The story beautiful and deeply symbolic tale from the life of Sant Tukaram, the 17th-century saint-poet of Maharashtra, who was a great devotee of Lord Vitthala (Vithoba) of Pandharpur.
When God Came to Serve
Sant Tukaram was fully immersed in bhakti (devotion) and composing abhangas (devotional poetry) in praise of Lord Vitthala. Because of his spiritual practices, he often neglected worldly responsibilities, especially household duties. His wife, Jijabai, was pregnant and alone at home, with Tukaram away on pilgrimage or absorbed in divine service.
In her solitude, she found it hard to manage the chores, her health, and the pregnancy. One day, she cried out in pain and frustration:
"O Lord Vitthala, you care for Tukaram but what about me? I am his wife, carrying his child, and he has left me helpless!"
Hearing her sincere cry and her suffering, Lord Vitthala and his consort Rukmini (Rakhumai) decided to descend to Earth, disguised as a humble couple.
The Lord came disguised as a simple peasant.
Rukmini took the form of his wife, dressed like a village woman.
They came to Tukaram’s home and offered to help Jijabai.
"We are relatives of Tukaram. We heard of your troubles. Let us help you until he returns."
Touched and grateful, Jijabai accepted.
Rakhumai cooked, cleaned, massaged Jijabai’s feet, and took tender care of her like a sister or mother.
Vitthala, in disguise, did all the hard chores—fetching water, collecting firewood, grinding grain, etc.
Jijabai was overwhelmed. These strangers treated her like a queen and served with such humility, devotion, and joy.
One day, as the two women—Jijabai and Rakhumai—were chatting while doing chores, the conversation turned to their husbands.
Jijabai said:
“My husband is always away, chanting God's name. He forgets the family, forgets food, forgets responsibilities. What kind of husband is this?”
She said this with a mix of complaint and affection, still hurting from being left alone.
Rakhumai gently replied:
“My husband is no different. He is always running to his devotees, forgetting about me entirely. His love is for bhaktas more than his own wife.”
There was quiet understanding in her voice. Though she spoke with a smile, there was also a silent longing.
This moment of sharing created a bond between them, two women who loved their husbands but felt left behind by their divine callings.
When Sant Tukaram finally returned, he was astonished to see his home so well kept, his wife healthy and glowing, and everything in order.
He asked, "Who helped you?"
Jijabai told him about the strange couple, their kindness, and how they served with such love.
Tukaram realized immediately—it was no ordinary couple. He ran out, calling for Vitthala, and had a divine vision where the Lord revealed that He and Rakhumai themselves had come to serve his household.
Tears filled Tukaram’s eyes. He fell at the Lord’s feet and said:
“O Vitthala! What can I offer you? You serve your devotees with such humility, while I am too absorbed in your name to even care for my own family.
God does not ignore the suffering of His devotees or their families.
True divinity lies in seva (service) and love.
Even God takes joy in serving those who love Him.
Women’s sacrifices are honored in heaven, even if not always noticed on Earth.
How "Two Women Speak of Their Gods"
Jijabai speaks:
My husband? Ah, what shall I say?
He is lean, with bones that know no rest,
Cheeks hollow from too many fasts,
Yet eyes—those eyes!—they blaze with light,
As if he drinks the sun each night.
His skin is dark like ripened grain,
His feet are cracked, his clothes are plain,
But when he chants that holy name,
The wind itself forgets to blow,
And every bird falls still in awe.
He walks with nothing in his hand,
Yet carries truths I barely understand.
He is a beggar, yes—but oh,
He makes even kings feel poor, you know.
Rakhumai replies:
And mine?
He stands with hands on hips so wide,
A flute of gold upon His side,
A smile half-play, half-mystery—
That smile has unmade queens like me.
His crown is wild with forest leaves,
His chest the rest for cowherd dreams,
He’s dark as monsoon's first embrace,
With lotus-petals on His face.
His eyes? Like oceans holding time,
They look, and all becomes divine.
He walks not—He glides like song,
And where He steps, no path is wrong.
But he? My husband, Lord of all,
He runs to every devotee's call,
Leaves me waiting, temple cold—
Yet I am proud, though I scold.
Together they say:
O men of ours, so far, so near,
You give us love, then disappear.
But still we wait, and sing your name,
For gods or men, love burns the same.
