Sharad Poornima

The full moon of October—Sharad Poornima—rose like a golden disc from the eastern horizon, casting its ethereal glow over the quiet land. It was not the usual silver-white orb of other nights. This moon was unusually large, mellow in its brightness, and tinged with a gentle yellow that made everything appear dreamlike. Its reflection shimmered softly in the pond behind the hillock near the ashram, a moving mirror of that celestial radiance.

The lotus flowers, now touched by the cool breath of night, had closed their petals for rest, as if retreating into meditation. Frogs, awakened by the moon’s arrival, began their nocturnal chorus—an impromptu orchestra that rose and fell in waves, their croaks echoing gently through the thick stillness of the night.

Meenakshi, the ashram dog, a loyal presence known to all who frequented the sacred grounds, sat quietly on the stone steps of Bhagavan’s temple. She looked out into the night with calm, watchful eyes. The outlines of the temple, trees, and faraway hills had all turned into silhouettes—dark forms beneath a luminous sky. A soft, almost imperceptible chill had crept into the air. Even in the sultry heart of Kerala, this night bore the faint signature of winter’s approach.

Suddenly, the whistle of a distant mail train pierced the stillness. It echoed faintly as the train passed along the tracks near the ashram—its rhythmic rumble a reminder that the world beyond these peaceful boundaries continued to move, even as this sacred space remained suspended in silence.

The ashram lay quiet and empty. Not a single visitor stirred within its walls. I was the only one there—alone, yet never lonely. The silence was not an absence, but a presence. It wrapped around me like the moonlight, a living stillness filled with unseen grace. It felt as though the entire cosmos had paused to breathe, to listen, to be.

There, under the gaze of that golden moon, in the hush of the ashram’s timeless night, one could feel the touch of the Infinite.