleys over thousands and millions of years.

During extreme weather, this quiet system can suddenly reveal its enormous power.

A mountain is not merely a wall of rock. It is a vast water-collecting system. When the rain becomes too great, the mountain gathers countless streams and sends them rushing towards the valleys below.

That is how mountains can suddenly seem to turn into rivers.

Yes, it does feel deeply unfair. People who may have done nothing wrong can suddenly lose their homes, land, livelihoods, and even loved ones simply because they live beside a river that has become uncontrollable.

When the River Shows Its Fury

Perhaps the saddest part of such disasters is the fate of the people living along the riverbanks.

For generations, rivers provide them with water, fertile land, fishing, transport and livelihood. Villages and towns naturally grow beside them. Yet when an exceptional storm strikes the mountains, the same life-giving river can become a destructive force.

People living on either side of the river may have little warning. A continuous torrent arrives from distant mountains, carrying mud, rocks, trees and everything swept into its path. Homes, roads and fields can disappear within hours.

It does seem unfair. Those living peacefully beside a river must suddenly face the wrath of a storm that may have occurred far away in the mountains.

The river that nourishes life can, in a single extraordinary storm, remind us of the immense power of nature.

Sailent teacher

https://youtu.be/9iDHx182MN8?si=3hw-J4oEp1kP93tE

Mount Kailash, Gauri Kund and Fourteen Sacred Parikramas

https://youtube.com/shorts/B2KZa-Sns5A?si=htJzaKyWwiDa151H

Where Devotion Walks Beyond the Limits of the Body

Among the most sacred places in the Hindu world, Mount Kailash occupies a unique and exalted position. Rising in the remote Tibetan plateau, surrounded by snow, rock, silence and immense natural grandeur, Kailash has for centuries drawn pilgrims who see it not merely as a mountain, but as the divine abode of Lord Shiva.

For the devotee, a journey to Kailash is not an ordinary journey.

It is a pilgrimage of faith.

It is an encounter with nature at its most severe.

And above all, it is a journey inward.

Mount Kailash — The Sacred Abode of Shiva

Hindu tradition reveres Mount Kailash as the abode of Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati. Shiva, the great yogi seated in meditation, represents renunciation, transcendence and the ultimate reality beyond worldly attachment.

Parvati represents devotion, शक्ति (Śakti), motherhood and the creative power of the universe.

Together, Shiva and Parvati symbolize one of the deepest ideas in Hindu philosophy: consciousness and energy are inseparable.

For this reason, Kailash is not simply a geographical destination. It represents a sacred spiritual centre—a place where the human mind turns away from worldly noise and towards the eternal.

Mount Kailash is also sacred to Buddhists, Jains and followers of the Bön tradition, making it one of the world's great centres of multi-religious pilgrimage.

The Meaning of Kailash Parikrama

Parikrama, or circumambulation, is an ancient act of reverence in Indian spiritual tradition.

We walk around a temple sanctum.

We circumambulate a sacred deity.

We perform pradakshina around a shrine.

The sacred object remains at the centre.

The devotee moves around it.

Symbolically, this means:

May the Divine always remain at the centre of my life.

The Kailash Parikrama, traditionally undertaken around the sacred mountain, carries this symbolism to an extraordinary level.

The pilgrim walks through high-altitude terrain, facing cold, wind, exhaustion and the challenges of thin air.

The body protests.

The mind becomes tired.

Every step becomes an effort.

Yet the pilgrim continues.

In this sense, the Kailash Parikrama becomes more than a physical journey.

It becomes a form of tapas.

Gauri Kund — A Sacred Presence in the Kailash Landscape

Associated in Hindu tradition with Goddess Parvati, also known as Gauri, Gauri Kund holds a special place in the sacred geography of the Kailash region.

The name itself evokes the divine feminine.

Gauri is Parvati—the beloved of Shiva, the embodiment of devotion and Śakti.

The Himalayas themselves are inseparably connected with her story, for Parvati is traditionally remembered as the daughter of Himavan, the lord of the mountains.

Thus, the presence of Gauri Kund in the Kailash pilgrimage landscape carries a profound symbolic meaning.

The pilgrim encounters not only the mountain of Shiva but also sacred associations connected with Parvati.

When the Cold Does Not Permit a Bath

The Kailash region is one of extreme natural environments.

At high altitudes, temperatures can fall well below freezing, and weather conditions may change rapidly. Sacred water bodies may be frozen, inaccessible or unsafe for bathing.

Therefore, the idea that every pilgrim must physically bathe at such a location is not necessarily realistic.

Devotion does not depend upon physical immersion alone.

A pilgrim may stand before a sacred place, fold the hands and offer prayer.

A pūjā may be performed.

Flowers or other permitted offerings may be made according to the circumstances.

A mantra may be recited.

The mind may surrender before the Divine.

In Hindu tradition, bhāva—the sincerity of inner feeling—is central to worship.

A person standing in freezing conditions and offering a simple prayer with complete devotion may experience the pilgrimage far more deeply than someone performing an outward ritual without inner concentration.

Thus, even where bathing is impossible or unsafe, pūjā and prayer can remain expressions of profound reverence.

Swami Kailashanand Giri Ji Maharaj and Fourteen Kailash Parikramas

Swami Kailashanand Giri Ji Maharaj, the respected Acharya Mahamandaleshwar associated with the Juna Akhara, has publicly stated that he has undertaken the sacred Kailash Parikrama fourteen times.

If understood as his own stated spiritual experience, this represents an extraordinary association with one of the world's most difficult pilgrimage routes.

Fourteen journeys around Kailash would mean repeatedly returning to:

extreme altitude,

severe cold,

difficult mountain terrain,

physical exhaustion,

and the demanding conditions of the Tibetan plateau.

But for a saint or ascetic, the significance may not lie merely in the number.

Each pilgrimage is a return.

Each journey is another act of surrender.

Each circumambulation places the sacred mountain once again at the centre.

The number fourteen therefore becomes not merely a count of completed journeys but a symbol of sustained spiritual commitment.

Why Would Someone Return Again and Again?

This question reveals something important about pilgrimage.

Why visit a sacred place once?

Why return twice?

Why return fourteen times?

For a tourist, visiting a destination may satisfy curiosity.

For a pilgrim, however, the destination can become a spiritual calling.

The first journey may be undertaken with anticipation.

The second with deeper understanding.

The third with familiarity.

But repeated pilgrimages can gradually become something else entirely.

The journey itself becomes a discipline.

The mountain becomes a silent teacher.

The hardships become part of one's spiritual practice.

In the case of Kailash, every Parikrama reminds the pilgrim of a fundamental truth:

The human body is limited, but the human spirit can continually rise beyond its perceived limits.

Kailash — A Mountain That Teaches Silence

Perhaps the greatest lesson of Kailash is silence.

Modern life is filled with:

Noise.

Movement.

Technology.

Information.

Arguments.

Competition.

But the high mountains teach another language.

Silence.

At Kailash, the individual becomes small before nature.

The mountain does not speak.

It does not explain.

It does not argue.

It simply stands.

For thousands of years, pilgrims have projected upon that silent presence their deepest prayers, fears, hopes and aspirations.

For the Shaiva devotee, Kailash represents Shiva—the great ascetic, beyond possessions and worldly ambition.

The pilgrimage therefore asks a silent question:

What do we truly need in order to live?

The Union of Shiva and Parvati

The presence of Shiva and Parvati in Kailash tradition gives the pilgrimage another dimension.

Shiva represents stillness.

Parvati represents energy.

Shiva represents consciousness.

Parvati represents Śakti.

Shiva represents the silent mountain.

Parvati represents the life and devotion that moves towards it.

Together they remind us that spirituality is not escape from life.

It is the discovery of the Divine within life itself.

A pilgrim walking around Kailash may therefore remember both:

Shiva—the Eternal Silence.

and

Parvati—the Eternal Devotion.

Parikrama as an Inner Journey

Ultimately, the greatest Parikrama may not be the one made by the feet.

It may be the one made by the mind.

Human beings continually travel in circles around:

desires,

fears,

ambitions,

memories,

success,

disappointment,

attachment.

Spirituality asks us to change the centre.

Instead of allowing worldly desires to occupy the centre of life, we place the Divine there.

That is the deeper symbolism of Pradakshina.

We move.

The Divine remains still.

We change.

The Eternal remains unchanged.

We struggle.

The Sacred remains present.

Fourteen Journeys — One Centre

Whether undertaken once or repeatedly, the Kailash Parikrama remains one of the most demanding sacred pilgrimages known to humanity.

For Swami Kailashanand Giri Ji Maharaj, his stated fourteen Parikramas reflect an exceptional and repeated engagement with this sacred landscape.

Yet the deepest lesson belongs to every devotee.

We may never travel to Tibet.

We may never walk around Mount Kailash.

We may never stand near Gauri Kund in the Himalayan cold.

But the principle of Parikrama can still guide our lives.

We can keep Dharma at the centre.

We can keep compassion at the centre.

We can keep truth at the centre.

And above all, we can keep the Divine at the centre.

For that is the meaning of walking around the sacred.

Not simply to complete a circle around God—

but to ensure that God remains at the centre of every circle of our life.

Mount Kailash — Where the Body Walks Through the Mountains, but the Soul Walks Towards the Eternal.

Unakoti.

Unakoti — The Mountain Where a Crore Gods Became Stone

Hidden among the green hills and forests of Tripura lies one of India's most mysterious and extraordinary sacred landscapes — Unakoti.

The name itself carries a fascinating meaning. In Sanskrit and several Indian languages, Una means one less and Koti means a crore. Thus, Unakoti means “one less than a crore.”

But why would a mountain be associated with one crore gods?

The Legend of Unakoti

According to popular tradition, Lord Shiva was once travelling towards Kashi with one crore gods and goddesses. During their journey, they stopped in these hills to rest for the night.

Before going to sleep, Shiva instructed everyone to wake up before sunrise so that they could continue their journey.

Morning arrived.

The sun rose.

But none of the other gods woke up.

Only Lord Shiva was ready to continue his journey.

Angered by their failure to rise, Shiva cursed the sleeping gods to remain there forever as stone.

Thus, Shiva alone continued his journey, while the others remained behind.

There were therefore said to be one crore minus one gods at the site.

And so the place came to be known as Unakoti — One Less Than a Crore.

A Mountain of Stone Deities

Whether legend or history, what visitors see at Unakoti is truly astonishing.

Across the hillsides are enormous rock-cut sculptures and stone images of Hindu deities. Some are carved directly into massive rock faces, while others stand among the trees and streams of the forest.

The most famous image is the gigantic face of Shiva, popularly known as Unakotiswara. The monumental rock carving dominates the landscape and is among the most striking examples of large-scale rock sculpture in India.

Around it are numerous other images associated with:

Lord Ganesha

Goddess Durga

Vishnu

Nandi

Hanuman

Other divine and mythological figures

Walking through Unakoti feels less like visiting a conventional temple and more like entering a vast open-air sacred gallery created upon the mountains themselves.

Where Art and Nature Become One

One of the most remarkable features of Unakoti is that the sculptures are not enclosed within a museum or palace.

They remain where they were created — among rocks, trees, water and hills.

Nature has become part of the monument.

Roots grow around ancient stones. Rainwater flows through the landscape. Moss and vegetation surround the sculptures. The gods appear to emerge directly from the mountain.

This gives Unakoti a special atmosphere.

It does not feel as though sculptures were merely placed in nature.

Rather, it feels as though the mountain itself became a temple.

An Archaeological Mystery

The exact history and chronology of all the sculptures at Unakoti are not completely certain. Scholars generally associate many of the carvings with the early medieval period, but the site's artistic traditions may reflect influences from different periods.

The scale of the carvings raises fascinating questions.

Who were the artists?

How were such massive images carved into the hillsides?

Why was this remote forest chosen as a sacred centre?

How many sculptures originally existed?

Even today, Unakoti retains an element of mystery.

Perhaps that mystery is part of its enduring power.

A Sacred Heritage of Northeast India

India's great artistic heritage is often associated with places such as Ajanta, Ellora, Mahabalipuram and Khajuraho.

But hidden in the northeastern corner of the country is another astonishing world of stone sculpture.

Unakoti reminds us that India's sacred and artistic traditions flourished across the entire subcontinent.

From Himalayan caves to Tamil temple towers, from the monuments of Central India to the forests of Tripura, artists expressed the divine through stone, architecture, painting and sculpture.

Unakoti is one of the most dramatic examples of this tradition.

The Meaning Behind the Legend

The story of the sleeping gods may be understood as mythology, but it also gives Unakoti a powerful symbolic identity.

A crore of gods travelled together.

Only one continued.

The rest became part of the mountain.

And centuries later, human beings still stand before those ancient carvings and wonder at the imagination, faith and artistic skill that created them.

The legend says that gods became stone.

But at Unakoti, the stones do not seem lifeless.

They continue to speak.

They speak of forgotten artists.

They speak of ancient worship.

They speak of forests and mountains that became sacred spaces.

And above all, they speak of India's extraordinary ability to see the Divine everywhere — even within a mountain of stone.

Unakoti — A Mountain Unlike Any Other

Unakoti is more than an archaeological site.

It is a meeting point of mythology, art, faith, history and nature.

A giant Shiva watches silently from the rock.

Countless divine forms surround the hills.

The forest grows around them.

And somewhere within that ancient landscape survives the old legend:

One crore gods came here.

One alone left.

The rest became stone.

Unakoti — The Mountain Where a Crore Gods Became Stone.

Mahabali. Rakhi & onam

Raksha Bandhan, Mahabali and Onam — A Bond Beyond Kingdoms

Raksha Bandhan is usually known as a festival celebrating the loving bond between a brother and a sister. Yet, woven into India's rich tradition is a beautiful story connecting the sacred Raksha Sutra with Mahabali, the great king of Kerala.

Mahabali — The King Who Gave Everything

Mahabali, also known simply as Bali, was the grandson of Prahlada. He was a powerful ruler, celebrated in tradition for his generosity, courage and concern for his people.

His kingdom was believed to be prosperous and peaceful. There was no injustice, poverty or suffering among his subjects. The people loved their king, and Mahabali loved his people.

But Mahabali's growing power concerned the Devas. Lord Vishnu therefore appeared as Vāmana, a young Brahmin boy, and approached Mahabali during a great sacrifice.

Vāmana asked for only three paces of land.

Mahabali agreed.

The little Brahmin then assumed the विराट रूप—the cosmic form. With one step He covered the earth, with the second the heavens. There was no place left for the third step.

Mahabali bowed his head and offered it to the Lord.

Vishnu placed His foot upon Bali's head and sent him to Sutala, granting him a special place and blessing him for his extraordinary devotion and generosity.

Raksha Bandhan and Mahabali

A popular later tradition tells us that Lord Vishnu remained in Sutala as Mahabali's protector.

Goddess Lakshmi wished for Vishnu to return to Vaikuntha. She approached Mahabali and tied a sacred thread around his wrist, accepting him symbolically as her brother.

Mahabali warmly accepted her and offered her a boon.

Lakshmi then revealed her identity and expressed her wish that Vishnu return with her.

True to his nature, Mahabali granted her wish.

Thus, the sacred thread became more than a symbol of protection. It represented love, trust, affection and the responsibility that comes with a relationship.

The traditional Raksha Sutra mantra also remembers King Bali:

Yena baddho Bali Raja

Danavendro Mahabalah

Tena tvām anubadhnāmi

Rakshe mā chala mā chala

“I bind you with the same sacred thread with which the mighty King Bali was bound. O sacred thread, remain steadfast and protect.”

Onam — The Festival That Welcomes Mahabali Home

The story of Mahabali did not end with Vāmana.

According to Kerala's beloved tradition, Mahabali was granted permission to visit his people once every year.

That annual homecoming is celebrated as Onam.

For the people of Kerala, Onam is therefore not merely a harvest festival. It is also a celebration of the return of a beloved king whose reign has become a symbol of an ideal society.

The famous Malayalam song describes that golden age:

“Maveli Nadu Vaneedum Kalam

Manusharellarum Onnupole...”

“When Mahabali ruled the land, all people lived as one.”

The memory is of a society where people lived in prosperity, harmony and equality.

During Onam, homes are decorated with beautiful Pookkalams, intricate floral designs created to welcome King Mahabali. Families wear new clothes, visit one another and enjoy the magnificent Onasadya, the traditional festive meal served on a banana leaf.

The celebrations express a simple and profound idea:

A great king does not live only in a palace. He lives in the memory and affection of his people.

One King — Two Sacred Festivals

Thus Mahabali occupies a unique place in Indian tradition.

Raksha Bandhan remembers:

The sacred thread

Lakshmi's symbolic bond with Mahabali

Trust and affection

The duty of protection

Onam remembers:

Mahabali's ideal rule

His generosity and devotion

His annual return to his people

Prosperity, equality and happiness

One festival remembers Mahabali as a beloved brother.

The other remembers Mahabali as a beloved king.

And both preserve the memory of a remarkable figure whose greatest quality was not his power—but his willingness to give.

Mahabali's Eternal Lesson

Mahabali lost his kingdom, yet gained immortality in the cultural memory of India.

He is remembered not because he conquered the world, but because he was willing to surrender everything when he had given his word.

That is why his story continues to live through two beautiful traditions.

In Raksha Bandhan, a thread recalls Mahabali.

In Onam, an entire land welcomes him home.

Mahabali — The King Who Lost a Kingdom but Won the Hearts of His People Forever.

This combination makes a particularly beautiful festival article because it connects North India's Raksha Bandhan tradition with Kerala's Onam tradition through the same great figure—Mahabali.

Ghati yantra

Ghaṭī Yantra — When Ancient India Measured Time with Water

Long before mechanical clocks and centuries before quartz oscillators, Indian astronomers had already devised ingenious instruments for measuring the passage of time.

Among them was the Ghaṭī Yantra, a water clock in which the predictable behaviour of water was transformed into a practical astronomical timekeeper.

It was simple in appearance—but remarkably thoughtful in design.

A Bowl That Measured Time

The basic instrument consisted of a small metal vessel, traditionally described as a copper bowl, placed upon water.

Unlike an ordinary vessel that simply floats, this bowl had a carefully made aperture. Water gradually entered through the opening, increasing the weight of the vessel until it eventually sank.

Its complete sinking marked a predetermined interval of time.

The important insight was that the bowl remained at approximately the same level relative to the surrounding water while it was filling. This made the arrangement considerably more suitable for a repeatable interval than simply allowing water to drain from a container whose water level—and therefore pressure—was continually falling.

The Mathematics of the Ghaṭī

The traditional Indian system divided the day and night into 60 ghaṭīs.

Since a complete day contains 24 hours:

24 hours ÷ 60 = 24 minutes

Thus:

1 ghaṭī = 24 minutes

The ghaṭī was further divided into smaller units. A commonly encountered subdivision is the vināḍī, with:

1 ghaṭī = 60 vināḍīs

Therefore:

1 vināḍī = 24 seconds

This is where the often-quoted figure of 24 seconds comes from.

But there is an important distinction.

The historical sources establish the time divisions. They do not provide modern experimental evidence that every surviving or reconstructed water clock maintained an accuracy of exactly ±24 seconds.

So it is more accurate to say that Indian astronomical timekeeping defined and worked with intervals as small as the vināḍī, rather than claiming that a fifth-century clock was proven accurate to 24 seconds.

The Astronomer as Engineer

The remarkable feature of these instruments is that they required more than astronomical knowledge.

The maker had to understand:

the size and shape of the vessel,

the size of the aperture,

buoyancy,

water entry,

vessel displacement,

repeatability,

and the relationship between the instrument and the desired unit of time.

Later astronomical works provide increasingly detailed specifications for constructing such instruments. Lalla, an important astronomer of the eighth century, gives particularly interesting technical details concerning the vessel and its aperture.

This tells us something important about the scientific tradition of India.

Astronomy was not confined to calculating planetary positions on paper.

The astronomer also had to be an instrument maker.

From Timekeeping to Astronomy

Why did astronomers need such instruments?

Because astronomical observations depend upon time.

The rising and setting of celestial objects, the position of the Sun, the measurement of shadows, planetary observations and the prediction of celestial events all require a reliable framework for recording when something happened.

The water clock therefore became part of a much larger Indian tradition of astronomical instruments.

The same civilization that developed sophisticated mathematical astronomy also developed practical instruments with which observations could be made.

The Genius of Simplicity

The Ghaṭī Yantra did not require gears, electricity or a vibrating crystal.

Its essential components were:

water + vessel + aperture + gravity + mathematics.

That simplicity should not be mistaken for primitiveness.

Engineering often begins with finding a physical phenomenon that behaves predictably and then designing an instrument around it.

In this case, the phenomenon was the movement of water and the changing buoyancy of a vessel.

The genius lay in turning that behaviour into a repeatable interval of time.

What We Should—and Should Not—Claim

It is tempting to describe the Ghaṭī Yantra as a fifth-century clock “accurate to 24 seconds.”

That makes a dramatic headline, but the historical evidence does not justify such precision.

A better statement is even more interesting:

Ancient Indian astronomers developed water clocks calibrated to a sophisticated system of time divisions and used them as practical astronomical instruments centuries before mechanical clocks became widespread in Europe.

That is a claim we can defend.

The story does not need exaggeration.

The surviving astronomical tradition itself is extraordinary.

When Time Was a Physical Substance

For the ancient observer, time could not be seen.

But it could be measured.

Water became the moving hand of the clock.

A sinking bowl became the marker.

Mathematics supplied the divisions.

And astronomy gave the measurement a purpose.

From the movement of water, Indian astronomers created a bridge between the physical world and the invisible passage of time.

Ghaṭī Yantra

Where Water Became a Clock — and Astronomy Learned to Measure Time.

Bhimbetka

Bhimbetka — Where Prehistory Came Alive on Stone

Long before cities, books, temples or written languages, human beings were already telling stories.

One of the most remarkable places where we can see this is Bhimbetka, in Madhya Pradesh.

Hidden among the rocky hills are hundreds of natural rock shelters. Early humans lived in some of these shelters and, over thousands of years, painted pictures on their walls.

What did they paint?

They painted the world they knew.

We see deer, bison, elephants, wild boar and other animals. There are also people hunting with bows and arrows, groups dancing, families gathering, riders and scenes of everyday life.

The paintings were made using natural pigments, including colours derived from minerals and other materials available in the surroundings. Some have survived remarkably well because they were protected inside the rock shelters.

A story without writing

The people who made the earliest paintings did not leave us books or written records. Yet their pictures tell us something about their lives.

They show us what animals they saw, how they hunted, how they moved together and perhaps what they considered important.

In a sense, the walls became their memory.

Bhimbetka also shows that prehistoric India was not a single moment in time. Different layers of occupation and paintings belong to different periods, extending from the Stone Age into much later times.

How old is it?

Bhimbetka has evidence of very ancient human occupation, including evidence associated with the Lower Paleolithic. The famous paintings represent several later periods of prehistoric and historic human activity.

This long continuity makes Bhimbetka particularly valuable to archaeologists.

In 2003, UNESCO declared the Rock Shelters of Bhimbetka a World Heritage Site.

The wonder of Bhimbetka

When we look at a Bhimbetka painting, we are not simply looking at an old picture.

We are looking across thousands of years at the hand and imagination of another human being.

Someone once stood before that rock, observed an animal, a hunt or a gathering, and chose to preserve the moment.

There were no cameras.

No paper.

No books.

Only stone, colour and memory.

And somehow, across the enormous distance of time, their story has reached us.

Bhimbetka — where prehistory came alive on stone.

Agastya

Agastya — The Sage Who Drank the Ocean

There are stories in the Indian tradition that seem almost impossible to imagine.

A sage who made a mountain bow.

A sage who defeated powerful demons.

And a sage who, when the gods themselves needed help, drank the ocean.

That sage was Agastya.

The Kālakeya Demons

The Kālakeyas were a formidable race of Asuras who had become a terrible threat to the Devas, sages and the very order of the worlds.

After their defeat in battle, the surviving Kālakeyas found a remarkable hiding place—the depths of the ocean.

During the day they remained concealed beneath the waters.

At night, they emerged secretly and attacked the hermitages of the sages.

Their objective was not merely destruction.

They sought to destroy the sages who preserved tapas, Vedic knowledge and dharma. If the guardians of knowledge were eliminated, the foundations of the cosmic order itself would weaken.

The Devas were unable to reach them.

The ocean protected the demons.

Something extraordinary had to be done.

The Gods Turn to Agastya

The Devas approached the great sage Agastya.

Agastya was no ordinary Ṛṣi. His tapas had given him extraordinary spiritual power, but that power was never portrayed merely as a personal accomplishment.

When the welfare of the worlds required it, Agastya acted.

The Devas asked him to remove the waters of the ocean so that the Kālakeyas could no longer hide.

Agastya agreed.

He approached the ocean.

And then came the astonishing act:

Agastya drank the ocean.

The waters disappeared into the power of the great sage.

The Kālakeyas were exposed.

The Devas descended upon them and destroyed their stronghold. Those who survived fled to Pātāla.

The immediate danger had passed.

But another problem remained.

Where Would the Ocean Go?

The Devas now faced an extraordinary question.

How could the ocean be filled again?

They asked Agastya to return the waters.

But the sage explained that the waters he had consumed had already been digested by his tapas-shakti.

The ocean could not simply be restored by Agastya.

It would require another cosmic intervention.

Thus, in the Mahābhārata, the episode becomes more than a fantastic tale about a sage drinking an ocean.

It becomes a story about the scale of power that Indian tradition attributed to tapas.

The Same Agastya Who Made Vindhya Bow

Agastya appears again and again in Indian sacred literature as a sage capable of accomplishing what appears impossible.

When the Vindhya mountain continually grew higher, threatening to obstruct the path of the Sun, Agastya approached it.

Vindhya bowed before the sage.

Agastya asked the mountain to remain bowed until he returned.

He then travelled south—and never returned.

The mountain remained humble.

Another famous story tells of Agastya confronting the demon brothers Ilvala and Vātāpi, whose deception had enabled them to kill unsuspecting guests.

Agastya defeated their scheme through the power of his knowledge and tapas.

And in another celebrated tradition, Agastya became one of the great sages associated with the southward spread of Vedic culture.

Thus the stories surrounding Agastya share a striking theme:

Where ordinary strength fails, the strength of tapas succeeds.

Power Used for Dharma

The most important feature of the story is not that Agastya could drink an ocean.

It is why he did it.

He did not perform the act to display supernatural power.

He did not seek wealth, fame or authority.

He acted because the sages were being persecuted and the balance of the worlds was threatened.

This is the ideal of the Ṛṣi:

extraordinary power accompanied by extraordinary restraint.

In the Indian understanding, tapas is not simply austerity.

It is the accumulation of spiritual energy through discipline, knowledge, purity and unwavering concentration.

Agastya represents that power at its highest.

A Sage Who Became a Bridge

Agastya occupies a unique place in Indian civilization.

He belongs to the ancient Vedic world, yet tradition associates him deeply with the southern regions of Bharat.

He appears in the Vedas, the Mahābhārata, the Purāṇas and later Tamil traditions.

He is revered not merely as a sage of the past but as one of the great cultural bridges of India.

The north and south, the Vedic and regional traditions, spirituality and knowledge—all meet in the figure of Agastya.

And perhaps that is why his stories became so extraordinary.

The mountain bows before him.

Demons cannot overcome him.

And when the ocean itself becomes a hiding place for evil—

the sage drinks the ocean.

Agastya's greatness was never in the size of the miracle.

It was in the purpose behind it.

He used immense power not for himself, but for the protection of dharma and the welfare of the worlds.

That is why, among India's countless sages, Agastya stands as one of the truly extraordinary ones.

Secret.

 The distinction between Vidhi, Niṣedha, Veda Mantra and Purāṇa is important, especially when discussing Dharmaśāstra and Hindu practice.

1. Vidhi (विधि) — “Do this”

A Vidhi is an injunction prescribing an action.

It tells us what ought to be done.

Example: “One should perform Agnihotra.”

Its purpose is to establish a duty or prescribed practice.

In Mīmāṃsā, Vidhi is especially important because it generates an obligation to perform an action.

2. Niṣedha (निषेध) — “Do not do this”

A Niṣedha is a prohibition.

It tells us what ought not to be done.

Example: a scriptural prohibition against a particular act in a particular circumstance.

Its purpose is to prevent an action considered contrary to Dharma.

So, very simply:

Vidhi → Do this

Niṣedha → Don't do this

3. Veda Mantra — Sacred revealed utterance

A Vedic mantra is not simply an instruction.

The Vedas contain different kinds of passages, including mantras, injunctions, explanatory passages and other forms of Vedic speech. A mantra may:

invoke or address a deity,

accompany a ritual action,

praise,

pray,

contemplate,

or convey sacred meaning.

For example, the Gāyatrī Mantra is a Vedic mantra, but it is not itself a simple Vidhi such as “perform X.”

An important point is that a mantra and a Vidhi can work together in a Vedic ritual: the Vidhi prescribes the action, while the mantra may accompany or identify the ritual action.

4. Purāṇa — Sacred narrative and teaching

A Purāṇa works differently again.

Purāṇas teach Dharma through:

stories of the gods and devotees,

accounts of kings and sages,

cosmology,

pilgrimage,

festivals and vrata,

ethical teachings,

praise of particular forms of the Divine.

A Purāṇic story may illustrate or reinforce a Vidhi or Niṣedha, but a story is not automatically a Vedic injunction merely because it appears in a Purāṇa.

The easiest way to remember it

Term

Basic function

Simple question

Vidhi

Injunction

What should I do?

Niṣedha

Prohibition

What should I not do?

Veda Mantra

Sacred utterance

What sacred words are recited?

Purāṇa

Narrative + teaching

What story/teaching illustrates Dharma?

There is one further subtlety that is very relevant to Sri Vaishnava thought: not every sentence in śāstra has the same kind of authority or function. A passage that praises something, narrates something, or gives an example should not automatically be treated as a Vidhi. Distinguishing injunction, prohibition, mantra, arthavāda (explanatory/praising statement), and narrative is a major part of understanding how traditional commentators interpret scripture.

https://youtube.com/shorts/s3U75_bEyUI?si=LGahtZ5BL2Efb9xA

this is exactly the point that connects with your previous question about Vidhi, Niṣedha, Veda Mantra and Purāṇa.

The Kali-Santaraṇa Upaniṣad gives us a particularly interesting case.

The source of the Hare Rāma–Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra

The Kali-Santaraṇa Upaniṣad is traditionally associated with the Kṛṣṇa Yajurveda. It presents a dialogue between Nārada and Brahmā. Nārada asks how one can cross the difficulties of Kali Yuga, and Brahmā gives the answer: the chanting of the Divine Names. 

The sixteen names are:

Hare Rāma Hare Rāma

Rāma Rāma Hare Hare

Hare Kṛṣṇa Hare Kṛṣṇa

Kṛṣṇa Kṛṣṇa Hare Hare

The Upaniṣad calls them ṣoḍaśakaṁ nāmnām — sixteen names — and says that they destroy the impurities/effects of Kali. It further says that there is no superior means to this to be seen in the Vedas. 

There is an interesting textual point here: some recensions give the Rāma sequence first, as in your message, while others give Kṛṣṇa first. So both orders are found in circulation. 

But is this a Vidhi?

This is where our previous discussion becomes important.

The Upaniṣad does not merely give us a mantra as an isolated sacred formula. It gives the mantra in the context of Brahmā's answer to Nārada's question about the means of overcoming Kali.

So there is an injunctive/teaching force to the passage: it identifies nāma-saṅkīrtana as the prescribed spiritual means for Kali.

But technically, we should be careful about saying:

“The sixteen names themselves are a Vidhi.”

Rather, the Upaniṣadic passage teaches the means, while the sixteen names constitute the mantra/nāma to be uttered.

That distinction is quite beautiful:

Vidhi → the prescribed means

Mantra → the sacred names to be uttered

And where does Brahma Vaivarta Purāṇa come in?

This is probably what you are pointing toward.

The Brahma Vaivarta Purāṇa is a Purāṇa, and therefore belongs to a different category of śāstric literature from the Upaniṣad. If it repeats, praises or explains the chanting of the Divine Name, that does not mean the Purāṇic passage is the source of the mantra.

The Kali-Santaraṇa Upaniṣad itself is an independent scriptural source for the sixteen-name formula.

So we should not say:

“The Hare Rāma Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra comes from the Brahma Vaivarta Purāṇa.”

It is more accurate to say:

The mantra is explicitly given in the Kali-Santaraṇa Upaniṣad; Purāṇic literature also contains teachings concerning the glory and efficacy of nāma.

And this is why your earlier question was so important. A Purāṇa may praise and explain a practice; a Vedic/Upaniṣadic text may prescribe or reveal a means; and the actual sacred formula may be a mantra.

One correction to keep in mind: the claim sometimes made that the Brahma Vaivarta Purāṇa is the original source of the Hare Kṛṣṇa Mahāmantra is not the best way to put it. The Kali-Santaraṇa Upaniṣad gives the sixteen names explicitly and is therefore a very important primary textual reference. 

And I think this can become a very good article in your series:

“Hare Rāma Hare Kṛṣṇa — Mantra, Vidhi and the Scriptural Source”, explaining exactly how the Upaniṣad, Purāṇa, mantra and Vidhi differ.

Within ÀLL

Nām Avan Ivan Uvan

Nammāḻvār's Vision of the One Who Is Within All

“Nām avan ivan uvan, avaḷ ivaḷ uvaḷ evaḷ…”

With these deceptively simple words, Nammāḻvār opens an extraordinary window into the nature of Bhagavān.

This is Tiruvāymoḻi 1.1.4, one of the earliest verses in the great work in which Nammāḻvār describes the all-pervading presence of the Supreme Lord.

The verse appears almost to be playing with words:

He, this man, that man, the other man.

She, this woman, that woman, whoever she may be.

This person, that person, those people.

This thing, that thing, whatever it may be.

And then Nammāḻvār takes us far beyond ordinary language.

The complete verse

நாம் அவன் இவன் உவன் அவள் இவள் உவள் எவள்

தாம் அவர் இவர் உவர் அது இது உது எது

வீம் அவை இவை உவை அவை நலம் தீங்கு அவை

ஆம் அவை ஆயவை ஆய் நின்ற அவரே

Nām avan ivan uvan, avaḷ ivaḷ uvaḷ evaḷ

Tām avar ivar uvar, adu idu udu edu

Vīm avai ivai uvai, avai nalam tīṅgu avai

Ām avai āyavai āy ninṟa avarē.

The power of the verse lies in its extraordinary inclusiveness.

He — this one — that one

Nammāḻvār begins with people.

The person who is far away.

The person who is near.

The person who is somewhere in between.

Then he does the same with women.

Then with people collectively.

Then with objects.

He leaves almost nothing outside his description.

Why?

Because Bhagavān is the indwelling reality of all of them.

The traditional explanation describes Bhagavān as the Antaryāmi—the Inner Controller who sustains, directs and controls all beings.

Good and bad

Then comes an even more striking statement.

Nammāḻvār includes:

“nalam tīṅgu” — good and bad.

This does not mean that Bhagavān Himself becomes evil or that good and evil are morally identical.

Rather, nothing exists outside His sovereignty.

Everything that exists depends upon Him.

Everything functions under His ultimate control.

The distinction between what is good and what is harmful remains real for the individual being, but neither lies outside the Lord's overarching reality.

Past, present and future

And then Nammāḻvār embraces time itself.

What has been.

What is.

What will be.

The past cannot escape Him.

The present cannot escape Him.

The future cannot escape Him.

There is nowhere to go outside the reach of the Supreme.

He is not merely present at one particular place or at one particular moment.

He is the foundation upon which existence itself rests.

Why does Nammāḻvār use so many words?

This is perhaps the most beautiful feature of the verse.

He keeps saying:

avan — ivan — uvan

avaḷ — ivaḷ — uvaḷ — evaḷ

avar — ivar — uvar

adu — idu — udu — edu

“This one.”

“That one.”

“The one in between.”

“Which one?”

It is almost as though language itself is running out of ways to describe the universe.

Nammāḻvār is telling us:

Point anywhere.

Name anyone.

Look at anything.

Think of any time.

The Lord is there as the indwelling reality.

As one traditional explanation puts it, the various words ultimately point to Bhagavān because He is the Antaryāmi of all entities.

The great Sri Vaishnava insight

This is where the verse becomes especially profound for Sri Vaishnava thought.

The world is not God.

A human being is not God.

An object is not God.

Yet nothing exists independently of God.

Bhagavān is the Inner Ruler and Sustainer.

The individual soul remains an individual soul.

Matter remains matter.

Bhagavān remains Bhagavān.

Yet all are inseparably dependent upon Him.

This is one of the profound ideas expressed through the Sri Vaishnava understanding of śarīra–śarīrī bhāva: the universe and all individual selves are related to Bhagavān as the body is related to its indwelling Self.

And now our earlier thought returns

This verse also brings us naturally back to the expression.

Aghaṭita Ghaṭanā Sāmarthya.

The Lord whose greatness cannot be contained by our ordinary categories can simultaneously be:

beyond everything — and within everything.

He is transcendent.

He is immanent.

He is infinite.

And yet He enters into relationship with every individual being.

The One beyond the universe is also the One within the smallest being.

That is the wonder.

There is also a lesson for us

If the same Bhagavān is the Inner Controller of all beings, then how should we look at another person?

Not merely as a stranger.

Not merely as someone different from ourselves.

But as a jīva whose inner ruler is Bhagavān Himself.

This does not erase differences between people.

It transforms the way we see those differences.

Every person becomes worthy of respect.

Every living being becomes part of a larger divine order.

The world becomes not merely a collection of objects, but a creation permeated by the presence and governance of the Lord.

Nammāḻvār's extraordinary simplicity

There is no elaborate philosophical argument here.

No complicated terminology.

Only a series of ordinary words:

this…

that…

he…

she…

this thing…

that thing…

past…

present…

future…

And then the extraordinary conclusion:

Āy ninṟa avarē.

He stands as all these.

The great poet has taken the entire universe and compressed it into a few lines.

One final thought

We often search for Bhagavān somewhere far away—

in a distant heaven,

in a sacred place,

in a temple,

in a pilgrimage.

Nammāḻvār does not deny any of these.

But he asks us to see something even deeper.

Wherever you look, He is already there.

The person before you.

The person far away.

The living being beside you.

The world around you.

What has passed.

What is happening now.

What is yet to come.

All exist under His sovereignty.

And within all, He remains the Antaryāmi.

That is the breathtaking vision of Nammāḻvār:

“Nām avan ivan uvan…”

Look wherever you will.

He is already there.

And perhaps that is the true wonder of Aghaṭita Ghaṭanā Sāmarthya:

The One who is beyond everything

chooses to be within everything—

without ever ceasing to be the Supreme.

Not ordinary.

Aghaṭita Ghaṭanā Sāmarthya

When the Impossible Becomes Possible

There are things in life that appear impossible.

A mountain cannot move.

The infinite cannot enter the finite.

The unseen cannot suddenly become visible.

A helpless person cannot overcome an overwhelming force.

Yet our spiritual traditions repeatedly tell us that Bhagavān is not bound by the limitations that govern ordinary beings.

This extraordinary divine capacity is expressed in the Sanskrit phrase:

Aghaṭita Ghaṭanā Sāmarthya — अघटितघटनासामर्थ्य

It may be understood as “the power to make the impossible happen.”

What does the phrase mean?

Aghaṭita — that which ordinarily cannot happen.

Ghaṭanā — the happening or bringing about of an event.

Sāmarthya — power or capacity.

Together, the expression points to the divine power by which Bhagavān accomplishes what appears impossible to the human mind.

This is not magic in the ordinary sense. It is a reminder that our understanding of possibility is limited, while Bhagavān's power is limitless.

The Infinite becomes accessible

One of the greatest mysteries of Hindu thought is the relationship between the infinite Bhagavān and the finite world.

The Supreme Being, beyond all limitations, becomes accessible to human beings through arcā, the divine form in which He allows Himself to be worshipped.

The infinite accepts a form.

The transcendent becomes approachable.

The Supreme allows Himself to be served by His devotees.

To the ordinary intellect, this itself is astonishing.

It is an expression of Aghaṭita Ghaṭanā Sāmarthya.

In the Avatāra

The same principle becomes even more striking in the avatāras.

The Supreme takes birth as Rāma and Kṛṣṇa.

The unborn appears to be born.

The infinite walks upon the earth.

The Supreme Being accepts the limitations of a human form while remaining the Supreme Being.

In the Rāmāyaṇa, a great ocean stands between Rāma and Laṅkā. A bridge is constructed across the sea, enabling the vānaras to cross.

In the Bhāgavata tradition, Kṛṣṇa performs deeds that transcend ordinary human capability from childhood itself.

The divine does not merely overcome obstacles.

The divine transforms the very boundaries of what we consider possible.

The devotee and the impossible

Perhaps the most beautiful aspect is that this divine power is not presented merely as something spectacular.

It becomes meaningful when connected with bhakti and śaraṇāgati.

A devotee may reach a point where there appears to be no solution.

Human effort has reached its limit.

Every door seems closed.

Then comes the great spiritual lesson:

What is impossible for me is not necessarily impossible for Bhagavān.

This does not mean that every wish will automatically be fulfilled.

Rather, śaraṇāgati teaches us to place our trust in the One whose knowledge and power are greater than our own.

The miracle within ordinary life

Aghaṭita Ghaṭanā Sāmarthya need not always appear as a spectacular miracle.

Sometimes it is the unexpected opening of a path.

Sometimes it is strength appearing when we thought we had none.

Sometimes it is the meeting of the right person at precisely the right moment.

Sometimes circumstances change in a manner we could never have planned.

And sometimes the greatest miracle is that our own heart changes.

What seemed impossible yesterday becomes possible today.

The Sri Vaishnava perspective

Sri Vaishnava philosophy places extraordinary emphasis on the ananta kalyāṇa guṇas of Bhagavān—the infinite auspicious qualities of the Supreme.

His greatness is not merely His power.

It is His saulabhya—His accessibility.

It is His sauśīlya—His gracious willingness to mingle with and uplift His devotees.

It is His vātsalya—His tender concern for them.

Thus, divine power is inseparable from divine compassion.

The One who possesses limitless power is also the One who chooses to use that power for the protection and upliftment of those who seek Him.

When we encounter the impossible

Life will inevitably bring situations that appear beyond our capacity.

At such moments, Aghaṭita Ghaṭanā Sāmarthya offers a profound thought:

Do not measure Bhagavān's possibilities by the limits of your own understanding.

We see only one moment.

He sees the entire journey.

We see an obstacle.

He sees a path beyond it.

We see impossibility.

He sees possibility.

And sometimes, what we call a miracle is simply the manifestation of a power that was always beyond our comprehension.

A thought to carry

Aghaṭita Ghaṭanā Sāmarthya is therefore more than a philosophical expression.

It is a statement of faith.

When human strength ends, divine possibility does not.

What cannot be accomplished by us may still be accomplished by Him.

What cannot be understood by us may still be perfectly within His knowledge.

And what appears impossible to the world may, in the hands of Bhagavān, become the most natural thing of all.

Aghaṭita Ghaṭanā Sāmarthya —

the divine power by which the impossible becomes possible.

The Ashram

Sri Aurobindo and The Mother — Two Lives, One Vision

Some relationships are bound by family, some by friendship, some by loyalty and shared struggle. And then there are relationships that seem to transcend all ordinary definitions.

The relationship between Sri Aurobindo and The Mother was one such extraordinary bond.

Sri Aurobindo was born Aurobindo Ghose in 1872. Educated in England, he returned to India and became deeply involved in the struggle for India's freedom. But his journey gradually moved from political revolution towards a much larger spiritual vision: the transformation of human consciousness.

The Mother, born Mirra Alfassa in Paris in 1878, had independently travelled a profound spiritual path from childhood. Her search eventually brought her to Pondicherry, where she met Sri Aurobindo in 1914.

She later described that first meeting as a recognition of someone she had already known inwardly.

Sri Aurobindo recognised in her an extraordinary spiritual capacity. Their meeting became the beginning of a collaboration that would shape the next decades of their lives.

Beyond Teacher and Disciple

It would be too simple to describe The Mother merely as Sri Aurobindo's disciple.

Their relationship developed into a spiritual partnership.

Sri Aurobindo developed the philosophy of Integral Yoga—a path that sought not merely escape from the world, but the transformation of human life through the evolution of consciousness.

The Mother became the living organiser and practical embodiment of this vision.

When Sri Aurobindo withdrew from public life in 1926, The Mother took increasing responsibility for the growing spiritual community around him. The Sri Aurobindo Ashram developed under her guidance into a remarkable experiment in collective living, education, work, art and spiritual practice.

Two Complementary Strengths

Sri Aurobindo was the philosopher, poet, yogi and visionary.

The Mother was the organiser, educator, artist and spiritual guide who translated that vision into daily life.

Yet the distinction should not be made too rigidly. The Mother herself was a profound spiritual thinker, while Sri Aurobindo was deeply concerned with practical transformation.

Together they presented a remarkable idea:

Spirituality need not mean withdrawal from life. Life itself could become the field of spiritual evolution.

Work, education, relationships, the body, creativity and collective living could all become part of the journey.

A Different Kind of Legacy

Sri Aurobindo passed away in 1950.

The Mother continued the work of the Ashram for another 23 years.

She guided its educational institutions, developed new approaches to learning and encouraged the idea of a community that would belong not to one nation or one religion, but to humanity.

This vision eventually found another expression in Auroville, founded in 1968.

Its ideal was extraordinarily simple and ambitious:

a place where people could live together beyond national divisions, united by a common aspiration for human unity.

Why Their Relationship Was Extraordinary

Sri Aurobindo and The Mother did not share an ordinary domestic life. Their relationship cannot properly be understood through conventional categories.

It was a meeting of two remarkable spiritual lives, each bringing something different, yet converging upon the same purpose.

Sri Aurobindo gave the world a vast vision of human evolution.

The Mother helped build a living environment in which that vision could be practised.

One gave form to the philosophy.

The other gave form to the community.

And together they left behind something greater than either a school of philosophy or an institution: a continuing experiment in transforming human consciousness and human life.

Perhaps that is what makes their relationship so extraordinary.

They did not simply walk together through life.

They sought to change the direction in which humanity might walk.

Manusnrithi & women

Manusmriti and the Role of Women — Honour, Responsibility and the Limits of Independence

Few subjects invite as much debate as the position of women in ancient Indian society. Manusmriti is often quoted selectively—either as proof that women were highly honoured or as proof that they were denied independence. The truth is more complex.

Manusmriti, or the Manava Dharmashastra, is a Dharmashastra text concerned with dharma, social duties, family life, conduct and law. It should therefore be read as a normative text of its historical world, not automatically as a description of how every Indian woman actually lived.

Where women are honoured

One of the most celebrated verses occurs in Manusmriti 3.56:

“Yatra nāryastu pūjyante ramante tatra devatāḥ.”

“Where women are honoured, there the gods rejoice.”

The text continues by saying that where women are not honoured, religious acts do not bear fruit.

This is a powerful statement. The dignity of women is presented not merely as a social courtesy but as something connected with the prosperity and spiritual well-being of the household.

Manusmriti also repeatedly associates women with the prosperity and continuity of the family. Wife, mother and woman are not treated as marginal figures in the household; they occupy a central place in its functioning.

The woman as the heart of the household

The ancient Indian household was an economic, social and religious institution. The wife was an essential participant in it.

Marriage was not simply a private relationship between two individuals. It created a household, continued the family line, enabled religious duties and established obligations between generations.

Consequently, the woman's responsibilities were considerable. She was associated with the management of the household, raising children, maintaining family relationships and participating in domestic religious life.

Her position was therefore important—but importance and independence were not the same thing.

The question of independence

This is where the modern reader encounters the most difficult passages.

Manusmriti 9.3 says that a woman is protected by her father in childhood, by her husband in youth and by her sons in old age, and states that she should not be independent.

From a modern perspective, this conflicts directly with the principle of individual autonomy.

But it also reveals something about the social structure of the period: the ideal family was understood as a network of reciprocal responsibilities, with men carrying the formal responsibility for protection and provision and women carrying major responsibilities within the household.

We should neither disguise the restriction nor read the ancient concept entirely through modern categories.

The text genuinely places limits on female independence. That should be acknowledged honestly.

Strīdhana — a woman's own property

Another important aspect is strīdhana, literally a woman's property or wealth.

Manusmriti recognises forms of property belonging to women and provides protection against relatives wrongfully taking it. The existence of strīdhana is significant because it shows that women were not simply regarded as having no economic rights whatsoever.

At the same time, the rules concerning control and inheritance of property were not equivalent to modern property law.

Again, the picture is mixed: recognition of women's property existed alongside restrictions on independent control.

Protection, honour and autonomy

This brings us to the central difference between the ancient and modern frameworks.

The Manusmriti ideal was largely based on:

Honour → Protection → Responsibility → Family

The modern ideal increasingly emphasises:

Equality → Individual rights → Autonomy → Choice

These are not identical concepts.

A society can honour a woman deeply while still restricting her independence. Conversely, modern legal equality can grant extensive individual freedom without necessarily guaranteeing social respect.

Therefore, saying simply that “Manusmriti respected women” is incomplete.

And saying “Manusmriti regarded women as worthless” is equally inaccurate.

Beyond a single text

Ancient India cannot be understood through Manusmriti alone.

The wider Sanskrit and regional traditions contain women who were philosophers, poets, rulers, teachers, devotees and powerful figures in public life. The Vedic tradition remembers women such as Gargi and Maitreyi; Indian history later produced remarkable women in many fields.

Social practice also varied enormously across regions, communities and periods.

Thus, Manusmriti should be studied as one important historical text, not treated as a complete description of the life of every Indian woman for thousands of years.

Reading Manusmriti today

There is no need either to defend every rule in Manusmriti or to dismiss the entire text.

We can appreciate its recognition of the importance of women, the dignity attached to motherhood and family life, the principle that women should be honoured, and the recognition of strīdhana.

At the same time, we can openly acknowledge that its restrictions on women's independence belong to a social framework very different from the one in which we live today.

The most meaningful way to read an ancient text is neither through unquestioning admiration nor through wholesale condemnation.

It is to ask:

What did it value?

What social world produced it?

What remains meaningful?

And what belongs to its historical context?

Manusmriti presents a fascinating picture of an ancient society in which women were considered indispensable to family, prosperity and social continuity, while their personal independence was substantially constrained.

That tension is precisely what makes the subject worth studying.

To understand the past is not necessarily to reproduce it.

And to disagree with the past is not necessarily to erase it.

It is to learn from it.

The almanack

Panchangam — Where Time Meets the Cosmos

Long before clocks, calendars and modern astronomical instruments, the people of ancient Bharat looked up at the sky and learnt to read time from the movements of the heavens.

The Panchangam is one of the most remarkable expressions of that knowledge.

The word Panchangam comes from pancha, meaning five, and anga, meaning limbs. It describes five fundamental elements of traditional Indian reckoning of time:

Tithi — the lunar day, determined by the changing angular relationship between the Sun and Moon.

Vāra — the weekday.

Nakshatra — the lunar mansion in which the Moon is situated.

Yoga — a measure derived from the positions of the Sun and Moon.

Karaṇa — half of a Tithi.

Together, these do something much more sophisticated than simply tell us whether today is Monday or Tuesday.

They describe the astronomical character of a particular moment.

Time Written Across the Sky

Ancient Indian astronomers carefully observed the Sun, Moon and planets and developed mathematical systems to calculate their movements.

The changing phases of the Moon provided a natural measure of time. The apparent movement of the Sun marked the seasons and the agricultural year. The stars provided fixed points against which the movement of the Moon could be observed.

From such observations emerged an elaborate system capable of determining lunar days, months, seasons, eclipses and important astronomical transitions.

The Panchangam therefore represents something more than a calendar.

It is a calendar combined with astronomy.

A Calendar That Lives With Nature

The Indian calendar was never completely detached from the natural world.

The year moved through ṛtus — the seasons. Agriculture followed rainfall, sunlight and seasonal change. Festivals were linked to lunar and solar events. Temple observances followed prescribed astronomical timings. Rituals, fasts, celebrations and ceremonies were often determined not merely by a numbered date but by the particular combination of astronomical factors occurring at that time.

This is why the date of an Indian festival can change from year to year in the Gregorian calendar.

The festival is not simply attached to a number such as “August 26.”

It is attached to an astronomical condition.

The Moon Was a Clock

The Moon was one of humanity's earliest natural clocks.

Its changing appearance divides the lunar month into recognisable phases. Indian astronomy refined this observation into the concept of Tithi.

A Tithi is not exactly the same thing as a 24-hour day. It is based on the changing angular relationship between the Sun and Moon. Consequently, a Tithi can begin or end at different times of the ordinary clock.

This is one reason why Panchangam calculations require astronomical computation rather than simply counting dates.

Nakshatras — The Ancient Star Map

The 27 Nakshatras form another fascinating part of the system.

As the Moon travels across the sky, it appears to move through these stellar divisions. Each Nakshatra therefore provides a way of describing the Moon's position against the background of stars.

The night sky became, in effect, a vast celestial map.

Generations of observers could look upward and recognise the same patterns that their ancestors had watched centuries earlier.

Mathematics Behind the Calendar

The Panchangam could not have developed through observation alone.

Observation supplied the data.

Mathematics turned observation into calculation.

Indian astronomical traditions developed sophisticated methods for calculating planetary positions, conjunctions, eclipses, solstices and other celestial events. Works such as the Vedāṅga Jyotiṣa, and later astronomical texts including the Sūrya Siddhānta, show the long development of Indian astronomical thought.

Astronomers such as Āryabhaṭa and Varāhamihira carried this tradition further, combining observation, mathematical reasoning and astronomical models.

The Panchangam is therefore part of a much larger intellectual tradition.

More Than a Calendar

What makes the Panchangam especially distinctive is the way astronomical time became integrated into ordinary life.

It could guide:

Festivals.

Temple rituals.

Agricultural activities.

Ceremonial occasions.

Religious observances.

Seasonal practices.

Daily spiritual disciplines.

The sky was not regarded as something distant from human life.

It was part of the same order of nature in which human beings lived.

Time as Sacred

There is also a deeper idea here.

Sanātana Dharma does not place humanity outside nature and then treat nature merely as an object to be controlled.

The individual, the earth and the cosmos are understood as interconnected expressions of a larger order — ṛta, the principle of cosmic order.

Consequently, time itself could be treated as sacred.

A particular moment was not merely another square on a calendar.

It had a place within the larger rhythm of the cosmos.

This is why the Panchangam feels so different from a purely administrative calendar.

It does not merely ask:

“What is today's date?”

It asks:

“Where are we in the movement of the cosmos?”

Ancient Knowledge, Living Tradition

Modern astronomy has transformed our ability to observe the universe. Telescopes, satellites, computers and space missions have taken us unimaginably farther than ancient observers could travel with the naked eye.

Yet the fundamental human impulse remains the same.

We still watch the Sun.

We still watch the Moon.

We still measure seasons.

We still calculate eclipses.

We still organise our lives according to time.

The Panchangam reminds us that thousands of years ago, Indian civilisation had already developed a remarkable intellectual tradition for doing exactly this — using observation, mathematics and a profound awareness of nature.

It was science expressed through the language of its age, and spirituality expressed through an understanding of cosmic order.

Perhaps that is the most beautiful way to understand the Panchangam:

It is not merely a calendar of days.

It is a calendar of the cosmos.

And in every sunrise, every moonrise and every changing season, it reminds us that we do not merely live in time.

We live within the universe's rhythm.

A Panchangam can be calculated for the coming 10 years, 100 years, or even much longer, because its astronomical elements are based on predictable celestial motions.

For example, astronomers can calculate in advance:

Tithi — when each lunar day begins and ends

Nakshatra — the Moon's position among the Nakshatras

Vara — weekdays

Yoga and Karaṇa

Saṅkrānti — the Sun's movement into a new zodiac sign

Eclipses

Solstices and equinoxes

Lunar and solar months

Dates and timings of festivals based on these astronomical conditions

So a 10-year Panchangam is entirely feasible. In fact, astronomical ephemerides can project celestial positions much farther into the future.

But there is a distinction worth making in our article:

The Panchangam can predict astronomical time; it should not be described as scientifically predicting everything that will happen to a person or society.

Traditional Jyotiṣa sometimes goes further and interprets planetary positions for human affairs. That belongs to astrology, whereas calculating when a Tithi, Nakshatra or eclipse will occur belongs to astronomical calendrical computation.