Vayu, the flow of the Draught - RgVeda (Rigveda) Mandala #1 Hymn #2

 Vayu, the Flow of the Draught

By the time the sun had lifted itself fully above the edge of the world, the earlier fire had settled into a steady breath of embers. Ash lay pale and ordered. Heat remained, contained and obedient. What had been opened at dawn now stood firm, holding its place.

The work shifted.

A second space within the enclosure drew the eye, not raised, not marked by flame, but low and broad, prepared to receive the Soma that flowed rather than Agni, that burned. Here the air smelled different, green and sharp, tinged with sweetness and effort. Stones rested where they had been set long before the hour. Wool lay folded, ready.

Dhira knelt over the pressing ground, shoulders darkened with sweat. His hands moved with patience born of strength, turning the stones again and again over the fibrous stalks to squeeze out the Soma juice. The sound was steady, almost soothing, though the labor was anything but light. Juice gathered slowly, coaxed rather than forced, and ran in narrow streams through the wool into waiting bowls of wood, the camasas. Each bowl was set aside with care, as though it already held more than liquid.

Vasu watched without blinking. This work was different from the fire. It demanded endurance, timing, restraint. There was no sudden birth, no leap of flame, only persistence and trust that what was pressed would answer.

Pratiṣṭha approached without announcing himself, his steps measured so as not to disturb the cadence already forming around the work. He stood for a moment at the edge of the pressing ground, watching rather than intervening. The wooden bowls lay aligned in a shallow arc, their rims darkened by repeated use.

Woolen strainers hung heavy with moisture, releasing the last slow drops into waiting vessels. Dhira’s breath set the tempo of the space, deep, even, shaped by long familiarity with effort that could not be hurried. Each turn of the pressing stone followed the last with deliberate patience, neither forceful nor lax.

Pratiṣṭha inclined his head once. It was not a signal to stop, nor an acknowledgment that the work was finished. It marked something subtler: that all was now poised. What needed to be done had been done; what remained would arrive of its own accord.

Vasu, who had been watching the movement of Dhira’s hands with unbroken attention, edged closer to his grandfather. His voice, when he spoke, carried the softness of one afraid to disturb a balance he could sense but not yet define.

“Agni, the fire took the ghee,” he said, almost as an observation rather than a question. “Why does Vayu, the wind, take only the soma?”

Pratiṣṭha did not smile, nor did he correct the way the boy spoke, as though the offerings themselves chose their recipients. He kept his eyes on the bowls, on the faint shimmer that still moved across the surface of the pressed liquid.

“The fire opens the way,” he said at last. “It stands at the threshold. What we give there is shaped to pass through, thick, nourishing, steady. It feeds the crossing.”

“Agni is the mouth of all the Gods, Vasu, but Vāyu and Indra are vigorous warriors. They need the power of Soma. They are the first guests at this great feast,” Pratiṣṭha added.

He turned slightly now, enough that Vasu could see his face. “But there are powers that do not wait at thresholds. They move through the world as force itself. They do not linger. They surge, clear, scatter, gather again. What they require is not weight but sharpness. Not fullness, but quickening.”

[Sourced from Gemini AI]

Vasu followed his gaze as Pratiṣṭha gestured lightly toward the bowls. The juice caught the light differently than the butter had earlier, brighter, more restless, as though it could not remain still even when held.

“This draught does carry wakefulness,” Pratiṣṭha continued. “It cuts through heaviness. It drives breath into motion and motion into strength. When it is drawn, those who move first must come first. Not by command, but because the call matches their nature.”

“We begin with Vāyu, the Wind, for he is the lifeblood of the world and the essence of swift movement. We call him beautiful and swift: ‘O handsome Vāyu, please approach! We have diligently prepared these sacred Soma juices especially for you. We ask you to drink the offering and listen attentively to our prayers.’ Vāyu, the very spirit of the air, must come first to accept the very first draught of the day's offering.”

A faint stirring passed through the enclosure then, lifting the edge of cloth, brushing Vasu’s cheek. He felt it before he understood it, a coolness threaded with energy. Pratiṣṭha noticed and said no more. Some answers, he knew, were carried not in explanation but in sensation, arriving exactly when the body was ready to receive them.

As if in answer, a faint stirring passed through the enclosure. Nothing visible moved, yet the air shifted, brushing skin, lifting the edge of cloth, carrying the scent of the pressed stalks outward.

Pratiṣṭha lifted the first bowl. He did not hurry. The liquid caught the light, pale and alive. He held it high, not toward any fixed point, but into the space itself.

No name was spoken aloud at first. Only an invitation shaped by breath and posture. The air responded, not with sound, but with motion, circling once, then settling as though listening.

“This comes first,” Pratiṣṭha said, his voice steady. “For the one who moves before all others move. What we have pressed is ready. What we have prepared waits to be taken.”

Dhira paused his work, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He knew this moment well. He said, “The pressing was never for itself. It existed for this lifting, this holding, this pause in which the world leaned slightly forward.”

“Precisely, Dhira. Our chanting priests know the sacred time and place. The priests, understanding the appropriate time for ritual, glorify Vāyu, with their sacred hymns while pouring the Soma juice as an offering. The right hymn, the right time, the right offering, it is all part of Ṛta.”

Pratiṣṭha continued to explain, his words measured, neither pleading nor commanding. He spoke as one who knew the proper hour, who trusted that sound offered at the right moment did not fall away. He took up the rhythm, his voice rising not in urgency but in recognition. Sound and motion aligned. What had been prepared now stood fully within order.

He pointed to the air flowing through the compound, carrying the sweet scent of the Soma. “Vāyu is swift and pervasive. Vāyu’s invigorating and pervasive force reaches far and wide to the worshipper, spreading out to partake in the prepared Soma drink. He is everywhere, Vasu. The stream of his energy, his chariot, covers the sky to accept this offering, giving him strength to continue his work of blowing the clouds and cleansing the earth.”

Vasu felt the air thicken briefly, then spread outward again, as though something vast had drawn near and passed through without stopping. He shivered, though the sun was warm.

“The wind does not stand still,” Pratiṣṭha said quietly, as if answering the boy’s unspoken thought. “It takes what is offered wherever it must go.”

The bowl was set down. The first draught had been given. Pratiṣṭha rinsed his hands briefly and returned to the pressing ground, where the remaining bowls waited. He selected two of them with care, neither the fullest nor the least, and placed them side by side upon the packed earth. Their rims touched lightly, a deliberate closeness that was never accidental in such matters. The pressed juice lay calm within them, yet not inert; it held a sheen that shifted as the light moved, as though something inside it remained attentive.

Pratiṣṭha now prepared two bowls, one for Vāyu and one for the mighty Indra. “Now, we call the dual Gods,” he explained. “Vāyu has accepted the first draught, but he and Indra are a mighty pair when invoked together.”

Sarā stepped forward then, closing the distance she had kept until now. Her gaze did not rest on the vessels alone but moved instinctively between them and the open sky above the enclosure. Years of watching the world from field and threshold had taught her how patterns announced themselves, how stillness gathered before motion, how pressure sought release. Her posture was intent, her hands folded loosely, ready.

“These are not taken alone,” Pratiṣṭha said, his voice low but certain. “What moves first must not come without what completes its work. What clears the way and what strikes must arrive together.”

He bent and lifted both bowls at once, one in each hand. The weight was balanced, familiar, yet demanded steadiness. His arms did not waver. When he straightened, his stance widened slightly, anchoring him to the ground beneath his feet. The space seemed to draw inward, as if listening more closely.

When he spoke again, his voice had altered, not in volume, but in depth. It carried a density that pressed outward rather than upward, shaped to reach what responded to force and resolve. He did not plead. He did not instruct. He named readiness: the pressing completed at the proper hour, the drops poured without delay, the offering held without reluctance. He spoke of what waited because it had been prepared to wait, of what was given freely because resistance had no place here.

“We address them as one force, ‘O Indra and Vāyu, these Soma juices have been poured out and are ready, please come for the sake of these delicious offerings. The drops eagerly await both of you.’ The drops of Soma are personified. They yearn for the Gods. We are calling the two great heroes who bring power and movement to the universe.”

Sarā, who was listening closely, commented, “Indra brings the lightning and the rain after Vāyu clears the way. They must work together.”

As the words settled, the liquid in the bowls stirred almost imperceptibly. Light broke across their surfaces in brief flashes, then steadied again. It was as though the draught itself recognized the call, leaning toward what would take it. The air shifted, sharper now, carrying a faint pressure that brushed skin and stirred hair at the temples.

Sarā watched closely. She had seen this pattern before, though never in the same way twice. She inclined her head once, neither in reverence nor assent, but in understanding.

“One makes space,” she said, her voice calm. “The other fills it.”

Pratiṣṭha did not answer. The bowls were already being raised higher, offered not to a single point but to the moving expanse itself. What followed would not announce itself with flame or sound. It would pass through, leave its mark in motion and consequence rather than form.

“Indeed, Sarā. And they are Gods of immense power and victory. We remind them of their success, ‘You two, Vāyu and Indra, who are rich in captured treasures and plunder, surely you recognize the importance of these sacred offerings! Therefore, approach this ceremony quickly.’ We are inviting the divine warriors, who are known to protect and reward their followers with spoils from battles, to quickly partake of the offering that strengthens them for their great deeds.”

For a moment, the space felt charged, balanced on the edge of release. Then the energy eased, not by vanishing, but by flowing onward, taken, accepted, set into work elsewhere.

Pratiṣṭha inclined his head. He reminded the unseen guests of what they had always done, how they moved through the world gathering force, how they rewarded those who fed their vigor, how they did not linger where honor was withheld. There was no flattery in his tone, only recognition of what had been proven again and again.

He finished the invocation, looking toward Dhira, the Soma presser. “This is an acknowledgement of the priest’s crucial labor, ‘O Vāyu and Indra, come and accept the offering that the priest who presses the Soma has prepared. I swiftly make my prayer to you, O Heroes.’ The hymn consecrates the hard work of the Soma presser, ensuring the offering is accepted by these powerful Heroes.”

Dhira straightened, listening. His labor was being named, not as effort alone, but as necessary shaping. The stones, the strainers, the ache in his arms all found their place in the call. When Pratiṣṭha spoke of heroes, he did not look upward. He looked briefly toward Dhira, acknowledging that what was pressed by human hands fed what moved beyond them.

The air responded again, more sharply this time. Somewhere far off, a low sound rolled and faded. The bowls were set down, empty now, though no one had seen them emptied.

The pressing was finished. The space changed once more.

Pratiṣṭha returned to the fire. The embers stirred as he approached, as though recognizing the shift. Sarā brought the butter without being asked. The ladle dipped, gleaming.

“This is for those who hold,” Pratiṣṭha said to Vasu, seeing the question forming. “Not what rushes, not what strikes, but what binds and measures.”

The ladle tipped, and the clarified butter slid into the heart of the embers. It did not linger. It did not resist. The moment it touched the heat, it gave itself over completely, flaring once before dissolving into flame. The fire answered not with sudden hunger, but with depth. Its glow thickened, its movement slowed, as though it had taken on weight. Smoke rose in a broad, deliberate column, no longer quick and darting, but measured, almost solemn, curling upward in layered folds.

Pratiṣṭha watched closely, adjusting his stance as the fire settled into this altered breath. This was a different offering from those that had gone before. It asked not for swiftness or force, but for steadiness, for an enclosing completeness that could not tolerate excess or omission. When he spoke, his voice matched the fire’s new cadence.

“There are two,” he said, not lifting his eyes from the smoke, “who are never apart, though they are never the same.” His words did not name them as figures, but as qualities that revealed themselves in every ordered thing. “One stands in the open, visible, binding, present wherever people meet and make their promises. The other moves beneath, watchful, deep, unseen except when something slips out of place.”

“We shift from the Gods of power and movement to the Gods of Order and Truth, Mitra and Varuṇa. ‘Now I invoke Mitra, who possesses sacred, purifying strength, and foe-destroying Varuṇa, who make the sacred rite complete.’ Mitra governs the alliances and the day’s light. Varuṇa governs the deep secrets, the night, and moral justice. They are the twin protectors who ensure that the entire ritual, nourished by the ghee, is complete and successful.”

The smoke continued to rise, its edges catching light before fading into the brightening air. Pratiṣṭha spoke of bonds that did not shout their presence but held firm across time: agreements kept when no one watched, words that did not fray when carried far from their speaking. He spoke of a vigilance that did not tire, that did not turn away when darkness fell or when faces changed. Nothing escaped it, not because it searched, but because it was already there.

“This work,” he continued, “is not finished until everything has been accounted for. Nothing may stand outside the measure. What is too much breaks its own weight. What is too little leaves a gap that spreads.”

Vasu listened, his brow drawing together. He had followed the earlier rites with growing ease, the fire that opened the way, the draught that fed movement and strength. This felt different. Slower. Heavier. He watched the smoke, trying to see what his grandfather saw. “If the Agni carries the order,” he asked finally, choosing his words with care, “why call others to guard it?”

Pratiṣṭha did not answer at once. He let the question settle, as the offering had settled into the fire. He turned then, meeting Vasu’s eyes fully, as though weighing not just the question but the readiness behind it.

“One carries,” he said at last. “Others hold.” He gestured gently toward the rising smoke. “What moves must be received. What is sent must arrive somewhere that does not shift under its weight. The carrier is swift and faithful, but it does not decide where the burden rests.”

“Agni is the messenger of the Ṛta, Vasu. Mitra and Varuṇa are its Sovereigns. They embody the law itself. ‘O Mitra and Varuṇa, through Law (Ṛta), lovers and cherishers of Law, have obtained their might and power.’ Their power is not based on battle, like Indra's, but on the absolute Truth they uphold. They are the most devoted lovers and protectors of the cosmic and moral order, and that guardianship is the source of their infinite power.”

He turned back to the fire. “What is borne must be held by those who do not waver. Those who do not bend when watched, or when unseen. If what is carried finds no such ground, it scatters. Order cannot remain suspended.”

Pratiṣṭha spoke then of law, but not as command or punishment. He spoke of it as alignment, the way pieces fell into place when they were true to their shape. He spoke of how strength drawn only from force burned itself out, leaving ash and emptiness behind. True strength, he said, came from devotion to what could not be bent: to balance, to proportion, to truth that did not change to suit convenience.

“These are not things you can seize,” he said quietly. “They do not answer to noise or speed. They answer only when they are met as they are.”

The words settled into the space, heavy not with complexity, but with breadth. They did not close around the mind. They opened outward, touching work and breath, fire and field, promise and silence. Vasu felt their weight not as pressure, but as something anchoring, like the ground beneath his feet. The smoke thinned as the offering was fully taken. The fire returned to a steady glow. Nothing dramatic marked the end of the act, and yet something essential had been set firmly in place. What had been carried had found its holders. What had been asked had been answered, not with sign or spectacle, but with the quiet assurance that the measure held.

The final offering was poured. Pratiṣṭha’s voice softened, though his posture remained firm. He asked not for triumph, not for abundance that dazzled, but for strength that endured—strength that worked in field and hearth, in counsel and restraint, in silence as much as in action.

“We ask of this pair of deities, our Wise Ones, for lasting, practical strength. ‘O Mitra and Varuṇa, our Wise Ones! You possess vast dominion and inherent strength by your very nature. Grant us powerful energy that is effective and brings positive results.’ We ask for strength that works, strength for farming, for protection, for wisdom, and for peace. The ritual is over, the Gods have been invoked, and the cosmic order is affirmed.”

When he finished, he did not linger.

The four of them stood together, heat and air moving gently around them. No one spoke. There was nothing left to call. What had been prepared had been taken. What had been asked had been set into motion.

The embers glowed. The bowls lay empty. The air moved freely again.

The world, held briefly in attention, resumed its rhythm, not broken, not changed, but affirmed.

(c) Bharat Bhushan

16 December 2025

Arunachala Shiva!!! We give away, ourselves, to you...

"Arunachala!" He worshipped, "take away all my worries and problems. Help me!"

The rich man went hurrying inside the long corridor to present his prayers at the Indra Lingam temple. It was a long and narrow corridor. He had asked his car driver to go ahead and park at the Sri Ramanashram and wait for him as he would come around on his Girivalam walk. "Arunachala!" He thought "This is your Girivalam, and I am definitely want to walk all around the sacred place again. I offer my prayers, please, let me complete the pradakshana with your permission. You are my ultimate protector and you are my entire world. I surrender to you, my beloved Arunachala!"

The priest at the inner sanctum welcomed him, for he had been coming on the Girivalam regularly and he was well known at all the ashtalingams. The priests were friendly to him. He always offered his prayers at each of the ashtalingams. He would walk only when the inner sanctums were open and the priest permitted prayers. He would wait at the ashtalingams for 3-4 hours if the inner sanctum was closed. He would not move ahead on the Girivalam path without offering prayers at the ashtalingams.

Dressed in his suit and tie, Mr. Alavandar, the rich man, was looking very different from all the other pilgrims at the Indra Lingam temple. He had rushed out of a meeting that he had at his bankers and local business partners. His office assistant who accompanied him was very familiar with his strange schedule. His boss would remove his suit, tie and trousers at the outer sanctum and don a very simple veshti, a white cotton dhoti, and a very thin linen towel that he would place over his shoulders as a shawl. He would sprinkle water from the century old traditional well at the outer sanctum and present himself at the Indra Lingam. His boss would change completely, the assistant thought, proud of his boss. This was his routine, every three months, driving in from Srirangam, and placing his total surrender to Arunachala.

Three elderly brothers, fellow pilgrims, seated nearby in the outer sanctum watched the rich man's changeover with extreme interest. They noted that the simple dhoti and the white towel that he had now worn, were very old, looked shabby and absolutely worn out. They waited until the rich man went up to the inner sanctum. They asked his assistant, "Who is this man whom you are helping? He seems to be a very rich man, and he has now dressed up as a very simple person. Is he going to go on the Girivalam path like this? Does he walk alone?" The assistant simply nodded in agreement, but he did not reply. He rushed after his boss to be of service.

Mr. Alavandar stood in front of the inner sanctum, and prayed silently. His assistant seemed to anticipate his moves and needs completely. He handed over flowers, coconut, garlands, camphor, incense sticks and ash in a small plastic bag to his boss. The rich man emptied every item reverentially on a stainless steel plate offered by the priest, carefully folded the plastic bag and handed it back. From a small sandalwood box, the assistant picked out a rudraksha necklace and passed it on to the rich man who placed it on the plate with the other offerings. The priest took everything inside the sanctum, conducted the prayers and brought them back. The rich man took out only the rudraksha necklace and wore it around his neck, placed some ash on his forehead and went about walking around the inner sanctum.

Having completed his rounds, he went over to a corner of the outer sanctum and sat on the bare floor, closed his eyes and went into a meditative trance, almost in an instant. The assistant walked over to the farthest corner opposite his boss and sat down peacefully. He knew that it would be more than an hour for his boss to continue in his meditation. The three elderly brothers watched Mr. Alavandar in fascination. They were extremely impressed in the manner of his devotion and dedication. They went over to where the assistant sat, and settled themselves around him. One of the brothers asked the assistant, "Your boss looks so focused and so determined in his worship. Its absolutely amazing. If someone would not have seen him in his costly suit, tie and trousers, they would not know that he is the same man from his appearance now, so simple and so traditional."

The assistant smiled at the appreciation for his boss and replied, "I have known him for the past ten years now, and I am blessed because of him. I travel with him all through the year and we visit many temples around the country. He combines his work and business with his devotion. Because of him, I get to visit so many temples and participate in all prayers and ceremonies. Just imagine, I have a job where I am paid to go to temples and visit the best of places. I have stopped questioning his methods and intent."

The eldest brother heard him peacefully and nodded wisely, and said, "Who knows how Arunachala calls us to HIM? Your boss comes in search of HIM, but for you, HE creates this opportunity. Why should one argue? Do you not meditate, then? Have you not learnt how to meditate? You are so lucky to be with him. But, does he not teach you about meditation? Do you know his prayers or do you know if he chants some quiet mantra to help him in his meditation?"

The assistant thought for a while, trying to recollect, and answered, "How would you learn meditation? I guess you would start and make mistakes. My boss always said that you need a teacher, for one to learn meditation. You cannot start just by watching him or anyone else. The most peaceful looking clerk in a government office may be thinking about a million problems. The busiest housewife, working at a wedding meals for more persons than she has ever cooked for, may be very peaceful in her mind. Similarly, as my boss says, he has never been able to perfect his skills in meditation. He says that he fails each time and loses his concentration. I never have been able to figure out about the moment when he actually loses his concentration. He always looks like he is in a trance."

The three elderly brothers and Mr. Alavandar's assistant watched him quietly, in reverence and awe. They were impressed by the manner in which he had just gone to the corner, sat down, and immediately withdrawn into himself. There were many other pilgrims nearby, with families talking loudly. The priest was making some sound in pulling up water from the deep well. An electrician and a painter were dragging a long aluminium ladder around. Mr. Alavandar did not seem to get disturbed by all the sound and chatter.

One of the brothers, probably the youngest, asked Mr. Alavandar's assistant, "How can your boss not get disturbed by all that sound? I know that I would. How can he meditate so peacefully? So much sound and so much disturbance. The sound of that ladder as it is dragged. Even if I am not in meditation, I am irritated and angry by that sound. How can he not become angry and scold them for not noticing his meditation?"

The assistant laughed. He said, "Once, 5-6 years ago, at one of the ashtalingams, I forget which one, a man scolded his children for making too much noise when my boss was meditating. That man's two children began to speak in whispers. My boss got disturbed by the children speaking in whispers. He spoke to the man and his children and apologised for disturbing them. He went out of the temple and sat under a tree, even as it was raining, and sat there quietly. Later, when the family went on ahead on their Girivalam, my boss came back to his earlier spot and continued with his meditation."

The three elderly brothers also laughed in appreciation. The eldest brother asked, "Who taught him meditation, then? Was there some well known guru? Did he have to learn for a long time? I have also tried to learn meditation, and that is why I ask this question. I have learnt different types of meditation but I am not able  to commit myself properly. Something or the other always prevents me from sitting down to meditation. I have many problems in my life. I have lost my job on several occasions. Sometimes there is no money, actual money, even for day to day expenses. My mind goes crazy and tells me to do crazy things. All those meditation classes did not help. My two brothers also face similar problems. That is why we have come here to Arunachala. To search for our future path and direction."

The assistant replied, "Better that you ask him. He is not a businessman in those clothes. He becomes a complete pilgrim and a devotee. He talks to everyone. If anyone asks him any personal questions, he knows how to avoid them without being rude. After he comes out of his meditation, he will sit here, at the Indra Lingam temple for some time. He is happy here, because this is the beginning of the Girivalam for him. He will go slowly from here, to the Agni Lingam and later, again, he will spend more time at Sri Ramanashram. He does the Girivalam walk by taking more than a day and night. He goes very slowly."

"A day and a night? Wow!" The eldest brother remarked, "We have usually done our slowest Girivalam in five hours, and that was also because it was raining very heavily and I had slipped on the path. It would be a blessing indeed to talk to him here at the Indra Lingam and accompany him for some time on the path. Let us wait for him to get back to this world, for I think, he must have gone away somewhere else, otherwise how can someone not get disturbed by all those sounds and activities?"

The three elderly brothers and Mr. Alavandar's assistant sat quietly, busy in their own contemplation of their lives, and waited. One of the brothers went out of the temple and filled up tea in an used mineral water bottle and fetched it inside, with plastic cups. Without any query, along with the priest, they shared the tea among themselves. It felt nice. It was just the right thing for that moment.

After a while, Mr. Alavandar began to move about at his seat and stood up and walked around, stretching his hands and began doing some simple calisthenics. He went back to the well and washed up and came up to the inner sanctum and offered prayers. His assistant sat calmly, behind the inner sanctum, waiting, for he knew that his boss would not require him at this moment. Soon enough, Mr. Alavandar walked up to his assistant and sat down on the ground with him, resting his back on the temple walls, and relaxed. He seemed quite content about his day, and did not look like a man with any agenda or in any hurry.

The three elderly brothers sat nearby, and judging by the expression on their faces, and their eager vibrations that were very obvious, Mr. Alavandar looked at them, smiled, and asked, "You are very curious, are you not? What has my man, Pattabhi, been telling you about me? Are you also on the Girivalam path? You are welcome to walk with me. I enjoy the company. But, Pattabhi would have told you that I go very slowly. If you want to journey together with me, you will have to walk slowly. Is that ok?"

The eldest brother replied, "Swamy, we do not want to disturb you. We will certainly go with you because there is much to learn from you. How is it that you seem to enjoy every moment of the Girivalam and you have come here so many times, as your assistant informed, every three months, and yet, you walk so slowly, and take up so much time on the path? We had come together, for we are brothers all, myself, Kuchela, my younger brothers, Gopinath and Bhaskar. It was difficult for us to come together and travel together. Our families are very different, and we are not able to get away. But, you come here repeatedly, and you take so much time. Does it not affect your work?"

Mr. Alavandar gestured with both his hands to the heavens, in the direction of the sacred Arunachala, and replied, "Who would dare argue with HIM? I am called here, and I am here. Even if I come on the Girivalam path, every three months, there is some inner message. It pulls me here, and I come without fail. But, I have seen over these many years when I have been in his shadow, I have never felt that I have lost my time in business or with my family. Sometimes, when I walk, I think of my work, and sometimes, I think about my family. My man, Pattabhi, is always close by, in my car, or sometimes walking with me. I know that they respect my time here, and that reverence is enough for me. My family loves the fact that I walk here. And, that is good enough for me."

Gopinath, one of the elderly brothers, asked, "Swamy, you are truly an inspiration. Your family must be inspired by your devotion to the sacred Arunachala. We are curious. Your assistant-sir told us that you spend a lot of time at the Indra Lingam temple before starting on the Girivalam path. Why do you do that? Is it not OK to spend more time at the big temple to Annamalai and later be able to take rest at some of the ashtalingams when one is tired? Why do you stay here for such a long time?"

"This is the first of the ashtalingams," Mr. Alavandar said, "That much you are aware, I am sure. But, do you remember, that whenever you complete your Girivalam walk, you are at the Esanya Lingam temple, and you walk through the burial and cremation grounds. That end point signifies that you are nothing. You are over. Your life is completed. You are simply a mound of ash, burnt at the pyre. You surrender totally to Shiva as Esanyan. But, after that end point, you go back to the great temple of Annamalai and you submit to HIS blessings and instructions before going back to your family or place from where you have come from to take part in the Girivalam."

"Similarly, when you return to the Girivalam," He continued, "You start at the Indra Lingam temple, or you start at the Annamalai temple and come to this place. When you come here, you take an oath or a promise or an affirmation, that you have left behind everything to start on this circular journey around the sacred Arunachala. You proclaim to yourself that you have left behind your family, your work, your commitments and your worries and sorrow, your happiness and joy, your burden and your friends. You come here as a mendicant, and you proclaim that you are nobody. It is only then that you are able to truly commit to the pilgrimage and to the walk on the Girivalam path."

The youngest of the three brothers, Bhaskar, asked, "Swamy, how can one do that? How can one simply forget all his worries and problems? How can one forget his happiness, just like that? What is the need to do so? We are here, to dedicate ourselves to the sacred Arunachala, and I understand that. Whenever we walk on the sacred Girivalam path, we are truly devoted to the divinity. We chant the mantra as we were instructed to. We follow all the precautions and the practices. Is that not enough? Why should we clean up and wash out our mind in the manner in which you explained? Pray, forgive me for my questions, but I am curious and your answers would help me."

"I fail in my attempt to cleanse myself, all the time," Mr. Alavandar replied, smiling, "I understand your questions and your concern. I have never succeeded in forgetting everything. I try. Because I know that this is required, I make the attempt. If you would not know, how would you try to forget and how would you be humble in the beginning of the path? We come with our assumptions about our importance. Believe me, for I know this to be very true. We are nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nobody knows us, and nobody is interested in us, in our thoughts or in our lives. Even within our families, friends or colleagues, nobody is actually interested. They listen to our experiences when we speak about them. But, they are impatient to get on with their daily tasks and with their lives."

"Let me give you an example. You go to the Sri Ramanashram with me and let us visit the book stall. Let me explain the Ashtavakra Gita book that is available there. I will explain some of the passages in those pages to you, while we would be at the book stall. How many of the other devotees who are there, in that book stall, actually interested in that particular book, would be actually interested in hearing me trying to explain it? None. They would purchase that book, but how would they understand it? For all this, you need a teacher. Similarly, when you are on the Girivalam path, you need a teacher. And you need instructions."

Kuchela, the eldest of the three brothers, said, "Yes, Swamy, I agree. I have never been able to read even the Bhagavad Gita, from the first page to the last, all by myself. There have been many different volumes of the Gita in our house. But, none of us sat down seriously to read it from cover to cover. And, I am not able to understand that we need a teacher, and instructions when we are on the Girivalam path. How is that?"

Mr. Alavandar laughed at the example that Kuchela spoke about, and replied, "Yes, my brothers, what I say is correct. When you accept a teacher, you accept his guidance. When you come to the big temple of Annamalai, you are merely informing HIM that you are going to start on the path. When you leave the big temple and you start walking to the Indra Lingam temple, you are preparing yourself. Your thoughts are on your footwear, your clothes, the need for water, some snacks to be eaten and your fear for your money and other belongings. But, when you are at the Indra Lingam temple, you are actually beginning the walk. At that moment, when you worship, you accept Arunachala himself, as your teacher, as your guru."

"When you accept Arunachala, within your heart and within your mind, as your teacher, you surrender totally to HIM. There is nothing left but to accept HIS instructions. HE gives you that guarantee, and also asks you to leave behind everything, for each step on this pradakshana is going to be in dedication to HIM. Nothing belongs to you during the path and every thought and every desire should be in dedication to HIM alone. If you have to think about your family, you could have brought them with you, and you could enjoy the walk together, without any attempt at immersion with Arunachala himself. For HE is happy that you are happy and that you walk along with your loved ones, even if they are friends."

"But when you are alone, and you walk on this path," Mr. Alavandar continued, totally engrossed in his own words, "you begin to allow your mind to wander. Your mind goes back to your family, to your workplace, to your problems and to your moments of happiness and achievements. You do not contemplate the sacred divinity of Arunachala. Why do you come here, if you cannot actually be here, in mind and spirit? That is the reason I take up much time at the beginning here, at Indra Lingam, lost in my thought and deliberately washing everything away. I sit there and contemplate on my thoughts, and pick them up, one by one, and throw them away. I try to reach a point where I do not have any more thoughts. But, I have never succeeded. I try and try again. But, this most difficult struggle with myself, at the beginning of the Girivalam path, is the most tiresome. It defeats me completely."

Gopinath asked, amazed, "You never succeed? Then, if you have tried so many times, how can we succeed? Why do you try so many times when you know that it is difficult?"

Mr. Alavandar replied, "It is not the defeat that puzzles me. It is the struggle that amazes me. I know that I want to dump my thoughts. I know that I want to reach a silent place in my mind. I know that I am ready to forget and dump all my baggage. But, I fail. Why can I not empty myself? Am I so obstinate? Is my mind a very different organism? And, as I walk out of the Indra Lingam temple, I make one last attempt. I forget this struggle also. I leave the battle with my mind at the Indra Lingam temple. I go out of this temple as a happy man. I have tried. I am ready to go out there, and surrender to my beloved Arunachala. Come, let us walk out together and breathe in the amazing air that finds its way from the sacred peak and comes in search of us and blesses us."

Indra