When I Began to Understand What a Vaiṣṇava Should Be

The stories of our Āchāryas have been doing something strange to me.

I began this journey thinking I was going to learn about them.

Slowly, I am discovering that they are making me look at myself.

Yesterday, the story of Nampiḷḷai and Piḷḷai Āthan made me think about ego.

How easily we can feel that we deserve respect.

How difficult it can be to bow when our mind starts comparing age, knowledge, position and status.

And then I began wondering:

If I remove the ego, what should remain?

What does it really mean to become a Vaiṣhṇava?

I have called myself one all my life.

But perhaps I had never seriously asked myself what that actually means.

During one of my Yāthirais,

I heard a beautiful story connected with  Swamy Ananthāḻvān.

It was simple.  Almost playful.

But the more I thought about it, the deeper it became.

The disciple who went to Ananthāḻvān

A disciple from Srirangam was sent to Tirumala to meet Ananthāḻvān.

He had been given a very important question to ask:

“What are the qualities of a Śrī Vaiṣṇava?”

The disciple reached Tirumala and waited to meet Ananthāḻvān.

But there was something very ordinary standing between him and the answer.

He was hungry.  He had to wait for prasādam.

And he waited.  He did not say,

“I have come from Srirangam.”

He did not demand,

“I have come with an important question.”

He simply waited for prasādam.

Eventually,  Swamy  Ananthāḻvān met him and asked him whether he had prasadam

He said  Yes  as he was the last one taking the prasadam .

 He moved near him and asked about the qualities of a Śrī Vaiṣṇava,

 And he gave four very unusual comparisons.

He said:

“Kokkaippōl iruppān.
Kozhiyaippōl iruppān.
Uppaippōl iruppān.
Ummaippōl iruppān.”

Like a crane.

Like a hen.

Like salt.

And like you.

At first, I wondered what kind of answer this was!

What could a crane, a hen, salt and a hungry disciple possibly have to do with being a Vaiṣṇava?

Then the meaning began to unfold.

Like a crane

A crane stands patiently in the water.

It does not pick up everything it sees.

It waits.

It chooses what is useful.

The lesson I understood was that a Vaiṣṇava should learn to distinguish what is worth accepting and what should be left aside.

How much I need that lesson.

My mind picks up everything.

Praise.    Criticism.    Comparisons.   Small hurts.

Unnecessary arguments.

Things that should have been forgotten years ago.

And I carry them around as though they are precious possessions.

Perhaps I need to learn from the crane.

Take what is valuable. Leave the rest.

Like a hen

A hen scratches the ground and finds whatever food is useful.

It does not collect everything.

It knows what it needs.

Again, I found myself thinking about my own life.

I have read so many things.

Listened to so many talks.  Collected so many stories. Visited so many sacred places.

But am I actually taking the essence?

Or am I simply collecting information?

There is a difference between knowing about the

 Āchāryas and allowing their lives to change us.

Perhaps the hen was telling me:

Take the essence.   Do not merely accumulate.

Like salt

This one touched me even more.

Salt dissolves.  You don’t see it.

But its presence changes the entire dish.

And salt tastes the same wherever it is.

The lesson I heard was about the consistency of a Vaiṣṇava.

What we are inside should not be completely different from what we display outside.

Our devotion should not be something reserved only for the temple.

Our humility should not appear only when an Āchārya is watching.

Our kindness should not depend on who is standing before us.

If I put on the appearance of a Vaiṣṇava outside but remain full of anger, pride and judgement within, what have I really changed?

Perhaps a true Vaiṣṇava becomes like salt.

Quietly present.

Not demanding recognition.

But making everything around him better.

And then… “like you”

The fourth quality surprised me.

“Ummaippōl iruppān.”  Like you.

Why the disciple himself?

Because he had been waiting patiently for prasādam.

He had the opportunity to tell Ananthāḻvān who he was and why he had come.

He could have asserted his importance.

Instead, he simply waited.

There was humility in that waiting.

And perhaps Ananthāḻvān was telling him:

That humility itself is a quality of a Vaiṣṇava.

I found this particularly beautiful.

Because sometimes we imagine that great spirituality must look dramatic.

Long prayers.   Deep knowledge.   Extraordinary experiences.

But here was a hungry disciple quietly waiting for prasādam.

And that simple act revealed something about him.

What am I really becoming?

That question stayed with me.

I have been blessed beyond what I deserve.

I have travelled to Divya Desams.

I have had darshan of Perumals.   I have sat before Āchāryas.

I have heard stories of extraordinary devotees.

I have received so many opportunities to learn.

But after all these years, can I say that I have become the person these stories are asking me to become?

I am not sure. Perhaps this is the uncomfortable truth of my journey.

**I have been collecting the signposts for many years.

I am only now learning to walk in the direction they point.**

The crane tells me to choose wisely.

The hen tells me to take the essence.

The salt tells me to become the same person within and without.

And the disciple reminds me to wait quietly without assuming that I deserve anything.

These are not difficult teachings to understand.

But living them?

That is another matter.

Perhaps the journey is becoming clearer

Yesterday, Nampiḷḷai made me look at my ego.

Today, Ananthāḻvān made me ask what should replace that ego.

Perhaps humility.

Perhaps discernment.

Perhaps quiet service.

Perhaps consistency between what I say and how I live.

Perhaps the willingness to remain a small person before Perumāḷ and His devotees.

I began this Yāthirai wanting to see the places where our Āchāryas lived.

Now I am beginning to understand why.

Every Thirumaligai has another lesson.

Every story seems to hold another mirror.

And every mirror shows me how much remains unfinished within me.

A small prayer

My  Saviour   Lord Sreenivasaaa Perumāḷ…

Teach me to be like the crane.

Let me know what to accept and what to quietly leave behind.

Teach me to be like the hen.

Let me take the essence of what my Āchāryas teach me instead of merely collecting knowledge.

Teach me to be like salt.

Let my inner life and outer life slowly become one.

And give me the humility of that disciple who simply waited for prasādam.

Let me stop thinking about how important I am.

Let me become useful.  Let me become gentle.

Let me become a servant of Your devotees.

I know I have a very long way to go.

But perhaps, for the first time, I am beginning to understand where the road is pointing.

Let me not merely call myself a Śrī Vaiṣṇava.

Let me slowly become one. to be continued

Previous blog posts in the series appended below

Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

Adiyen Rāmānujadāsan

Pictures :   Google images

When an Āchārya Quietly Removes the Ego

There are some lessons that are taught through words.

There are others that are taught through the way an Āchārya lives.

And then there are a few that are taught without the Āchārya saying anything directly to us.

They simply make us look at ourselves.

This was one such story …

During an Upanyāsam at Srirangam, I heard a beautiful incident involving Swamy Nampiḷḷai and Piḷḷai Āthan.

The more I thought about it, the more I felt that the story was not really about Piḷḷai Āthan.

It was about me.

A hesitation to bow

Piḷḷai Āthan was older than  Swamy Nampiḷḷai and was himself a householder.

He wanted to learn one padhikam of Tiruvāymoḻi from Nanjeeyar.

Nanjeeyar directed him to Nampiḷḷai.

But there was a difficulty.

Nampiḷḷai was younger than Piḷḷai Āthan.

And Piḷḷai Āthan found it difficult to prostrate before someone younger than himself.

How easily I could understand that feeling.

Perhaps I would like to think that I would have behaved differently.

But if I am honest with myself, how many such small calculations do I make?

Who is senior? Who is younger?  Who has more knowledge?

Who has greater status?  Who should bow before whom?

The ego does not always announce itself.

Sometimes it quietly sits inside us and tells us that …

we deserve to be respected.

Nanjeeyar understood what was happening.

But he did not want to hurt Piḷḷai Āthan.

He instructed Nampiḷḷai to teach him in such a way that his pride would not be wounded.

The wisdom of Nampiḷḷai

Nampiḷḷai arranged two seats.

He respectfully placed Piḷḷai Āthan on the higher seat.

And he himself sat below.  Then he began teaching Tiruvāymoḻi.

I found this part particularly moving.

Nampiḷḷai did not need to establish that he was the teacher.

He did not need to demand respect.  He simply taught.

And the subject he chose was devotion towards Bhāgavathas, the devotees of the Lord.

As the teaching continued, something began to happen within Piḷḷai Āthan.

The very thing that had prevented him from bowing began to disappear.

His pride slowly melted.  He wanted to prostrate before Nampiḷḷai.

But Nampiḷḷai remembered Nanjeeyar’s instruction and initially did not accept it.

So Piḷḷai Āthan took Nampiḷḷai to Nanjeeyar.

And there, in the presence of Nanjeeyar, he finally fell at Nampiḷḷai’s feet.

The obstacle was gone.   

The disciple had arrived.

And the teacher had never once humiliated him.

What did I learn from this?

I kept thinking about Nampiḷḷai.   What extraordinary compassion.

He knew that knowledge cannot enter a heart that is busy protecting its own importance.

But he also knew that an Āchārya does not have to crush that pride.

Sometimes, the gentlest way is the most powerful way.

He simply created the right situation.

And Piḷḷai Āthan discovered the obstacle within himself.

That touched me deeply.

Because I too have so much to learn.

I may have travelled to many Divya Desams.

I may have listened to many Upanyāsams.

I may have read some of our granthas.

I may know a few stories of our Āḻvārs and Āchāryas.

But what is the use of all this if I continue to carry the thought that I am somebody?

Perhaps the real journey is not about collecting more knowledge.

Perhaps it is about allowing that knowledge to slowly remove what stands in its way.

Nammāḻvār’s words came back to me

As I thought about Piḷḷai Āthan’s transformation, one pasuram of Swamy Nammāḻvār kept coming back to my mind.

Tiruvāymoḻi 3.7.10

அடியார் அடியார் தம்
அடியார் அடியார் தமக்கு
அடியார் அடியார் தம்
அடியார் அடியோங்களே.

The thought expressed here is so humbling:

“We are the servants of the servants of the servants of the servants of the servants of the servants of the Lord.”

I have heard these words many times.

But that day, after listening to the story of Piḷḷai Āthan and Nampiḷḷai, they seemed to speak to me differently.

How far I am from this state of mind.

The first thought that came to Piḷḷai Āthan was:

“Why should I bow before someone younger than me?”

And how often do I carry the same feeling in different forms? I may not say it aloud.

But somewhere within me, I too compare.

Who is senior? Who is younger?

Who knows more?  Who should respect whom?

Why should I accept a correction from him?

The ego does not always come wearing a crown.

Sometimes it hides behind age, knowledge, experience, position or even devotion.

Then I look at Nammāḻvār.

He does not stop with saying that he is the servant of the Lord.

He takes me much further down.

Adiyār.   Adiyār-in adiyār.

Adiyār-in adiyār-in adiyār.

A servant of the servants of the Lord’s devotees.

What a beautiful place to be.

And perhaps that is what I am slowly beginning to understand from the

lives of our Āchāryas.

Greatness is not in being served. It is in learning to serve.

It is not in demanding respect. It is in learning to respect.

It is not in wanting to be recognised.

It is in becoming happy to remain unnoticed.

Perhaps this is the journey

Piḷḷai Āthan did not become smaller when he bowed before Nampiḷḷai.

He became greater. His knowledge did not diminish.

His dignity did not disappear.

Only the unnecessary burden of “I” disappeared.

And perhaps that is what surrender slowly asks of me.

To move from wanting to be respected… to learning to respect.

From wanting to be served… to learning to serve.

From wanting to be recognised…

to becoming happy to remain unnoticed.

And finally, perhaps, to say with  Swamy Nammāḻvār:

“Adiyār adiyār tham adiyār adiyār thamakku adiyār adiyār tham adiyār adiyōṅgaḷē.”

I am only beginning to understand what these words might mean.

Perhaps this is why the lives of our Āchāryas are so precious.

They do not merely teach us what to believe.

They quietly show us what we are still holding on to.

And sometimes, without scolding us, without embarrassing us, without even

directly pointing a finger at us… they make us see our own ego.

Then, if Perumāḷ is kind, perhaps we too may one day be able to let it go.

Perhaps surrender begins where self-importance ends.

A small prayer

My saviour ,,,,, Lord Sreenivaasaaa

Please remove the pride that I do not even recognise in myself.

When an Āchārya shows me my shortcomings, let me not defend myself.

When a Bhāgavatha corrects me, let me not look at his age, position or scholarship.

Let me remember Nammāḻvār.

Let me remember Piḷḷai Āthan.

Let me remember Nampiḷḷai.

And let me remember that I am still learning to become what I was born to be.

Let me not merely call myself a Śrī Vaiṣṇava.

Let me slowly become one.

Previous Blog posts are appended below for quick references

Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

Adiyen Rāmānujadāsan

Pictures :   Google images

When the Search Became a Seva

After writing yesterday’s post, one memory kept coming back to me.

I had gone looking for Swamy Rāmānuja. But somewhere along the way, the search itself became a form of service.

I did not realise this when I first started.

At Tirukkurungudi, the old priest had simply told me:

“Keep reciting Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ.” I started doing it.

Then I wanted to know more about the Acharyar.

Who was He?

How did He live?

Whom did He meet?

What did He teach?

How did He transform people?

Why did so many great souls surrender themselves completely at His feet?

The questions kept coming.

And I wanted answers.

So I started searching.

Books.

CDs.

Old writings.

Stories of the Acharyas.

Places connected with Him.

Every little piece of information I could find became precious to me.

Sometimes I would read something late at night and suddenly close my eyes and try to imagine the scene.

I could almost see the young Rāmānuja walking.

I could see His disciples around Him.

I could imagine the temples as they must have been centuries ago.

I could imagine the conversations between the Acharyar and His disciples.

The more I read, the more alive He became to me.

It was no longer history.

It became something very personal.

I wanted to share what I was discovering

Slowly another thought came.

If these stories were giving me so much happiness, why should I keep them only to myself?

I began writing about Swamy Rāmānuja. One incident led to another.

I would visualise the episode first and then try to put that feeling into words.

Sometimes I would wonder whether anyone would actually read what I had written.

But devotees started calling.

They would say that while reading the post, they could actually visualise the scene.

Some would tell me that they had never looked at that particular incident in that way before.

Those calls gave me tremendous happiness.

Not because people were praising my writing. I felt something else.

Perhaps the Acharyar was allowing me to share a little of what He had given me.

That was enough.

The Acharyar on the Altar

Meanwhile, Swamy Rāmānuja had become part of our daily life.

He was no longer only in the books I was reading.

He was standing before me in our Thiruvengadam.

Every morning I could see Him. I could recite His name before Him.

I could fall at His lotus feet.

I could speak to Him.

Sometimes I would simply sit before Him without saying anything.

There are some relationships where words are not necessary.

I felt that this was slowly becoming one of them.

I had wanted a deity. Perumal had given me the Acharyar.

And then, as I shared yesterday, the Acharyar did not come alone.

The Āḻvārs came.

The Acharyas came. The Śāligrāmas came.

The home slowly became a place where I could spend time in their presence.

Something else started happening

The more I read about the Acharyas, the more uncomfortable I became with myself.

Not in a negative way.

But I began seeing the difference between knowing about a quality and actually possessing it.

I could write about humility.

But was I humble? I could write about surrender.

But how much had I really surrendered? I could write about Bhagavata prema.

But could I love a Bhagavata who disagreed with me?

I could write about kainkaryam.

But was my service completely free from expectation?

These questions began following me.

The Acharyas had become a mirror.

And sometimes the mirror showed things I did not want to see.

The Meaning of the Mantra Deepened

Earlier, I was simply happy to recite:

Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ.

Now the words began to carry a different meaning.

If I say Rāmānujadāsan, then I am saying that I belong to Him.

If I belong to Him, then my conduct should slowly reflect what He taught.

This is not something I can claim to have achieved. Even today, I have a long way to go.

But the awareness itself has become important.

The mantra reminds me. The Acharyar reminds me.

The devotees remind me. Even my own mistakes remind me.

The Recitations Became Another Door

The desire to bring more people into Divya Prabandham recitation also grew.

Initially there were only two of us.

I prayed for more devotees to join. Slowly the number increased.

When I saw nearly twenty devotees participating, I felt that this was not something I had created.

I had only kept asking.

Someone else was bringing them. The same thing happened with the festivals.

The Āḻvār Thirunakshatrams.

The recitations. The temple gatherings.

Everything slowly grew.

And whenever I felt proud, I remembered:

“What did I actually do?”

I had only prayed. The rest was His mercy.

Taking Rāmānuja to Other Homes

Then came the opportunity to give Swamy Rāmānuja’s deities to devotees.

This gave me a completely different kind of happiness.

I would worship the deity at home. Recite several mālās of the mantra.

Perform the purification rites.

Then, on Thiruvadhirai, invite the devotee, offer Mahāprasādam and hand over the Acharyar.

One by one, the twelve deities found their homes.

I often wondered about this.

The Acharyar who had come into my house was now going to another house.

Perhaps that devotee would begin reciting His name. Perhaps his family would begin speaking about Him.

Perhaps someone there would become curious about Rāmānuja.

Perhaps another journey would begin.

And I had been given the small privilege of carrying Him there. What greater joy could there be?

Was the Acharyar Slowly Expanding His Family?

That thought often comes to me.

First He came to our home.

Then the Āḻvārs came. Then the Acharyas.

Then the Śāligrāmas. Then devotees started coming.

Then Rāmānuja deities started going from our home to other homes.

It almost felt as if the family was expanding.

I remembered the feeling I had during the Śāligrāma experience.

When Acharyar decides to come, He brings the whole family.

Perhaps He also decides where each member of that family should go.

I was simply standing somewhere in the middle, watching it happen.

And my own transformation?

It was slow. Very slow.

There was no single morning when I woke up and became spiritual.

It happened little by little. A mantra here.

A temple there. A book. A conversation.

An Acharya. A devotee. A pilgrimage.

A Prabandham recitation.

A mistake. A correction.

A realisation. A tear.

Then another day.

And another.

Looking back, I can see that the journey was being built from hundreds of very small moments.

Perhaps that is how Acharyar works.

Not always with something dramatic.

Sometimes He simply keeps us moving in the right direction.

“Perumal…”

I thought I was searching for Swamy Rāmānuja.

Perhaps You were the one who created that search within me.

I thought I was writing about the Acharyar.

Perhaps You were using those words to correct me first.

Let me never mistake the opportunity to serve for my own achievement.

Let me never become proud because someone appreciates what I write or what I do.

Let me remember that everything came to me through Acharya anugraham.

If You allow me, let me continue carrying the name of Rāmānuja wherever I go.

Let me take His name to a few more hearts before this journey is over.

“I began by wanting to know about Rāmānuja. Slowly, I began wanting others to know Him too.”

“The books gave me knowledge. The Acharyas gave that knowledge a direction.”

“When Rāmānuja entered our home, I thought I had received a deity. Later I felt that I had received a relationship.”

“Perhaps service begins when something that gives us joy becomes something we want to share with another devotee.”

I sat before Swamy Rāmānuja that evening and looked at His smiling face.

I remembered the old priest at Tirukkurungudi.

I remembered the mantra.

I remembered the first deity.

I remembered the Āḻvārs arriving.

I remembered the Śāligrāmas.

I remembered the devotees who came for recitation.

I remembered the twelve Rāmānuja deities leaving our home.

Everything seemed connected.

What began as a simple desire to know my Acharyar had slowly become a desire to serve Him, speak about Him and take His name to others.

And yet I knew…

I had only taken a few steps.

There was still so much to learn.

So much to understand.

So much to change within myself.

Perhaps that was why the thirst was still there……

The search had not ended.

It had only become deeper.….

to be continued ……

Previous posts links appended below

Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

Adiyen Rāmānujadāsan

Pictures : Google images

When Swamy Rāmānuja Came Home

There are some moments in our life which look very ordinary when they happen. Only much later do we understand how precious they were.

I still remember my first journey to Tirukkurungudi and the words of that old priest.

“Your journey to the Divya Desams is Acharyar’s sankalpam. Keep thanking your Acharyar. Keep reciting Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ.”

Those words stayed with me.

I was so happy that the mantra of our Acharyar had come to me at such a sacred place. From then on, I started reciting it almost with every breath.

But something else happened.

A deep thirst grew within me.

I wanted to know about Swamy Rāmānuja.

Who was this great Acharyar?

What had he done?

Why did his name create such a strange feeling within me?

I started searching everywhere.

I bought books.

I bought CDs.

I searched for every small piece of information I could find.

One book took me to another. One Acharyar led me to another. One incident opened another door.

The more I learnt, the more I realised how little I knew.

But I was not disappointed.

I was happy.

There was a thirst to know more.

And that thirst has never left me.

Then came another small incident

I remember going to Sri Parthasarathy Temple.

After having darshan of the Lord, I prayed for something very simple.

I wanted a deity of Swamy Rāmānuja for worship at home.

I did not know where I could get one.

As I came out, I was reciting inwardly Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

Then a Srivaishnava wearing a beautiful Ūrdhva Puṇḍra came along with me.

Somehow he understood what I was looking for and took me to a small shop.

There He was Swamy Rāmānuja.

I still remember the happiness I felt.

I had prayed to Perumal for the Acharyar.

And somehow, the Acharyar had found His way to me.

I brought Him home.

Our home, Thiruvengadam, slowly began to change.

At that time I had no idea what was going to happen.

The Acharyar did not come alone

Slowly, the Āḻvārs came.

Then the Acharyas came.

Then the Śāligrāmas came.

One or two Śāligrāmas became many.

Then many more.

There came a time when the vessels and trays I was using for their tirumanjanam were no longer sufficient.

I had to bring bigger trays.

Sometimes I would smile when I looked at them.

I remembered the Matsya Avatāra, where the little fish kept growing and growing.

Something similar seemed to be happening in our Thiruvengadam.

The Śāligrāmas whom I worshipped and offered tirumanjanam were increasing.

Devotees who came to our home would sometimes bring another Śāligrāma and leave Him with me for worship.

I slowly understood something.

When Acharyar decides to come, He brings the whole family.

His name became part of my day

My day would begin with Swamy Rāmānuja.

I would recite His name.

I would fall at His lotus feet.

Whenever I went out, I would remember Him.

Whenever I started some work, I would remember Him.

During my occupational life, there were many pressures and difficult situations.

There were meetings that would go on and on.

Many times, I would be looking at the clock because my mind was already at the temple.

The meetings were normally expected to finish around 6:30 in the evening.

And surprisingly, on several occasions, the meeting would be postponed.

Sometimes the work for which I was required would suddenly become unnecessary.

Sometimes something would change at the last moment.

I began to feel that Acharyar was somehow making sure that I did not miss His service.

I cannot prove it to anyone.

I don’t want to prove it.

But that was the feeling in my heart.

I trusted Him.

From Two to Twenty

The Divya Prabandham recitations also slowly became part of this journey.

On the Thirunakshatrams of the Āḻvārs, we started reciting their Prabandhams in the temple.

In the beginning, sometimes only two of us would be there.

I would pray:

“Acharya, please bring a few more devotees. Let more people join this recitation.”

Slowly the number increased.

Two became several.

Several became many.

Eventually, nearly twenty devotees were participating.

Whenever I looked at them, I felt grateful.

I had only prayed.

Something else had brought them.

The Āḻvārs came home too

Around the time of the Sahasrābdhi celebrations of Swamy Rāmānuja, the Āḻvār deities also came to our home.

Our Thiruvengadam began to feel like a small world of its own.

The Acharya was there.

The Āḻvārs were there. The Acharyas were there.

The Śāligrāmas were there. The festivals began.

The recitations continued.  And somehow, by His abundant mercy, we have not missed the festivals till today.

The gathering also kept growing.

I could only look at all this and think:

“What am I really doing? Perhaps I am only being allowed to participate in something that Acharyar Himself has arranged.”

Then came another desire

I developed a strong desire to give Swamy Rāmānuja’s deity to devotees.

I wanted other homes to have the Acharyar.

Around twelve Rāmānuja deities came to our home.

Before giving each deity to a devotee, I would perform the purification rites and recite several mālās of Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ.

Every month, on Thiruvadhirai, we would invite the devotee, offer Mahāprasādam and then give the Acharyar deity to them for worship.

One by one, all twelve deities reached their homes.

And I was told that the devotees continued to bring their Acharyar for the temple utsavams and worship Him regularly.

That gave me immense happiness.

Not because I had given something.

Because I had been allowed to become an instrument in taking Swamy Rāmānuja into another home.

Looking back

Sometimes I think about how this started. An old priest at Tirukkurungudi told me:

“Keep reciting Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ.”

I began reciting. Then I developed a thirst to know about the Acharyar.

I started searching for books. Then I prayed for His deity. A devotee appeared and took me to a shop.

Swamy Rāmānuja came home. Then the Āḻvārs came. The Acharyas came.

The Śāligrāmas came. The recitations began.

The devotees came. And then Swamy Rāmānuja began travelling from our home into other homes.

I cannot say that I planned all this. I certainly did not.

That is why I keep wondering… Was I really searching for the Acharyar?

Or was the Acharyar slowly arranging everything so that I would find Him?

A lesson I am still learning

I had started this journey as a religious person.

I followed what my elders had taught me. I visited temples.

I performed what I was supposed to perform.

But something was missing.

There was not yet that deep inner thirst.

Tirukkurungudi changed something in me.

That old priest changed something in me.

The mantra changed something in me.

And Swamy Rāmānuja slowly became more than someone I worshipped.

He became someone I depended upon. That dependence is still incomplete.

I still have my shortcomings.

I still have my ego. I still have much to learn. But I no longer want to remain where I was. Perhaps that itself is another mercy.

 “Perumal…”

I did not know what I was asking for when I first prayed for Swamy Rāmānuja.

I thought I was asking for a deity to worship.

You gave me much more. You gave me the Acharyar.

You brought His name into my breath, His form into my home, His teachings into my thoughts and His devotees into my life.

Let me never think that any of this is my achievement.

Let me always remember that I am only an instrument.

Let me never lose the thirst to know my Acharyar.

Let every breath continue to remember the name that first awakened something within me.

Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

“Sometimes we think we are searching for the Acharyar. Perhaps the greater mercy is that the Acharyar has already begun searching for us.”

“I went looking for one deity. He brought an entire family home.”

“I started by reciting His name. Slowly His name began to become part of my life.”

I stood before Swamy Rāmānuja in our Thiruvengadam for a long time.

The altar looked different from the one I had known years ago.

The Acharyar was there. The Āḻvārs were there. The Acharyas were there.

The Śāligrāmas were there.

And I felt very small.

I had gone looking for Him.

But looking back now, I could only feel that He had been looking for me all along.

Perhaps that was another milestone in this journey.

The journey from being born a Vaiṣṇava… to slowly becoming one in spirit

to be continued …….

Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

Adiyen Rāmānujadāsan

Pictures : Google Images

Previous posts in the series JOURNEY WITHIN is appended in the blog posts below

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

The Treasure I Carried Away — When an Āchārya Gives More Than We Came Seeking

“We went searching for the footprints of our Ācāryas.
We returned discovering that the greatest pilgrimage was the transformation of our own heart.”

The Yāthrai Was Not Yet Over

There are moments in a pilgrimage when one feels that the journey has reached its conclusion.

We had travelled to places sanctified by Jagadāchārya Śrī Rāmānuja.

We had stood where he had walked.

We had visited the places connected with Swamy Mudali Aandaan, Kūrathāḻvān, Periya Nambi, Māraṇēri Nambi, Parasara Bhaṭṭar, Periya Tirumalai Nambi, Anantāḻvān and so many revered Ācāryas.

We had listened to priests and elders who narrated these incidents not as dry history, but as though they had personally witnessed them.

And at Pettai, the discourse had left another deep impression upon us.

I thought perhaps the Yātrai had given us all that it could.

But the Lord had one more lesson waiting.

And this time…

it came through our own lineage.Our Ācārya Yātrai eventually took us to Swamy Mudali Aandaan Thirumāligai.

For me, this was not simply another destination.

It was a return to the source of my own Ācārya sambandham.

I stood before the sacred lineage of Acharyas and felt that I was standing before generations of grace.

My mind travelled to my forefathers.

I remembered my birthplace.

I remembered the Perumals worshipped by my ancestors.

I remembered Śrī Sundaravalli Nāyikā Samēta Lakṣmī Nārāyaṇa Perumāl of Mamandur, connected to my mother’s lineage.

I remembered our Kula Daivam, Śrī Yatirājavalli Nāyikā Samēta Ādhikeśava Perumāl of Kazhiyur.

And I remembered Mudumbai, the sacred place associated with Swamy Piḷḷai Lokācārya, from where, according to our family tradition, the Perumals were eventually brought and established at Kazhiyur.

I could only stand there silently.

Every breath seemed to say:

“How fortunate I am.”

Not because of anything I had accomplished.

But because I had inherited a relationship that I did not deserve.

 The Darśan That Fed the Soul

Our Ācāryar kindly instructed the priest to take us inside for the darśan of the Perumals worshipped there.

The priest led us into the sacred space.

I cannot adequately describe what happened within me.

For years I had been reading.

For years I had been travelling.

For years I had been listening to Acharyas.

But suddenly…

all those years seemed to converge in one moment.

I felt as though my soul had finally been given the nectar for which it had been thirsting.

 “Recite the Thaniyan”

The priest asked us to recite the thaniyan of Swamy Mudali Aandaan.

We recited it with devotion:

Pādukē Yatirājasya Kathayantī Yadākhyayā |
Tasya Dāśaratheḥ Pādau Śirasā Dhārayāmyaham ||

The meaning itself is overwhelming:

“I bear upon my head the feet of Dāśarathi, Mudali Aandaan, who are known as the Pādukās—the sandals—of Yatirāja.”

I had heard this before.

But standing there… it felt different.

This was no longer merely a verse I was reciting.

I was standing before the lineage of the one whom the sampradāya reveres as the Pādukā of Rāmānuja.

Then the priest began narrating.

Not hurriedly.

Not like someone reciting a prepared history.

He spoke with affection.

He showed us the vigrahas of the Acharyas.

One by one…

their names…

their lives…

their services…

their sambandham with Rāmānuja…

their contributions to the lineage.

I felt as though the walls themselves had become a living history.

 Swamy Mudali Aandaan

The Pādukā of Yatirāja

The priest explained the glory of Swamy Mudali Aandaan.

He is revered as the mūla-puruṣa of the Vādhūla-gotra lineage, associated with the Kandādai tradition.

He was Dāśarathi, the nephew of Śrī Rāmānuja.

But that bodily relationship was only one part of the story.

His greater relationship was spiritual.

He was the servant of Rāmānuja. The tridaṇḍam of Rāmānuja.

The support without which the Acharya would not move.

That is why Rāmānuja could say, in essence:

“Just as a Sannyāsi cannot be without his tridaṇḍa, I cannot be without Aandaan.”

What greater expression of an Acharya’s love could there be?

Aandaan’s Obedience

The priest then narrated the episode of Tirukkoṭṭiyūr Nambi.

Rāmānuja had sought the secret meanings of the great rahasya teachings.

When Mudali Aandaan also desired to learn the meaning of the Charama Śloka, Rāmānuja sent him to Tirukkoṭṭiyūr Nambi.

And there… Aandaan waited.

Days became weeks. Weeks became months.

For nearly six months, he remained there without demanding an audience.

Finally Nambi taught him the great lesson: Knowledge. Wealth. Lineage.

All three can become sources of ego.

The true qualification is humility.

And Aandaan returned to Rāmānuja transformed.

 The Cook Who Was a Scholar

Then came another episode that deeply moved me.

Rāmānuja once asked Mudali Aandaan to accompany Atthuzhai, the daughter of Periya Nambi, and serve her household.

Aandaan obeyed. Not for a day. Not for a week. For months. He performed the work of a cook.

Yet he was a great scholar.

One day a learned Śrī Vaiṣṇava gave a discourse and made serious mistakes in explaining a Vedic passage.

Aandaan could no longer remain silent. He respectfully corrected him.

The learned man was astonished. He discovered that the person he had regarded as merely a cook was a profound scholar.

The story reached Rāmānuja. Aandaan was called back.

The lesson was unmistakable:

True greatness does not need to announce itself.

 The Tridaṇḍam

The priest then explained the profound symbolism.

The tridaṇḍa carried by a Sannyāsi represents the three fundamental realities:

cit, acit and Īśvara.

Aandaan became Rāmānuja’s living tridaṇḍa.He supported the Acharya.

He obeyed him.

He administered what had to be administered.He served the temple.

He protected the institutions entrusted to him.

He became the trusted administrator of Śrīraṅgam.

And when Rāmānuja travelled northward…

Aandaan carried the responsibility of the great temple.

 The Pancha Nārāyaṇa Kainkaryam

The priest reminded us of another magnificent chapter.

When Rāmānuja was in the Hoysala country and the great work of establishing Śrī Vaiṣṇava temples unfolded, Mudali Aandaan was entrusted with the installation of the Pancha Nārāyaṇa temples.

We had ourselves visited some of these sacred places during our journeys.

Suddenly those temples appeared differently in my mind.

They were not merely ancient structures.

They were monuments to the trust Rāmānuja placed in his tridaṇḍam.

Then Came the Question From My Daughter

My daughter had been listening carefully.

She asked about one particular practice.

Why, in this Thirumāligai, was Śrīpāda Tīrtham given in addition to the regular tīrtham?

The priest smiled.He knew that another beautiful chapter was about to unfold.

 Salagrāma The Water Sanctified by Aandaan

During Rāmānuja’s journey toward Melkoṭe, he and Mudali Aandaan reached a place called Salagrāmam.

The people there were hostile.

Rāmānuja instructed Aandaan simply to enter the water source from which the villagers drew their water and return.

Aandaan obeyed.

The water that had been sanctified by contact with his feet was subsequently taken by the villagers. Something changed.

Their hearts softened. Their hostility disappeared.

The very people who had resisted Rāmānuja came and sought refuge.

The priest looked at us. And explained:

“That is why even today Śrīpāda Tīrtham is administered here.”

 I Was Speechless

I had read about Śrīpāda Tīrtham. I had heard about it. But now…

I was sitting in the very lineage of the Acharya whose feet had sanctified that tradition.

The concept of Acharya sambandham suddenly became tangible.

Not intellectual. Not theoretical. Living.

 The Story of the Kandādai Lineage

Then the priest took us further into the lineage.

He explained how the family became known as Kandādai.

Swamy Mudali Aandaan had remained without children for a long period.

Once, while discussing this with Rāmānuja, he expressed his sadness.

Around the same time, Rāmānuja received temple prasadam associated with the fragrant garment worn by Perumal.

He indicated the auspicious sign to Aandaan. Soon a son was born.

And the lineage became known as the Kandādai family.

I listened with fascination. A family name itself had become part of a sacred memory.

 Kandādai Aandaan

The priest then introduced us to Kandādai Aandaan, who learnt:

Śrī Bhāṣya…Veda… Śāstra… Divya Prabandham…

and the deeper teachings of the sampradāya.

He had the extraordinary devotion to seek permission from Rāmānuja to install a statue of Rāmānuja at Sriperumbudur, the Acharya’s birthplace.

Rāmānuja agreed. And the tradition of worshipping the Acharya’s sacred form there was established.

As I listened… I thought of my own journey to Sriperumbudur.

Suddenly that darśan had gained another dimension.

 Kandādai Thozhappar Then came Kandādai Thozhappar.

His name itself carried affection.

The Lord of Kanchipuram, Śrī Varadarāja Perumal, is said to have considered him a friend and hence the name Thozhappar.

He installed Āṇḍāḷ’s statue at Kanchipuram and conducted her divine wedding festivities.

The priest then showed us the sacred Perumal known as:

Āḻaithu Vāzhviththavar The very Perumal connected to this lineage.

I stood looking at Him… wondering how many generations had worshipped Him before us.

 Appāchiyār Anna

Then the priest pointed to another revered Acharya.

Swamy Appāchiyār Anna.

A direct descendant of Mudali Aandaan.

The priest spoke of the immense reverence shown to him by Swamy Manavāḷa Māmunigaḷ, who affectionately addressed him as:

“Nam Appāchiyār Anna.” He also explained his connection with the sacred vigrahas received through the Acharya lineage.

Appāchiyār Anna lived at Kanchipuram, performing daily worship and continuing the kainkaryam connected with Sālaikkinaru.

Again… the same thread.Service.

Generation after generation.

 Swamy Annavilappan

Then came another name that made my heart tremble.

Swamy Annavilappan. He lived at Singaperumal Koil, serving Śrī Pāṭalādri Narasimha Perumal.

The priest narrated how Lord Narasimha appeared to him in a dream and instructed him to restore the sacred abode that had become covered with sand dunes.

He obeyed.

He established the necessary arrangements. He created a place where kainkaryaparas could live.

And he spent his life in the service of the Lord.

 And Then Came My Own Miracle

The priest continued speaking.

But my mind suddenly travelled elsewhere.

To Hyderabad. To our own Thirumāligai.

To the sacred deities that had come to us.

To the moment when our Acharyar arrived with the deities worshipped by the lineage.

I had always wondered:

Why us?

Why should such grace come to our home?

Why should we be given the opportunity to worship such sacred Perumals?

Standing there in the ancestral Thirumāligai…

I understood. Perhaps it was not my fortune.

Perhaps it was the continuation of their kainkaryam.

 The Lineage Was Speaking

I looked at the Acharya vigrahas.

Mudali Aandaan. Kandādai Aandaan.Kandādai Thozhappar.

Appāchiyār Anna. Annavilappan.

And all those revered souls whose names I may not even have known.

I felt that they were telling me:

“You did not come here merely to learn our history.”

“You came here to continue what we left behind.”

My eyes filled with tears.

 The Greatest Inheritance

What have my forefathers actually given me?

Not wealth. Not property. Not status.

Something far more precious.

Acharya sambandham.

The opportunity to bow before the feet of the Acharyas.

The opportunity to worship the Perumals worshipped by them.

The opportunity to recite the Divya Prabandham.

The opportunity to serve Bhagavatas.

And above everything…

the opportunity to remember: “I am not independent.”

Until this point, I had been narrating the lives of great Acharyas.

Now… their lives were beginning to interrogate mine.

What am I doing with the inheritance they gave me?

Am I preserving it?

Am I living it?

Am I serving?

Or am I merely talking about it? That question frightened me.

Because an inheritance is not honoured by admiration alone.

It is honoured by continuation.

A Prayer Before Leaving

Before leaving the Thirumāligai, I mentally bowed to every Acharya whose presence I had felt there.

I remembered my forefathers. I remembered my mother.

I remembered the Perumals of Mamandur. I remembered the Perumal of Kazhiyur.

I remembered Mudumbai. I remembered Rāmānuja.

And I remembered the one whose feet had become my life’s direction:

Swamy Mudali Aandaan.

I could say only one thing:

“I do not know whether I am worthy of this lineage.
But please give me the strength to become worthy of it.”

 “An Acharya lineage is not merely a genealogy of names. It is an unbroken river of kainkaryam.”

“We inherit not only the Acharya’s name, but the responsibility to preserve his service.”

“The greatest wealth my ancestors left me was not material. It was Acharya sambandham.”

“If I cannot become great, let me at least remain faithful to the feet of those who were great.”

 The Journey Within

That evening I understood something I had never understood so clearly before.

The purpose of an Ācārya Yātrai is not to make us proud of our lineage.

It should make us humble before it. We should look at the lives of our Acharyas and say:

“They served so much. What have I done?” They sacrificed.

We received. They served. We enjoyed.

They protected the sampradāya.

We inherited it. Therefore the journey cannot end with:

“What a wonderful history!” It must end with:

“What can I do now?”

The journey continues…………

 Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

Adiyen Ramanuja dasan

Pictures : Courtesy  Google images

The Lesson of What We Must Never Do

“The Acharyas taught us how to serve Bhagavān.
But sometimes, the greater lesson was learning whom we must never hurt.”

Our Ācārya Yātrai had already taken us through so many sacred places.

We had met revered Acharyas.

We had stood where our Pūrvācāryas had walked.

We had listened to their divine pastimes from priests and elders who had inherited those memories through generations.

Every place had given us something.

Every Acharya had left a lesson.

Yet when we reached Pettai, the place associated with the appearance of Swamy Mudali Aandaan, something happened that I still remember with immense gratitude.

It was evening.

There was a discourse by our Acharyar.

And for me…

that discourse became the silver lining of the entire Yātrai.

Until then, much of the journey had taught me:

What should I do?

How should I surrender?

How should I serve?

How should I remember Bhagavān?

How should I follow my Acharya?

But that evening…

I learnt something equally important.

Perhaps even more difficult.

What should I NEVER do?

Our Acharyar began by taking us to the final days of Jagadāchārya Śrī Rāmānuja.

On the sacred occasion of Pāṅguṇi Uttiram, when Periya Pirāṭṭi and Periya Perumāḷ were together, Śrī Rāmānuja performed the Gadya Trayam.

The Acharyar explained how Rāmānuja had already performed Prapatti earlier, when he received Pañca Saṁskāra from Periya Nambi at Madhurāntakam.

Then why did he surrender again?

The answer itself reveals the extraordinary humility of Rāmānuja.

He expressed the concern that considerable time had passed since his earlier surrender and that, through continued association with worldly life, perhaps his resolve had weakened.

He therefore prayed again.

Not because he distrusted the Lord…

but because he wished to remain completely dependent upon Him.

What humility!

The Lord then granted his prayer for eternal service at His lotus feet.

But Rāmānuja did not stop with his own liberation.

He prayed for all those connected with him.

That was Rāmānuja.

He never thought only of himself.

As his earthly departure approached, his disciples became inconsolable.

They could not imagine life without their Acharya.

Some even wished to give up their own lives along with him.

But Rāmānuja firmly commanded them not to do so.

He wanted them to live.

To continue the sampradāya.

To continue service.

To continue the path he had shown them.

And during those final days…

he gave his disciples several profound instructions.

Among them was one teaching that our Acharyar explained to us that evening.

It concerned one of the greatest dangers in spiritual life:

Bhāgavata Apacāra.

Insulting…

judging…

belittling…

or causing pain to a devotee of Bhagavān.

As the Acharyar spoke…

I suddenly realized something.

We spend so much time learning:

“How should I pray?”

“How should I perform kainkaryam?”

“How many times should I recite a mantra?”

“How should I conduct myself?”

But perhaps the first discipline is even simpler:

Do not hurt a Bhāgavata.

Do not judge a devotee.

Do not measure another soul by worldly standards.

Do not allow the ego to make us feel superior to another servant of Bhagavān.

And then came the twelve forms of Niroopanam.

I listened…Immediately took my diary and noted the points which is a must for me to practice

and my heart became increasingly uncomfortable as I penned down

Because every one of them seemed to be asking me including my inner being …

“Have you ever done this?”

 Twelve Ways We Must Not Judge a Bhāgavatha

Our Acharyar explained that Rāmānuja had warned his disciples against analysing a Bhāgavata through various worldly considerations.

The teaching is extraordinarily radical.

We are not asked merely to tolerate another devotee.

We are asked to respect the Bhāgavata without reducing him to his external identity.

1. Janma Niroopanam……. Do Not Judge His Birth

Do not ask:

“Which caste was he born into?”

Do not decide the spiritual worth of a devotee based upon his birth.

The body has a birth.

The Ātma does not belong to a caste.

The soul is the eternal servant of Śrīman Nārāyaṇa.

This lesson connected directly with the question I had been carrying since the previous day.

Caste or virtue?

The Acharya’s teaching took the question much deeper.

2. Śarīra Niroopanam …..Do Not Judge His Body

Do not decide the worth of a Bhāgavata based upon whether the person is:

male… female… young…  old…

or even upon the form of the body itself.

The body is temporary.

The soul is eternal.

Why should the outer vessel determine our reverence for the one who belongs to Bhagavān?

3. Bhāva Niroopanam …. Do Not Judge His Stage of Life

Do not look at a devotee and think:

“He is only a child.”

“He is young.”

“He is old.”

“He has not reached maturity.”

Spiritual worth cannot be measured by the number of years a body has existed.

4. Āśrama Niroopanam ..Do Not Judge His Status

A devotee may be: a bachelor… a householder… a recluse… a sanyāsi…

or belong to another stage of life.

Do not imagine that the external āśrama alone determines the depth of his devotion.

The Lord looks at the soul and its surrender.

5. Avayava Niroopanam…. Do Not Judge Physical Form

Do not look at bodily defects.

Blindness… physical limitations… differences in appearance… or any other bodily condition.

How can we judge a soul by something that belongs only to the temporary body?

This brought back memories of Kūrathāḻvān.

The world saw a blind man.  The Lord saw one of His greatest devotees.

 6. Ālasya Niroopanam… Do Not Judge External Cleanliness or Appearance

The Acharyar explained that we must not measure a Bhāgavata merely by external appearance or by how agreeable he may appear to our eyes.

The true devotee must be respected.

The teaching was not an invitation to abandon personal discipline.

It was a warning against looking down upon another devotee because of external appearance.

And I understood: How easily the eyes become judges.

How quickly the mind creates categories.

 7. Vāsa Niroopanam….Do Not Judge Where He Lives

Do not ask: “Where does he live?”

Is he in a Divya Deśam?

Is he in a village?Is he in a distant countryside?

Does he live near a temple?Or far away from one?

Bhagavān is not restricted by geography. A heart filled with devotion can become a sannidhi.

 8. Bandhu Niroopanam … Do Not Judge His Family Connections

Do not belittle or elevate a Bhāgavata merely because of his family relationships.

“His family is important.”

“His family is ordinary.”

“He is related to an Acharya.”

“He has no such connection.”

These calculations have no place when we are looking at a servant of Bhagavān.

The only relationship that ultimately matters is:

Bhagavān sambandham.

 9. Prakāśa Niroopanam …. Do Not Measure His Spiritual Recognition

Do not decide the importance of a devotee based upon whether the world recognizes him.

Some Acharyas became famous.Others lived quietly.

Some were surrounded by thousands.

Others served almost unnoticed.

The absence of public recognition does not diminish a Bhāgavata.

The Lord knows. That is enough.

 10. Prakāra Niroopanam… Do Not Compare His Service

One devotee may perform temple service.

Another may clean. Another may cook.

Another may recite Divya Prabandham.

Another may quietly serve devotees. Another may have no visible service at all.

Do not create a hierarchy of Bhagavata worth based merely upon the form of service.

The Lord knows the heart behind the service.

11. Vardhana Niroopanam…. Do Not Judge His Profession

A devotee must live in this material world.

He may have a profession.

He may be a scholar.  A farmer.

A businessman. A worker.  A scientist.   A priest.

Or someone performing an ordinary occupation.

Do not measure his spiritual worth by the profession through which he sustains his body.

The profession belongs to the material circumstance.

Bhāgavata sambandham belongs to the soul.

12. Doṣa Niroopanam….Do Not Make Another’s Fault Your Weapon

This was perhaps the most difficult teaching for me.

A devotee may have shortcomings.

A human being may make mistakes.

Do we then make those mistakes the basis for denying his Bhagavata identity?

The Acharyas warn us against this tendency.

Instead of magnifying another’s faults…

we must remember our own dependence upon Bhagavān’s mercy.

Who among us is without defects?

 I Suddenly Understood the Question

The previous day I had been thinking:

“Is it caste or virtue?”

Now the question had transformed.

The Acharya had shown us that even virtue itself must not become a reason for ego.

If I say:

“I am more learned.”  “I am from a better family.”

“I have more devotion.”   “I have done more kainkaryam.”

“I know more śāstra.”  “I have visited more Divya Deśams.”

“I belong to a great lineage.”   Then…

I have missed the lesson.

Because the very things that should make me humble have become reasons for pride.

 The Great Paradox

The more we learn from the Acharyas… the less qualified we should feel to judge others.

The more we understand Rāmānuja… the more we should bow.

The more Divya Prabandham we recite…

the more our heart should soften. The more we receive from the Acharya…

the more we should become servants.

That evening at Pettai… I felt this truth with unusual force.

 “What Should We Never Do?”

Our Acharyar’s discourse had given me the answer.

Never reduce a Bhāgavata to:

his birth.

his body.

his age.

his āśrama.

his appearance.

his residence.

his family.

his recognition.

his service.

his profession.

his shortcomings.

And perhaps…

never reduce yourself to these things either.

 The Lesson Behind All Twelve

When I looked at the twelve teachings together, I saw something beautiful.

They were all telling us:

Stop looking at the covering.

Look at the Ātma.

Look at the Bhagavān sambandham.

Look at the Bhāgavata sambandham.

And above everything…  look at our own ego.

Because the greatest danger is not that another devotee may be imperfect.

The greatest danger is that I may become proud because I think I am better than him.

Swamy  Rāmānuja’s Final Compassion

As our Acharyar concluded the discourse, I imagined Rāmānuja in those final days.

He knew he was leaving.

He knew his disciples were grieving.

He knew the world would continue without his physical presence.

Yet what did he leave behind?

Not merely philosophy.

Not merely institutions. Not merely books.

He left a way of living. A way of seeing Bhagavān.

A way of seeing the Acharya.

A way of seeing the Bhāgavata.

And a warning:

Do not commit Bhāgavata Apacāra.

 The Silver Lining

That evening at Pettai became one of the most important memories of our entire Ācārya Yātrai.

We had come to see the place associated with Swamy Mudali Aandaan.

We received something more precious.

We were shown the boundaries within which a Śrī Vaiṣṇava must live.

The previous lessons had taught us:

What to do. This lesson taught us:

What never to do. And sometimes…

knowing what not to do is what protects everything we have learnt.

 A Personal Confession

I returned from that discourse unusually quiet.

I began remembering people. People I had judged.

People I had misunderstood. People whose behaviour I had analysed.

People about whom I had formed opinions. And I wondered:

How much of this was Bhagavata Apacāra?

I could not answer. I could only pray.

“Swamy Rāmānuja, please forgive me.
Teach me to see Your devotees through Your eyes, not mine.”

 The Prayer of a Pilgrim

I do not want to become a person who merely knows the terminology of Śrī Vaiṣṇavism.

I want to become someone whose conduct reflects it.

Let my speech not hurt a Bhāgavata.

Let my eyes not judge a Bhāgavata.

Let my mind not compare Bhāgavatas.

Let my ego not make me feel superior to another servant.

Let me remember:

The person before me may be someone whom Bhagavān loves infinitely.

How then can I treat that soul lightly?

 “The greatest danger on the spiritual path is not ignorance of Bhagavān. It is pride about knowing Bhagavān.”

“Do not ask who a Bhāgavata was born as. Ask whose servant he is.”

“Do not measure a devotee by the body. The body belongs to prakṛti; the soul belongs to Bhagavān.”

“A true Vaiṣṇava does not climb above others. He bends lower to serve them.”

“The Acharya taught me what to do. At Pettai, he taught me what I must never do.”

The Journey Within

That evening… as the sun slowly disappeared…

I realized that our Ācārya Yātrai was no longer merely a journey through history.

It had become a mirror.

Every Acharya…  every incident…  every teaching…

was showing me something about myself.  The journey was slowly stripping away the outer identities.

Until only one remained:

“I am Rāmānuja Dāsa.”  That is the identity I want to carry.

Not above anyone.  Not against anyone.

Only… at the feet of my Acharya Jagath Aharyar Swany Ramanuja

Srimathey Ramanujaya namah

to be continued ……

Adiyen Ramanuja dasan

Pictures Courtesy Google images

The Question That Would Not Leave Me .. Caste or Virtue?

“If the Lord looks only at the soul, why do we still look at the outer identity of the person?”

 A Question on the Way Back

The previous day at Swamy Mudali Aandaan Thirumāligai had left me overwhelmed.

I had entered that sacred place believing I was going to see the lineage of my Acharya.

I returned carrying something far more precious:

the responsibility of living the teachings of that lineage.

But our Acharya Yātrai had one more lesson waiting for us.

As we were returning from Śrī Parasara Bhaṭṭar Thirumāligai, one of my office colleagues called me on the mobile.

It was a casual conversation.

He jokingly asked Sir jee ,  I am also seeking a Guru but doubt whether my caste permits

 It was said lightly. But the question remained in my mind.

I had often wondered about this myself.

Is Śrī Vaiṣṇavism determined by birth?  Or by virtue?

Is the greatness of a person decided by the community into which he is born?

Or by the way he lives… serves…  surrenders…

and loves Bhagavān and His devotees?

I did not have a ready answer.  And perhaps…

the Lord had already arranged the answer for me.

As we were leaving, we noticed an elderly, learned Śrī Vaiṣṇava sitting quietly on the pial outside.

He had apparently overheard our conversation. He looked at us.

Then he called us gently. “Come… sit down.”

We sat before him. He did not lecture us.

He did not judge the question. He simply smiled.

And began narrating a pastime from the life of Swamy Rāmānuja.

A pastime that answered the question more powerfully than any argument could.

He said: “My child, this question is not new. Our Acharyas themselves demonstrated the answer through their lives.”

And then he began speaking of the great devotees around Rāmānuja.

Men and women who came from completely different social backgrounds…

yet whose devotion made them immortal in our sampradāya.

Dhanurdāsa.

Māraṇēri Nambi.

Tiruppāṇ Āḻvār.

And countless Bhagavatas whose greatness had nothing to do with worldly status.

The Acharya tradition did not erase social realities of its time.

But spiritually… it taught something revolutionary:

The value of the jīva is not determined by the body.

The soul is the servant of Śrīman Nārāyaṇa.

That is its true identity.

 Dhanurdāsa — The Man Whose Eyes Were Transformed

The elderly Swami then began with Dhanurdāsa.

I had heard the name many times.

But hearing the pastime there…

in the presence of a person who carried the memory of the sampradāya…

was entirely different.

Dhanurdāsa was deeply attached to the beauty of his wife’s eyes.

His attention was completely absorbed in her.

Rāmānuja saw him. Instead of condemning him…

Rāmānuja understood his heart.

He asked him whether he had ever seen eyes more beautiful than those.

Dhanurdāsa answered honestly. No.

Rāmānuja then took him to the temple and showed him the beautiful eyes of Śrī Raṅganātha.

The worldly attraction that had occupied his mind was transformed.

His eyes had found something greater.

His heart found its destination. And Dhanurdāsa became a devoted disciple of Rāmānuja.

 The Lesson Was Extraordinary

The old Swami paused. Then he said:

“See, my child…” “Rāmānuja did not first ask:

‘What is your birth?’

He saw:

‘Where is your heart?’”

That sentence entered me deeply. The Acharya did not reject the person.

He transformed the person’s attachment into Bhagavad-anubhavam.

That is the greatness of an Acharya.

Then he spoke about Māraṇēri Nambi.

I remembered another important correction that had become meaningful to me during these memoirs:

Māraṇēri Nambi was a friend of Śrī Periya Nambi, and both were disciples of Swamy Āḻavandār.

Their friendship itself carried a message.

Periya Nambi… a revered Acharya… and Māraṇēri Nambi…

a devotee from a different social background…

were united by something far greater than worldly identity:

Bhagavad-bhakti and Acharya sambandham.

And this relationship became even more powerful during one of the most difficult episodes in Śrīraṅgam.

 When Periya Nambi Served Māraṇēri Nambi

Māraṇēri Nambi attained the Lord.

Periya Nambi personally performed the final rites for him.

The society around him questioned this.

How could a revered Acharya perform such rites for someone from another social background?

But Periya Nambi did not hesitate.

He had seen Māraṇēri Nambi not through the eyes of society…

but through the eyes of Bhagavata sambandham.

He saw the devotee. He saw the servant of the Lord. He saw the soul.

And that was enough.

“What Did Periya Nambi See?”

The old Swami looked at us.

He asked: “What do you think Periya Nambi saw?”

Nobody answered.

He continued:

“He did not see the outer body.
He saw the sambandham.”

The question from my colleague suddenly appeared very small.

The answer was enormous.

 Tiruppāṇ Āḻvār

Then he reminded us of Tiruppāṇ Āḻvār.

An Āḻvār whose birth circumstances could never diminish his devotion.

The episode of Lokasāranga Mahāmuni carrying the Āḻvār on his shoulders into the presence of Śrī Raṅganātha is one of the most moving episodes in our tradition.

Why? Because the Lord Himself demonstrated what the world had failed to understand.

The devotee whom society had kept at a distance…

was brought directly into the sanctum.

And the Āḻvār stood before the Lord… lost in divine experience…

and gave us the immortal Amalanādipirān.

The elderly Swami said:

“The Lord does not ask the soul for its social certificate.”

He smiled. “He asks for its surrender.”

Those words stayed with me.

What Does Śrī Vaiṣṇava Mean?

He then explained something that I felt every reader of these memoirs should understand.

A Śrī Vaiṣṇava is not merely someone who:

• wears Ūrdhva Puṇḍram,
• wears a kāntamālā,
• dresses in a particular manner,
• recites mantras,
• knows Sanskrit,
• belongs to a particular family,
• or possesses a hereditary title.

These can all be meaningful expressions of sampradāya.

But they are not sufficient by themselves.

The real test lies within.

Is there humility?

Is there devotion?

Is there surrender?

Is there compassion toward Bhagavatas?

Is there freedom from pride?

Is there a genuine desire to serve?

That is where the Acharya’s teaching becomes alive.

 Outer Identity and Inner Transformation

I remembered the teachings we had heard at the Mudali Aandaan Thirumāligai only the previous day.

The Acharyas had repeatedly warned us about ahaṅkāra and mamakāra.

“I.”

“Mine.” “My knowledge.” “My lineage.”

“My status.” “My achievements.”

Even spirituality can become another reason for ego.

The elderly Swami’s message was therefore not simply about caste.

It was much deeper.

He was asking: “What identity are you carrying inside?”

The Greatest Identity

In the end… there is only one identity that matters.

“I am His.”

I belong to Śrīman Nārāyaṇa. I am dependent upon Him.

I am the servant of His devotees. And I am guided by the Acharya.

Everything else… is temporary. Body… birth… wealth… profession…

social recognition... all belong to this material world.

The soul carries none of these into the eternal journey.

The Message of Rāmānuja

That day I understood another dimension of why I had been so deeply attracted to Jagadāchārya Śrī Rāmānuja.

He was not merely a philosopher. He did not merely write Śrī Bhāṣya.

He did not merely establish a philosophical system.

He showed people how to belong to Bhagavān.

He brought together people of different backgrounds through the common identity of:

Śrīman Nārāyaṇa’s servants.

That is why his movement became so powerful. That is why his name still lives.

That is why his lotus feet are enough for me.

 “Was I Fit to Be a Śrī Vaiṣhṇava?”

As I listened… another question arose within me.

I had spent much of my life thinking:

“I was born a Vaiṣṇava.”

But perhaps that is only the beginning. The greater question is:

“Have I become a Vaiṣṇava in spirit?”

Do I genuinely respect Bhagavatas?

Can I control my ego?

Can I serve without expecting recognition?

Can I forgive?

Can I see the Lord in those who come before me?

Can I accept the Acharya’s correction?

Can I surrender the thought that I am independent?

Suddenly…

the question of caste seemed far less important.

The real question was: What kind of soul am I becoming?

 A Lesson I Carried Away

The learned Swami did not give us a long philosophical discourse.

He gave us something much more valuable.

He made us think.

Before leaving, I mentally bowed to him.

I felt that he had answered a question I had carried for years.

And perhaps…

the answer was already present throughout the lives of our Acharyas.

 The Acharya Yātrai Was Teaching Me Something

Looking back… every encounter had been slowly preparing me for this lesson.

Periya Nambi taught compassion.

Māraṇēri Nambi taught the greatness of Bhagavata sambandham.

Kūrathāḻvān taught forgiveness.

Dhanurdāsa taught transformation.

Mudali Aandaan taught obedience.

Rāmānuja taught surrender.

And all of them together were teaching me:

Do not measure a soul by the body that carries it.
Measure the life by the direction in which the soul is travelling.

As we continued our journey…

I closed my eyes.

And within my heart I prayed:

“Swamy Rāmānuja…

Remove from me the pride of birth.

Remove from me the pride of knowledge.

Remove from me the pride of devotion.

Remove from me the pride of my lineage.

Remove from me the pride of having undertaken pilgrimages.

Let me never think:  ‘I am a great devotee.’

Let me only remember:

‘I am Your servant.’

And  let me become a servant of Your servants.”

Perhaps the question is not:

“Which caste are you?” Perhaps the question is:

“Whose are you?” And the answer…

for every soul…is ultimately: “I am His.”

If this journey has taught me anything…

it is this: We may spend our whole life trying to establish our identity in this world.

But the spiritual journey slowly removes those identities.

Until finally… only one remains. Dāsatva.

Servitude. I belong to Him. And that is enough.

 “Birth may give us a social identity.
Acharya sambandham reveals our eternal identity.”

“The Lord sees the soul.
The Acharya teaches us to see the soul.”

“The greatest barrier between a devotee and Bhagavān is not another person.
It is the ego within oneself.”

“A true Śrī Vaiṣṇava does not ask, ‘Who is below me?’
He asks, ‘Whom can I serve?’”

The Ācārya Yātrai is revealing more and more of its hidden purpose.

We have seen the great Acharyas. We have heard their stories.

We have touched the places sanctified by their footsteps.

But there are still treasures waiting to be opened.

And among them… are the memories of our own revered Ācārya, Swamy Mudali Aandaan, and the extraordinary lineage that carried the grace of Rāmānuja through generations.

The journey continues.

Not merely from one temple to another…

but deeper…

from identity to surrender.

 Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

Śrī Periya Nambi Tiruvadigaḷē Śaraṇam

Śrī Māraṇēri Nambi Tiruvadigaḷē Śaraṇam

To be continued…

Adiyen Ramanuja dasan

Pictures :   Courtesy  Google Images

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by Kazhiyur Varadan September 2, 2026

At TIRUMALA… “ Its not the darshan you get . It is the darshan ” LORD” bestows”.

The ardent desire of any devotee is to seek an everlasting darshan of Lord Venkateshwara at Tirumala  and…   If this darshan is without any  physical disturbance or interference by the volunteers ,  the soul dances in ecstasy. There is no dearth of pilgrims who wouldn’t stop gushing about their opportune darshan lasting for even a  fraction of second…

by Kazhiyur Varadan September 2, 2026

The Treasure My Āchārya Placed in My Hands

“Sometimes the greatest treasure of a pilgrimage is not what we see with our eyes, but the one teaching that remains in the heart long after the journey is over.”

Our Ācārya Yātrai had taken us through sacred places that I had read about, heard about and longed to see for years.

Śrīperumbūdūr.. Kooram… Kāñcipuram… Tirumalai… Śrīraṅgam…

The Thirumaḷigais of revered Āchāryas…

Places where our Pūrvācāryas had walked, served, taught, suffered and surrendered themselves completely to the lotus feet of Śrīman Nārāyaṇa.

Yet, as the journey progressed, I began to understand that these were not merely places on a map.

They were living memories.  The stones had memories.

The sannidhis had memories. The streets had memories.

The wells, gardens and Thirumaḷigais had memories.

And every memory seemed to whisper the same message:

“Know your Ācārya. Know your true nature. Learn to serve.”

And finally, our journey brought us to the place that was closest to my heart.

Śrī Swāmi Mudaliāṇḍān Thirumāligai.

For me, this was not simply another destination. It felt like returning home.

 Standing Before My Own Āchārya Paramparā

With deep reverence, we offered our anantakōṭi namaskārams before the sacred pictures and vigrahas of the Acharyas of our lineage.

I remembered my forefathers. I remembered the unknown devotees who had walked this path before me. I remembered the great Acharyas who had carried the light of Śrī Rāmānuja from generation to generation.

And my thoughts travelled to my own ancestral connections.

To Māmāṇḍūr, where my mother’s family worshipped Sri Śrī Sundaravalli Nāyikā Samēta Śrī Lakṣmī Nārāyaṇa Perumāḷ.

To our kula-daivam, Sri  Śrī Yathirājavalli Nāyikā Samēta Śrī Ādhikēsava Perumāḷ of Kāzhiyūr.

To my dear Sri Godha Padmavathi Nayeka sametha Sri Venkateshwara Perumal at Hyderabad

To the sacred history of Mudumbai, associated with Swamy Piḷḷai Lōkācārya, from where the deities were eventually carried to Kāḻiyūr during difficult times.

Standing there… I felt that my entire ancestry had suddenly become present.

I could only whisper:

“Perumāḷ… Acharyas… forefathers… what qualification do I have for this blessing?”

There was no answer.   Only tears…..

As we entered the Thirumaaligai  the priest who serves the THIRUMALIGAI perumals took us inside the temple after accepting the fruits flowers and vastrams for Acharyar and Perumals

The priest  asked us to recite the Taniyan of Swamy Mudaliāṇḍān as a mark of respect and honour to the holy place

With devotion, we chanted:

Pādhūkey Yatirājasya
Kathayanti Yadākhyayā |
Tasya Dāśaratheḥ Pādau
Śirasā Dhārayāmyaham ||

The words themselves shook me.

Mudaliāṇḍān is the Pādukā of Yatirāja.

And I was standing in the house of that  holy Pādukā. The priest smiled. Then he began to speak.

What followed was not a lecture. It was not a history lesson. It was like a river that had been flowing through centuries… and suddenly entered my heart.

Swamy Mudaliāṇḍān — The Pādukā of Yatirāja

The priest explained the greatness of Swamy Mudaliāṇḍān, also known as Dāśarathi.

He was the nephew of Swamy Rāmānuja and one of his most trusted disciples.

He was not merely related to Rāmānuja by blood.

His entire life was dedicated to kainkaryam to Yatirāja.

He was learned in Śrī Bhāṣya, Veda, Śāstra and Divya Prabandham.

He learnt the Rahasya meanings through the Acharya lineage.

But the greatness of Mudaliāṇḍān was not simply his scholarship.

It was his absolute obedience. His life demonstrated that knowledge becomes beautiful only when it is transformed into service.

“Aandaan Is My Tridaṇḍam”

 He continued  and  it was One of the most touching incidents  he  narrated.

When Rāmānuja accepted sannyāsa, he renounced worldly relationships.

Yet Mudaliāṇḍān remained with him. Once, while Rāmānuja was walking towards the Kāvēri, someone questioned him: “How can you continue to depend upon a relative when you have accepted sannyāsa?”

Rāmānuja answered: “A sannyāsi cannot be without his tridaṇḍam. I cannot be without Mudaliāṇḍān.”

What an extraordinary statement! The world saw Mudaliāṇḍān as his nephew.

Rāmānuja saw him as his tridaṇḍam. An inseparable instrument of service.

That one sentence seemed to explain the entire life of Mudaliāṇḍān.

 The Lesson of Tirukkōṭṭiyūr

The priest then narrated the episode of Mudaliāṇḍān’s visit to Tirukkōṭṭiyūr Nambi.

Rāmānuja had received profound instructions from his Acharya and later, when Mudaliāṇḍān sought the inner meaning of the Charama Śloka, Rāmānuja directed him to Nambi.

Mudaliāṇḍān went. He waited. And waited. For nearly six months.

The Acharya did not grant him an audience.

But Mudaliāṇḍān did not complain.

He did not think: “I am Rāmānuja’s close relative.”

He did not think: “I am learned.” He did not think: “I deserve respect.”

He simply waited. Finally, Nambi spoke to him about three things that can become dangerous sources of ego: knowledge, wealth and ancestry.

All three may become ornaments in the hands of a humble person.

But in the hands of an egoistic person, they become chains.

Mudaliāṇḍān understood. He returned to Rāmānuja.

And the Acharyar, pleased with his humility, instructed him in the inner meaning.

I sat silently. The teaching was painfully relevant.

How easily knowledge becomes pride.

How easily lineage becomes pride.

How easily even spiritual experience becomes pride.

The Cook Who Was a Great Scholar

Then came another beautiful pastime.

Periya Nambi’s daughter Atthuzhai once came to Rāmānuja with a difficulty in her in-laws’ home.

Rāmānuja looked toward Mudaliāṇḍān. Without another word… Mudaliāṇḍān understood.

He accompanied her and served as a cook in her household.

Months passed. One day a learned Śrī Vaiṣṇava came and began explaining a Vedic passage.

His explanation contained several errors.

Mudaliāṇḍān, who was serving there as a cook, could no longer remain silent.

He gently corrected the explanation. The scholar was astonished.

“How does a cook possess such knowledge?” The truth emerged.

He was none other than Mudaliāṇḍān, a great disciple of Rāmānuja.

The people went to Rāmānuja and requested that such a great scholar be brought back.

But Mudaliāṇḍān had already demonstrated something far greater than scholarship.

He had demonstrated obedience.

He had willingly performed a humble task because his Acharyar had commanded him.

That was the lesson. True greatness does not need to announce itself.

Rāmānuja Himself Practised This

The priest then reminded us that Rāmānuja did not merely teach service.

He lived it. When he was learning from Tiruvaṟaṅga Perumāḷ Araiyar, the Araiyar would perform the Divya Prabandham through music and dance before Arangan.

After the strenuous performance, Rāmānuja would massage his feet.

He would apply turmeric to his body. He would heat milk for him at night.

He served silently.

Eventually Araiyar recognized the greatness of the young Rāmānuja and taught him the profound meanings of the Divya Prabandham.

The teaching was unmistakable:

The door to knowledge is not ego.   The door to knowledge is service.

 The Great Secret of the Āchārya

The priest then said something that stayed with me: In our sampradāya, the Ācārya is not merely a teacher. He is the one who reveals our true nature.

He gives us knowledge. He gives us the means. He protects us from misunderstanding.

He leads us toward Bhagavān.

He becomes the refuge through whom we understand our eternal relationship with Śrīman Nārāyaṇa.

I began to realize… perhaps the entire Ācārya Yātrai had been leading toward this one understanding.

 The Five Ācāryas of Āḻavandār

The priest reminded us of the extraordinary arrangement through which the knowledge of Śrī Āḻavandār reached Rāmānuja.

Āḻavandār had five great disciples:

• Periya Nambi
• Periya Tirumalai Nambi
• Tirukkōṭṭiyūr Nambi
• Tirumalai Āṇḍān
• Tiruvaranga Perumāḷ Araiyar

The profound knowledge had been entrusted through these great Acharyas.

And eventually… that knowledge became concentrated in one towering personality:

Jagadāchārya Śrī Rāmānuja.

The priest looked at us and said something that I will never forget:

“All those streams eventually flowed into Rāmānuja.”

And Rāmānuja then opened that river to the world.

Rāmānuja taught us the path of Prapatti.

He reconciled the Vedas, Upaniṣads and Bhagavad Gītā with the Tamil Divya Prabandham.

He established the Viśiṣṭādvaita siddhānta.

He travelled. He taught. He established temples and systems of worship.

He protected the sampradāya. But above all…

he showed us how to live as servants of Śrīman Nārāyaṇa and His devotees.

And Mudaliāṇḍān stood beside him.

Not seeking recognition. Not demanding authority.Only serving.

 The Sālagrāma Miracle

Then the priest narrated why Śrīpāda Tīrtham is given in this lineage.

During Rāmānuja’s journey toward Melkoṭe, he and Mudaliāṇḍān reached a place called Sālagrāmam.

The people there were hostile. Rāmānuja simply asked Mudaliāṇḍān to step into the water source and return.

Mudaliāṇḍān obeyed. The water became sanctified by his association.

The very people who had resisted gradually became softened.

The priest explained that this is connected with the tradition of giving Mudaliāṇḍān Śrīpāda Tīrtham.

I looked at the sacred place before me. And thought:

What is the power of a life lived completely for the Acharyar?

The Pancha Nārāyaṇa Kainkaryam

The priest continued to explain Mudaliāṇḍān’s services in the Hoysala country.

Under Rāmānuja’s direction, he played an important role in establishing the Pañca Nārāyaṇa temples.

The names echoed through my mind: Vān Pugazh Nārāyaṇa. Śrīman Nārāyaṇa.

Veera Nārāyaṇa. Vijaya Nārāyaṇa. Keśava Nārāyaṇa.

The journey we had undertaken had not merely shown us temples.

It had shown us the footprints of service.

Then the priest pointed toward another revered personality inside the Altar  .Here have darshan of our  Swamy  Kandādai Aandaan and explained the beautiful history of the Kandādai lineage.

Mudaliāṇḍān had remained without children for a long period. One day, while discussing this with Rāmānuja, prasādam arrived from the temple covered by the fragrant cloth that had adorned Perumal. Rāmānuja indicated that this was an auspicious sign.

Soon…  a son was born. Thus emerged the celebrated Kandādai lineage.

I listened with a strange feeling. This was not merely somebody else’s family history.

This was the lineage that had come down to me.

And here is  Kandādai Thozhappar

He recited Rāmānujārya satputraṁ Vāraṇādrīśa deśikam | Lokācārya kṛpā-pātraṁ
Vande guṇa-karṇārvam ||

Thozhappar was so beloved by Lord Varadarāja that the Lord Himself regarded him as a friend.

He installed Āṇḍāḷ at Kāñcipuram and performed Her Tirukkalyāṇam.

The Lord blessed him with the sacred deity known as:

Āḻaithu Vāḻvittavar. That very Perumal.. is the shad bera of Lord Varadaraja Perumal ,. the priest reminded us… continues to be worshipped in the Mudaliāṇḍān Thirumāligai.

Here come have darshan of  Swamy Appachiaranna. The priest explained his position in the lineage and how Swamy Maṇavāḷa Māmunigaḷ affectionately addressed him:

“Nam Appachiaranna!” What tenderness there is in those words.

Not merely an Acharya speaking to another Acharya… but an affectionate recognition of spiritual greatness. Appachiaranna continued the sacred kainkaryam at Kāñcipuram and performed Sālaikkinaru Kainkaryam for Perarulāḷan and Perundēvi Tāyār.

Again…  service.   Always service.  And the priest slowly took us to a great Acharyar  Swamy Annavilappan — The Call of Narasimha  He lived at Singaperumal Koil in the service of Śrī Pāṭālādri Narasimha Perumāḷ.

The Lord appeared in his dream. The divine command was clear:  Restore My abode.

The temple had been covered by sand dunes. Swamy Annavilappan obeyed.

He established the place. He brought devotees. He remained there in service for the rest of his life.

And suddenly… I remembered our own experience. When our revered Acharyar came to our Thirumāligai in Hyderabad, Thiruvengadam, along with the deities…

I felt as though the same current of grace had reached us.

A lineage that had crossed centuries… had suddenly entered our home.

The priest then narrated a pastime that beautifully revealed Mudaliāṇḍān’s love for Arcāvatāra.

Mudaliāṇḍān had deep interest in Divya Prabandham, especially Tiruvāymoḻi.

He also loved serving the Lord in His Archā form.

Once, while performing temple service, he desired to offer black plum / naval pazham to Perumal. The Lord accepted the offering.

Later, when Rāmānuja had darśana, he noticed that Perumal’s tirumukha-maṇḍalam appeared dull.

He enquired. He came to know about the offering.

Immediately, he called the temple physician, Garuḍa Vāhana Paṇḍitar, and medicine was administered to Perumal.

I smiled through my tears.  The Supreme Lord… who sustains the entire universe…

Allows  Himself to be cared for by His devotees. That is the mystery of Arcāvatāra.

and as We were preparing to leave to Nazzarapettai ( Pettai) for Acharyars darshan

I thought the blessings were complete. I thought the greatest treasure of the day was the darśana of our lineage.  But then…  our revered Acharyar called me.

“Child…” I turned toward him. He looked at me with affection.

And said:

“I am happy that you undertook this Ācārya Yātrai.
But I want to give you a treasure—something my Acharyar gave me.”

I could not imagine what he meant. Then he said: “The nectar… the ambrosia that will take care of your soul.”

And he gave me… the Vārthamālā of Swamy Mudali Aandaan.

 The Nectar that satiates

The Vārthamālā contained questions asked by disciples… and the profound answers given by the Acharya.

I immediately began writing them in my diary.

One after another. I felt as though someone had opened a treasure chest in front of me.

The pilgrimage had suddenly changed. I was no longer collecting memories.

I was receiving instructions for living.

 What Is Our True Nature?

One teaching asked What is important for understanding our svarūpa?

To understand that the jīva is completely subservient to Paramātma.

Our fruit is kainkaryam.

Our protection is His responsibility.

The greatest obstacles are: ignorance, attachment, vāsanā, material taste and egoistic independence.

I stopped writing for a moment.

I asked myself:

How much of my life is still governed by “I” and “mine”?The questions flowed .

The Thirumantram teaches us: Who we are.

Our inability to protect ourselves independently.

The supremacy of Śrīman Nārāyaṇa.

And therefore… our eternal duty:

to serve Him.

One teaching struck me particularly deeply:

Prapatti without Acharya sambandham is like leaving the main path and wandering elsewhere.

The Acharya is not an accessory to surrender.

The Acharya is the one who teaches us what surrender actually means.

Another teaching compared the jīva to a precious maṇikkam. A jewel shines only after it is polished. Likewise…

the jīva becomes radiant when ignorance, karma, vāsanā and worldly taste are gradually removed through the wisdom of the Rahasya-traya.

The soul was always precious. The polishing reveals its brilliance.

 The Most Beautiful Analogy

Then came a teaching I will never forget. The jīva was compared to rice being prepared by Bhagavān Himself.

Bhagavān is the gardener.  The jīva is the seed. Acharya’s grace is the water.

Bhagavat-viṣayam nourishes it. Association with true Śrī Vaiṣṇavas protects it.

Prapatti becomes the fence. Vedānta removes the remaining husk.

Parabhakti becomes the vessel. Bhagavad-anubhavam becomes the fire.

The pain of separation becomes the heat. The jīva becomes fully cooked…

fully prepared… fully purified.

Then Bhagavān carries that soul through the Archirādi Mārga to His Eternal Abode.

He gives it an aprākṛta śarīra.

And the soul finally becomes fit for eternal kainkaryam.

I sat there… completely overwhelmed.

Was this not the very journey I had been writing about?

Archirādi… the journey within…

and eventually… the journey toward the Supreme Lord.

Another teaching defined the relationship between Acharya and disciple.

The disciple must be completely aligned with the Acharya’s will.

Not through fear. Not through compulsion.

But through love and surrender. The body serves according to the Acharya’s command.

The mind learns according to the Acharya’s direction.

The disciple’s greatest wealth becomes: service without expectation.

The Vārthamālā then gave guidance on how a Śrī Vaiṣṇava should live.

Do not constantly think: “My wife… my children… my house… my money… my body…”

Instead: “All belong to Him.”

Understand that the ātma is different from the body.

Know that self-protection is not our nature.

Depend upon Him.

Remain subservient to His devotees. Do not cause disservice through:                                      

body, speech or mind.

Recite the Dvayam with awareness of its meaning.

Visit places dear to Bhagavān and the Acharyas. Remain content with what is necessary.

Seek the company of Śrī Vaiṣṇavas. And live with the conviction:

Everything ultimately comes through the grace of Acharya and Bhagavān.

One sentence pierced my heart:

Life without proximity to the Acharya is like the condition of a thirsty person without water.

And Bhagavān’s absence… is like a traveller who is hungry in the middle of a long journey, longing to reach the next village.

How beautifully the Acharyas understood the human heart.

Another teaching was even more powerful:

“Subservience to Emperumān is incomplete without knowing the greatness of His Bhāgavatas.”

One may claim devotion to Bhagavān. One may wear the external signs.

One may recite mantras. But if one does not respect His devotees…

something fundamental is missing.

The Lord’s devotees must be honoured. That is the heart of our sampradāya.

The Four Burglars

The Vārthamālā also gives a powerful warning about those who distort the truth concerning Bhagavān and the jīva.

They are compared to burglars who steal the Lord’s wealth. The jīva belongs to Him.

Śrī belongs to Him. His auspicious qualities are real.

His supremacy is real.

When these truths are distorted… the Lord’s wealth is effectively being stolen. The lesson for me was simple

Guard the truth that your Acharya has entrusted to you.

Acharyar paused and said what happened when Mudali Aandaan Heard Tiruvāymozhee

Swamy Mudali Aandaan had deep love for Tiruvāymoḻi.

Once, while reciting it, Rāmānuja explained the meaning of a pasuram.

Mudali Aandaan became so completely absorbed in its meaning that he lost external consciousness.

The words were no longer merely words. They had become anubhavam.

The pasuram had entered the soul.  I wondered: Do I merely recite?

Or do I truly experience? That question followed me.

At last…

the Acharyar placed a Pavitra Mālai in my neck blessing me with all auspiciousness

 “Śrī Dāśarathi Mudali Aandaan Tiruvadigaḷē Śaraṇam.”

My eyes filled with tears. I had travelled so far…

thinking that I was searching for Acharyas.

But perhaps…

they had been searching for me. Perhaps every journey… every temple…

every encounter… every elder… every priest… every unexpected conversation…

had been arranged so that I could slowly understand one thing:

I belong to this lineage.

I entered the Mudali Aandaan Thirumāligai thinking:

“I have come to see my Acharya lineage.”

I left with another realisation:

The lineage had come to reveal me to myself.

I was born a Vaiṣṇava. But that day I understood how little

 I knew about living as a Vaiṣṇava.

Birth gave me an identity.

Acharya sambandham gave me a direction.

Knowledge gave me understanding.

Kainkaryam gives that knowledge life.

And grace… does everything.

I returned with pages filled in my diary.

But the real treasure was not the writing.

It was the responsibility behind those words.

The Acharyas had not preserved these teachings for us merely to admire them.

They had preserved them so that someone…

somewhere… someday…  would live them.

And perhaps that is why the words touched me so deeply.

I could hear the silent question:

“What will you do with what you have received?”

I do not know whether I have the strength to live these teachings perfectly.

I do not know whether this material body will ever become completely

free from its weaknesses.

I do not know how many more days this soul will remain in this body.

But I know one thing.

As long as this breath remains…

I want to remember: Śrīman Nārāyaṇa is the Master. The soul is His servant.

The Bhagavatas are to be revered. The Acharya is the guide.

Kainkaryam is the purpose. And Prapatti is the path of surrender.

 “I went searching for the treasure of my lineage.
My Acharyar placed it in my hands.”

“The greatest inheritance is not wealth.
It is the sambandham preserved by our forefathers with the Acharya.”

“A disciple does not merely inherit a lineage.
He inherits the responsibility of carrying its light forward.”

“The Acharya does not merely teach us about God.
He teaches us who we are.”

 The Journey Continues

I had thought the Ācārya Yātrai was taking me from temple to temple.

Now I understand. It was taking me from myself to my Acharya…

and from my Acharya… toward Him.

The outer pilgrimage was slowly becoming an inner pilgrimage.

And somewhere within me… a small voice began repeating:

“Ramanujāsya charaṇau śaraṇaṁ prapadye…”

“I seek refuge at the feet of Sri Ramanuja.”

And another voice answered:

“Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ.”

There are still memories hidden in this journey.

More Acharyas. More Thirumaḷigais. More sacred encounters.

More lessons that I have carried silently within me.

And perhaps…

as I had promised earlier…

this may no longer be merely a 40-day journey or so Its crossed 50 plus and may cross another 50 blog posts  I do not know how many more days these memoirs will glow through this material body.

As long as the Lord gives this soul the breath to remember… I shall continue to share.

Please bear with these memoirs.

They are not merely stories I wish to tell.

They are memories my soul is afraid of forgetting.

Swamy  Mudali Aandaan Tiruvadigaḷē Śaraṇam

Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

Adiyen Ramanuja dasan

Pictures ; Google images

The Cook Who Was a Great Scholar

“The greatest knowledge is not the knowledge that makes us feel superior. It is the knowledge that makes us willing to serve.”

Yesterday…

I stood once again inside the sacred memories of our Āchārya Yātrā.

The journey had taken us through Śrīperumbūdūr… Kooram… Kañcipuram… Srirangam…

Every place seemed to whisper another secret.

Every temple seemed to reveal another layer of the life of Jagadācārya Śrī Rāmānuja.

And every story I heard left me with the same uncomfortable question…

“How much of what I admire in these great souls do I actually practise?”

I had come to see the places where the Āchāryas walked.

But slowly… I was discovering that the real pilgrimage was not through geography.

It was through the ego.

During our stay in Srirangam…

we received another unexpected blessing.

We were privileged to enter Parasara Bhattar Thirumaligai and receive the blessings of the revered Achārya in the lineage of Śrī Parasara Bhattar.

He received us with great affection.

A few fruits were offered with folded hands.

He asked about our journey.

When he learned that we were disciples of HH Mudaliāṇḍān Swamy, his face brightened.

We began sharing our experiences from Kooram and Śrīperumbūdūr.

He listened with great interest.

Then…

his voice became softer.

His words became deeper. And   suddenly…

I felt that the yātrā had entered another dimension.

He said…

“My child, in our Śrīvaiṣṇava Sampradāya, the Āchārya occupies the most exalted place in the life of the śiṣya. Through the Āchārya, the soul learns how to approach Perumāl.”

He then reminded us of the extraordinary spiritual heritage through which the teachings of Śrī Āḷavandār were transmitted.

Periya Nambi.

Periya Tirumalai Nambi.

Tirukkōṣṭiyūr Nambi.

Tirumalai Āṇḍān.

Tiruvaranga Perumāl Araiyar.

The wisdom received through these great teachers ultimately converged in one luminous personality…

Śrī Rāmānuja. The Jagadācārya.

The one who would carry that treasure far beyond himself.

Then Bhattar Swamy paused.

And began telling us something that I had heard before…

but had never truly felt before.

One day…

Kūrēśa asked Śrī Rāmānuja about the inner meaning of the Charama Ślokam of the Bhagavad Gītā.

Rāmānuja could have simply explained it.  Instead…

He taught him a lesson before teaching him its meaning.

He explained that his own Ācārya, Tirukkōṣṭiyūr Nambi, had instructed that the deepest meaning of the Charama Ślokam should be imparted only to one who had served the Ācārya with complete discipline—without anger and with control of the senses.

Kūrēśa quietly pointed out…

“Life itself is uncertain. What if I do not live another year?”

Rāmānuja smiled. Then he gave him another path.

For a month…beg.  Live through bhikṣā.

Give up the dignity of worldly self-importance.

Let the ego become smaller than the bowl held in one’s hands.

Kūrēśa obeyed.  And through that experience…

he discovered something more profound than scholarship.

Humility.

Another day…

Mudaliāṇḍān asked Rāmānuja for the inner meaning of the same Charama Ślokam.

Rāmānuja looked at him with affection.

Because Mudaliāṇḍān was his close relative and beloved disciple, he said, in essence:

“Because of my affection for you, I may not see your faults clearly.”

So he sent Mudaliāṇḍān to Tirukkōṣṭiyūr Nambi.

And what happened next… was astonishing.

Mudaliāṇḍān remained there for months.

Six months.

The great Ācārya barely acknowledged him.

No special treatment. No recognition. No praise.

No easy access. Only waiting.  Only obedience.   Only humility.

Finally… Tirukkōṣṭiyūr Nambi spoke.

Knowledge… wealth… high birth… position…

all of these can become ornaments.

But in an uncontrolled mind…

they can also become fuel for ahaṅkāra.

The very qualities that could elevate a person…

can destroy him if the ego takes ownership of them.

I sat silently listening. And something inside me whispered…

“How different is my own life?”

Then Bhattar Swamy narrated another episode.

This one pierced me.

One day, Atthuzhāi, the daughter of Periya Nambi, approached Rāmānuja with a difficulty in her household.

She needed help. Rāmānuja turned toward Mudaliāṇḍān.

There was no long explanation. No discussion. No negotiation.

Mudaliāṇḍān understood. He went with her. And the great scholar became…

a cook.  For months. A man capable of discussing the highest truths of Vedānta…

was quietly performing the most ordinary household service.

One day… a learned Śrīvaiṣṇava arrived and began explaining a Vedic passage.

But his explanation contained serious errors.

Mudaliāṇḍān could not remain silent.

He gently corrected him. The scholar was astonished.

“Who are you?” The answer revealed the entire greatness of Mudaliāṇḍān.

“I am here serving as a cook because that is the command of my Āchārya.”

That sentence struck me more deeply than any philosophical discourse.

He had not forgotten his scholarship.

He had simply refused to allow his scholarship to become his identity.

Service was his identity.

Bhattar Swamy then took us to another beautiful episode.

When Rāmānuja himself was learning from Tiruvaranga Perumāl Araiyar, he did not merely sit and listen.

Araiyar would sing the Divya Prabandham… dance before Lord Raṅganātha…

and become physically exhausted. What did the young Rāmānuja do?

He massaged his Ācārya’s feet. He applied turmeric to his tired body.

At night… he would heat milk…

and personally offer it to him.

For months… Araiyar remained silent. He knew exactly who Rāmānuja was.

He knew his extraordinary intellect. He knew his spiritual destiny.

But he also watched something even more important…

His humility.    Finally… Araiyar opened his heart.

He taught Rāmānuja the profound secrets of the Divya Prabandham.

And he revealed a truth that would echo through the Śrīvaiṣṇava tradition:

The Āchārya is not merely a teacher who transfers information.

The Āchārya is the compassionate bridge through whom the soul learns how to approach Bhagavān.

Then came words that I wanted to write down immediately.

Bhattar Swamy reminded us of a beautiful practical teaching associated with Śrī Rāmānuja:

If one is capable…

Study Śrī Bhāṣyam and teach it to others.

If that is beyond one’s capacity…

Study Tiruvāymoḻi and help others learn it.

If even that is beyond one’s ability…

Live in a sacred place.

If that is impracticable…

Serve in a temple.

If even that is difficult…

Recite the Dvaya Mantra.

And if even that becomes difficult…

Serve a devotee of Srīman Nārāyaṇa.

I sat there…

completely overwhelmed.

What struck me most was not the grandeur of the first instruction.

It was the compassion of the last.

The path never says,

“If you cannot become a great scholar, you are lost.”

Instead..it keeps coming closer.  ,,Closer…and closer…

until it reaches the simplest possible doorway:

Serve a devotee.

I looked around the sacred surroundings of Srirangam.

How many centuries had these walls witnessed?

How many Āchāryas had walked here?

How many disciples had sat at their feet?

How many had arrived with pride…

and departed with humility?

Suddenly… I understood something.

The purpose of an Āchārya is not merely to make us knowledgeable.

It is to make us worthy of knowledge.

Knowledge without humility can become pride.

Devotion without surrender can become self-image.

Service without humility can become advertisement.

Even religious identity can become another form of ego.

The Āchāryas came to remove all of that.

I had entered this yātrā thinking… “I am a Vaiṣṇava.”

I had worn the marks. I had visited temples. I had recited mantras.

I had travelled to sacred places. I had spoken about the Āḻvārs and Āchāryas.

But sitting before this revered descendant of the Bhattar lineage…

I felt strangely small.

A painful… yet beautiful realization arose within me.

By birth, I may be a Vaiṣṇava.

But by spirit… how much do I still have to learn?

The great souls had transformed scholarship into service.

I was still learning to transform knowledge into humility. Before blessing us…

Bhattar Swamy looked at us with affection.

His message was simple:

Do not merely admire Rāmānuja.   Follow him.

Do not merely speak about surrender.  Practise it.

Do not merely seek the blessings of an Āchārya.

Learn to serve without expecting anything in return.

And then… his words seemed to become almost a whisper:

“My child… the greatest wealth is not what you possess.

It is the grace you receive through your Āchārya.

Protect that wealth by keeping your ego away from it.”

I could not answer.

My eyes had already answered for me.

We left Parasara Bhattar Thirumaligai…

but  I could not leave those words behind.

They followed me. Into the streets of Srirangam. Into the temple corridors.

Into the silence of my own heart.

And another memory began rising…

A memory of an Āchārya whose life demonstrated this very teaching in a way that I had personally witnessed.

A life where scholarship… service… obedience… and absolute surrender…became one.

Tomorrow… I shall share the first of those memories. And perhaps…

the reader will understand why my journey toward the Supreme Lord cannot be separated from my journey toward my Āchārya.

“The soul does not become small when it bows before an Āchārya.

It becomes large enough to receive the grace that was always waiting for it.”

To be continued…

Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

Adiyen Ramanuja dasan

Pictures : Courtesy Google images

The Shadow Who Never Left His Āchārya

“Some disciples follow the Āchārya.

Some serve the Āchārya.

And some become so completely His that their very identity becomes inseparable from Him.”

Yesterday…

I stood before the life of Koorathāzhvān.

A man who lost his eyes… but gained a vision that the world could never understand.

A man who suffered… but refused to carry hatred.

A man who stood before the Lord…

and when given the opportunity to ask for anything…

asked that even the one who had caused his suffering should experience divine bliss.

I thought… surely this must be the highest expression of Āchārya-bhakti.

But the journey whispered…

“There is more.”

There was another disciple.

Another life. Another extraordinary expression of surrender.

A disciple whose greatness was not merely in what he wrote…

or what he taught… or what he accomplished.

His greatness was in something much simpler.

He belonged completely to his Āchārya.

Swamy Mudaliāṇḍān Asmath ( OUR ) Acharyar

I found myself asking: What does it really mean to be a disciple?

Is it merely receiving a mantra? Is it wearing the signs of the sampradāya?

Is it learning the granthas? Is it visiting sacred places?

Is it serving temples? All these are precious.

But Swamy Mudaliāṇḍān’s life seemed to whisper something deeper.

“A disciple is one who slowly removes the word ‘I’ from everything.”

My service…

My knowledge…

My reputation…

My comfort…

My achievements…

My spiritual progress…

Even my surrender…

When all these become offerings at the feet of the Āchārya…

something extraordinary happens.

The disciple begins to disappear.

And the Āchārya begins to shine through him.

Swamy Rāmānuja did not merely have disciples.

He had souls who became extensions of his own mission.

Koorathāzhvān carried his wisdom.

Embar carried his affection.

Mudaliāṇḍān carried his service.

Each revealed a different dimension of the same ocean.

And yet… there was something particularly intimate about Swamy Mudaliāṇḍān.

He was not merely near Rāmānuja.

He was trusted with the most intimate responsibilities of his Āchārya’s life and mission.

The more I read… the more I understood why our tradition remembers him with such reverence.

He was known as Śrī Rāmānuja’s very own shadow.

Where the Āchārya went… he followed.

Where service was required… he appeared. Where responsibility had to be carried…

he carried it. There was no question of:

“Is this convenient for me?” There was only:

“What does my Āchārya require?”

As I contemplated his life… a strange question arose within me.

Could I ever live like that? Could I perform a service… without expecting appreciation? Could I surrender an opinion… even when I believed I was right?

Could I accept an instruction… without asking what I would gain? Could I serve quietly…

without anyone knowing?

Could I make my Āchārya’s happiness…my own happiness? I had no answer. And perhaps… that was the answer.

Suddenly… my thoughts moved from centuries ago… to my own life. To the day when my spiritual journey began changing direction.

To the sacred name

“Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ.”

To the countless times I had repeated it.

To the day when I began searching for the places where our JagadĀchārya had walked.

To the journeys… the temples… the elderly priests… the Acharyas…

the devotees… and the countless stories that had slowly transformed my understanding.

And then… to my own revered Āchārya…

HH Śrī Mudaliāṇḍān Swamy.

How extraordinary… that after travelling through the lives of the disciples of Śrī Rāmānuja…

my own life had been brought into the orbit of an Āchārya carrying the very name Mudaliāṇḍān.

Was that coincidence? I do not know. But as I look backward… so many things no longer appear accidental.

One of the deepest lessons of our sampradāya is that the soul may imagine that it is searching for an Āchārya…

while all along… the Āchārya has been searching for the soul. I once thought… “I must find my spiritual path.”

Later… I understood… the path had been finding me.

The name. The mantra. The pilgrimage. The temples.

The elders. The devotees. And finally… the Āchārya.

Each appeared at precisely the moment when another layer of my worldly identity was ready to fall away.

Perhaps the first lesson of Swamy Mudaliāṇḍān is not one of scholarship. It is kainkaryam.

Not service performed because somebody is watching.

Not service performed because we will receive recognition.

Not service performed because it makes us feel spiritually important.

But service… because the Āchārya needs it.

That is all. No calculation. No bargaining. No expectation.

Just… “This is mine to do.”

And then… doing it.

The lives of the PūrvĀchāryas show us that Āchārya-bhakti is not emotional attachment alone.

It is transformation.

The disciple gradually learns to see the Lord through the Āchārya’s eyes…

to understand service through the Āchārya’s life… and to surrender the ego that constantly asks,

“What is in this for me?” Mudaliāṇḍān’s life gives us a luminous answer:

“Nothing is for me. Everything is for Him.”

During our own Āchārya Yātrā…

we travelled to places associated with Śrī Rāmānuja and the great disciples who served him.

At every sacred place… I felt something happening within me.

The journey was not merely geographical.

It was cleansing. Every story seemed to hold a mirror before me.

Every Āchārya seemed to ask:

“What have you done with the life that the Lord has given you?”

And slowly… the answer became clearer.

Life is not meant to accumulate. It is meant to be offered.

“A disciple’s greatness is not measured by how much he knows about his Āchārya, but by how much of the Āchārya’s way of living has entered his own life.”

“The shadow never asks where the light is going. It simply follows.”

“Mudaliāṇḍān teaches the beauty of a life in which service becomes identity.”

“When ‘I serve my Āchārya’ becomes ‘I belong to my Āchārya,’ surrender has begun.”

Perhaps… the greatest tragedy of spiritual life… is that we want to become great devotees.

We want others to recognize our devotion.

We want to be known as spiritual. We want to be respected.

But the true Āchāryas teach the opposite. They disappear. They serve. They surrender.

They allow the Lord and their Āchārya to receive the glory.

And perhaps… that is why their glory becomes eternal. I have only opened the door. Behind it…

lies a life filled with extraordinary service. A life intertwined with the footsteps of Śrī Rāmānuja.

A life in which kainkaryam became breathing itself.

But there is one particular episode… one sacred moment…

that reveals the depth of the relationship between Āchārya and disciple in a way that words alone cannot explain.

Tomorrow… I shall enter that moment. And perhaps… as I walk through it…

I will understand what it truly means to say

“I am Rāmānuja’s servant.” Adiyen Ramanuja dasan

“The soul begins its journey saying, ‘I am searching for the Lord.’

Then it meets the Āchārya.

And slowly discovers… ‘I was never searching alone.’

The Āchārya had already found me.”

To be continued…

Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

Adiyen Ramanuja dasan

Pictures : Google images

The Eyes That Saw More After They Were Gone

“When the heart is filled with the Lord, even those who caused us pain become objects of compassion.”

Yesterday…

I stood in Kooram. I thought I had come to learn about a great disciple.

Instead…

I discovered that Koorathāzhvān was teaching me what it truly means to belong to an Āhcārya.

He had surrendered wealth.

He had surrendered comfort. He had surrendered reputation.

And finally… he had surrendered even his physical eyes…..

Yet…

the story did not end in darkness.

Because the greatest miracle was not that Koorathāzhvān would one day see again.

The greatest miracle… was that his heart had no hatred left to see.

As I mentioned yesterday…

during our visit, a young Bhattar, radiant with tejas, unexpectedly asked my daughter:

“Will you forgive the person who hurt you?”

She immediately replied, “How can I?” The Bhattar smiled. Then he told us about Koorathāzhvān.

He told us about the Chola persecution. About Periya Nambi. About the terrible suffering.

About the loss of Koorathāzhvān’s eyes. And then…

he took us to the moment that changed everything. I listened. My daughter listened. And slowly…

it felt as though the centuries between us and Koorathāzhvān had disappeared.

After the terrible events…

Koorathāzhvān eventually received a command from his beloved Āhcārya.

Śrī Rāmānuja wanted him to go to Kanchipuram.

There… he was to pray before Śrī Varadarāja Perumāḷ.

The Āhcārya believed that the Lord would respond to the devotion of His devotee.

And so… the blind Koorathāzhvān began the journey.

Imagine that journey. The roads. The uncertainty.

The physical weakness. The darkness.

And yet… there was something within him that remained completely luminous.

His physical eyes were gone. But his inner vision…

was becoming brighter.

At last… he reached Kanchipuram.

He stood before Śrī Varadarāja Perumāḷ. The Lord whom he had seen many times before…

when he still possessed his physical sight. But now… he could no longer see the divine form with his eyes.

He could only see Him…with his heart. And there… before the Lord…

Koorathāzhvān composed and recited the Varadarāja Stavam.

Each word was filled with devotion.

Each verse was an offering. Each breath… was surrender.

Then…

the impossible happened.

Perarulāḷan appeared before His devotee.

The Lord of Kanchipuram. The Lord who had witnessed everything.

The Lord who knew every wound. The Lord who knew every tear.

And He asked… “What do you want?”

Just imagine that moment.

The Lord Himself… standing before him.

The devotee had suffered terribly. His eyes had been destroyed.

His body had endured immense pain. He had every worldly reason to ask for restoration.

And the Lord was ready to grant him anything.

Anything. As I listened…

I began asking myself: What would I have asked?

Would I have asked for my eyesight? Would I have asked for justice?

Would I have asked that those who harmed me suffer?

Would I have asked the Lord to erase every painful memory?

Perhaps… I would have asked for all of these.

But Koorathāzhvān… was different.

Something extraordinary had happened within him.

He had gone beyond himself.

The name of NāḷUūrān arose in his heart. The very man associated with the persecution.

The man who had helped create the circumstances that caused such suffering.

And yet…

Koorathāzhvān did not ask the Lord to punish him.

He did not ask for revenge.

He did not ask for justice.

Instead… with folded hands…

he prayed that Nāḷūrān too should experience the same divine bliss that he himself was experiencing before Lord Varadarāja Perumāḷ.

I could hardly contain my tears.

At that moment… I understood.

The greatest miracle was not the restoration of eyesight.

The greatest miracle was the disappearance of hatred.

Koorathāzhvān had reached a place where another person’s wrongdoing could no longer control his heart.

His enemy had become… an object of compassion.

an object of compassion.

That… is Vaiṣhṇava greatness.

 Who Is a True Śrīvaiṣhṇava?

The young Bhattar’s question to my daughter suddenly became clear.

“Will you forgive the person who hurt you?”

This was not merely a question about forgiveness. It was a question about identity.

If I say, “I belong to the Lord,”

then I must slowly learn to cultivate the qualities of the Lord.

The Lord forgives. The Lord protects. The Lord gives another opportunity.

The Lord does not abandon the fallen. How then can I claim to belong to Him…

while deliberately preserving hatred within my heart?

Koorathāzhvān showed us the answer.

Our PūrvĀhcāryas never taught that wrongdoing should be called righteousness.

They taught something far deeper.

Do not allow another person’s wrongdoing to become the owner of your heart.

Koorathāzhvān did not deny what had happened.

He did not pretend that suffering had not occurred.

But he refused to carry hatred into the presence of the Lord.

That is the greatness of surrender.

Standing there… my thoughts naturally returned to Śrī Rāmānuja.

What kind of Āchārya must he have been…

to produce a disciple like Koorathāzhvān?

An Āchārya who did not merely produce scholars. An Āchārya who transformed hearts.

An Āchārya whose disciples could look beyond themselves…

even after being wounded by the world.

Suddenly… I understood something else.

Koorathāzhvān was not merely Rāmānuja’s disciple.

He was… Rāmānuja’s teaching made visible.

As the Bhattar continued speaking… my daughter listened silently.

I watched her face.

The question with which the Bhattar had begun had now become something much deeper.

Perhaps… he was not merely telling us the story of Koorathāzhvān.

Perhaps… the Āchārya was speaking through him.

Perhaps the question was meant for all of us:

“How long will you carry the person who hurt you inside your heart?”

We carry resentment. We carry old conversations.

We carry insults. We carry memories of betrayal.

We carry wounds that nobody else can see.

And then… we approach the Lord asking for peace.

Koorathāzhvān quietly shows us the way.

Let it go. Not because the wound was insignificant. But because…

the Lord is infinitely greater than the wound.

I now understand why the title of today’s chapter came to me:

The Eyes That Saw More After They Were Gone.

Koorathāzhvān lost his physical eyes. But perhaps…

for the first time… he saw the world without the distortion of ego.

He saw only the Lord. He saw compassion. He saw the suffering of others.

He saw the possibility of forgiveness. He saw the eternal destination.

And above everything…he saw his Āchārya’s lotus feet.

As I listened… my own lips began moving silently.

I repeated: “Rāmānujasya caraṇau śaraṇaṁ prapadye.”

Again…

“Rāmānujasya caraṇau śaraṇaṁ prapadye.”

And again…

“Rāmānujasya caraṇau śaraṇaṁ prapadye.”

I seek refuge in the feet of Śrī Rāmānuja.  

Suddenly…

I did not want anything else.

Not knowledge.

Not recognition.

Not even spiritual accomplishment.

Only… the lotus feet of my Āchārya.

“Koorathāzhvān did not become great because he suffered.

He became great because suffering could not make him hateful.”

“The Lord gave him the opportunity to ask for anything.

 He asked that his enemy should also receive divine bliss.” “Forgiveness is not weakness.

 In the hands of a surrendered soul, forgiveness becomes spiritual strength.”

“The eyes may see the world.

Only the heart surrendered to the Āchārya can see the Lord.”

Today… I have to ask myself honestly:

Whom am I still carrying in my heart Who hurt me…

and still occupies a room inside me? Who insulted me…

and still controls my peace? Who disappointed me…

and still lives in my thoughts?

Perhaps… the Lord is waiting for me to release them.

Not because they deserve my forgiveness.

But because…

I deserve the freedom of surrender.  Koorathāzhvān teaches me…

that the journey toward Vaikuṇṭha is not merely about walking toward the Lord.

It is also about… leaving behind everything that prevents the heart from becoming like His.

I thought… after Koorathāzhvān… the story of Śrī Rāmānuja’s disciples would be complete.

I was wrong.

Our Āchārya’s life was surrounded by extraordinary souls.

Each one revealed another dimension of surrender. And among them…

there was one whose name is inseparable from my own spiritual journey.

The one whom Śrī Rāmānuja loved as his very own shadow.

The one whose life would later become deeply connected with my own search for Āchārya.

Tomorrow…

The Shadow Who Never Left His Āchārya.

“Koorathāzhvān stood before the Lord without hatred.

He had lost his eyes… but he had found a vision greater than sight.

He saw what every soul must one day discover:

When everything becomes His… nothing remains to hate.”

To be continued…

Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

Adiyen Ramanuja dasan

Pictures : Courtesy  Google Images

“An Āchārya does not merely teach us how to reach the Lord. He teaches us what we must be willing to leave behind.”

Yesterday…

I stood at Śrīperumbūdūr.

The birthplace of the JagadĀchārya who had slowly become the very identity of my spiritual life.

And then…

something completely unexpected happened.

A sacred garland that had adorned Śrī Rāmānuja was placed in my hands.

I stood speechless.

Why me?

I had no answer.

But as I carried it toward Kooram, one thought kept returning…

“Perhaps I am not carrying the garland.

Perhaps the garland is carrying me toward another lesson.”

Today…

I understand.

There are places where history is remembered.

And there are places where history seems to breathe.

Kooram was such a place.

As we entered…

I felt an inexplicable stillness.

The surroundings were simple.

There was no grandeur demanding attention.

No overwhelming architecture.

No elaborate spectacle.

Yet…

something was unmistakably present.

A presence.

The presence of a disciple who had once lived here…

served here… suffered here… and surrendered everything here.

Śrī Koorathāzhvān.

I had read about him. I had heard about him. I had spoken about him.

But standing upon the soil associated with him…

was different.  Suddenly… the words I had heard for years became flesh.

Until then…I had thought I understood what it meant to be a disciple.

Listen to the Āchārya. Receive his teachings. Perform kainkaryam.

Follow his instructions. Seek his blessings.

But Koorathāzhvān was about to teach me something far deeper.

A true disciple does not merely receive from the Āchārya.

He becomes willing to give everything to him.

Even… when the price is unbearable.

The story takes us back to the time when Śrī Rāmānuja’s influence had spread far beyond Kanchipuram and Śrīraṅgam.

His mission was becoming increasingly powerful.

His teaching of Viśiṣṭādvaita was attracting seekers.

His compassion was reaching people whom society had forgotten.

And his disciples… were becoming living examples of what surrender could mean.

Among them stood Koorathāzhvān. Not merely a scholar.

Not merely a wealthy householder who had abandoned worldly privilege.

Not merely a disciple.

He was… an embodiment of Āchārya-bhakti.

When the danger to Śrī Rāmānuja arose…

the greatest question was not,

“Who is brave enough to face it?”

The question was…

“Who is willing to protect the Āchārya at any cost?”

Koorathāzhvān did not hesitate.

When the Chola ruler demanded that Śrī Rāmānuja appear before him…

the danger was real.

Koorathāzhvān understood that his beloved Āchārya’s life was at stake.

And then…  he did something extraordinary.

He put on the saffron robes associated with his Āchārya.

He took the tridaṇḍa.  And he went in his place.

Think about that for a moment. He did not say,

“Let us find someone else.” He did not say,

“Why should I sacrifice myself?”

He did not calculate.  He simply thought…

“My Āchārya must be protected.”

And he walked forward.

But Koorathāzhvān was not alone.

Another great soul stepped forward.

Śrī Periya Nambi.

A revered elder.  A teacher.   A devotee.

A servant of Śrī Rāmānuja.

He too knew what awaited them.

And yet…  he walked beside Koorathāzhvān.

Two devotees.  One purpose.

Protect the Āchārya.

That moment reveals something profound.

The greatness of an Āchārya is not measured only by how many disciples surround him.

It is revealed by the quality of love his disciples develop.

They were brought before the ruler.

The demand was simple.

Abandon your conviction.

Accept the king’s declaration.

Sign.  Submit.  Survive.

But the two devotees remained firm.

Their faith was not hatred toward another religion.

Their conviction was not arrogance.

They simply could not deny what they had surrendered their lives to.

The situation became terrifying.

And then came the cruel command.

Their eyes…

the instruments through which they had seen the Lord’s temples…

the eyes that had looked upon their Āchārya…

the eyes that had read sacred texts…

were to be taken from them.

Periya Nambi suffered the terrible violence first.

Koorathāzhvān witnessed it.

And something within him broke.

Not his faith.  Not his surrender.

Something else.  His attachment to the body.

Koorathāzhvān understood something that I had never understood so deeply.

What is the value of physical sight…

if it has witnessed the suffering of a devotee and still desires to continue living merely for itself?

In one of the most heartbreaking moments of the tradition’s history…

Koorathāzhvān chose to surrender even his physical sight by forcefully removing his eyesight on his own without any loss of time

The body could be injured.  The eyes could disappear.   But…

the vision of the Āchārya could never be taken away.

As I stood in Kooram…

I looked at the place around me. The simplicity of it overwhelmed me.

How could such immense spiritual history have unfolded in such ordinary surroundings?

Then the answer came quietly.

Because greatness does not require grandeur.

The greatest sacrifices often happen without witnesses.

A disciple does not surrender because someone is watching.

He surrenders because…  the Āchārya is watching.

I began to ask myself another question.

What exactly does it mean to see?  We have eyes.

We see temples.   We see deities.

We see Āchāryas.   We see sacred books.

We see pilgrims.  But do we actually see?

Koorathāzhvān lost his physical sight…

and yet he saw the Lord more clearly than many of us ever will.

Perhaps… spiritual blindness is not the absence of physical vision.

Perhaps it is seeing everything… except Him.

I remembered my own journey.

How often I had been distracted by appearances.

Who was respected?           Who was wealthy?

Who was educated?             Who was powerful?

               Who was important?

The Āchāryas slowly taught me that none of these measurements survive the journey Home.

Koorathāzhvān’s life reduced everything to one simple question:

“For whom am I living?”

And his answer was complete.   For the Āchārya.

And through the Āchārya…    for the Lord.

The lives of our PūrvĀchāryas teach something that no philosophical argument can fully communicate.

Śaraṇāgati is not merely a word we recite.

It is a transformation of ownership.

The body is His.    The mind is His.   The knowledge is His.

The wealth is His.   The life is His.  Even the fruits of our service…

are His.   Koorathāzhvān did not merely teach surrender.

                                             He lived it.

“The Āchārya does not ask for our eyes. He asks us to see the world through the eyes of surrender.”

“Koorathāzhvān lost his physical sight, but nothing could blind him to the feet of his Āchārya.”

“A disciple’s greatness is not measured by what he receives from his Āchārya, but by what he is willing to surrender at his feet.”

Standing there…

I wondered…

Could I surrender even one small attachment with that completeness?

Could I put aside pride?

Could I surrender recognition?

Could I forgive an insult?

Could I give up the need to be right?

Could I serve without expecting to be noticed?

Could I place the Āchārya’s happiness above my own?

Koorathāzhvān had answered these questions with his entire life.

I was still learning to answer them with mine.

But the story did not end with darkness.

Something far more beautiful was waiting.

Years later…

the blind Koorathāzhvān would once again stand before the Lord.

Śrī Varadarāja Perumāḷ would appear before him.

And the Lord would ask the devotee…

“What do you want?”

Koorathāzhvān could ask for his eyes.

He could ask for his suffering to end.

He could ask for justice.

He could ask for anything.

What did this great devotee ask?

The answer…

would become one of the most profound lessons in the history of Śrīvaiṣṇava devotion.

Tomorrow…

The Eyes That Saw More After They Were Gone.

“The world thought Koorathāzhvān had lost his eyes.

But standing before the Lord, he discovered that he had lost nothing.

He had gained the vision that sees only Him.”

To be continued…

Śrīmate Rāmānujāya Namaḥ

Adiyen Ramanuja dasan

Pictures :  Courtesy   Google images

The Garland My Āchārya Sent

“Sometimes the Lord gives us a flower to carry, only to teach us that we are being carried by His grace.

Yesterday…I stood in Kooram.

A young Bhattar asked my daughter a question that appeared simple…

“Will you forgive the person who hurt you? She hesitated“How can I?”

The Bhattar smiled gently Then he said something that changed the atmosphere around us.

“The Āchārya you worship here forgave the very person whose actions caused him to lose his eyes.”

My daughter became curious. The devotees around were too curious We waited.

And as the Bhattar began narrating the divine history of Śrī Koorathāzhvān, something extraordinary happened within me.