Faith in Motion: The Story of Narada’s Pride and Lesson
A timeless teaching on devotion, strength, and surrender.
I was Narada, the celestial sage, the ever-traveling devotee of Lord Vishnu. My veena sang his name; my heart belonged only to him. Or so I believed.
I roamed freely between realms—Earth, Heaven, and beyond—spreading the truth of the Upanishads and singing praises of Sanatana Dharma. Gods knew me. Kings listened to me. Even Arjuna, famed warrior of the Mahabharata, once sought my guidance. I’d witnessed Lord Rama’s exile, listened to the cries of Sita, and marveled at Hanuman’s leap across the ocean. I'd seen epic devotion—but I thought mine unmatched.
One day, I approached Lord Vishnu in Vaikuntha. The air there was still and golden. Oceans of milk surrounded his throne. He smiled, gently, knowing my thoughts before I spoke.
“Beloved Lord,” I said, “is there any devotee greater than me?”
He looked at me without judgment. Only kindness.
“There is one,” he said. “A humble farmer.”
“A farmer?” I blinked. “Compared to me?”
He nodded. “Go, see for yourself. His name is Dhanya. He rises before dawn, tends his fields, feeds his family, and remembers Me with his every breath.”
I left that moment, veena on my back, curiosity burning in my chest.
I found Dhanya in a small village, barefoot in the dust, guiding oxen through the mud. He worked silently, pausing only at sunrise and sunset to fold his hands and whisper, “Narayana.”
I watched him all day. He whispered the divine name just twice, once in the morning, once at night.
Only twice.
When the moon rose, I returned to Vaikuntha, indignant. “This is devotion?” I asked. “He barely remembers You!”
Vishnu smiled, then said calmly, “Narada, I have a task for you. Take this bowl of oil, filled to the brim. Walk around the world. But be careful—not a single drop may spill.”
I took the bowl. It shimmered, full to the edge.
I walked. And walked. Through forests, over rivers, past warriors and saints. Every step strained my balance. My eyes never left the bowl. My fingers cramped.
When I returned, not a drop had spilled.
Vishnu asked, “Tell me, how many times did you remember Me during your walk?”
I winced. “None, Lord. I was too focused.”
He nodded. “When one is consumed by duty, like Dhanya is with his field and family, yet still remembers Me—only twice—that is devotion. You, who sing my name all day, do so in peace. But he, who toils in discipline with no time to spare, still remembers Me with love.”
And that was the moment I learned. Devotion isn’t measured by song or show, but by heart and surrender. Even the Ramayana teaches this—how Queen Sita, in chains, remembered Lord Rama with unwavering faith. How Hanuman served without pride.
I thought I knew the truth. Now I carried it more humbly.
That farmer never knew I visited him. But he changed me.
I still sing. Still travel. But now, before every note, I bow—not for show, but to remind myself what faith really means.
Even the sky listens differently now.
Faith in Motion: The Story of Narada’s Pride and Lesson
A timeless teaching on devotion, strength, and surrender.
I was Narada, the celestial sage, the ever-traveling devotee of Lord Vishnu. My veena sang his name; my heart belonged only to him. Or so I believed.
I roamed freely between realms—Earth, Heaven, and beyond—spreading the truth of the Upanishads and singing praises of Sanatana Dharma. Gods knew me. Kings listened to me. Even Arjuna, famed warrior of the Mahabharata, once sought my guidance. I’d witnessed Lord Rama’s exile, listened to the cries of Sita, and marveled at Hanuman’s leap across the ocean. I'd seen epic devotion—but I thought mine unmatched.
One day, I approached Lord Vishnu in Vaikuntha. The air there was still and golden. Oceans of milk surrounded his throne. He smiled, gently, knowing my thoughts before I spoke.
“Beloved Lord,” I said, “is there any devotee greater than me?”
He looked at me without judgment. Only kindness.
“There is one,” he said. “A humble farmer.”
“A farmer?” I blinked. “Compared to me?”
He nodded. “Go, see for yourself. His name is Dhanya. He rises before dawn, tends his fields, feeds his family, and remembers Me with his every breath.”
I left that moment, veena on my back, curiosity burning in my chest.
I found Dhanya in a small village, barefoot in the dust, guiding oxen through the mud. He worked silently, pausing only at sunrise and sunset to fold his hands and whisper, “Narayana.”
I watched him all day. He whispered the divine name just twice, once in the morning, once at night.
Only twice.
When the moon rose, I returned to Vaikuntha, indignant. “This is devotion?” I asked. “He barely remembers You!”
Vishnu smiled, then said calmly, “Narada, I have a task for you. Take this bowl of oil, filled to the brim. Walk around the world. But be careful—not a single drop may spill.”
I took the bowl. It shimmered, full to the edge.
I walked. And walked. Through forests, over rivers, past warriors and saints. Every step strained my balance. My eyes never left the bowl. My fingers cramped.
When I returned, not a drop had spilled.
Vishnu asked, “Tell me, how many times did you remember Me during your walk?”
I winced. “None, Lord. I was too focused.”
He nodded. “When one is consumed by duty, like Dhanya is with his field and family, yet still remembers Me—only twice—that is devotion. You, who sing my name all day, do so in peace. But he, who toils in discipline with no time to spare, still remembers Me with love.”
And that was the moment I learned. Devotion isn’t measured by song or show, but by heart and surrender. Even the Ramayana teaches this—how Queen Sita, in chains, remembered Lord Rama with unwavering faith. How Hanuman served without pride.
I thought I knew the truth. Now I carried it more humbly.
That farmer never knew I visited him. But he changed me.
I still sing. Still travel. But now, before every note, I bow—not for show, but to remind myself what faith really means.
Even the sky listens differently now.
