The Evening My Grandfather Spoke to Me Again
“Some journeys take us to places where our Āchāryas walked.
Some take us back to the place where our own spiritual journey quietly began.”
Mamandur — Where the Evening Remembered Me
It was a cool evening.
I was sitting on the pial of the outer boundary of the temple at Mamandur—my birthplace.
The sun was slowly preparing to disappear.
The cows were returning home after their day’s grazing.
I watched them walking leisurely along the village paths.
Their bells were ringing softly around their necks.
The dust rose gently beneath their feet.
Somewhere nearby, the little calves were waiting eagerly for their mothers.
Birds were returning to their nests, their chirping slowly changing into the music of dusk.
The crickets had begun their evening whispers among the green fields.
For a few moments… I forgot the world.
I was no longer the person sitting there after decades of life.
I was once again the little boy who spent his holidays in this village.
The same temple. The same surroundings.
But a completely different life.
Almost five decades had passed. And yet…
the evening seemed unchanged.
The Stick I Once Held
Suddenly, another picture appeared before me.
My grandfather.
I used to hold his stick horizontally and walk with him to the temple.
He would slowly make his way towards the sannidhi.
The priests would watch us.
I still remember his words:
“This boy loves the temple. One day he will keep up my name.”
I did not understand what those words meant then.
I was only a child.
For me, the temple was simply a place of wonder.
The Perumal was someone I loved.
The priests were familiar faces.
The village was my world.
But perhaps… my grandfather had seen something that I could not yet see.
Fifty Years Later
And now…
I was sitting on almost the same pial.
My grandfather was no longer there. The village had changed.
Many old houses had been reconstructed in modern style.
The life of the village had changed.
But the temple remained.
And I was sitting there asking myself:
How did our elders live as Śrī Vaiṣṇavas in those days?
What did it mean to them?
What did they understand that we have forgotten? What did my grandfather see?
Why did he bring that little boy to the temple again and again?
I had come to Mamandur as part of an Āchārya Yātrai.
But suddenly… I felt that I had come here to meet my grandfather.
And Then He Arrived A car stopped nearby.
An extremely old priest slowly got down.
His son had brought him.
He was finding it difficult to get out.
Without thinking, I moved towards him.
I extended my shoulder.
He placed his hand on me.
I supported him.
He looked closely at my face.
He stared for a few seconds.
Then his eyes brightened.
His toothless smile appeared.
And he asked:
“Are you Gindan’s grandson?” Varadachaary? I mean
My heart stopped. I replied softly: “Yes, Swamy.”
He smiled. And said:
“I can see your grandfather in you, dear.”
I cannot explain what happened within me.
It was as though someone had suddenly opened a door to my childhood.
I had gone to support an old priest.
Instead… he had supported me.
Walking Into the Temple
I gently held his hand.
We slowly walked inside.
His steps were difficult.
Mine were steady.
But spiritually…
I felt that he was taking me inside.
Not merely into the temple.
Into a forgotten part of myself.
His son was parking the car elsewhere.
I was in no hurry. I wanted to hear him.
For some reason…
I felt that the Lord had arranged this meeting.
I had questions.
Questions about our tradition.
Questions about what makes a person a true Śrī Vaiṣṇava.
Questions that had been arising throughout this entire Āchārya Yātrai.
And here, in my own birthplace…
an old priest had appeared.
“Your Grandfather Used to Speak About These Things”
After I brought him some water, he looked at me again.
He said: “Your grandfather used to speak about many things.”
Then he paused.
“There is one thing he used to speak about that you would like to hear.”
I became completely attentive. He continued: “He used to speak about what it means to be a Śrī Vaiṣṇava.”
My heart began beating faster.
It was as though my grandfather had returned through this old priest.
The Question of Swamy Nampillai
The priest then narrated an incident from the teachings of Swamy Nampillai and Swamy Nanjeeyar, as preserved in the Bhagavad Viṣayam tradition.
Swamy Nampillai asked his revered Acharya Nanjeeyar a question that remains extraordinarily relevant even today.
He asked: “Swamin, how can one know with certainty that he possesses the qualities of a Śrī Vaiṣṇava?”
What a question!
After everything I had seen during this journey…
I felt that this was perhaps the question I myself had been carrying.
Not:
“Who is a Śrī Vaiṣṇava?” But:
“How do I know whether I am one?”
Nanjeeyar’s Answer
Nanjeeyar gave an answer that the old priest repeated with great affection.
He described three essential qualities.
Three signs by which one could examine oneself.
And suddenly… my entire Ācārya Yātrai seemed to converge into these three teachings.
1. Archāvatāra Abhimānam
The first quality is:
Arcāvatāra Abhimānam
A deep and unwavering conviction that the Lord present in His Arcā form—in our temples and in the Perumal we worship at home—is truly the Supreme Lord Himself, possessing the same supreme powers and glory.
Not a symbol.
Not merely a representation. Not merely a stone or metal form.
But Bhagavān Himself, who has out of compassion made Himself accessible to us.
Suddenly I Understood My Childhood
I remembered my grandfather taking me to the temple.
Why did that little boy love the temple?
Perhaps he did not know philosophy.
He did not know Vedānta.
He could not explain Arcāvatāra.
But something in that little heart knew:
“Perumal is here.” That was enough.
The child did not ask:
“Is He really here?” He simply loved Him.
Perhaps that was the beginning.
The Āḻvārs Lived This Truth
The priest explained that our Āḻvārs possessed this extraordinary vision.
They travelled to the Divya Deśams.
They sang before the Lord.
They experienced Him.
They spoke to Him.
They complained to Him.
They praised Him.
They loved Him.
For them…
the Archā form was not an abstraction.
He was alive.
And as I remembered my own journeys to the Divya Deśams, I understood why every temple had begun to feel different to me.
The Lord had never been merely a deity I went to see.
He had become someone I went to meet.
2. Bhāgavatha Prema
Then came the second quality.
Bhāgavatha Prema
Love for the devotees of Bhagavān.
The priest explained it through a simple comparison.
A person normally loves his own child intensely.
But if he can love a Śrī Vaiṣhṇava with that same depth of affection…
that becomes a sign of Bhāgavata prema.
I became silent.
How easy it is to love those who belong to us.
Our children.
Our family.
Our friends.
But can I love another devotee simply because:
“He belongs to Perumal?”
That is a completely different standard.
The Journey Had Already Taught Me This
Suddenly so many episodes came back.
Periya Nambi and Māraṇēri Nambi.
Rāmānuja and Dhanurdāsa.
Kūrathāḻvān and the devotees around him.
The lessons at Pettai.
The warnings about Bhāgavatha Apacāra.
Everything was connected.
The Acharyas were not teaching us merely to love Bhagavān.
They were teaching us:
Love those whom Bhagavān loves.
3. Bhāgavatha Kaṭinokti Bhogyathā Buddhi
Then came the third.
Perhaps the most difficult.
Bhāgavatha Kaṭinokti Bhogyathā Buddhi
The ability to receive even the harsh words of a Bhāgavata as something beneficial.
The priest explained it simply.
Suppose a Śrī Vaiṣṇava rebukes me.
Suppose his words are sharp.
Suppose I feel hurt.
What does my mind immediately say?
“How dare he speak to me like that?”
The ordinary mind reacts.
The ego defends itself.
But the true Śrī Vaiṣṇava asks:
“What is Perumal trying to correct in me through these words?”
That Was Difficult to Hear
I sat silently. Because this is where spirituality becomes uncomfortable.
It is easy to say:
“I love Bhagavān.”
It is much harder to say:
“I will accept correction from His devotee.”
It is easy to wear Ūrdhva Puṇḍram.
It is harder to allow someone to expose our ego.
It is easy to recite. It is harder to be corrected.
And perhaps that is why this third quality is so profound.
The Three Jewels
The old priest repeated the three qualities slowly:
Archāvatāra Abhimānam
Deep love and faith in Bhagavān’s Arcā form.
Bhāgavatha Prema
Love for His devotees.
Bhāgavatha Kaṭinokti Bhogyathā Buddhi
The maturity to receive even the difficult words of His devotees without resentment, accepting them as beneficial correction.
Then he smiled.
“If a person possesses these three, he may understand within himself that he has the qualities of a Śrī Vaiṣṇava.”
I Could Not Speak
I had been searching for answers throughout the Yātrai.
I had travelled to great temples.
I had listened to Acharyas.
I had read stories.
I had written about them.
I had tried to understand the lives of our Pūrvācāryas.
And now…
in the temple of my own birthplace…
an old priest had given me three simple tests.
I felt as though the Lord had placed a mirror before me.
And the Mirror Asked Me…
Do you truly believe Perumal is present before you?
Do you love His devotees as you love your own?
Can you accept the harsh words of a Bhāgavata without anger?
I could answer only the first with some confidence.
The second…
I still had much to learn.
The third…
I had even more to learn.
The Boy and the Grandfather
Then I remembered my grandfather again.
His stick.
My little hand holding it.
Our slow walk to the temple.
The priests watching us.
His voice: “This boy loves the temple.”
Perhaps he was right.
But he had added:
“One day he will keep up my name.”
What does it mean to keep up his name?
Not merely to remember him.
Not merely to write about him.
Perhaps it means to preserve what he tried to give me.
Love for Perumal.
Love for Bhagavatas.
Humility when corrected.
I had once thought that keeping up my grandfather’s name meant achieving something in the material world.
Today I understand differently.
If I can preserve even a little of his love for the temple…
If I can maintain my relationship with Perumal…
If I can respect Bhagavatas…
If I can accept correction without ego…
perhaps then… I am truly keeping up his name.
That evening I had not planned to meet an Acharya.
I had not made an appointment.
There was no elaborate discourse.
There was simply:
An old priest.
A village temple.
A fading evening.
A memory of my grandfather.
And three teachings.
Yet I felt that Perumal Himself had arranged the meeting.
The priest had come from elsewhere.
But his words had brought my grandfather back.
And perhaps…
through my grandfather…
the Lord was reminding me why I had begun this journey.
A Pilgrimage Comes Full Circle
At the beginning of this series, I spoke about how I was once merely religious.
I followed what elders told me.
I performed what I was expected to perform.
But slowly… through the grace of Acharyas…
the journey from religiosity to spirituality began.
Today I see another transformation.
From:
“I visit temples.”
to:
“I must see Perumal in the Arcā form.”
From:
“I respect devotees.”
to:
“I must love Bhagavatas.”
From:
“I accept advice.”
to:
“I must learn to receive even difficult correction without ego.”
That is the real journey.
Three Questions I Now Carry
I have decided that these three questions should accompany me for the rest of my life.
1. When I stand before Perumal, do I truly feel that He is here?
2. When I meet a Bhagavata, do I see someone who belongs to Him?
3. When a Bhagavata corrects me, can I accept it as His mercy?
If I cannot answer these honestly…
then my spiritual journey is not complete.
The evening had become darker. The cows had reached their homes.
The birds had settled. The bells had become silent.
The old priest had finished speaking.
I remained seated for a while.
I looked towards the temple.
And silently prayed:
“Perumal…
Let me never lose the love that little boy had for Your sannidhi.
Let me love Your devotees more than I love my own pride.
When Your devotee corrects me, give me the wisdom to see Your hand in those words.
Let me not merely call myself a Śrī Vaiṣṇava.
Let me slowly become one.”
“The little boy loved the temple before he knew theology. Perhaps that was his first lesson in Arcāvatāra Abhimānam.”
“To love Perumal is beautiful. To love those whom Perumal loves is the next step.”
“The harsh word of a Bhagavata may hurt the ego, but it may heal the soul.”
“My grandfather once took me to the temple holding his hand. Decades later, an old priest took my hand and brought me inside. Perhaps the journey was never mine alone.”
As I finally rose from that old pial…
I looked back once.
The temple stood quietly in the evening darkness.
The same temple. The same village. The same earth.
But I was not the same boy who had walked there holding his grandfather’s stick.
The little boy had come looking for Perumal.
The grown man had returned looking for his identity.
And the answer had come through three simple words:
Archāvatāra Abhimānam.
Bhāgavatha Prema.
Bhāgavatha Kaṭinokti Bhogyatā Buddhi.
Perhaps… this was another milestone in the journey from being born a Vaiṣṇava…
to becoming one in spirit.
Śrīmathey Rāmānujāya Namaḥ
Adiyen Ramanuja dasan
Pictures : Courtesy Google images
