The Sunrise at Kanhangad
The Sunrise in Kanhangad was not just a change in light—it was a sacred unfolding, a quiet explosion of beauty and grace.
From the stillness of the pre-dawn hours, the voice of Smt. M.S. Subbulakshmi gently stirred the silence with the Suprabhatam of Shree Venkateshwara. Bhajans followed—Abhangs sung by the greats: Bhimsen Joshi, R.N. Paradkar—rising like waves of devotion from the loudspeakers, flowing through every tree, courtyard, and corridor of the Ashram.
In the soft darkness, Narayan Bhatji climbed the temple steps. The heavy doors creaked open, and in that quiet moment, two lamps flickered at the Feet of Bhagavan Nityananda. Their golden light cast a sacred radiance upon His serene, stone face. It looked as though the flame itself bowed in devotion. The conch shell’s call followed—not to awaken the Lord, who was ever awake—but as a gentle proclamation: “Bhagavan is here. The world, now, may open its eyes.”
As the Suprabhatam continued, Bhatji bathed Bhagavan with water from the well and the nectar of tender coconuts. He was then clothed in a white, spotless kafni. A sandalwood and vermilion tilak adorned His forehead, and Tulsi garlands—fresh, fragrant, and sacred—were placed around His neck like wreaths of devotion.
The eastern sky had begun to take on early hues—pale saffron and gold—when the birds joined the chorus. The koel sang. The trees trembled in anticipation. Then, like a second sun, Swami Janananda emerged from the east.
He had just bathed. His skin glowed red with the warmth of the rising sun and the fragrance of sandalwood oil, as he used Mysore Sandalwood soap. As the bhajan “Jago Hua Prabhat, Swami Jago…” filled the morning, Swamiji moved with grace to the Tulsi Vrindavan.
There, he paused.
Resting his hand gently on the sacred Tulsi, as if in silent dialogue with her, he raised his ochre kafni—soaked from his shoulder and heavy from his bath—and snapped it in the morning air. In that single gesture, the universe seemed to tremble.
Tiny droplets sprayed into the rising sun, each catching light like a prism, reflecting it back as a jewel.
And then—a miracle of simplicity—from every glistening droplet, a miniature sun emerged. The air shimmered with countless suns, dancing around the glowing figure of Swamiji, whose ochre robes still clung to his form like the sky wears the first light.
One great sun in the heavens.
One radiant sun, Swami Janananda by the Tulsi.
And around him, a constellation of thousands of miniature suns—suspended in the morning air.
I stood spellbound, my heart stilled.
Then I bent and offered two Tulsi leaves at his feet—leaves trembling as much from my hand as from the breeze—and remained there, soaking in his warm aura, as if the very sun had paused in the sky to bow too.
