The Stillness

The stillness of the night is both calming and luminous as I sit waiting beside a patient under treatment. In this gentle quietude, my mind drifts back to the recent conversations I had with devotees from the same sacred lineage. Listening to their divine experiences was both awe-inspiring and deeply touching.

They spoke of seeing vibrant inner lights—Bindu of various colours—of hearing subtle musical notes, Bindunād, and of feeling waves of inner joy arise during meditation and prāṇāyāma. Their accounts were filled with wonder. Yet, as I listened, a faint thought crept in: Why have I never experienced anything like that?
No visions, no lights, no celestial sounds—nothing.

But as I stepped outside and gazed at the moonlit sky, a memory awoke within me, quietly but powerfully.

I was transported to a serene evening in Ganeshpuri—the cool November breeze, the brilliance of the full moon of Tripurari Purnima bathing the sky in silver. I remembered Him walking on the Kailash terrace, His dark, radiant form glowing under the moonlight. We stood at one end of the terrace, watching Him stride with His characteristic briskness.

Then, all at once, He approached us. His eyes and His very presence shimmered under the soft lunar glow. Tall as He was, He bent down—lowered Himself—just to look at me. In that sacred moment, everything became utterly still. Time dissolved. And my father received His grace.

It was no ordinary moment; it was Shree Dattatreya Darshana on Tripurari Poornima.

I remember sliding closer to my father, shivering from the cold wind yet warmed by His compassionate gaze. Even the moon seemed to surrender in envy, turning a deep shade of yellow.

Would I ever trade that moment for any other experience?
Never.

When I recall it now, I realise:
These memories, this direct grace, this silent touch of divinity—they are far more precious than any fleeting inner light or sound.

Some experiences do not arise in meditation;
They are given—unasked, unexpected, unforgettable.