Sunday, August 23, 2026

EXTRAORDINARY BONDS — 4 Chanakya and Chandragupta

Chanakya & Chandragupta

When a Teacher Saw an Emperor in a Young Boy

History often remembers emperors.

It remembers their victories, their kingdoms and the territories they conquered.

But behind some of the greatest rulers stands a person who saw their potential before anyone else did.

For Chandragupta Maurya, that person was Chanakya.

Their relationship was not simply that of a teacher and student.

Chanakya found a young man with extraordinary potential and gave him something more valuable than knowledge:

a vision.

And Chandragupta gave his teacher something equally important:

the determination to turn that vision into reality.

The boy who would become an emperor

The historical details surrounding Chandragupta's early life are surrounded by different traditions.

But the broad story is remarkable.

He emerged from humble circumstances and entered the orbit of Chanakya, the brilliant scholar, strategist and political thinker who would later be associated with the Arthaśāstra.

Chanakya recognized qualities in the young Chandragupta that others had overlooked.

Courage.

Intelligence.

Ambition.

Leadership.

But potential alone does not make an emperor.

It must be disciplined.

It must be directed.

It must be tested.

And Chanakya became the person who shaped that potential.

A teacher with a mission

Chanakya was not merely interested in producing a brilliant student.

He had a larger vision for the political future of India.

The Nanda dynasty ruled Magadha.

The political landscape was fragmented.

And the threat from the north-west, including the aftermath of Alexander's campaigns, had demonstrated how vulnerable the region could become.

Chanakya believed that India needed strong political unity.

For that, he needed someone capable of building it.

He believed that person could be Chandragupta.

The making of a leader

Chanakya trained Chandragupta in the disciplines required of a ruler:

politics,

diplomacy,

warfare,

strategy,

administration,

and the understanding of people.

But perhaps the greatest lesson was not any particular political technique.

It was patience.

A great objective cannot always be achieved immediately.

There are setbacks.

There are failures.

There are moments when the entire plan appears impossible.

A teacher prepares a student not merely to succeed.

He prepares him to continue when success seems distant.

From student to king

Chandragupta eventually challenged the Nanda power and established the Mauryan Empire.

The young man whom Chanakya had trained became one of the most powerful rulers of ancient India.

The Mauryan Empire grew enormously.

And Chanakya remained associated with Chandragupta's administration and political vision.

The relationship had reached its extraordinary conclusion:

the teacher's vision had become the student's achievement.

But who made whom?

This is what makes their relationship fascinating.

It is easy to say:

Chanakya made Chandragupta.

But that is only half the story.

Chanakya possessed knowledge and vision.

Chandragupta possessed the courage and determination to act.

Without Chanakya, Chandragupta's abilities might never have found their direction.

Without Chandragupta, Chanakya's vision might never have become history.

The teacher provided the map.

The student walked the road.

Why is this bond extraordinary?

Because a great mentor does something more profound than teach.

A great mentor sees what is possible.

Sometimes a young person sees only his present circumstances.

A mentor sees what he might become.

Chanakya did not merely educate Chandragupta.

He gave him a larger idea of himself.

And Chandragupta did not merely obey his teacher.

He had the courage to transform instruction into action.

Their story reminds us that extraordinary achievements are often born when vision meets willingness.

A teacher can open the door.

But the student must walk through it.

And sometimes, when the right teacher meets the right student, the consequences reach far beyond their own lives.

An empire can emerge.

History can change.

That is an Extraordinary Bond.


EXTRAORDINARY BONDS — 3 Ramanuja and Kuresa

 Rāmānuja & Kūrēśa

When a Disciple Gave Everything to His Āchārya

Some relationships are born in childhood.

Some are forged in friendship.

And some begin when one person discovers a teacher whose vision transforms the very meaning of life.

The bond between Śrī Rāmānuja and Kūrēśa was such a relationship.

It was not merely that Kūrēśa admired Rāmānuja.

He did not merely study under him.

He gave himself to his Āchārya so completely that, when the time came, he was willing to suffer rather than allow harm to come to Rāmānuja.

This is not simply the story of a great teacher and an extraordinary disciple.

It is the story of trust carried to its highest expression.


The disciple who found his teacher

Kūrēśa, also known as Kūrattāzhvān, was born into wealth and privilege.

He possessed learning, intelligence and material comfort.

Yet when he encountered Rāmānuja, something greater than worldly prosperity drew him.

He became his disciple.

From that moment, his life was no longer centred upon what he possessed.

It was centred upon what he could offer.

He became one of Rāmānuja's closest disciples, companion, scholar and helper.

But the relationship was never merely intellectual.

Kūrēśa did not simply learn Rāmānuja's teachings.

He lived them.


A disciple who stood beside his Āchārya

Rāmānuja's mission was immense.

He was not content to keep spiritual knowledge within a small circle.

He sought to make the path of prapatti and devotion accessible to all who sincerely sought refuge in the Lord.

This brought opposition.

The religious and political climate of the time became increasingly hostile to him.

Eventually, Rāmānuja was forced to leave Śrīraṅgam.

But Kūrēśa would not abandon his Āchārya.

And this is where the bond reveals its extraordinary depth.


“Let me go in his place”

When the authorities demanded that Rāmānuja appear before them, Kūrēśa is traditionally remembered as having gone in his place.

He dressed in Rāmānuja's ochre robes.

He went knowing the danger.

He did not go because he believed he was stronger.

He went because protecting his Āchārya mattered more than protecting himself.

Along with Mahāpūrṇa, another devoted disciple, Kūrēśa faced the consequences.

The price was terrible.

His eyes were taken.

The disciple who had chosen to stand between danger and his teacher lost his physical sight.


Yet he did not lose his vision

Here lies one of the most moving paradoxes of Kūrēśa's life.

He lost his eyes.

But he did not lose his vision.

His physical sight disappeared.

His spiritual clarity did not.

Tradition remembers that he continued to live in deep devotion, scholarship and service.

He composed great works.

He retained an extraordinary memory.

And his inner world remained illuminated.

For Kūrēśa, devotion was not dependent upon what the eyes could see.

His Āchārya remained present within him.


When forgiveness became greater than suffering

There is another episode that reveals the greatness of Kūrēśa's character.

When the possibility of regaining his eyesight arose, he was asked to pray for it.

But his response reflected the extraordinary compassion of a man who had suffered terribly without becoming bitter.

He did not ask for revenge.

He did not ask that those who had harmed him suffer.

Instead, his thoughts turned towards forgiveness and the welfare of others.

This is the mark of a great disciple:

suffering did not make him smaller.

It made his compassion greater.


What did Rāmānuja see in Kūrēśa?

For Rāmānuja, Kūrēśa was not merely a follower.

He was a trusted companion, scholar and embodiment of the teaching.

The Āchārya could entrust his work to him.

He could depend upon him.

He could see in him the rarest quality of discipleship:

complete trust without self-interest.

And Kūrēśa's devotion was not blind attachment.

It was grounded in knowledge.

He understood his Āchārya's mission.

He understood the greatness of the sampradāya.

And therefore, serving Rāmānuja became for him a form of serving the Lord Himself.


The relationship that became a legacy

Rāmānuja's teachings travelled far beyond his own lifetime.

His works survived.

His disciples carried his vision forward.

The Śrī Vaiṣṇava tradition continued.

And among those who preserved and strengthened that legacy, Kūrēśa stands in a place of extraordinary honour.

The teacher gave knowledge.

The disciple gave himself.

And through that giving, the teaching gained a living form.


Why is this bond extraordinary?

Because it asks a difficult question:

What does it mean to truly belong to an Āchārya?

Kūrēśa's answer was not expressed merely in words.

It was expressed through his life.

He gave up wealth.

He gave up comfort.

He accepted danger.

He endured suffering.

He lost his physical sight.

And yet he never lost gratitude.

His devotion did not depend upon what he received from his teacher.

His joy was in what he could give.

That is the difference between admiration and discipleship.


A teacher and a disciple

Rāmānuja gave Kūrēśa a path.

Kūrēśa gave Rāmānuja something equally precious:

absolute trust.

Their relationship reminds us that a great teacher does not merely produce students.

A great teacher produces lives transformed by knowledge.

And a great disciple does not merely repeat the words of the teacher.

He becomes a living testament to them.

Perhaps that is why Kūrēśa remains remembered not simply as one of Rāmānuja's disciples, but as Kūrattāzhvān—a figure whose very life became an offering.

The teacher's mission became the disciple's purpose.

The disciple's devotion became part of the teacher's legacy.

And somewhere between teaching and surrender, knowledge and service, two lives became inseparably linked.

Rāmānuja taught.
Kūrēśa embodied.

That is an Extraordinary Bond.

EXTRAORDINARY BONDS — 2 Rama and Hanuman

  Rama & Hanuman 

When Devotion Became Service 

Some relationships are built on equality.

Some on friendship.

Some on shared experiences.

And then there is a relationship in which one heart discovers its greatest joy in serving another.

That is the extraordinary bond between Śrī Rāma and Hanumān.

Hanumān did not merely admire Rāma.

He did not merely worship Him.

He made Rāma's purpose his own.

And Rāma, in turn, saw in Hanumān something beyond the ordinary meaning of a servant.

He saw a devotee whose love, courage, wisdom and humility were inseparable from his very being.

The first meeting 

Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa were wandering through the forest in search of Sītā.

They had lost everything that mattered to them.

Their kingdom was gone.

Sītā had been abducted.

They did not know where she was.

It was then that Hanumān approached them.

At first, he came disguised as an ascetic, sent by Sugrīva to discover who these two extraordinary princes were.

He spoke with such intelligence, refinement and restraint that Rāma immediately recognized his exceptional nature.

After hearing Hanumān speak, Rāma turned to Lakṣmaṇa and observed that such eloquence could come only from one who had mastered the Vedas and understood their meaning.

Their first meeting was therefore not merely an introduction.

Rāma recognized Hanumān.

And Hanumān recognized his Lord.

A purpose greater than himself 

Once Hanumān understood who Rāma was, his life acquired a new centre.

Sugrīva had given him many responsibilities.

But Hanumān's deepest allegiance was now to Rāma.

When the search for Sītā began, Hanumān did not ask:

“What will happen to me?”

He asked only:

“What must I do for Rāma?”

That distinction defines the entire relationship.

The leap across the ocean 

When the search party reached the ocean, the great challenge appeared impossible.

How could anyone cross that vast expanse and reach Laṅkā?

Hanumān had forgotten the extent of his own power.

It was Jāmbavān who reminded him.

And then Hanumān remembered.

He grew in strength and confidence.

He stood upon the mountain.

He invoked Rāma.

And he leapt.

That leap is one of the most magnificent moments in the Rāmāyaṇa.

But its deepest meaning is not physical.

Hanumān's strength became limitless when it was placed in the service of Rāma.

His power was never about himself.

It was about what he could accomplish for his Lord.

In Laṅkā 

Hanumān entered Laṅkā alone.

He searched everywhere for Sītā.

He faced danger repeatedly.

He found her in the Aśoka grove.

And when he finally stood before her, he carried something more precious than words:

Rāma's ring.

A small object.

Yet to Sītā it was proof that hope was alive.

Hanumān had crossed an ocean not for glory, reward or recognition.

He had crossed it to carry a message:

Rāma had not forgotten her.

Courage without arrogance 

Hanumān's strength was extraordinary.

He could cross oceans.

He could uproot mountains.

He could fight armies.

He could burn Laṅkā.

Yet the more powerful he became, the more humble he remained.

This is what makes him extraordinary.

Power often makes a person conscious of himself.

Hanumān's power made him conscious only of Rāma.

His greatness did not produce ego.

It produced service.

The mountain he carried 

When Lakṣmaṇa was gravely wounded during the war, Hanumān was sent to obtain the life-saving herb from the Himalayas.

He could not identify the herb with certainty.

So he did something characteristic of Hanumān.

He did not return saying:

“I could not find it.”

He lifted the entire mountain and carried it back.

The task was impossible.

So Hanumān simply made the impossible possible.

This is the spirit of kainkaryam:

If the task belongs to the Lord, difficulty is not a reason to stop.

And what did Rāma see? 

At the end of the war, Rāma knew that no ordinary reward could adequately acknowledge Hanumān.

He embraced him.

The embrace is profoundly significant.

Rāma was the king.

Hanumān was His servant.

Yet in that embrace, every worldly hierarchy disappeared.

The Lord was embracing the devotee whose love had made itself indispensable to His mission.

Rāma's gratitude was immense.

But Hanumān wanted no reward.

He wanted only one thing:

to remain in Rāma's service.

“I am Yours” 

The most beautiful expression of Hanumān's relationship with Rāma is often conveyed through a profound progression:

When Hanumān sees himself as separate, he is the servant.

When he sees himself through devotion, he belongs entirely to Rāma.

And when the distinction between the two disappears in the highest realization, there is only Rāma.

Whether expressed philosophically or poetically, the essence is the same:

Hanumān's identity was fulfilled in Rāma.

He did not lose himself through devotion.

He discovered his true self through it.

Why is this bond extraordinary? 

Because Hanumān shows us that devotion is not weakness.

It is strength directed towards something greater than oneself.

He possessed immense physical power.

He possessed extraordinary intelligence.

He possessed courage.

He possessed wisdom.

But what made all these qualities sacred was their direction.

Everything Hanumān had became an offering.

His strength.

His intelligence.

His speech.

His courage.

His very life.

All became Rāma-kainkaryam.

And Rāma's response teaches us something equally beautiful:

True greatness recognizes devotion.

The bond that never ended 

The Rāmāyaṇa ends.

But Hanumān's service does not.

Tradition remembers him as Cirañjīvi—one who continues to live.

Why?

Perhaps because the story of Hanumān cannot truly end while the name of Rāma is remembered.

Wherever Rāma is spoken of with love, Hanumān is near.

Wherever Rāma's story is sung, Hanumān listens.

Wherever devotion becomes service, Hanumān's spirit lives.

That is why the relationship between Rāma and Hanumān is more than the bond between a king and his servant.

It is the meeting of the Lord and the devotee who gave Him everything.

And perhaps the deepest lesson of all is this:

Love asks to be expressed.

For Hanumān, love found its perfect expression in service.

That is an Extraordinary Bond. 

EXTRAORDINARY BONDS — 1 Krishna and Sudama

 Krishna & Sudama

When Friendship Forgot Everything Except Love

There are friendships that begin in childhood, survive distance and time, and remain untouched by the changes that life brings.

And then there is the friendship of Krishna and Sudama.

One would become the beloved of millions, the Lord of Dvārakā, surrounded by splendour, power and kings.

The other would live in poverty, possessing little more than his learning, his devotion and the love of his family.

Yet when they met again after many years, none of this mattered.

To Krishna, Sudama was not a poor Brahmin.

He was his friend.

And perhaps that is where this extraordinary bond begins.


Two boys in a gurukula

Long before Krishna became the prince of Dvārakā and before Sudama knew the hardships of household life, the two boys studied together at the āśrama of their guru, Sāndīpani.

There was no palace there.

No royal privilege.

No distinction of wealth or birth.

They lived as students, learning, serving their teacher and performing the simple duties of the gurukula.

Krishna, though divine, lived the life of an ordinary student.

Sudama, though destined to remain unknown to the world at large, was his companion.

They studied together.

They walked together.

They served their guru together.

And somewhere in those simple days, a friendship was formed that neither time nor circumstance could erase.


The day the forest tested them

One day, their guru's wife asked the boys to gather firewood.

Krishna and Sudama went into the forest.

As they gathered the wood, the sky darkened.

Rain began to pour.

The forest became cold and difficult to cross.

The two boys remained there through the night, holding on to the firewood entrusted to them rather than abandoning their duty.

By morning, their guru found them.

He was deeply moved by their dedication.

The episode is remembered not merely because two boys endured a difficult night.

It reveals something more important.

Their friendship was born in a life of discipline, service and shared hardship.

They did not become friends because they had everything in common.

They became friends because they walked together.


And then life separated them

The gurukula years ended.

Krishna's destiny unfolded with astonishing speed.

He became the protector of the Yādavas, the ruler of Dvārakā and the counsellor of kings. His life became intertwined with the great events of the Mahābhārata.

Sudama's life took an entirely different course.

He became a learned and deeply devoted Brahmin, but remained poor.

Very poor.

There were days when there was barely enough food for his family.

His wife, seeing their condition, finally asked him:

“Why don't you go to your childhood friend Krishna?”

Sudama hesitated.

How could he go to a king?

How could he approach someone surrounded by wealth and power?

And yet there was something even stronger than his hesitation.

Friendship.

He decided to go.


A gift worth more than gold

Sudama had nothing to give Krishna.

But in his home there was a little beaten rice—avalakki, simple food prepared from what little they possessed.

His wife tied it into a small cloth bundle.

It was an insignificant gift by worldly standards.

But Sudama carried it with love.

And so the poor Brahmin walked towards Dvārakā.

He was not going to ask for wealth.

He was going to see his friend.


“Sudama!”

When Sudama finally reached Krishna's palace, something extraordinary happened.

Krishna saw him.

And the Lord of Dvārakā did not wait for Sudama to approach him as a supplicant.

Krishna ran to receive his friend.

He embraced him.

He brought him inside.

He seated him with honour.

He washed his feet.

The palace watched in wonder.

Kings might have stood before Krishna.

Princes might have sought his favour.

But Krishna's joy was reserved for a childhood friend who had arrived wearing worn clothes and carrying a tiny bundle of beaten rice.

For Krishna, Sudama had not changed.

Years had passed.

Their circumstances had changed.

But the bond had not.


The little bundle

Sudama had hidden the beaten rice.

He was embarrassed to offer such a humble gift to Krishna.

But Krishna knew.

He gently took the bundle from him.

And when he opened it, he did not see poor food.

He saw love.

Krishna ate the offering with delight.

The Lord who is worshipped with elaborate offerings accepted the simplest food from his friend as though it were priceless.

Because it was.

Not because of what it contained.

Because of who had brought it.


Sudama asked for nothing

This is perhaps the most beautiful part of the story.

Sudama never asked Krishna for wealth.

He never said:

“I am poor.”

“Help my family.”

“Give me a better life.”

He simply came to see his friend.

And when he left Dvārakā, he still did not know what Krishna had done for him.

Only when he reached home did he discover that his poverty had disappeared.

His humble dwelling had become a beautiful home.

His family was surrounded by abundance.

Krishna had given him everything.

Without being asked.


Why is this bond extraordinary?

Because it transcends every measure by which we normally judge relationships.

Krishna had everything.
Sudama had almost nothing.

Yet Krishna never saw the difference.

Sudama could have approached Krishna for wealth.

He did not.

Krishna could have treated Sudama as an old acquaintance.

He did not.

Instead, the Lord of Dvārakā welcomed the poor Brahmin as his beloved friend.

That is the extraordinary power of this bond.

It teaches us that true friendship does not ask:

“What can you give me?”

It asks:

“Who are you to me?”

And when the answer is friend, everything else becomes secondary.


The friendship that time could not change

Years can change appearances.

Circumstances can change fortunes.

Success can create distance.

Poverty can create embarrassment.

Power can create hierarchy.

But true friendship can remain untouched by all of them.

Krishna and Sudama remind us of something we often forget:

The greatest relationships are not always the ones between people who possess the same things.

Sometimes they are between people who possess the same heart.

And perhaps that is why this story has survived for thousands of years.

Because somewhere within every human heart is a longing for a friendship in which we can arrive with nothing—

and still be welcomed as though we brought the world.

That is an Extraordinary Bond.

Aasthy

 Contemplators of Bharat

A Living Paramparā of Wisdom, Inquiry and Realisation

Bharat’s intellectual and spiritual tradition was never confined to one discipline. Its great minds contemplated the Self, the universe, language, medicine, mathematics, society, ethics, beauty and the nature of reality.

Across thousands of years, they asked profound questions—and left behind ideas that continue to live.

The Ancient Seers & Philosophers

Yājñavalkya — explored the nature of Ātman and Brahman in the Upanishads.
Gārgī Vāchaknavī — a remarkable woman philosopher who fearlessly questioned the nature of ultimate reality.
Maitreyi — sought immortality through knowledge rather than possessions.
Kapila — associated with Sāṃkhya, one of India's oldest philosophical systems.
Mahāvīra — taught ahiṃsā, self-discipline and liberation through the Jain path.
Buddha — transformed the understanding of suffering, compassion and liberation.
Pāṇini — created an extraordinarily precise system of Sanskrit grammar.
Patañjali — systematised Yoga and profoundly influenced Indian thought on mind and consciousness.
Vyāsa — gave enduring form to the Mahābhārata and the vast intellectual world surrounding it.
Charaka — developed a sophisticated system of medicine centred on health, diagnosis and balance.
Sushruta — pioneered the systematic science of surgery.
Kauṭilya (Chanakya) — examined statecraft, economics, administration and political strategy.
Āryabhaṭṭa — transformed Indian astronomy and mathematics through remarkable numerical and astronomical insights.
Varāhamihira — brought together astronomy, mathematics, natural observation and astrology.
Brahmagupta — advanced mathematics, including important work involving zero and negative numbers.
Bhāskarācārya — carried Indian mathematics and astronomy to extraordinary heights.

Poets, Linguists & Masters of Expression

Kālidāsa — united poetry, nature, love and philosophy with unparalleled literary elegance.
Bhartrhari — contemplated language itself and its relationship with consciousness and reality.
Hemacandra — Jain polymath who mastered grammar, literature, philosophy and several branches of knowledge.
Viṣṇu Śarma — used stories and animals in the Pañcatantra to teach practical wisdom.
Thiruvalluvar — distilled an entire philosophy of ethical living into the 1,330 couplets of the Tirukkural.
Abhinavagupta — brought together philosophy, spirituality, aesthetics, poetry, music and the arts in Kashmir Śaivism.

Teachers of Vedānta & Bhakti

Ādi Śaṅkarācārya — articulated Advaita Vedānta and revitalised the philosophical unity of the Upanishadic vision.
Rāmānujācārya — taught Viśiṣṭādvaita and placed loving surrender and service to the Divine at the heart of spiritual life.
Madhvācārya — established Dvaita Vedānta and emphasised the eternal distinction between the individual soul and the Supreme.
Nimbārka — articulated a distinctive vision of the relationship between the individual, the world and the Divine.
Vallabhācārya — taught Śuddhādvaita and the path of loving grace and devotion.
Śrī Caitanya — made ecstatic devotion and the chanting of the Divine Name a powerful spiritual path.
Vedānta Deśika — combined profound philosophy, devotion, poetry and Sri Vaishnava theology.
Āṇḍāl — gave bhakti a timeless voice through the Tiruppāvai and Nācciyār Tirumoḻi.
Kabir — challenged religious divisions and pointed directly towards the Divine within.
Guru Nānak — taught remembrance of the Divine, honest living, equality and service.
Mirabai — transformed personal love for Krishna into some of India's most enduring devotional poetry.

Thinkers Who Carried the Vision Forward

Bodhidharma — traditionally associated with carrying an Indian contemplative tradition to China and the development of Chan Buddhism.
Basavanna — emphasised devotion, equality, ethical work and the dignity of the individual.
Swami Vivekananda — presented Vedānta and the ideal of service to the modern world.
Sri Aurobindo — envisioned the evolution of human consciousness and developed the philosophy of Integral Yoga.

And the Paramparā Continues

These were not merely scholars.

Some observed the stars.
Some studied the human body.
Some analysed language.
Some questioned reality.
Some sang to God.
Some studied society and governance.
Some sought liberation.

Yet beneath this astonishing diversity runs a common thread:

Bharat encouraged the human being not merely to believe—but to inquire, contemplate, experience and realise.

From Yājñavalkya to Sri Aurobindo, from Gārgī to Āṇḍāl, from Pāṇini to Āryabhaṭṭa, from Charaka to Sushruta, from Thiruvalluvar to Rāmānujācārya—the conversation continues.

The Paramparā is not a museum.

It is a living stream of thought.

And perhaps the most beautiful invitation of all is this:

Contemplate. Question. Discover. Realise.
Then leave something wiser for those who come after you.

Gamanam Bhujangam

 WHEN GRACE TAKES WING

Garuda Gamanam & Hanumān Bhujangam

I looked at Garuda
and saw the Lord in flight.

Wings spread wide,
he does not fly for himself.
He carries Nārāyaṇa
wherever grace is needed.

The Lord sits upon his shoulders—
and suddenly
the distance between heaven and earth
does not seem so great.

Garuda does not ask,
“Who deserves His grace?”

He simply carries Him.

And I wondered—

Is that not grace?
The Lord comes closer
because someone is willing
to carry Him.


Then I looked at Hanumān.

No throne.
No crown.
No desire for himself.

Only folded hands,
Rāma's name upon his lips,
and a heart that knows
only one direction—

towards Rāma.

He crossed the ocean
because Rāma needed him.

He moved mountains
because Rāma's work
could not wait.

He stood before Sītā
carrying Rāma's message—

and in that little ring
was contained
an entire universe of hope.

Hanumān did not say,

“Look what I can do.”

He said,

“Tell me what Rāma wants.”

And strength appeared.


Garuda carries the Lord.

Hanumān carries the Lord's purpose.

Garuda brings the Lord
to the frightened devotee.

Hanumān brings the devotee
the Lord's assurance.

One flies with Him.

The other flies for Him.

One is the splendour
of divine service.

The other is the tenderness
of surrendered service.

Yet both teach me
the same secret.


I thought grace
was something I had to receive.

Garuda taught me:

Let the Lord come to you.

Hanumān taught me:

Let yourself become useful to Him.

And somewhere between
Garuda's mighty wings
and Hanumān's folded hands,

I finally understood—

Grace is not always
something that falls upon us.

Sometimes
grace takes wings.

Sometimes
grace takes the form of service.

Sometimes
the Lord comes to us.

Sometimes
He sends us towards Him.




O Garuda,

when I am afraid,
carry Him to me.

O Hanumān,

when I am lost,
carry me towards Him.

And when my little heart
can do neither,

teach me just one thing—

to remember His name
as you do,

to serve without asking,

and to trust without fear.

For I now know:

Where Garuda flies,
Nārāyaṇa is near.

Where Hanumān serves,
Rāma is present.

And wherever
the Lord's name is remembered
with a helpless heart—

there, surely,
His grace has already begun to fly.



Saturday, August 22, 2026

Am i blessed to be here....

From His Feet to His Face — A Devotee's Journey to Narayana 

When I first stand before Sriman Narayana, I do not know how to look at Him.

I come as a novice devotee.

I know that He is the Lord. I know that I have come to worship Him. I know that I should offer flowers, bow my head and pray.

But beyond that, I am unsure.

My mind wanders. My prayers are imperfect. My devotion is still small.

So I begin where I feel least inadequate.

At His feet.

I place the flowers there.

I bow.

And I remain there for a while.

At His Feet 



The sacred feet of Narayana are the first thing my heart learns to trust.

I do not yet dare to look at the greatness of the One standing before me.

I simply look at His Tiruvadi.

They are beautiful, lotus-like, adorned with divine anklets.

But more than their beauty, I begin to understand what they mean.

They are refuge.

I do not have to be worthy before approaching them.

I do not have to know all the scriptures.

I do not have to have mastered my mind.

I only have to surrender.

The flowers I place at His feet seem suddenly to say more than my words can.

"I have come, Lord."

And perhaps that is enough.

Then My Eyes Rise 

Having surrendered at His feet, I slowly raise my eyes.

I see His legs.

They are strong and graceful, supporting the entire divine form.

I realise that the One whose feet I have approached is not merely a beautiful image.

He stands.

He supports.

He protects.

My little offering at His feet has brought me one step closer to understanding Him.

Then I see the radiant Pitambara, the golden-yellow garment surrounding His divine form.

The colour catches my eye.

The beauty draws me upward.

My devotion, which began as uncertainty, begins to become attention.

I am no longer merely praying.

I am looking.

The Divine Hands 

My eyes rise further.

I see His four arms.

And then I notice what they hold.

The Panchajanya, the conch.

The Sudarshana, the discus.

The Kaumodaki, the mace.

The Sharnga, the bow.

At first I see them as the weapons of a mighty Lord.

Then I understand something more.

These are the hands of the One who protects.

The Lord whose feet I approached in helplessness has the power to protect me.

And yet one of His hands is raised in assurance.

The hand that holds power can also offer comfort.

I begin to understand that surrender does not mean entering uncertainty.

It means placing oneself in the hands of the One who can protect.

The Chest of Sri 

My eyes rise still further.

I see the magnificent Tirumarbu, the divine chest.

There shines the Srivatsa.

The Kaustubha Mani rests upon Him.

And then I remember what I have been taught:

This is the eternal abode of Sri Mahalakshmi.

He is not merely Narayana.

He is Sriman Narayana.

Sri is with Him.

Grace is with Him.

Compassion is with Him.

Suddenly, my understanding of the feet changes.

I had come to the feet because I was unsure of myself.

Now I realise that the feet to which I surrendered belong to the One whose heart eternally holds Sri.

My surrender is not falling into the unknown.

It is placing myself before Sri and Narayana together.

His Face 

And then, almost without realising it, I look higher.

I see His neck, adorned with garlands and jewels.

I see the divine ornaments.

And finally I see His face.

For a moment, I forget my prayer.

I simply look.

The face is serene.

Radiant.

Beautiful.

And then I see His eyes.

His Eyes See Me 

They are large and lotus-like.

But now I no longer see them merely as beautiful eyes.

I begin to wonder:

Does He see me?

The thought changes everything.

The Lord who sees the entire universe is looking upon me.

He knows the prayer I could not put into words.

He knows the weaknesses I hide from everyone.

He knows the good I tried to do and the good I failed to do.

And yet His eyes do not turn away.

There is compassion in them.

There is patience.

There is acceptance.

For the first time I understand why the devotee can stand before the Lord and simply remain silent.

Sometimes words are unnecessary.

The Lord already knows.

The Smile 

And then I see His smile.

It is gentle.

Almost reassuring.

I remember the fear with which I first came to Him.

I had wondered whether I was worthy to stand before Him.

Now the smile seems to answer that question without words.

"Do not be afraid."

The Lord whom I thought I had come to worship begins to feel like the One who has been waiting for me.

The novice who came with flowers at His feet has slowly become the devotee who dares to look at His face.

The Tirunamam 

My eyes move to His forehead.

There shines the sacred Tirunamam.

The two white lines and the central red Sri Churnam once again remind me of Sri and Narayana.

Everything I have seen now begins to come together.

The feet are His refuge.

The hands are His protection.

The chest is the abode of Sri.

The eyes are compassion.

The face is assurance.

And the Tirunamam declares who He is.

I am no longer seeing separate features.

I am beginning to see Him.

And Finally — The Crown 

At last my eyes reach the crown.

The magnificent Kiritam shines above His head.

Only now do I understand its full meaning.

The One whose feet I approached in humility is the Lord of all worlds.

The One whose eyes looked upon me with tenderness is Sarveshvara.

The One whose smile gave me courage is the Supreme Being.

The One whose feet received my little flowers is the Lord of the universe.

And suddenly I realise something humbling.

I began at His feet because I was afraid to look at His greatness.

But by beginning at His feet, I discovered His greatness gradually.

I did not climb towards Him through my own knowledge.

I was lifted by devotion.

The Complete Form 

Now I step back.

For the first time I see the entire form of Sriman Narayana.

The crown.

The Tirunamam.

The compassionate eyes.

The serene face.

The garlands and jewels.

The sacred chest bearing Srivatsa and Kaustubha.

The four arms.

The conch, discus, mace and bow.

The radiant Pitambara.

The graceful legs.

And the sacred feet where I first placed my flowers.

Now the whole form is before me.

And something within me becomes quiet.

I realise that the journey was never really from the feet to the crown.

It was from uncertainty to trust.

From seeing a form to experiencing a presence.

From offering flowers to offering myself.

From knowing about Narayana to beginning to know Narayana.

The Humble Realisation 

Perhaps this is how devotion grows.

A beginner does not need to understand everything.

He begins with one flower.

One bow.

One prayer.

One glance at the sacred feet.

And if he remains there long enough, something begins to happen.

The eyes rise.

The heart opens.

The mind becomes quiet.

The divine form gradually reveals itself.

And eventually the devotee understands:

The Lord was never waiting for a perfect devotee.

He was waiting for a surrendered heart.

The flowers I placed at His feet were small.

My prayer was imperfect.

My devotion was uncertain.

But He accepted them.

And in accepting them, He gave me something infinitely greater.

He allowed me to raise my eyes.

He allowed me to see His face.

He allowed me to behold His whole divine form.

And then I understand the deepest lesson of all:

The feet at which I began are the same feet to which my eyes return after seeing everything.

The crown reveals His sovereignty.

The face reveals His beauty.

The eyes reveal His compassion.

The chest reveals Sri.

The hands reveal His protection.

The whole form reveals His divinity.

But the feet remain my refuge.

So I fold my hands once again.

I do not ask for anything.

I simply offer the flowers of my heart.

And whisper:

"Narayana, I came to You unsure of myself.

You taught me to look at You.

And having seen You, I know where I belong.

At Your sacred feet."

Sriman Narayana — You are my refuge, my Lord, and my everything.