Contagious.

When Stories Sing Again: Bhakti Catching Up With a New Generation in Mārgaḻi

Mārgaḻi has always been a month where stories walk into songs. What is quietly remarkable today is how this ancient rhythm is catching up again, not through compulsion or nostalgia, but through connection—especially among youngsters. The divide between kathā (story) and kīrtana (song) is dissolving, just as it once did in temple corridors and village squares.

1. From Storytelling to Singing — A Natural Flow

Earlier, a child heard the story first—Krishna stealing butter, Rama breaking the bow, Andal dreaming of union—and later learnt the song that carried that emotion. Today, many youngsters encounter the song first, and the story follows like an echo they want to understand.

A teenager hears “Kurai Ondrum Illai” and asks: Why does Andal say she has no complaint when she longs so deeply?

A group hums “Bhavayami Gopalabalam”, then searches for the episodes hidden in its lyrics—Putana, Kaliya, Govardhana.

The song becomes a gateway, not an end.

2. Tiruppāvai: Not Memorisation, but Identification

During Mārgaḻi, Tiruppāvai is no longer only a disciplined early-morning recital. Young voices are relating to it emotionally:

“Mārgaḻi thingaḷ madhi niṛainda nannāḷāl” feels like a collective invitation, not a command.

Girls relate to Andal not as a distant saint but as a confident voice that knows what it wants—divine love without apology.

WhatsApp audios, Instagram reels, and simple group recitations have made Tiruppāvai communal again, just as it was in Andal’s time.

3. Story-Based Kīrtanas Finding New Life

Songs that are deeply narrative are especially resonating:

“Alai Pāyudē” — youngsters connect to the imagery of restless waves as emotional turbulence.

“Jagadōddhārana” — the Yashoda-Krishna bond feels strikingly contemporary in its tenderness.

“Kannaṇē En Kaṇmaniyē” — the song becomes a personal lullaby, not a performance piece.

These are not sung about God, but to Him, and that intimacy is what draws the young.

4. Harikatha, Upanyasam, and the Digital Mandapam

Modern Harikatha speakers and storytellers are weaving explanation + song + relevance seamlessly:

A story pauses, a song emerges.

The lyric is explained—not academically, but emotionally.

A parallel is drawn with modern life: anxiety, longing, surrender.

Young listeners stay—not out of obligation, but because the story answers something unnamed within them.

5. Bhakti Without Fear, Without Force

Perhaps the most important change is this:

Youngsters today are approaching bhakti without fear.

They sing without worrying about rāga purity.

They listen without needing full comprehension.

They ask questions without guilt.

This mirrors the original bhakti movement, where devotion was accessible, human, and honest.

6. Mārgaḻi as a Living Season, Not a Museum

For this generation, Mārgaḻi is not just early mornings and strict rules. It is:

A playlist that mixes MS Subbulakshmi with contemporary voices

A story heard at night that lingers into morning

A line of poetry that suddenly feels personal

The season works because it allows entry at any point—story, song, or silence.

When story and song meet again, bhakti becomes contagious.

Not inherited, not enforced—caught.

In this Mārgaḻi, devotion is not being taught.

It is being remembered—

sometimes through a lyric,

sometimes through a story,

and sometimes through a young voice singing softly,

not knowing when exactly belief took root.

https://youtu.be/DKBPkAgRsPk?si=N_FnjWEHh5n-Kvqh

Now one can go to a katcheri hall taking along ones family and little children too. Is it not contagious. 

Chandas

 From breath arose syllable,

from syllable arose metre,

from metre arose memory—

and the Veda walked unforgotten.

The Innovation of Sanskrit Chandas:

When Sound Became Thought

In the Indian tradition, poetry was never merely an ornament of language. It was a discipline of breath, memory, and consciousness. The science that governed this sacred discipline came to be known as Chandas—the ordered rhythm that carried wisdom safely across centuries when writing itself was uncertain.

The innovation of Sanskrit Chandas is therefore not a literary curiosity. It is one of civilization’s earliest and most refined answers to a profound question:

How does truth remain intact when entrusted to the human voice?

Chandas in the Vedic World: Sound as Authority

The earliest innovation of Chandas appears in the Vedas, where sound preceded semantics. A Vedic mantra was not validated by meaning alone, but by exact tonal rhythm. Any deviation in syllable length (laghu or guru), accent (svara), or cadence was believed to distort not just poetry, but cosmic order (ṛta).

Thus, Chandas became:

A mnemonic framework

A protective shell for revelation

A bridge between breath and cosmos

Metres such as Gāyatrī, Triṣṭubh, and Jagatī were not invented for beauty, but for precision and endurance. Innovation here lay in recognizing that rhythm preserves truth when memory falters.

Piṅgala and the Mathematical Turn of Poetry

A revolutionary moment in the history of Chandas came with Āchārya Piṅgala’s Chandaḥśāstra. For the first time, poetic rhythm was abstracted, analyzed, and enumerated.

Piṅgala introduced:

Binary classification of syllables (laghu and guru)

Prastāra (systematic expansion of metre patterns)

Meru Prastāra, which later scholars recognized as an early form of Pascal’s Triangle

This was a quiet but profound innovation:

Poetry became countable without becoming mechanical.

Emotion remained intact, yet structure became intelligible.

Here, Chandas crossed from sacred instinct into conscious design.

Classical Sanskrit: Emotion Learns to Walk in Rhythm

In the classical period, poets like Kālidāsa, Bhāravi, and Māgha transformed Chandas into an instrument of rasa.

Metres were now chosen deliberately to mirror emotion:

Anuṣṭubh (Śloka) for narrative balance

Mandākrāntā for longing and separation

Vasantatilakā for elegance and romance

The innovation here was subtle but decisive:

Metre was no longer only a container—it became a participant.

The reader did not merely understand sorrow or joy;

they felt it through rhythm.

Bhakti and the Liberation of Chandas

The Bhakti movement introduced a radical innovation—not by adding rules, but by loosening them.

Saint-poets allowed:

Mixed metres

Regional rhythmic patterns

Emotional overflow beyond classical symmetry

What mattered was not perfection of metre, but authenticity of surrender.

This was not a rejection of Chandas, but its humanization.

Rhythm bowed to devotion, and grammar learned humility.

Philosophical Insight: Why Chandas Endures

Indian thought never treated Chandas as external discipline. It was understood as:

Breath ordered into syllable

Syllable ordered into metre

Metre ordered into memory

Memory ordered into culture

In this sense, innovation in Chandas was never rupture—it was refinement of alignment.

When rhythm aligns with breath,

breath aligns with mind,

mind aligns with truth.

 Innovation Without Disobedience

The history of Sanskrit Chandas reveals a uniquely Indian genius:

innovation without rebellion.

Rules evolved, but reverence remained.

Structures expanded, but sanctity was preserved.

Chandas stands today not merely as a poetic science, but as a reminder that discipline can be creative, and that freedom can arise from form.

A Reflection

Before meaning was written,

it learned to walk in rhythm.

And because it walked in rhythm,

it reached us unchanged.

Two hills.

 Two Hills

One hill wore crowns of stone and steel,

Watched banners rise, then fall away.

Another held a lion-Lord,

Who hears a whispered prayer today.

One speaks of power, brief and proud,

The other—grace that does not tire.

Between the fort and folded hands,

The heart learns what it must desire.

Bhuvanagiri and Yadagirigutta: Where History Rests and Bhakti Awakens

Telangana’s sacred landscape offers a rare confluence of history and living devotion, and nowhere is this more evident than in the twin presence of Bhuvanagiri and Yadagirigutta. One stands as a reminder of human ambition and political power; the other rises as a testimony to divine grace and unbroken faith. Together, they form a silent dialogue between the transient and the eternal.

Bhuvanagiri – The Rock That Watched Kingdoms Rise and Fall

Bhuvanagiri, crowned by its formidable fort, is one of the oldest fortified hill towns in South India. Perched on a monolithic rock nearly 500 feet high, the fort has witnessed centuries of change—from the Kakatiyas to the Qutb Shahis and the Asaf Jahis.

The fort’s architecture is ingenious: steep stairways carved into rock, natural defenses shaped by geography, and vantage points that once guarded trade routes and kingdoms. Yet, despite its military brilliance, Bhuvanagiri today feels contemplative rather than triumphant. The ruined walls seem to whisper a quiet truth—power, however mighty, is always temporary.

Standing atop Bhuvanagiri, one senses time stretching backward. The wind that brushes past the ramparts once carried royal commands, battle cries, and political schemes. Today, it carries only silence—inviting reflection.

Yadagirigutta – The Hill Where the Lord Still Listens

Just a short distance away lies Yadagirigutta, now reverently known as Yadadri, the sacred abode of Sri Lakshmi Narasimha Swamy. Unlike Bhuvanagiri, this hill is not remembered for conquest but for compassion.

According to tradition, the Lord manifested here to the sage Yadava Maharishi, responding to intense tapas and devotion. The deity appeared in multiple forms—Jwala Narasimha, Yogananda Narasimha, Gandabherunda Narasimha, and Lakshmi Narasimha—each embodying a different aspect of divine protection and grace.

Yadagirigutta is not merely a temple; it is a living experience of surrender. Devotees arrive burdened with fears, ailments, unanswered prayers, and unspoken vows. Many leave lighter—not always because their problems vanish, but because faith takes root.

The recent temple redevelopment has given Yadadri architectural grandeur, yet the essence remains unchanged:

the Lord who answers those who call with sincerity.

Two Hills, Two Lessons

Bhuvanagiri teaches us about the limits of human strength.

Yadagirigutta teaches us about the boundlessness of divine mercy.

One hill rose to guard a kingdom; the other rose to shelter devotees.

One reminds us that all structures crumble; the other assures us that faith endures.

It is perhaps no coincidence that they stand so close to each other. Together, they mirror the two paths before humanity—the pursuit of power and the pursuit of purpose.

A Personal Pilgrim’s Pause

For a devotee or a seeker, visiting both places in a single journey becomes deeply symbolic. After climbing the rugged fort of Bhuvanagiri, the heart naturally seeks rest. That rest is found at Yadagirigutta, where one does not climb to conquer, but ascends to submit.

Here, the mind bows where the body once struggled.

Bhuvanagiri and Yadagirigutta together remind us that history and divinity are not separate threads but woven into the same fabric of land and memory. One shows us what humans build; the other reveals what God sustains.

And perhaps that is Telangana’s quiet wisdom—

let kingdoms fade, but let devotion endure.

Stone chants.

 Hazara Rama Temple – When Stone Learns to Chant the Ramayana

Hidden within the royal enclosure of Hampi stands the Hazara Rama Temple, not grand in scale, yet vast in sacred narration. This temple does not merely house Lord Rama—it recites Him, silently, endlessly, through stone.

Every wall here is a scripture. Panel after panel unfolds the entire Ramayana—from the serenity of Ayodhya to the exile in forests, from the anguish of separation to the triumph of dharma in Lanka. One does not walk around the temple; one circumambulates the epic itself. Feet move, eyes read, and the heart remembers.

Unlike temples meant for public spectacle, this shrine was primarily a private place of worship for the Vijayanagara kings. Perhaps that is why the Ramayana here feels intimate—less proclamation, more contemplation. Rama is not a distant king; He is the inner ruler, guiding the conscience of those entrusted with power.

Notably, there is no towering gopuram demanding attention. The temple whispers rather than shouts. In that whisper lies its strength—dharma does not need noise; it needs steadfastness.

The Hazara Rama Temple reminds us that bhakti can be engraved, not just sung; that history can kneel before philosophy; and that when devotion is sincere, even stone learns to speak—a thousand times over—the name of Rama.

1. From Valmiki’s Verse to Vijayanagara Stone

What Valmiki composed in measured ślokas, the Hazara Rama Temple renders in patient stone. The Ramayana here is not abbreviated devotion; it is narrative fidelity. Each sculpted episode mirrors Valmiki’s insistence that Rama’s life be seen in totality—not merely as divine triumph, but as human endurance anchored in dharma. The temple thus becomes a visual kāvya, where poetry abandons palm leaf and settles into granite, inviting even the silent reader to become a witness.

2. Echoes of the Divya Prabandham in Silent Walls

Though the Divya Prabandham is sung, and Hazara Rama’s Ramayana is carved, both arise from the same devotional urgency—to make the Lord accessible. The Āḻvārs sang so that even those denied Vedic learning could taste divine love; the sculptors carved so that even the unlettered eye could read Rama’s journey. In this way, the temple stands in kinship with the Prabandham: bhakti that crosses the barriers of language, learning, and lineage, offering Rama not as abstraction, but as lived presence.

3. Rama as the Inner King

That this temple stood within a royal enclosure is no coincidence. Rama here is not merely Maryādā Puruṣottama for the masses; He is Rājadharma embodied, placed before kings as a mirror. Every decision of power was to be measured against Rama’s renunciation, restraint, and righteousness. The Hazara Rama Temple thus whispers an eternal counsel: authority without dharma is noise, but authority shaped by Rama becomes service. The king who walked these corridors was reminded—daily—that he ruled only by first being ruled by dharma.

Raibhya

 Raibhya (रैभ्य) is a Vedic–Itihāsa figure, a powerful ṛṣi (sage) remembered mainly from the Ṛgveda, Brāhmaṇas, and especially the Mahābhārata. His story is a profound warning about tapas (austerity), ego, and the misuse of spiritual power.

Who was Raibhya?

Raibhya was a great sage of immense tapas and mastery over Vedic knowledge.

He belonged to the ancient line of ṛṣis who lived by yajña, mantra, and ascetic discipline. His spiritual power was unquestioned—but his inner humility faltered.

Raibhya and his son Parāśara?

Raibhya was the father of Parāśara, another illustrious sage and the father of Vedavyāsa.

Thus, Raibhya stands at the root of one of the greatest spiritual lineages of India—yet his own fall is instructive.

The famous Mahābhārata episode

Raibhya appears prominently in the Ādi Parva.

Conflict with Sage Yavakrīta

Yavakrīta, son of Raibhya’s rival sage Bharadvāja, attained Vedic knowledge directly from Indra, bypassing traditional gurukula discipline.

Raibhya mocked and insulted Yavakrīta, seeing him as arrogant and improperly trained.

The turning point

Yavakrīta retaliated by using black magic to cause Raibhya’s destruction.

When Raibhya attempted to counter this with his tapas, his own pride weakened his power.

From Raibhya’s sacrificial fire emerged a female demon (Kṛtyā)—meant to destroy Yavakrīta—but it turned back and consumed Raibhya himself.

A chilling moment:

A sage is destroyed not by lack of power, but by lack of inner balance.

Raibhya is not remembered as a villain—but as a tragic spiritual caution.

What Raibhya represents:

Tapas without humility

Knowledge poisoned by ego

Spiritual power used for rivalry

The danger of comparing oneself with others

In Vedic thought, tapas is fire.

Fire can cook food or burn the house.

Scriptural lesson

“Vidya vinaya sampanne…”

Knowledge must culminate in humility.

Raibhya reminds us that:

Spiritual greatness is not proved by who is higher, but by who is softer.

Even a ṛṣi can fall if ahamkāra (ego) overtakes ātma-jñāna.

Why Raibhya matters even today

For seekers, scholars, devotees, and teachers:

Raibhya warns against spiritual jealousy

Against looking down upon others’ paths

Against turning inner fire outward

In bhakti terms, Raibhya had jñāna and tapas—but lost śaraṇāgati.

The Story of Sage Raibhya

Sage Raibhya was a venerable ṛṣi of ancient times, rich in tapas, steeped in Vedic wisdom, and respected for his lineage. He was the father of Parāśara, and through him the grandsire of Vedavyāsa—thus standing at the very threshold of India’s sacred literary tradition.

Yet the Mahābhārata remembers Raibhya not for his lineage alone, but for a tragic episode that reveals a deeper spiritual truth.

Raibhya lived alongside another great sage, Bharadvāja. Bharadvāja’s son, Yavakrīta, impatient with the long discipline of gurukula, sought knowledge directly from Indra through severe austerities. Indra granted him mastery of the Vedas.

This unconventional path disturbed the older sages. Raibhya, especially, ridiculed Yavakrīta, questioning the legitimacy of knowledge gained without humility and service to a guru. His words were sharp, tinged with pride rather than discernment.

Wounded by insult and burning with resentment, Yavakrīta resorted to abhicāra (destructive rites). From these rites arose a Kṛtyā, a fierce female spirit meant to destroy Raibhya.

Sensing danger, Raibhya invoked his own tapas and created a counter-force from the sacrificial fire. But something had shifted within him. His power, once pure, was now fractured by ego and anger. The very Kṛtyā he created turned upon him and consumed him.

Thus fell a great sage—not for lack of knowledge, not for want of austerity, but because tapas without humility becomes self-consuming fire.

Raibhya’s story stands as one of the Mahābhārata’s quiet but piercing warnings:

Spiritual power is safest when it bows.

When the Fire Looked Back

He kindled fires that knew the Vedas,

Flames that answered sacred sound,

Years of silence fed their hunger,

Truth and mantra tightly bound.

Yet somewhere in that blazing circle

Stood a shadow dressed as pride,

Softly whispering, I am higher,

Measuring who stood beside.

Another came by stranger pathways,

Not the road the elders knew,

And words were loosed like careless arrows,

Sharper still for being true.

Fire was summoned to defend him,

Born of wrath, not sacred need,

But flames remember inner motives,

Not the mantra, but the seed.

What rose to strike another’s darkness

Turned and saw its maker’s face,

For fire that forgets compassion

Finds no altar, finds no place.

O seeker, tend your inner embers,

Let them warm, not burn or scar—

For wisdom crowned with quiet humility

Is the gentlest, brightest star.

Grand.

 A grand idol of Ramlalla Sarkar worth ₹200 crore has arrived in Ayodhya from Karnataka, drawing nationwide attention for its extraordinary craftsmanship and devotion. 

The 500-kg idol is said to be crafted using a blend of gold, silver and diamonds, making it one of the most valuable religious idols ever created in India. 

The idol was transported under tight security and ceremonial protocols, reflecting its spiritual, cultural and material significance.

Artisans involved in the creation have highlighted that the idol is not just about material value, but represents Sanatan tradition, faith and collective devotion, with intricate detailing symbolising purity, strength and divinity. 

The arrival of the idol adds to Ayodhya’s growing stature as a global spiritual centre following the Ram Mandir consecration, while also showcasing India’s traditional craftsmanship and religious heritage at an unprecedented scale.

[Ramlalla Sarkar idol, Ayodhya Ram Mandir, ₹200 crore idol, Sanatan Dharma, religious craftsmanship]

A magnificent gem-studded idol of Lord Ram has recently reached Ayodhya from Karnataka for the Ram Temple. Standing 10 feet tall and 8 feet wide, the gold idol is adorned with precious gems including diamonds, emeralds, rubies, coral, pearls, and sapphires, and weighs around five quintals. Inspired by Karnataka craftsmanship and the Tanjore painting style, the idol was created by Bengaluru-based artist Jayashree Phanish after nearly 2,800 hours of work over nine months. The sacred offering was sent under the inspiration of Swami Vishva Prasanna Tirtha, head of the Pejavara Math in Udupi, by his disciples as a rare devotional gift for the Ram Temple. According to Shri Ram Janmabhoomi Teerth Kshetra Trust trustee Anil Mishra, the idol was dispatched via the postal department, with detailed documentation awaited. The idol is proposed to be installed near Angad Tila, close to the Goswami Tulsidas Temple within the Ram Temple complex in Ayodhya, though the final decision will be taken after Swami Vishva Prasanna Tirtha’s visit. The installation will be carried out through special religious rituals, and the offering is being regarded as a collective devotional gift from the entire state of Karnataka.

Give.

On Expectation and the Human Heart

It is often said that one must do good without expecting anything in return.

The statement is noble, but the heart is not a slogan.

Expectation arises not from greed alone, but from relationship.

A good deed carries warmth, time, attention, and inner effort.

To hope that it is seen, acknowledged, or at least received with grace

is not weakness—it is humanity.

Disappointment does not erase the goodness of the act.

It only reveals the tenderness of the giver.

True maturity does not lie in denying expectation,

but in not allowing unmet expectation to harden the heart.

One may feel hurt, yet remain kind.

One may feel unseen, yet continue to see others.

Perhaps the highest form of service is this:

to keep doing good,

not because it is rewarded,

but because it reflects who we have chosen to be.

 The Return I Did Not Ask For

I gave, saying, “Nothing I seek,”

Yet waited—quietly—for a sign.

Not gold, nor praise, nor loud applause,

Just a glance that said, I know.

When none arrived, the heart asked why,

Its ache betraying borrowed vows.

For flesh remembers every touch,

Though words pretend to soar above.

Still, the deed remains—untarnished, whole,

Its worth not measured by reply.

The loss was not the gift I gave,

But the story I told myself.

Now I give again, a little wiser—

Allowing hope, forgiving pain.

If nothing comes, I bow and place

The act itself at God’s feet.

For goodness needs no witness loud,

And love need not be returned to live.

To do good without expecting anything at all is often quoted as an ideal, but in lived experience it is rare. Even when we tell ourselves we expect nothing, a subtle hope lingers—if not for reward, then at least for recognition, remembrance, or warmth in return.

Expectation is not always selfish.

It is often the soul’s wish to be seen.

Why expectation naturally arises

A good deed involves energy, time, emotion—the mind instinctively seeks balance.

Human relationships are built on response and resonance; silence after goodness can feel like erasure.

Even saints were acknowledged by society; invisibility is not a virtue in itself.

So the struggle is real:

“I did not want anything… yet I feel hurt.”

That hurt does not cancel the goodness.

It only reveals our humanity.

What the scriptures quietly imply (but slogans overlook)

The Bhagavad Gītā does not say “do not feel”.

It says do not cling.

There is a profound difference between:

having an expectation

and being bound by it

The mature path is not:

“I will never expect anything.”

But rather:

“Even if my expectation is unmet, I will not let it corrode my inner peace.”

A gentler, truer reframing

Instead of “I serve without expectation”, perhaps a truer vow is:

“I accept that expectation may arise,

but I will not let disappointment turn me bitter.”

This is compassion towards oneself.

Bhakti offers a different anchor

In bhakti, the act is quietly redirected:

The acknowledgement is offered to God

The return is internal—śānti, clarity, lightness

When service is placed at the feet of the Divine,

human responses become secondary, not decisive.

Still, even bhaktas feel pain when unacknowledged.

That pain itself becomes an offering.

A closing reflection

Perhaps the highest honesty is this:

“I do good because I cannot not do good.

I may hope, I may hurt—

but I will not stop being good.”

That is not slogan-level virtue.

That is earned wisdom.