The Darshana

After 1955, the number of devotees gathering around Him grew into the thousands. Even before that time, many had been coming to Him, drawn by the silent pull of His grace. However, after 1955, with the development of better transport facilities and arrangements for lodging and boarding in the area, access became easier, and the crowds naturally swelled.

In the earlier days—what some devotees fondly recall as the Vaikuntha phase—there were no physical barriers. There were no doors. He was freely available, accessible to all, like the boundless sky. One could simply walk in, sit near Him, bask in His silence, or be transformed by a single glance.

But as the influx increased and His presence took on a more formal expression, what devotees began calling Kailash came into being. Here, unlike the doorless freedom of Vaikuntha, there were timings for Darshan. The door would open and close like the rhythm of the breath, and long queues would form, especially on Thursdays and Sundays. Interestingly, while Thursday is traditionally the day of Guru worship in many Guruparamparas, in His case, both Thursdays and Sundays became sacred. His devotees observed these days with equal fervour, coming from far and wide to seek blessings, guidance, or just to be in His presence.

When the crowd was large, devotees would often sit patiently by the door of Kailash, waiting for their turn. Every effort was made to ensure that as many as possible received Darshan. He would sit on a simple bench—nothing grand, nothing ornate. By His side were the ever-faithful Appana, Gopalanna, Madhav Mama, and Monappa—serving silently, guiding the stream of visitors with devotion and humility, facilitating smooth Darshan for all.

Notably, He never allowed power to concentrate in the hands of any attendant. He did not patronise anyone. No one was granted special status, and none wielded undue influence. There was no favouritism, no inner circle, no gatekeeping. His court was one of utter equality. The fakir sat beside the landlord, the stranger next to the lifelong devotee—each seen by Him as the same spark of the Divine.

As devotees came forward with offerings—be it fruits, sweets, or coconuts—He would accept them, and then immediately distribute everything among those present. Nothing was hoarded, nothing stored. His was the nature of spontaneous giving.

Sometimes, even a first-timer, unfamiliar with the sanctity of the place, would find themselves directly addressed by Him. He would look into their eyes, speak a few words, and reveal that He knew why they had come. Without them having uttered a word, He would offer comfort, clarity, or simply the healing balm of His silence. Many found their lives’ burdens lightened by a single interaction.

I, too, have stood in that queue. I, too, have waited at the Door of Kailash.

And I still wait.

The Door opens and closes in rhythm with His will.

But I remain—waiting, watching, remembering…

…still in line, yearning for that moment when the Door opens again, and He, seated on the bench, meets my gaze and draws me in.