An opening unlike any other

 The opening is, indeed, one of the most extraordinary and mysterious openings in the history of world literature—the first verse of the Bhagavad Gītā, placed within the vast ocean of the Mahābhārata.

धृतराष्ट्र उवाच

धर्मक्षेत्रे कुरुक्षेत्रे समवेता युयुत्सवः ।

मामकाः पाण्डवाश्चैव किमकुर्वत सञ्जय ॥

Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:

“On the sacred field of Kurukṣetra, gathered and eager for battle, what did my sons and the sons of Pāṇḍu do, O Sañjaya?”

An opening unlike any other

This single verse contains layers of mystery, symbolism, and philosophical depth that no ordinary human imagination could casually conceive.

1. A blind king “seeing” through another

The speaker, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, is blind—physically and spiritually. Yet he asks about events unfolding miles away on a battlefield. The listener, Sañjaya, possesses divya dṛṣṭi (divine sight), a boon granted by Vyāsa, enabling him to see and hear everything happening on the battlefield in real time.

This is not merely poetic imagination. It is:

Vision beyond the senses

Knowledge unbound by distance

Consciousness surpassing the physical body

In today’s language, it feels uncannily like live transmission, remote viewing, or even cosmic broadcasting—conceived thousands of years before such ideas were imaginable.

2. The blindness is not accidental

Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s blindness is not just physical. It is moral and spiritual blindness. Though he knows Kurukṣetra is Dharmakṣetra (a field of righteousness), he still refers to the warriors as:

“Māmakāḥ” – my sons

“Pāṇḍavāḥ” – the sons of Pāṇḍu

Even in his first question, attachment speaks louder than truth. The Gītā begins not with Krishna, not with Arjuna—but with human blindness, bias, and insecurity.

What greater honesty can a scripture have?

3. The war is outer, the dialogue is inner

The battlefield is Kurukṣetra—but the real war is:

Between dharma and attachment

Between ego and surrender

Between ignorance and knowledge

The Gītā opens not with action, but with a question. And that question arises from fear, uncertainty, and clinging—the very conditions that plague every human heart.

4. Sanjaya: the silent miracle

Sañjaya does not boast of his divine sight. He simply narrates. He is:

Detached, yet fully aware

Witnessing violence without being consumed by it

A symbol of the sakṣi (inner witness)

The Gītā subtly teaches that true vision belongs not to the eyes, but to consciousness.

5. Could any human mind imagine such an opening?

Ask honestly:

A blind king

A distant war

A seer with divine vision

A sacred battlefield

A conversation that leads to the highest philosophy of life

All placed before the central teaching even begins.

This is not literary cleverness. This is revelatory architecture.

The opening itself is a philosophical statement:

Those who are blind to dharma must rely on those who can see—but even then, truth may not enter the heart.

Is the Gītā the greatest book on earth?

If greatness is measured by:

Timeless relevance

Depth compressed into brevity

Applicability to kings, warriors, householders, seekers

Philosophy that heals despair, confusion, and fear

A dialogue that begins in darkness and ends in illumination

Then yes—the Bhagavad Gītā stands unmatched.

It does not demand belief.

It invites inquiry.

It does not glorify war.

It uses war to explain life.

And it begins not with God speaking—but with a blind man asking a question.

What opening could be more profound than that?

Is the Bhagavad Gītā the greatest book on earth?

The Gītā does not belong to one time, one nation, or one faith. It speaks to:

The ruler burdened by responsibility

The warrior paralysed by doubt

The householder torn between duty and desire

The seeker longing for meaning

It teaches without preaching.

It uplifts without denying reality.

It begins in blindness and ends in illumination.

And it dares to open with a man who cannot see—asking what is happening in a world he helped destroy.

If greatness lies in timeless relevance, spiritual depth, and unflinching honesty about the human condition, then yes—

The Bhagavad Gītā is not merely the greatest book on earth.

It is the mirror before which humanity has stood for millennia.

And it all begins with a single question, asked in darkness, waiting for light.

Bridging memory.

Miss you Kirit bhai, my constant partner during the season. 

When the Sky Remembers Us:

The Deeper Meaning of Kite Flying in India

On certain days in India—most vividly around Makar Sankranti—the sky becomes crowded not just with kites, but with memory, meaning, and shared life. Rooftops fill, voices rise, strings tighten, and the air itself seems to participate in celebration. What appears to be a simple pastime reveals itself as a living tradition, rich with seasonal wisdom, social awareness, and quiet spiritual insight.

Saluting the Sun, Welcoming Change

Kite flying marks the Sun’s northward journey —a turning point celebrated across India as auspicious. The chill of winter begins to soften, days grow longer, and warmth returns to the earth. By lifting kites toward the sky, people symbolically reach out to the Sun, acknowledging its role as the source of life, rhythm, and renewal.

Traditional wisdom also recognized this as a time for the body to awaken. Stepping into open terraces, absorbing sunlight, and engaging in movement after winter were woven naturally into joy. Celebration and well-being were never separate.

The Kite as a Silent Teacher

A kite never flies by freedom alone. It rises because it is held.

The string, often overlooked, is essential—it represents discipline, awareness, and conscious control. The open sky stands for limitlessness and divine possibility. Between the two lies balance. Indian thought has long understood that true elevation in life comes not from cutting all ties, but from holding the right ones with wisdom.

Rooftops Without Walls

During kite festivals, rooftops lose their boundaries. Neighbours greet one another across parapets, families gather across generations, and strangers become companions in joy. Age, status, and difference dissolve as eyes turn skyward.

The sky belongs equally to all.

Rooftops as Living Family Registers

Yet something more subtle unfolds. Neighbours quietly observe—not with intrusion, but with familiarity.

Who has come this year?

Who is missing?

Which child now flies independently?

Which elder’s presence is remembered rather than seen?

A son visiting from afar, a new daughter-in-law learning the rhythm of the festival, grandchildren holding strings for the first time—each presence is noticed and remembered. Later, these observations turn into gentle conversations, anecdotes, and stories.

Thus, kite flying becomes a collective remembrance, where families are not anonymous units but continuing narratives, lovingly tracked by the community.

Stories That Rise With the Kites

As kites cross in the sky, stories cross on rooftops. Old memories surface, comparisons are made without judgment, and time folds gently upon itself. The past is recalled, the present celebrated, and the future glimpsed through children learning to balance wind and string.

In a world increasingly defined by anonymity, this festival restores something precious—the feeling of being known without being watched, remembered without being recorded.

When Strings Cross: The Meaning of the Kite Duel

Soon, strings cross. Tension builds. A moment of skill, timing, and alertness decides the outcome. One kite is cut.

The cry of “Kai Po Che!” rings out—not in malice, but in delight. The duel is never personal. It is a playful test of mastery, where both victory and defeat are accepted with surprising grace. It is kap yo che. Meaning I have cut to the winning group celebrating victory, momentarily every one stops what they are doing and witness both the winner and the lost for the lost is quickly rewinding the manja to fix a new kite to fly it yet again. 

Life, too, brings crossings—of paths, ambitions, opinions. Not every encounter ends in harmony. Sometimes, despite effort, one must fall.

The kite festival teaches this gently:

Engage fully, but do not cling to the result.

Effort, Destiny, and Acceptance

The flyer controls the string, but not the wind. Indian wisdom would see here the dance of karma and daiva—effort and destiny. When a kite is cut, laughter replaces resentment. The flyer begins again. The fallen kite becomes a prize chased by children, turning individual loss into shared joy.

Even defeat is absorbed into celebration.

The Fragile Thread of Ego

At a deeper level, the string also symbolizes attachment. When it snaps, what appears as loss becomes release. The kite drifts freely, unbound.

In this fleeting image, the sky enacts an ancient truth:

Sometimes, what is cut away is not joy—but bondage.

A Festival That Teaches Without Words

Kite flying instructs without sermons:

Competition without bitterness

Victory without arrogance

Loss without despair

Community without intrusion

Children learn resilience. Elders rediscover lightness. Communities remember how to celebrate together.

When the Sky Becomes a Witness

When the Indian sky fills with kites, it becomes more than a canvas of color—it becomes a witness. To seasons turning, to lives continuing, to families growing and changing, to the delicate balance between holding on and letting go.

To fly a kite is to say quietly:

We are here. We belong. We remember—and are remembered.

And perhaps that is why, long after the kites have fallen and the strings are wound away, the festival continues to soar in the heart.

mesmerized.

 

Benjamin Franklin was sent to investigate a miracle healer who could cure disease with invisible forces.

What he discovered changed science forever.

Paris, 1784. The city was obsessed with a German physician named Franz Mesmer who claimed he could cure anything—paralysis, blindness, seizures, chronic pain—using an invisible force he called "animal magnetism."

Mesmer's treatments were theatrical spectacles. Patients sat in dimly lit rooms around a wooden tub filled with water, iron filings, and glass bottles. Iron rods protruded from the tub. Patients would grasp the rods while Mesmer, dressed in flowing silk robes, moved among them, waving his hands, staring intensely into their eyes, and speaking in low, commanding tones.

And then something extraordinary happened.

Patients would fall into trance-like states. They'd convulse. They'd cry out. They'd report feeling waves of energy flowing through their bodies. Some would collapse unconscious. Others would claim instant healing from ailments they'd suffered for years.

Women especially seemed susceptible to Mesmer's treatments—which led to whispered scandals about what exactly was happening in those darkened rooms when the doctor placed his hands on female patients and stared deeply into their eyes.

But scandal or not, people kept coming. Because people kept getting better.

Or so they claimed.

Mesmer hadn't always been so theatrical. When he'd first developed his theory of "animal magnetism" in the 1770s, he'd used actual magnets—believing he could manipulate an invisible fluid-like force flowing through all living things, restoring balance and curing disease.

Then he realized he didn't need the magnets at all. He could achieve the same results with just his voice, his hands, his eyes. The "magnetic force" wasn't in the magnets. It was in him.

He became convinced he possessed a special power—that he was a conduit for this universal energy.

The Vienna medical establishment thought he was either a fraud or insane. They ostracized him. So Mesmer moved to Paris in 1778, where he became an overnight sensation.

Parisian high society couldn't get enough. Mesmer's waiting list stretched for months. Other practitioners adopted his methods, calling themselves "magnetizers" and later "mesmerists." Clinics opened across the city.

But the French scientific and medical communities were skeptical. They'd seen plenty of miracle cures come and go. Mesmer's claims sounded like mystical nonsense.

Yet his patients swore by him. Testimony after testimony described impossible healings. Were all these people lying? Delusional? Or was there something real happening?

King Louis XVI decided to settle the matter once and for all.

In 1784, he assembled a royal commission to investigate mesmerism scientifically. The panel included some of the greatest minds in France—and one very famous American.

Benjamin Franklin was 78 years old, serving as American ambassador to France. He was also a scientist, inventor, and one of the Enlightenment's leading voices for rational inquiry over superstition.

Joining him was Antoine Lavoisier—the father of modern chemistry, the man who'd discovered oxygen and revolutionized scientific understanding of combustion and chemical reactions.

Also on the commission: Jean Sylvain Bailly (astronomer), Joseph-Ignace Guillotin (physician who'd later lend his name to the execution device), and several other prominent scientists and doctors.

Their task: determine if animal magnetism was real.

The commission watched Mesmer's treatments. They observed the trances, the convulsions, the dramatic healings. Impressive theater, certainly. But was it medicine?

Then they did something revolutionary.

They designed experiments to test whether the "magnetic force" actually existed—or whether patients were responding to something else entirely.

In what may have been the first blind trial in scientific history, they had subjects tested without knowing whether they were actually being "magnetized" or not.

A mesmerist would stand behind a door, supposedly directing magnetic forces at a subject on the other side. The subject, not knowing if the magnetizer was actually there, would report feeling the effects—even when nobody was behind the door at all.

Trees were "magnetized" and subjects told which ones. They'd feel powerful effects from trees that hadn't been magnetized—and nothing from trees that had.

Patients were blindfolded and told they were being magnetized when they weren't. They'd respond dramatically. Then they'd be actually magnetized without being told—and feel nothing.

The pattern was unmistakable. Patients responded when they believed they were being magnetized—regardless of whether anything was actually being done to them.

The commission published its findings later in 1784.

There was no scientific evidence for "animal magnetism." It didn't exist. The invisible fluid flowing through all things was imaginary.

But something real was happening. Patients were responding—genuinely responding—to their own expectations, imagination, and the power of suggestion.

The commission had just documented what would later be called the placebo effect. They'd proven scientifically that belief alone could produce real physiological responses—that the mind could affect the body in measurable ways, even without any actual medical intervention.

This was revolutionary. Not because it vindicated Mesmer—it didn't. But because it revealed something profound about human psychology and the healing process.

Mesmer was furious. He denounced the commission as biased, corrupt, closed-minded. His followers rallied to his defense, pointing to all the people who'd been healed.

But the damage was done. The craze began to fade.

Mesmer left France and resumed practicing in Switzerland. Eventually, he returned to the German state of Baden, where he died in 1815 at age 80—largely forgotten, his grand theory discredited.

But "mesmerism" didn't completely die.

It lingered throughout the 19th century, experiencing periodic revivals. In the 1840s and 1850s, mesmerist shows were wildly popular in America—traveling performers would put volunteers into trances and have them perform stunts on stage.

Medical researchers, meanwhile, had noticed something useful: those trance states Mesmer induced were real, even if animal magnetism wasn't. Patients in those states really did become unresponsive to pain. Really did become highly suggestible.

By the late 1800s, scientists had refined these techniques into what we now call hypnosis—stripping away Mesmer's mystical theories while keeping the practical therapeutic applications.

Today, hypnotherapy is a legitimate medical tool used for pain management, anxiety treatment, and breaking habits. It's not magic. It's not mysterious cosmic energy. It's the power of focused attention and suggestion—the same power Mesmer stumbled upon while waving his hands in darkened rooms.

And we still use his name. When something captures our complete attention, when we're utterly transfixed and absorbed, we say we're "mesmerized."

Every time you use that word, you're referencing an 18th-century German doctor who convinced himself he could channel invisible cosmic forces—and accidentally helped pioneer the scientific study of the placebo effect and the power of the mind over the body.

The 1784 royal commission didn't just debunk a quack. It established a template for how to investigate extraordinary claims scientifically. It showed how to design experiments that could separate real effects from imagined ones.

Franklin and Lavoisier didn't just prove Mesmer wrong. They demonstrated how science should work—with controlled experiments, blind trials, and reproducible results.

And they revealed something Mesmer never understood: he was creating real effects in his patients. Just not the ones he thought.

The invisible force wasn't flowing from him to them. It was flowing from their minds to their bodies—from belief to experience, from expectation to reality.

Mesmer thought he'd discovered a cosmic energy. What he'd actually discovered was the power of the human mind to heal and harm itself through belief alone.

That turned out to be far more interesting—and far more useful—than animal magnetism ever could have been.

So the next time something leaves you utterly mesmerized, remember: you're experiencing a trace of that same mental power that convinced 18th-century Parisians they were being healed by invisible fluids flowing through magnetic rods.

The power was real. The theory was nonsense. But the word survived.

And so did the lesson: extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. Even when the patients swear it works. Even when the healer believes in their own powers.

Especially then.

Benjamin Franklin helped prove that in 1784. And we've been applying that principle ever since.

 

Divine Notice, Grace, and Inner Readiness

“Among the Many, Will the Lord Look at Me?”

 Divine Notice, Grace, and Inner Readiness

Often, in moments of quiet prayer, a thought arises in the heart:

“I am only one among so many devotees. When will the Lord notice me? When will His glance fall upon me?”

This feeling is not born of doubt but of longing. It is the soul’s gentle ache to be seen by the Divine.

In temples crowded with folded hands, in sabhas filled with chanting voices, we stand as part of a multitude. Lamps glow, bells ring, names are called—but somewhere within, the heart whispers: “Does He know me?”

The Illusion of Being “One Among Many”

From the human standpoint, numbers matter. We count people, compare merit, measure effort. But the Lord does not see crowds—He sees hearts. To Him, there is no anonymous devotee. The Gītā assures us:

“I know them all, past, present, and future.”

The sense of being overlooked arises not because the Lord has not noticed us, but because we are still learning how to notice Him.

Does the Lord Choose, or Do We Become Ready?

We often ask, “When will the Lord decide to look at me?”

But saints gently reverse the question:

“When will I become still enough to receive His glance?”

The sun shines equally on all, yet only open windows are filled with light. Grace is always flowing; receptivity is what varies.

The Lord’s glance is not delayed—it is uninterrupted. What delays our experience of it is:

A restless mind

Expectations of reward

Bargaining devotion

Comparison with others

Subtle ego: “I deserve His attention.”

Grace descends where surrender replaces demand.

What Must I Do for the Lord to Notice Me?

This question itself carries innocence, but also effort mixed with anxiety. The answer given by bhakti traditions is paradoxical:

Do less to impress. Be more to receive.

What truly draws the Lord’s attention is not spiritual display, but spiritual transparency.

Simplicity of Heart

The Lord is drawn to the unadorned call—like a child crying without words. When prayer loses its eloquence and becomes honest, it reaches Him faster.

Constancy Over Intensity

Not loud devotion, but faithful devotion. A lamp lit every day attracts the Divine more than fireworks lit once.

Self-forgetfulness

When devotion is no longer about me and becomes about Him, the distance dissolves. The Lord notices the devotee who forgets to notice himself.

Acceptance of His Timing

Waiting without resentment is itself worship. The heart that says, “Even if You do not come, I will still wait,” is already seen.

The Lord Notices Us in Ways We Do Not Recognize

We often expect a dramatic sign—visions, miracles, or sudden transformation. But the Lord’s glance is subtle:

A quiet strength during sorrow

A restraint before wrongdoing

An unexpected calm

A tear during a bhajan

A softening of pride

These are signs of His attention.

The devotee asks, “Why has He not looked at me?”

The Lord smiles, “Child, you are standing because I am holding you.”

From “Look at Me” to “Let Me Look at You”

The deepest shift happens when prayer changes from: “O Lord, look at me”

to

“O Lord, let me look at You without distraction.”

In that gaze, the seeker disappears. And where there is no seeker, there is only the Seen.

 You Were Never Unnoticed

The fear of being one among many is born of separation. In truth, the Lord does not keep lists. He keeps relationships. The moment longing becomes surrender, and effort becomes offering, the question dissolves.

You were never waiting to be noticed.

You were waiting to recognize that you always were.

And when that realization dawns, the Lord’s glance is no longer something you seek—it becomes the very light by which you live

Contemplation

He rests on Śeṣa, the jeweled and vast,

On hoods that shimmer from ages past;

In yogic sleep, yet worlds awake,

The source from whom all causes take.

Upon His chest the Kaustubha gleams,

Where Śrī abides and fortune streams;

That sacred space, serene and wide,

Holds every aim of life inside.

Lotus-eyed Lord, with mercy deep,

Whose glances wake the souls that sleep;

One sideward look, compassionate,

Lifts those whom time would suffocate.

Upon His cheeks a moonlight smile,

That stills all fears and halts the while;

Unspoken words His silence sings,

A balm beyond all uttered things.

Upon His lips a nectar trace,

The first pure drop of endless grace;

From Him flows life, from Him release,

An ocean poured in gentle peace.

His chin stands firm, like Meru tall,

The root where righteous pathways call;

There steadiness and wisdom meet,

Where truth and courage kiss His feet.

His neck bears lines that softly show

The worlds He guards both high and low;

No pride resides, no “I” is born—

Only the joy of being sworn.

His yellow silk in breezes plays,

Time itself slows before His gaze;

From navel-lotus Brahmā rose—

I bow to Him from whom all flows.

A sidelong glance, both fire and flame,

Consumes ignorance, burns the chain;

That gaze is grace, that gaze is might,

A whirling spark that births the light.

In brow and eye, in playful turn,

Compassion glows while freedoms burn;

One fleeting sight, one blessed view,

And bonds are cut clean through and through.

His waist in gentle triple bend,

Where grace and stillness sweetly blend;

No weight of form, no rigid frame—

His posture play, His play the same.

Within His hand the flute rests fair,

As nectar poured through open air;

Its sound enchants the threefold sphere,

Till even silence learns to hear.

Above, the cloth of tranquil white;

Below, the gold of living light;

Though contrasts seem to stand apart,

They merge as one in truth’s own art.

So calm His form, yet fire within;

So soft His smile, yet fears grow thin;

Both child and sage, both near and vast—

Eternal, new, first and last.

To Hari thus, forever fresh,

Beyond all name, beyond all mesh,

I bow, I sing, I place my word

As flowers at the Feet adored.

Reflection.

 श्रीविष्णु सौन्दर्य-वर्णनम् (अपूर्व-स्तुति)

शतपत्र-फणामणि-मण्डिते

भुजगेश-शयनं भुवनैक-नाथम् ।

योगनिद्रा-सुख-लीलया स्थितं

वन्दे विष्णुं जगदादि-कारणम् ॥

वक्षःस्थले कौस्तुभ-दीप्यमानं

श्रिया समं शाश्वत-सन्निविष्टम् ।

यत्र स्थितं सकलार्थ-सारं

हृदम्बुजं तस्य विराजते स्म ॥

कमल-लोचनं करुणा-निधानं

दीर्घायतं शान्त-सुधा-प्रवाहम् ।

यस्य कटाक्षेण भवन्ति मुक्ताः

संसार-पङ्के पतिता अपि जन्तवः ॥

कपोल-युग्मे मृदु-हास-रेखा

चन्द्रांशु-शीतल्यमिवावहन्ती ।

न वाच्यते सा स्मित-सम्पदा यत्

मौनं स्वयं गीतमिव प्रवर्तते ॥

अधरोष्ठ-बिम्बे सुधया निविष्टे

स्वल्पं स्मितं विश्व-विमोहनाय ।

नूनं तदेवामृत-सागरस्य

प्रथमं बिन्दुमिवावतारः ॥

सुश्लक्ष्ण-चिबुकं स्थिर-धैर्य-रूपं

नीतिज्ञता-लक्षण-शोभमानम् ।

यत्र प्रतिष्ठा सकल-धर्माणां

मूलं यथा मेरुरिव स्थितं तत् ॥

ग्रीवा त्रिरेखाभिरलंकृता या

त्रैलोक्य-सौख्यस्य प्रतीक-भूता ।

यत्र स्वभावो न वदत्यहंता

स्वयमेव दासत्व-रसः प्रसूते ॥

पीताम्बरं प्राञ्जलि-वायु-लीनं

कालस्य वेगं निवारयन्तम् ।

नाभी-सरोजे सृजति स्म ब्रह्मा

तस्यैव विष्णोः चरणौ नमामि ॥

I bow to Lord Viṣṇu, the primal cause of the universe,

who reclines upon the great serpent,

whose thousand hoods shine like jeweled lotus petals,

resting in yogic slumber as a divine sport,

the sole Lord of all worlds.

Upon His broad chest shines the radiant Kaustubha gem,

eternally residing there along with Goddess Śrī.

That sacred chest is the very treasury

of all auspiciousness and ultimate purpose,

where the lotus of His heart eternally blossoms.

His eyes are like fully opened lotuses,

vast, tranquil, and flowing with compassion.

By a single merciful glance of those eyes,

even souls sunk deep in the mire of worldly existence

are lifted and freed.

Upon His cheeks appears a gentle line of smile,

cool and soothing like moonlight.

That smile cannot truly be described by words—

for His silence itself seems to sing,

becoming a song of reassurance to the soul.

On His lips rests a faint, enchanting smile,

as though nectar itself has taken form.

Surely that smile is but the first drop

from the boundless ocean of immortality

that is His divine being.

His chin is smooth and firm,

a visible embodiment of steadfast courage and discernment.

There, all righteousness finds its foundation,

standing unshaken—

like Mount Meru itself.

His neck, adorned with three graceful lines,

symbolizes the well-being of the three worlds.

From it naturally flows the rasa of servitude,

where ego finds no voice,

and humility arises without effort.

Clad in flowing yellow silk that moves with the breeze,

He stands beyond the rushing force of time itself.

From the lotus of His navel arose Brahmā, the creator—

to those sacred feet of Lord Viṣṇu,

I offer my humble prostrations.

कटाक्ष-नेत्रेण सुदीर्घ-वीक्ष्य

यः प्राण-वृत्तिं परिभ्रामयेत् ।

न दृष्टिरेषा—स च वह्नि-पुञ्जः

अविद्यया बद्ध-हृदं दहेत् ॥

भ्रू-लास्य-संयुक्त-विलोकनेन

कृपां च क्रीडां च समं वहन्तम् ।

यत्रैक एव क्षण-दर्शनः स्यात्

स पाश-छेदाय फलं ददाति ॥

त्रिभङ्ग-रूपेण विलास-युक्तं

मध्य-प्रदेशे सुकुमार-वल्लिम् ।

यत्रावरोधो न भवेत् गुरुत्वे

लीलैव यत्र स्थितिरूपमेति ॥

वामे करे वेणुमुदार-शोभां

न्यस्तं यथाकाश-सुधा-प्रवाहम् ।

नादेन येन त्रिजगन्निबद्धं

मौनं स्वयं गीतमिव प्रवर्तते ॥

ऊर्ध्वे दुकूलं श्वेत-शान्त-रूपं

पीतेन चाधः प्रविलासमानम् ।

विरोध-भेदेऽपि समत्व-युक्तं

तत्त्वं यथैकत्वमिव प्रकर्षेत् ॥

शान्तं वपुः—किन्तु महाग्नि-तेजः

मन्दं स्मितं—लोक-भय-प्रणाशी ।

बाल्यं च गाम्भीर्य-युतं वहन्तं

वन्दे हरिं नित्य-नवावतारम् ॥

With a single sidelong glance of His eyes,

deep and lingering,

He sets the very currents of life into motion.

That glance is no ordinary look—

it is a whirl of living fire,

burning away the ignorance

that binds the heart.

In the play of His eyebrows and the turn of His gaze,

compassion and divine play coexist.

Even one fleeting moment of His sight

is enough to sever the bonds of bondage

and grant release.

His form bends gently in the triple-curved posture,

the waist turning with effortless grace,

slender and tender like a young creeper.

Here, heaviness finds no place—

His very stance is play,

and play itself becomes sacred stillness.

In His left hand rests the noble flute,

placed as though a stream of nectar flows through space.

By the music born of that flute,

the three worlds are held spellbound,

and silence itself begins to sing.

His upper cloth is serene and white,

while below shines the playful yellow silk.

Though contrasting in color,

they exist in perfect harmony—

as though proclaiming the truth

that unity shines even through apparent difference.

His form is calm,

yet ablaze with immeasurable inner fire.

His smile is gentle,

yet it destroys the fears of the worlds.

Bearing both childlike charm and profound depth,

I bow to that Hari—

ever ancient, ever new.

Unchecked thought.

How Thought Leads to Vināśa

A Philosophical Essay with Life Examples

Indian wisdom never treats Vināśa (destruction) as a sudden external calamity. It sees it as an inner erosion, slow and almost invisible, beginning with a single unexamined thought. Long before a person falls in action, reputation, relationships, or peace, they fall in the mind.

The Bhagavad Gītā offers a timeless psychological map of this inner downfall—one that is as relevant today as it was on the battlefield of Kurukṣetra.

1. Thought: The First Turning

A thought by itself is harmless.

But repeated dwelling gives it power.

Consider a simple modern example:

A colleague receives praise.

A thought arises: “Why not me?”

If the thought is observed and released, it ends there.

But if the mind returns to it again and again, it begins to ferment.

This is what the Gītā calls dhyāna—not meditation here, but obsessive dwelling.

2. Attachment: When Thought Sticks

Repeated thought becomes attachment.

The mind now clings to:

Recognition

Comfort

Control

Validation

A parent begins to think constantly about a child’s success. Slowly, love turns into possession. The child’s choices are no longer theirs—they become a reflection of the parent’s ego.

Attachment is dangerous because it narrows vision. The mind stops seeing reality and sees only expectation.

3. Desire: The Demand of the Mind

Attachment matures into desire (kāma).

Desire does not ask politely.

It demands.

A person desires wealth—not for security, but for comparison. The desire whispers:

“Only when I have more will I be content.”

This desire slowly reshapes priorities:

Ethics become flexible

Time becomes impatient

Contentment disappears

4. Anger: Desire Denied

When desire is blocked, anger is born.

Anger does not always appear as shouting. It often shows up as:

Sarcasm

Withdrawal

Silent resentment

Bitterness masked as logic

A devotee expects divine intervention in a specific way. When life unfolds differently, devotion turns into complaint:

“Why did God do this to me?”

Anger here is not against people—it is against reality itself.

5. Delusion: Loss of Right Vision

Anger clouds clarity.

At this stage, a person:

Justifies wrong actions

Blames others constantly

Confuses ego with self-respect

A leader refuses feedback, convinced that authority equals correctness. Mistakes multiply, but the ego protects itself by denying responsibility.

This is moha—delusion.

6. Loss of Memory: Forgetting One’s Values

The Gītā’s most profound insight comes here.

“Memory” does not mean facts.

It means memory of values.

One forgets:

Past lessons

Moral boundaries

Spiritual truths once held dear

A person who once valued honesty now says,

“Everyone does it.”

This is not ignorance—it is chosen forgetfulness.

7. Destruction of Intellect: Buddhi Nāśa

Without memory, intellect collapses.

Decisions become:

Reactive

Short-sighted

Ego-driven

 A moment of uncontrolled speech ruins decades of relationships.

A single impulsive action destroys lifelong trust.

This is the true beginning of Vināśa.

8. Vināśa: The Quiet Ruin

Vināśa is not always visible.

A person may appear successful yet suffer:

Inner emptiness

Broken bonds

Loss of peace

Spiritual dryness

They have not lost life—but they have lost direction.

The Essential Teaching

Vināśa does not begin with sin.

It begins with unchecked thought.

That is why Indian philosophy insists on:

Viveka – discrimination at the thought level

Smaraṇa – remembrance of higher truth

Saṁyama – restraint before reaction

Victory is won not in action, but before action, in the mind.

The First Crack

A thought arose—

so small, so light,

I let it stay

one extra night.

It came again,

then took a chair,

Soon it ruled

my inner air.

It asked for more,

then flared as fire,

Anger dressed

as just desire.

I forgot my vows,

my inner flame,

Called my fall

by reason’s name.

Not fate, nor foe,

nor God was harsh—

One careless thought

lit Vināśa’s spark.