The year was 1290 . A crowd had gathered around a clearing, where broken down pillars marked the presence of an ancient temple, now long gone. A young boy, just 14 years old, leaned against one of those pillars, deep in thought. Then, he began speaking, and the crowd fell silent, listening to his every word. He spoke without any notes, translating the Bhagavat Gita, from Sanskrit, which only the pundits knew, to the language everyone in the village knew and spoke – a variety of Prakrit which developed into the Marathi language. Even as he spoke, one of the men in the audience realized how momentous this event was, and how important this composition would be. He began writing down the words the young boy spoke, and this composition was named by its author and composer, the Bhavartha Deepika – the enlightening meaning (of the Bhagavat Gita). Now, the ancient, holy text, was no longer restricted to the pundits, but accessible to all, understood easily by them, composed as it was, in their...
Mumbai to Shirdi is a pilgrimage I have been fortunate to make a number of times in the recent past. The first time I visited Shirdi was with my mother, travelling in an ST ( Maharashtra State transport) bus, one of those rickety ones we see on the roads. The journey was nothing much to write about, except that we were sore, and every bone in our body was aching when we returned at last after a tedious journey which we had endured for the sole reason that we desperately wanted to have a darshan of Baba, a pleasure which we had yearned for till then. Yes, the pleasure of the Darshan (twice- one after waiting in a queue which seemed designed to test our patience and insistence on having darshan, and the second which was so quick, and so wonderful, it was surely a gift, or a prize for having endured all that we had, and coming out with flying colours) obliterated all that from our hearts and our minds. After that, Baba seems to have summoned us often and that too in all comforts, ...