intention

 Have you noticed—each time your heart says a random tiny little prayer, the cosmos sets it in motion? That is the power of pure intention,  And while it may seem ironic, when you do something with least vested interests, the cosmos showers you with your mightiest gifts. Take a leaf from this wise old book and wish well for someone in need today. You don't need to fear what you might lose because each prayer you utter becomes your forcefield that protects not only you, but also your loved ones.

Aging

 Psychologist Hideki Wada has published a book called "The 80-Year-Old Wall." As soon as the book was published, its sales exceeded 500,000 copies, making it the best-selling book at the time. If this sales trend continues, the book will sell over 1 million copies, making it Japan's best-selling book of the year.

Dr. Wada, 61, is a doctor specializing in mental illnesses in the elderly. He has summarized the secrets of a "lucky" life for 80-year-olds in 44 sentences, which are listed below:

1. Keep moving.

2. Take deep breaths when angry.

3. Get enough exercise so that your body doesn't stiffen.

4. Drink more water when using air conditioning in the summer.

5. Diapers help increase mobility.

6. The more you chew, the more active your brain and body will be. 

7. Memory loss is not due to age but to lack of brain use.

8. There is no need to take too much medicine.

9. There is no need to lower blood pressure and sugar unnecessarily.

10. Being alone is not loneliness; it is about spending time peacefully.

11. Laziness is not a shame.

12. There is no need to spend money on a driver's license (a campaign is underway in Japan to get senior citizens to return their licenses).

13. Do what you like; don't do what you don't like.

14. Natural desires remain even in old age.

15. Under no circumstances, do not sit at home all the time.

16. Eat what you like; mild obesity is better.

17. Do everything carefully.

18. Do not associate with people you don't like.

19. Do not watch TV all the time.

 20. Instead of fighting the disease, learn to live with it.

21. "When the cart reaches the mountain, the road is visible" - this is the magic phrase of happiness for the elderly.

22. Eat fresh fruits and salads.

23. Bath time should not exceed 10 minutes.

24. If you can't sleep, don't force yourself.

25. Activities that bring pleasure increase brain activity.

26. Say what you feel; don't think too much.

27. Find a "family doctor" as soon as possible.

28. Don't be too patient or forceful; being a "bold senior" is also not bad.

29. It's okay to change your mind sometimes.

30. In the final stages of life, dementia is a gift from God.

31. If you stop learning, you will grow old.

32. Don't crave fame; what you have is enough.

33. Innocence is for the elderly.

34. The more difficult something is, the more interesting it becomes.

35. Sunbathing brings happiness.

36. Do things that benefit others.

37. Spend today comfortably.

38. Desire is the key to longevity.

39. Live happily.

40. Breathe easily.

41. The principles of life are in your own hands.

42. Accept everything calmly.

43. Cheerful people are loved by everyone.

44. A smile brings good luck.

Getting old is not a limit - it is a gift. With the right perspective and daily habits, the years after 60 can be some of the most fruitful years of your life. Let us embrace aging not with fear, but with grace, gratitude, and the wisdom generously shared by Dr. Wada.

Kedar miracle.

 Narsi Mehta was divinely gifted the anklets of dance by the Lord Himself, the celestial couple placing upon his feet the sacred bells that would henceforth keep time with eternity. Along with this rare blessing, he was also granted the Kedar raga—a raga not merely to be sung, but to be lived, danced, and dissolved into. The Lord promised him that whenever Kedar flowed from his heart, He would appear, unseen by the worldly eye yet unmistakably present to the devotee who sang in pure surrender.

Society, bound by rigid customs and shallow judgments, could not comprehend this divine madness. Family, relatives, and community disqualified Narsi Mehta, casting him aside as one who had strayed beyond acceptable norms. Yet none of this wounded him. Their rejection became his liberation. Freed from the weight of approval and convention, he belonged wholly to the Lord alone.

Now unburdened, Narsi Mehta sang, danced, and performed only for God—his anklets ringing not on earthly floors but in the courts of the Divine. Each time the Kedar raga arose, it was no longer music alone; it was a sacred invitation. And true to His word, the Lord came—again and again—drawn not by melody, but by the utter sincerity of a devotee who had surrendered everything for love.

In Narsi Mehta’s life, exile became grace, music became worship, and rejection became the doorway to divine intimacy.

A bhajan traditionally rendered in raga Kedar in the Narsinh Mehta bhajan paramparā—especially in temple and Haridās traditions—is the celebrated “Vaishnava Jana To”.

While bhajans often travel across rāgas, Kedar is one of the deeply accepted classical–devotional settings for this composition, especially for slow, meditative singing and abhinaya.

Bhajan: Vaishnava Jana To

Tradition: Narsinh Mehta

Rāga: Kedar (traditional devotional rendition)

Lyrics (Gujarati – select verses)

વૈષ્ણવ જન તો તે ને કહીએ

જે પીડ પરાઈ જાણે રે

પર દુઃખે ઉપકાર કરે તો યે

મન અભિમાન ન આણે રે

સકલ લોકમાં સહુને વંદે

નિંદા ન કરે કેની રે

વાચ કાચ મન નિશ્ચલ રાખે

ધન્ય ધન્ય જનની રે

Meaning (English)

He alone is called a true Vaishnava

Who feels the pain of others as his own.

He rushes to serve those in sorrow,

Yet keeps his heart free from pride.

He bows to all beings in this world,

Speaks ill of none.

His word, thought, and mind remain pure—

Blessed indeed is the mother who bore such a soul.

Why Kedar suits this bhajan

Raga Kedar carries a gentle majesty and inward luminosity.

It does not cry aloud; it flows like quiet assurance. When Vaishnava Jana To is sung in Kedar:

Compassion becomes still strength, not sentiment

Humility gains dignity, not weakness

The bhajan transforms into a vow, not a performance

For Narsinh Mehta, this raga was not ornamentation. It was a bridge.

When sung in Kedar, the bhajan ceases to be instruction—it becomes presence.

The devotee does not describe God; God arrives.

A devotional closing thought

When Narsinh Mehta sang this bhajan in Kedar, anklets ringing, eyes closed, society forgotten, the Lord did not come as spectacle.

He came as truth settling into the heart.

That is the miracle of Kedar.

Not that God appears before us—

but that we disappear before Him.

Vari.

The Vari to Pandharpur: When Devotion Walks on Earth

Every year, as the sun softens over the Deccan plateau and the roads of Maharashtra turn dusty with footsteps, a miracle unfolds—not in silence, but in song. The Vari, the sacred pilgrimage to Pandharpur, begins. It is not merely a journey across land; it is a movement of the soul toward Vittala, the dark-hued Lord who waits with hands on hips, patient and eternal.

To watch the Vari is itself a blessing. To be part of it is a transformation.

The Walk of the Warkaris

The pilgrims, known as Warkaris, come from villages, towns, and cities—farmers, teachers, weavers, saints, children, elders. They walk together, barefoot or sandaled, carrying little more than faith. There is no hierarchy here. Rich and poor, learned and simple, all merge into one flowing river of devotion.

On their shoulders they carry the Palkhi—the palanquin bearing the padukas (sacred sandals) of saints like Sant Dnyaneshwar and Sant Tukaram. These saints do not remain in history books; they walk again, year after year, on living feet and beating hearts.

Abhangas: The Sound of Love

The air vibrates with abhangas—simple, profound verses composed in Marathi, addressed to Vittala as friend, child, beloved, master. The mridanga, tal, and the steady rhythm of footsteps keep time, but it is the heart that truly sings.

“Mauli, Mauli!” rises again and again—not just a call, but a surrender.

These songs do not demand musical perfection. They demand sincerity. Even a cracked voice, when soaked in devotion, becomes divine music. As the Warkaris sing, fatigue dissolves. Blisters become badges of grace. Hunger turns into offering.

Vittala: The Waiting God

Unlike gods who sit on thrones or ride celestial vehicles, Vittala waits—arms akimbo, grounded, accessible. He does not go to his devotees; he allows them the joy of coming to Him.

Pandharpur itself changes during Vari. The Chandrabhaga river seems to flow slower, as if listening. The streets pulse with devotion. Even the stones appear worn smooth—not by time, but by faith.

When the Warkaris finally behold Vittala, tears replace words. For some, it is their first Vari; for others, their fiftieth. Yet the moment is always new. The Lord is the same, but the devotee is never the same again.

A Living Philosophy

The Vari is Bhakti philosophy in motion. It teaches:

Equality — all walk together

Simplicity — no ritual excess, only remembrance

Perseverance — devotion that endures heat, rain, and hardship

Joy — not solemn piety, but singing, dancing faith

In an age of speed, the Vari chooses slowness. In a world of noise, it chooses sacred sound. In a time of division, it chooses collective walking.

To Watch Is Grace, To Walk Is Transformation

Standing by the roadside, watching the Vari pass, one feels humbled. The dust rises, the songs drift away, but something remains—a quiet stirring within.

Yet those who walk know a deeper truth: Vittala is not only at Pandharpur. He walks beside them, step for step, hidden in every chant, every blister, every shared sip of water.

The Vari reminds us that devotion is not something we do occasionally. It is something we become, slowly, steadily, joyfully—until one day, unknowingly, we too are walking toward God.

And perhaps, He has been waiting all along.

The Vari to Pandharpur: Where Saints Walk Again and Vittala Waits

Every year, Maharashtra witnesses a phenomenon that cannot be measured in miles or days. It is measured in abhangas, in dust-covered feet, in tears that rise unbidden at the sound of Mauli. The Vari—the pilgrimage to Pandharpur—is devotion set in motion, faith that chooses to walk rather than wait.

To stand and watch the Vari pass is to feel small before its magnitude. To walk in it is to feel dissolved into something timeless.

Abhanga: The Breath of the Vari

The Vari does not move in silence. It moves in song—songs that carry philosophy lightly, like a mother carrying a child.

One of the most sung abhangas of Sant Tukaram goes:

“Sundar te dhyān, ubhe Vitthale”

Beautiful is that vision—Vittala standing there.

In one simple line, Tukaram captures the essence of the pilgrimage. Vittala does not sit enthroned in distance. He stands, waiting, approachable, almost familiar. The Warkaris do not ask for liberation or miracles; they ask only for darshan—to see, and be seen.

Another beloved refrain echoes endlessly along the road:

“Mauli Mauli, Vitthal Mauli”

Mother Vittala, compassionate Vittala.

Calling God Mauli—mother—is a uniquely Maharashtrian tenderness. Here, devotion is not fear or obligation, but intimacy.

Sant Dnyaneshwar: The Child Saint Who Still Leads

The Vari begins with the Palkhi of Sant Dnyaneshwar, the prodigy saint who composed the Dnyaneshwari at the age of sixteen. Though he took samadhi young, his presence dominates the pilgrimage.

It is said that Dnyaneshwar believed knowledge must walk to the people, not remain confined to scholars. The Vari embodies this belief. Scripture becomes song. Philosophy becomes footsteps.

When the Palkhi moves, the Warkaris chant “Dnyanoba Mauli Tukaram”, affirming that wisdom and devotion are inseparable. Knowledge without humility is dry; devotion without understanding is blind. The Vari harmonizes both.

Sant Tukaram: The Abhanga That Carried God Home

Sant Tukaram’s life was marked by loss—poverty, ridicule, and the death of loved ones. Yet his abhangas overflow with joy. Why?

Because Tukaram found Vittala not at the end of suffering, but within it.

One story tells how Tukaram once cried out in despair, questioning why God tested him so. The response came not in words, but in presence—Vittala standing quietly beside him. From that moment, Tukaram’s abhangas became conversations, not compositions.

His oft-quoted line captures the Vari spirit perfectly:

“Āmhi jāto āpule grāmi”

We return to our true home.

Pandharpur is not just a destination. It is a reminder of where the heart truly belongs.

Sant Namdev: The Lord Who Turned to Listen

Sant Namdev’s devotion was so intense that legend says Vittala turned around to listen when Namdev sang—breaking His eternal pose with hands on hips. Whether literal or symbolic, the message is clear: God responds to sincere love.

Namdev’s abhangas emphasize that caste, learning, and ritual purity mean nothing if the heart is not pure. This spirit lives on in the Vari, where everyone walks together, eats together, sings together.

Ashadhi Ekadashi: When Time Pauses

The culmination of the Vari is Ashadhi Ekadashi. Pandharpur overflows—not just with people, but with emotion. The Chandrabhaga river reflects countless lamps and weary yet radiant faces.

When the Warkaris finally stand before Vittala, many do not ask for blessings. They simply gaze. Some weep. Some smile. Some fall silent.

For after weeks of singing His name, what remains to be said?

A Living Teaching for Our Times

The Vari teaches without preaching:

Walk patiently; God is not in a hurry

Sing together; devotion grows in community

Carry little; faith lightens the load

Walk again next year; devotion is lifelong

In a restless world, the Vari reminds us that the slow path can be the sacred one.

A Short Poem: Walking with Vittala

Dust on my feet,

Abhanga on my lips,

Sky as my roof,

Faith as my staff.

He stands waiting,

Hands on hips,

Smiling as if to say—

“Why rush, my child?

I have always been here.”

The Lord of Sweetness

 The Theology of Sweetness in the Vision of Sri Vallabhacharya

The celebrated Sanskrit verse “Adharam madhuram, vadanam madhuram…” is a lyrical outpouring of devotion composed by Sri Vallabhacharya, the founder of the Shuddhadvaita philosophy and a foremost exponent of Krishna-bhakti. This sloka does not merely describe the physical beauty of Lord Krishna; it unfolds a profound spiritual vision in which every aspect of the Divine is suffused with sweetness (mādhurya)—externally, internally, and transcendentally.

The Sloka

Adharam madhuram vadanam madhuram

Nayanam madhuram hasitam madhuram |

Hridayam madhuram gamanam madhuram

Madhurādhipater akhilam madhuram ||

“His lips are sweet, His face is sweet,

His eyes are sweet, His smile is sweet.

His heart is sweet, His gait is sweet—

Everything of the Lord of sweetness is indeed sweet.”

Sweetness as a Spiritual Category

In Indian devotional aesthetics, especially within Vaishnava traditions, God is often approached through aiśvarya (majesty) or mādhurya (intimate sweetness). This sloka belongs wholly to the latter mode. Krishna is not portrayed as the distant cosmic ruler but as the intimate beloved, whose beauty evokes love rather than awe, attraction rather than fear.

Here, madhuram is not a mere adjective; it is a theological principle. Sweetness becomes the defining attribute of the Divine—one that draws the devotee inward, dissolving the distance between the human and the eternal.

From Form to Essence

The sloka begins with the outermost features—lips, face, eyes, smile—those that first captivate the devotee’s gaze. Gradually, it moves inward: to the heart (hridayam), to movement (gamanam), and finally to the all-encompassing declaration—akhilam madhuram—everything about Him is sweet.

This progression mirrors the devotee’s own spiritual journey:

First, attraction to the form (rūpa)

Then, delight in the nature (svabhāva)

Finally, immersion in the essence (tattva)

Thus, the sloka is both description and invitation—an invitation to move from perception to participation.

Krishna is addressed as Madhurādhipati—the Lord of Sweetness. Sweetness here signifies:

Compassion without judgment

Beauty without vanity

Playfulness without frivolity

Love without demand

In Vallabhacharya’s vision, Krishna does not require renunciation or austerity as prerequisites for grace. He asks only for sneha—loving attachment. Devotion itself becomes effortless when the object of devotion is irresistibly sweet.

A striking feature of this sloka is the absence of moral instruction or philosophical argument. There is no exhortation, no warning, no command. Instead, there is pure anubhava—experience. Bhakti here is not a discipline to be practiced with strain but a rasa to be savored.

This aligns with the Pushti Marg ideal, where the soul is nourished (pushti) by divine grace, just as a child is nourished by a loving mother—naturally, joyfully, and without fear.

In a world burdened by complexity, anxiety, and relentless striving, this sloka offers a gentle spiritual reassurance:

The Divine is not harsh, distant, or demanding—He is sweet.

To remember Krishna through this verse is to soften one’s inner landscape. It transforms devotion from obligation into affection, from duty into delight. Repetition of this sloka itself becomes an act of tasting that sweetness—nāma-rasa.

Adharam madhuram, vadanam madhuram is more than poetic praise; it is a complete devotional philosophy in eight lines. It teaches that when God is approached through love, everything about Him reveals itself as sweetness—and that sweetness, once tasted, quietly transforms the devotee’s heart.

In beholding the sweetness of Krishna, the devotee learns, slowly and surely, to let life itself become sweet.

Sweetness Without Measure

His lips drip honey no bee can claim,

His smile blooms soft, yet sets hearts aflame.

Eyes that pour mercy, silent and deep,

Awaken the soul from its worldly sleep.

Each step He takes turns dust into song,

Each glance reminds where we truly belong.

Not one part, not one moment apart—

All of Him flows as sweetness to the heart.

Showing up.

 To show up for life every day is a quiet but profound spiritual discipline. It does not mean grand achievements or constant enthusiasm. It means presence, acceptance, and faithful participation in whatever the day places before us.

1. Showing up begins with acceptance of the day

Each day arrives already shaped by forces beyond our control. To show up is to say inwardly:

“I receive this day as it is, not as I wish it to be.”

The Gita gently reminds us:

सुखदुःखे समे कृत्वा

Holding pleasure and pain as equal… (BG 2.38)

Presence begins where resistance ends.

2. Showing up does not require perfection—only sincerity

Some days we show up joyfully, other days limping, tired, distracted. Life does not ask for our best version every day—only our true self.

Even a lamp flickers before it steadies, yet it still dispels darkness.

3. Small acts are sacred acts

Making the bed, watering a plant, listening patiently, offering a silent prayer—these are not trivial. They are ways of telling life:

“I am here.”

In the Bhagavatam, devotion is often revealed not in miracles, but in daily faithfulness.

4. Showing up is choosing responsibility over escape

When life becomes heavy, the mind seeks distraction, withdrawal, or complaint. Showing up means staying—with the duty, the relationship, the unanswered question.

As Rama teaches through his life: Dharma is not always comfortable, but it is always grounding.

5. Gratitude keeps us returning

When we begin the day with even one thankful thought, we create a thread that pulls us back into life, again and again.

Gratitude is not a response to a perfect life—it is the strength that enables us to live imperfect days fully.

6. God does not ask us to control life—only to meet it

We often think we must fix life. But often, the divine only asks us to be present.

To show up for life is, in truth, to show up before God—right where we are.

Showing up every day is an act of courage disguised as routine.

It is faith wearing ordinary clothes.

“स्मरणं भक्ति: श्रेष्ठा”

 The Discipline of Thankfulness

We often remember God when life feels incomplete.

Rarely do we remember Him when life is quietly sufficient.

The human heart is strangely wired—it counts what is missing with precision, yet overlooks what has been mercifully spared. We hope for more, pray for better, and wait for improvement, forgetting that this very moment could have been immeasurably harsher had grace not intervened silently.

Thankfulness, therefore, is not born from abundance.

It is born from awareness.

When we pause and look closely, we realize that much of God’s kindness lies not in what He gives, but in what He withholds—accidents that never happened, words that were never spoken, losses that never came our way. These unseen mercies form the quiet architecture of our lives.

Scriptures remind us again and again that contentment is a spiritual strength. The Gītā speaks of the one who is satisfied with what comes unasked, while the saints lived lives that thanked God even for delay, denial, and difficulty. They understood something we often forget: gratitude is not a response to comfort, but a recognition of care.

Pain, when it enters our lives, tempts us to ask, “Why me?”

Gratitude gently replaces that question with, “Why not me?”

This shift dissolves entitlement. It humbles the ego that believes it deserves only ease. In doing so, it opens the heart to a deeper truth—that life is not designed to please us, but to shape us.

Impermanence, when truly accepted, becomes a great teacher of gratitude. Health, relationships, reputation, even faith itself are not permanent possessions. When we remember this, every ordinary day becomes extraordinary. Every shared meal, every familiar voice, every uneventful evening turns into a blessing rather than an assumption.

Gratitude deepens when it is expressed. A silent thank-you fades quickly, but a spoken one lingers. When we thank God aloud—not only for joy, but for endurance—we train the heart to trust even what it does not yet understand.

Prayer, too, transforms when gratitude outweighs petition. When acknowledgements replace demands, prayer becomes communion rather than negotiation. God is no longer approached as a fulfiller of wishes, but as a quiet presence sustaining us moment by moment.

Service to those who have less further sharpens this vision. It strips away illusion and comparison. It reminds us how supported our lives truly are, even when they feel heavy. Gratitude matures when compassion is practiced.

Above all, we must remember that many blessings arrive disguised. What we once resented later reveals itself as protection. What we mourned becomes redirection. What felt like loss turns out to be grace in stern clothing.

To live thankfully, then, is not to live cheerfully at all times. It is to live attentively. It is to remember—again and again—that we are carried more than we realize.

When remembrance becomes steady, gratitude ceases to be an emotion.

It becomes a way of seeing.

And eventually, a way of being.

“Yadṛcchā-lābha-santuṣṭaḥ”

He who is content with what comes unasked… (Gītā 4.22)