The Cosmic Aarti of Baby Krishna

I had a rather strange and unforgettable experience one morning while performing aarti.

As part of my daily routine, I closed my eyes and began to imagine Baby Krishna sitting in my lap. In my inner vision, He was holding a panch-aarti diya with five wicks in His right hand, moving it gently in a circular motion. The five wicks reminded me of the Panchabhutas—earth, water, fire, air, and space, the five elements that constitute the material universe.

Gradually, the vision transformed. Baby Krishna began holding the lamp with both hands, moving it gracefully in a clockwise direction. I remembered Lord Krishna's four-armed form, a divine manifestation associated with Vishnu, which devotees often find deeply reassuring. But what unfolded next was beyond anything I could have imagined.

Baby Krishna seemed to grow four arms, each holding an aarti lamp and moving in perfect rhythm with the devotional song. Then, before my inner eyes, more and more arms emerged—hundreds, thousands, countless arms, each holding a lamp and moving in unison with the music. It was as though the little child in my lap was revealing a cosmic form, an infinitude of divine hands participating in the same sacred offering.

And then came the most astonishing part. Krishna placed a lamp upon His head and began rotating it along with the movements of His hands. His head moved swiftly, yet the lamp remained perfectly balanced. Everywhere I looked within that inner vision, there were lamps—thousands upon thousands of them, shimmering and revolving in divine rhythm.

I felt a little frightened by the sheer magnitude of what I was experiencing and opened my eyes. Before me was the aarti playing on YouTube, its devotional music continuing as usual.

I sat there wondering what had just happened. I had never heard or read of Baby Krishna appearing in precisely this way. The experience felt so unusual, so vivid, and so different from anything I had previously imagined. I could only reflect on the infinite forms in which the Divine is contemplated by devotees.

As the Bhagavad Gita declares in Chapter 11, Arjuna beholds the extraordinary Vishvarupa of Lord Krishna, a form encompassing countless manifestations of the universe. My experience was not something I could equate with Arjuna's vision, but it brought the idea of the Lord's immeasurable nature vividly to my mind.

There was another reason this morning felt particularly meaningful.

During the month of Bhadrapada, corresponding roughly to August–September, I had performed sadhana dedicated to Lord Krishna. Usually, towards the final days of a sadhana, I experience something spiritually significant. This time, however, nothing unusual happened. When the sadhana ended, I consoled myself, wondering whether I had made a mistake in the procedure or had failed to concentrate sufficiently to receive a blessing.

Yet I continued with my devotion.

After completing the sadhana, I distributed burfi as prasadam. I shared it with everyone I could think of—the security guards, electricians, gardeners, plumbers, labourers, and local shopkeepers—not only in my own residential society but also in the neighbouring societies.

And then something happened that made me smile in amazement. Despite distributing the sweets to so many people, the prasadam simply did not seem to finish! Every time I thought there could hardly be any left, there was more to distribute. It reminded me of Draupadi's Akshaya Patra, the inexhaustible vessel from the Mahabharata.

Finally, tired from all the distributing, I prayed to the Lord, “Krishna, I am tired now. Please, let us finish this!”

With that prayer, I placed the last piece of burfi in a labourer's hand. The distribution was finally complete.

I am still unsure how to interpret the vision I experienced during aarti that morning. I can only describe what I saw in my mind and how deeply it moved me. It brought to life, for me, the idea that the Divine cannot be confined to a single form or limited by the boundaries of our imagination.

Perhaps the greatest blessing is not always the experience we wait for, but the grace to continue praying, serving, and loving even when nothing extraordinary seems to happen.

The Lord is kind and benevolent. Sometimes, He gives us what we ask for; at other times, He surprises us with something we could never have imagined. 

Pic : AI Generated

When Kindness Became My Celebration on Karva Chauth

“Have you kept the Karva Chauth fast?” I asked a female security guard at a reputed mall near my home. I had gone there to attend a business meeting and noticed that she was wearing a bindi and sindoor. Assuming that she was married, I gently asked her the question.

She nodded, but there was a hint of hesitation in her response. After all, I was a stranger asking her a personal question.

“Please keep this money and buy yourself a snack, some sweets or fruits,” I said, offering her a fifty-rupee note.

She hesitated to accept it. Perhaps she felt uncomfortable taking money from someone she had never met.

“Today is your fasting day, and yet you are performing your duty. I appreciate your hard work,” I told her.

She eventually accepted the money.

However, while returning home, I began to think about my gesture. Fifty rupees was hardly enough to buy much these days, given the rising prices of everyday necessities. I felt that I could have offered her more. My intention had been to bring a little happiness into her day, but perhaps I had not done enough.

Soon, I spotted the woman who regularly pressed my clothes. I asked her the same question.

“Have you kept the Karva Chauth fast?”

She nodded.

Here was my opportunity to correct my earlier mistake. I offered her two hundred rupees so that she could buy some sweets and fruits for herself. This time, I felt more satisfied that I had been able to offer a little more comfort to someone who was working on a day when many women were observing a fast.

I do not celebrate this festival myself, but I believe that we can still participate in its spirit by bringing happiness into someone else's life. Festivals are not only about our own celebrations, rituals or family gatherings. They can also remind us to notice the people who work quietly around us, often putting aside their own comfort to fulfil their responsibilities.

As Anne Frank wrote, “No one has ever become poor by giving.” A small act of kindness may not change someone's circumstances, but it can make an ordinary day feel a little more special.

If we do not celebrate a festival ourselves, we can still celebrate its spirit by bringing a little happiness into the lives of those who deserve it.

Pics : AI Generated

When Maa Kalaratri’s Image Came Alive

On the evening of 16 February 2024, something extraordinary happened during my japa of Maa Kalaratri. It was the seventh day of Magh Gupt Navratri, and I was sitting before the image of Maa as depicted in the NavDurga book published by Gita Press, Gorakhpur. As I gazed at Her fierce eyes and continued repeating Her name, I felt as though Her image had come alive. Her eyes seemed to look directly at me, and Her face appeared to radiate a divine glow.

Usually, I perform my japa with the lights switched off, but that evening, I had forgotten to turn them off. In the middle of my japa, something changed. Maa’s large, fierce eyes seemed to draw me towards them with an irresistible magnetic force. My attention became completely absorbed in Her gaze. For those moments, nothing else seemed to exist. I could neither see nor feel anything beyond Maa’s magnificent eyes. It was as though the entire universe had disappeared, leaving only the Divine Mother and Her devotee in a silent communion.

Perhaps this is the mysterious beauty of devotion: when the heart is filled with love, even an image can become a doorway to the Divine. The picture before me seemed to transcend its printed form, and I experienced a profound sense of Maa’s presence. As the saying goes, “The eyes are the window to the soul.” That evening, I felt as though Maa’s eyes were opening a window into a world beyond ordinary perception.

Until then, I had completed only one forty-day sadhana of Maa Kalaratri. I had also worshipped Her with complete devotion during the four Navratris observed throughout the year. I did not worship Her every day, yet I had always felt that She was kind and benevolent towards me, blessing me with spiritual experiences that were unique and deeply moving. I could not explain why such experiences came my way, but my heart received them with gratitude. To me, they were precious reminders of the mysterious bond that can exist between a devotee and the Mother Divine.

Maa Kalaratri is like a flash of lightning in the darkest night.

Imagine a moonless night when thick, dark clouds cover the sky. The darkness is so complete that one cannot see even a few steps ahead. There seems to be no direction, no path and no indication of what lies beyond. Suddenly, a flash of lightning illuminates the sky. For a brief moment, everything becomes visible. The road, the trees, the distant landscape—all emerge from the darkness, and one can see where to go.

To me, Maa Kalaratri’s energy is like that lightning: fierce, sudden and illuminating. There are times in our lives when sorrow, confusion and despair surround us like dark clouds. We may feel lost, unable to decide which path to take or how to overcome our difficulties. Our minds become clouded with fear, and hope seems to disappear. Yet, when we turn towards Maa with a sincere heart, we find the courage to face our circumstances and the strength to seek a way forward. In my faith, She is the Mother who hears the prayers of Her children and illuminates their path when everything seems dark.

As Helen Keller beautifully said, “Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.” Maa Kalaratri reminds me that darkness need not be the end of our journey. Sometimes, the light we need appears when we surrender our fears, pray with sincerity and gather the courage to take the next step.

There is another beautiful aspect of Maa Kalaratri’s appearance that has always touched my heart. She is depicted with uncombed, dishevelled hair. Her attire is simple, and She wears very little jewellery. Unlike the other forms of the Goddess, whose beauty may be enhanced by elaborate ornaments and magnificent garments, Maa Kalaratri appears unconcerned with outward appearance. Her attention seems to be fixed on something far more important: protecting Her children and removing their suffering.

I often wonder whether Her simple appearance conveys a profound message. A mother rushing to rescue her child does not stop to arrange her hair, choose beautiful clothes or adorn herself with jewellery. She simply runs towards the child who needs her. Nothing is more urgent than the child's safety, and nothing is more important than answering the child's call.

That is how I imagine Maa Kalaratri. She is so eager to relieve the pain of Her devotees that She gives no importance to Her own adornment. Her love is not dressed in splendour; it expresses itself through action. Her dishevelled hair and simple appearance seem to proclaim that when a child is suffering, the mother's only concern is to reach that child as quickly as possible.

Even Her weapons seem to reflect this urgency. She is not depicted holding a multitude of weapons. Instead, She carries a vajra and a khadga—a thunderbolt and a sword—with which She destroys obstacles and protects Her devotees from forces that threaten them. I imagine Her as a mother who has hastily picked up whatever is necessary to defend Her children. She does not need an elaborate display of power. Her strength lies in Her divine resolve to protect.

And then there is Her mount—a simple donkey, without the elegance and magnificence associated with many divine mounts. Yet, to me, this simplicity makes Her even more endearing. Maa does not need a majestic vehicle to demonstrate Her greatness. She comes in whatever form She chooses, without concern for appearances or worldly grandeur. Her purpose is not to impress the world but to reach those who call upon Her.

Perhaps this is one of the most beautiful lessons Maa Kalaratri offers us: true greatness does not lie in appearance, but in the willingness to serve, protect and relieve suffering. The Divine Mother does not need to display Her magnificence to prove Her love. She demonstrates it by standing beside Her children when they are frightened, lost or helpless.

Whenever I think of Maa Kalaratri, I remember those fierce, magnetic eyes that held my attention that February evening. I remember how Her face seemed to glow and how, for a few moments, everything else faded away. I cannot explain the experience in ordinary words, but it remains etched in my memory as a moment of deep devotion.

For me, Maa Kalaratri is not merely the Goddess who destroys darkness; She is also the Mother who enters the darkness of our lives with the speed and brilliance of lightning. She comes when we are afraid, when we cannot see the road ahead, and when we have lost the confidence to move forward. Her fierce appearance conceals a compassionate heart, and Her terrifying form reminds us that the power which destroys evil can also shelter a frightened child.

When we call upon Her with love and surrender, we open our hearts to Her strength, courage and Grace. After all, She is Maa Kalaratri—the Mother who rides through the darkness, carrying the light of divine protection.

Jai Maa Kalaratri! Jai Maa Durga!

Pic : Maa Kalaratri's image as depicted in the pictorial book NavDurga.

Maa Durga’s Blessings for a Genuine Seeker

“Would you like this book on Maa NavDurga?” I asked a security guard at a nearby residential society. During Navratri, I had been distributing books on the Divine Mother to the janitors, housekeeping staff, gardeners, plumbers, electricians and anyone else in my own society who showed an interest in reading them. Having shared my collection with them, I decided to visit a neighbouring society and offer these spiritual treasures to more people.

“Of course! I would love to have it. Navratri is going on,” he replied with a smile.

I handed him the book, and he began flipping through its pages with interest. Encouraged by his enthusiasm, I asked whether he would like to read any other books from my collection. As I showed him a few titles, he mentioned something that immediately caught my attention.

“I used to read the Durga Saptashati when I lived in my village, but I don't have a copy here,” he said.

His words touched my heart. Here was someone who genuinely wished to read about the Divine Mother but did not have access to the sacred text he loved. I immediately offered to check my collection at home.

“Let me see if I have a copy. I will return in some time. Please wait for me,” I told him.

When I returned, I carried a paper bag filled with more than one book. I opened it and showed him the Durga Saptashati, the Markandeya Purana, and both parts of the Shrimad Devi Bhagwat Purana. I explained that all these scriptures glorified the Divine Mother. The Durga Saptashati, also known as the Devi Mahatmya, is a celebrated section of the Markandeya Purana, one of the eighteen Mahapuranas of Sanatan Dharma. The Shrimad Devi Bhagwat Purana, meanwhile, narrates the glory, divine power and greatness of the Divine Mother.

His face lit up when he noticed the publisher.

“All these books are published by Gita Press, Gorakhpur!” he exclaimed with delight.

His happiness was contagious. It was clear that these were not merely books to him; they were a means of staying connected with his faith. I felt that the books had found someone who would appreciate them, read them and cherish their teachings.

“If you wish, you can keep all of them,” I told him. “And after you have read them, if you would like to explore more, I will gladly share other books from the same publisher.”

He was delighted. Then, with genuine eagerness, he asked, “Please share your mobile number, Sirji!”

I explained that I did not usually answer phone calls, but he could take my manager's number. He could call him whenever he wished and tell him the name of the book he wanted to read. I would then arrange it for him.

As I returned home, my heart was filled with joy. I had set out to distribute books, but I felt as though Maa Durga had guided me to someone who truly desired them. What could be more satisfying than placing sacred scriptures in the hands of a person who was eager to read them?

“When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” This well-known saying is often used to describe the mysterious way in which learning finds its way to a sincere seeker. That day, I felt something similar had happened. A man who wished to read the sacred scriptures had received not one, but five books through an unexpected encounter.

Perhaps devotion does not always express itself through elaborate rituals or grand offerings. Sometimes, it takes the simple form of sharing a book, answering someone's spiritual longing or helping a seeker reconnect with the scriptures he loves.

As the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita teaches in Chapter 17, Verse 20, giving a gift to a deserving person, at the right time and without expecting anything in return, is sattvic daan.

I had gone out to share the glory of Maa Durga, but returned feeling blessed myself. Sometimes, the greatest joy lies in helping someone find what their heart truly seeks.

Jai Maa Durga!

This is the 1,100th post on my blog! :)

Pic : AI Generated

 

Shyama Diaries – 4: The Life I Tried to Save

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After the accident, Shyama’s health continued to deteriorate. The lively little bird who had once filled my home with cheerful chirping was growing weaker by the day. Worried about its condition, I rushed to Gurgaon Bird Hospital once again. The doctor examined it and prescribed medicines and supplements. He advised me to feed Shyama frequently and ensure that it received nutritious food.

I returned home with renewed hope. Perhaps, with proper care and nourishment, my little friend would recover. I became even more attentive, feeding it frequently and offering it dead insects as advised. I watched it closely, hoping to notice some improvement, some little sign that it was getting better. But Shyama did not seem to recover.

The following morning, I fed it as usual, but something felt different. My little bird did not seem well at all. A strange uneasiness settled over me, and I found myself wanting to stay beside it rather than attend to my office work.

I gently caressed its tiny body, trying to soothe it with my touch. Usually, Shyama loved to play with me, cling to my hands, and explore my hair. But that day, it wanted none of those things. It did not want to play or cling to me. It seemed restless, almost as though it wanted to move away. I kept stroking it tenderly, hoping that my touch would bring it some comfort.

Then, suddenly, Shyama shuddered and turned upside down, its little legs pointing towards the sky. I froze. For a moment, I could not understand what had happened. I gently tried to turn it back, but there was no movement. I waited, hoping to see its tiny chest rise and fall, hoping to hear even one faint chirp.

But there was nothing.

Shyama had stopped breathing.

My little companion was gone.

I cannot describe the emptiness I felt in that moment. Only a few days earlier, Shyama had been a bundle of energy, flying around the room, hiding beneath the book cabinet, and singing when it thought nobody was watching. Now, the same little bird lay motionless in my hands. The silence in the room was unbearable.

I wrapped Shyama in brown paper and, with a heavy heart, placed it in the dustbin from which I had first rescued it. The thought that its journey had begun there and ended there was deeply painful. I had brought it home with the hope of saving its life, but despite my efforts and affection, I could not keep it alive.

Shyama had come into my life for only a few days. I had fed it, protected it, taken it to the doctor, and tried to make my home a safe place for it. Yet I knew that, however much I loved it, I could never replace its mother. I could offer care and tenderness, but I could not give it everything it needed to grow and thrive.

As I sat grieving for my little companion, I remembered a comment on Facebook that I had read when I first rescued Shyama. A stranger had written that no matter what I did, the little bird would eventually die because it could not survive without its mother.

At the time, I had felt deeply disappointed by those words. Why should anyone give up on a little life before even trying to save it? I had chosen to listen to the friend who encouraged me and guided me on how to feed the bird. His words had given me hope, and I had held on to that hope through every difficult feeding session and every anxious moment.

But now, Shyama was gone.

The stranger’s prediction had come true, and I could not help wondering whether I had been wrong to hope. Had my efforts been futile? Could I have done something differently? These questions troubled me, but I also knew that I had tried my best with the knowledge and resources available to me. I had not abandoned a helpless creature simply because someone had predicted its death.

“It is better to have tried and failed than never to have tried at all.”

I cried bitterly, as though I had lost a member of my own family. Perhaps someone else might have seen Shyama as just a little bird, a tiny creature that had briefly crossed my path. But to me, Shyama had become my companion, my responsibility, and a little life I had desperately wanted to protect.

I had not expected to become so attached to a bird I had found beside a dustbin. Nor had I imagined that its brief presence would leave such a deep ache in my heart.

Pic : Shyama wants to be alone.

Shyama Diaries – 3: A Collision That Changed Everything

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“Chirp! Chirp!”

I heard a sweet, tinkling sound while meditating. Someone must have a lovely ringtone on their phone, I thought. The sound came again. And again.

How long can someone’s phone keep ringing? I wondered, trying hard to bring my attention back to meditation. But the melodious chirping continued, gently interrupting my concentration.

When I finished meditating, I realised that the sound seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the house rather than from outside. I followed it, searching for its source, but every time I thought I had found it, the sound stopped. Could it be Shyama singing? Whenever I went close to the little bird, however, it appeared perfectly normal and remained silent.

Finally, I decided to hide behind a wall and observe it without being noticed.

And there it was! My little Shyama was singing its heart out.

I watched in amazement as the tiny bird chirped happily, again and again, expressing its joy in the sweetest language it knew. What a delightful discovery! Until then, I had thought of Shyama as a little creature that needed my care and protection. Now, I was discovering another side of its personality—a playful, joyful bird with a voice of its own. Its cheerful song filled the room, and I found myself smiling at the happiness of my tiny companion.

As Shyama grew, so did its mischievousness. It loved flying around the room, exploring every possible perch. Sometimes, it would settle on the curtain rod; at other times, it would land on the lampshade mounted high on the wall. The sofa, too, was one of its favourite landing spots. The entire room had become its little world of adventures, and I enjoyed watching every new discovery.

But one day, an accident changed everything.

While exploring the room, Shyama took off from the lampshade. Perhaps it misjudged the distance, or perhaps it simply failed to recognise the transparent barrier in front of it. Instead of landing safely on the sofa, it flew straight into the glass door of the wooden book cabinet.

The impact frightened me. I rushed to check on my little friend, hoping it had not seriously injured itself. But what troubled me most was the change that followed. Shyama stopped singing. It ate less and seemed strangely subdued, as though something inside it had gone quiet. The little bird that had once filled my home with cheerful chirping now sat silently, and its silence hurt my heart.

It was as if a part of its joy had been lost in that collision.

Watching Shyama, I was reminded of an accident of my own.

I, too, had once collided with an invisible wall. I had believed there was open space ahead of me, only to discover that what appeared to be freedom was, in fact, a hard barrier. The impact was not merely physical or momentary; something inside me seemed to break. After that, I could no longer laugh as freely as I once had. I cried and cried, and the desire to live seemed to slip away from me.

Shyama’s accident brought those feelings rushing back. I looked at the little bird and wondered how something so small could suffer such a profound change after a single collision. Perhaps it was frightened; perhaps it was hurt. I could not know exactly what was happening inside its tiny body, but I recognised the silence that had replaced its joy.

Sometimes, the deepest wounds are not visible from the outside.

Whether the barrier is made of real glass or an invisible wall we never expected to encounter, the impact can leave something inside us shaken. We may continue to exist in the same surroundings, yet the carefree laughter, the trust, and the desire to explore that once came naturally may no longer feel the same.

And as I watched Shyama sitting quietly after its accident, I could not help wondering whether its song would return.

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Pic 1: Shyama playing with me

Pic 2 : Shyama sitting on the lampshade

Shyama Diaries – 2: When Shyama Discovered Its Wings

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Shyama wanted love and affection, and I soon discovered that my little feathered friend loved playing with me. Feeding time was no longer just about food; it had become an opportunity for the two of us to bond. One day, while I was feeding Shyama, the little bird slipped from my grip and climbed onto my hands. Before I could catch hold of it, it swiftly made its way towards my head and became entangled in my long hair.

Instead of being frightened, Shyama seemed to enjoy clinging to me. I carefully disentangled it from my hair, amused by its playful antics. As the days passed, my little companion grew naughtier and more adventurous. It was no longer content to sit quietly in its nest. It wanted to explore its surroundings, and my balcony had become its playground.

One morning, I went to the balcony to feed Shyama, but to my surprise, it was nowhere to be seen. I searched every nook and corner, looking behind the flowerpots and around its usual hiding places. My heart began to sink. Had it fallen off the balcony? The thought was frightening. Disappointed and worried, I finally turned towards the house, not knowing where else to look.

Just then, something caught my eye. There was Shyama, sitting comfortably on the gas meter!

My relief quickly turned into delight. My little bird had begun to fly! What a wonderful milestone it was to witness. The tiny creature I had once rescued from beside a dustbin was gradually discovering its wings and exploring the world around it.

Over the next few days, Shyama began taking short flights and climbing up the net covering our balcony, which had been installed to keep pigeons away. It would cling to the net and slowly make its way upwards, exploring its newfound freedom with the innocence of a child. Watching it fill its days with such curiosity brought me immense joy. It had no idea how cruel the world could be or how vulnerable it still was.

One day, as Shyama was slowly climbing the net, a shikra—a bird of prey—appeared out of nowhere. In a flash, it swooped towards my little bird, ready to attack. My heart nearly stopped. I was standing just behind Shyama, and perhaps my presence startled the predator. The shikra made a sudden U-turn and flew away without harming it.

I stood there, shaken by how narrowly Shyama had escaped. The predator had retreated, but what if it returned? What if, the next time, I was not there to protect my little friend? Shyama was still too innocent to recognise danger, too trusting to understand that the same open sky that gave it the freedom to fly could also expose it to predators.

The thought of losing Shyama was unbearable. I could not take another chance with its life. I gently brought my little adventurer inside the house, away from the balcony and the lurking danger outside. After exploring its new surroundings, Shyama found a hiding place beneath the wooden book cabinet, which soon became its favourite little corner.

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Video : Learning to fly without its mother's guidance

Pic : Spreading its wings