What We Learn from The Wisdom of Narada
A reflection on courage, sacrifice, and spiritual truth.
I was just a novice—barely sixteen—when the sage Narada arrived at our ashram. My name is Kapila. You won’t find it in any great texts or epics. But I was there when the sky cracked open with truth, and a boy’s spiritual journey began.
It was a quiet morning. The river hummed nearby. I was sweeping the stone path when I saw him—a figure in saffron, veena slung over his shoulder, walking with no urgency. Narada. The Sage of the Gods. Messenger of the heavens. Singer of truths.
By then, I’d heard hundreds of stories about him: how he roamed the worlds, how he sang praises to Lord Vishnu, how even kings and devas paused at his words. I expected thunder. Instead, he smiled.
“Kapila,” he said, though I hadn’t told him my name, “I hear you seek wisdom.”
I swallowed. “Yes, revered one. I want to understand the soul. Brahman. That beyond all karma.”
He sat on a stone. The veena hummed faintly. “And what do you know so far?”
I straightened. I listed the four Vedas, had memorized dozens of hymns. I recited verses from the Upanishads I barely understood. I told him names—Om, Atman, Purusha. I knew the structure, the words, the passages.
When I finished, he was silent. Not stern. Just still.
And then he said, “You know words. But not Truth.”
I blinked. “But I’ve studied…”
Narada raised a hand gently. “So did I.”
That surprised me.
“I too learned all scripture,” he said, “and yet, I was not free. I told myself I was wise. But I had not crossed the river.”
“What river?”
He stared at the sky. “The river between knowledge... and realization.”
I felt a knot in my stomach. “What changed you?”
Narada leaned forward. “Once, I went to Lord Vishnu, thinking I had conquered knowledge. All four Vedas, six philosophies, all seventy-two arts. I believed I was the wisest on Earth. But the Lord only said, ‘You lack the most important knowledge.’”
He paused, eyes holding mine.
“What was it?” I whispered.
“Humility,” he said. “And love. The kind that sees no self and trembles before all life. Compassion, Kapila. The root of dharma. Without it, all knowledge is dust.”
I sat down. Something shifted in my chest.
He told me about karma—not as punishment, but as a mirror. How our actions, even unspoken thoughts, leave echoes. He said dharma wasn’t just duty—it was alignment. Living in such a way that the soul recognizes itself. To do the work meant for you, without expecting reward.
“But what is my work?” I asked.
He smiled. “That’s your journey, Kapila. Not as a scholar. Not even as a monk. But as a soul. Find the place where your compassion meets the world’s need. That is your dharma.”
That evening, the ashram held a fire offering. Narada sang. Not chants or rituals. Just a song praising love, surrender, and truth. Some cried. I did.
He left before dawn. No farewell. Just gone.
Years passed. I remained at the ashram, but I no longer cared for titles or mantras. I began serving the sick, tending to the dying. I taught children who had nothing. I spoke to trees. I cried when animals perished. And laughed with joy when children sang in the rain.
Once, I asked the head monk, “Have I strayed from the path?”
He smiled. “No, Kapila. You’ve finally begun walking it.”
Narada never returned. But he didn’t need to. The river had begun to flow within me.
That day by the river, I thought I’d met a sage. But I met something more.
I met truth, walking in sandals and playing a veena.
The wisdom of Narada lives on—not in verses—but in compassion, in service, in surrender. That is the epic.
That is the real journey.
---
Themes: compassion, karma, dharma
Keywords: Spiritual Journey, Mahabharata, Hinduism, Epic, Sage, India
Word Count: 598
What We Learn from The Wisdom of Narada
A reflection on courage, sacrifice, and spiritual truth.
I was just a novice—barely sixteen—when the sage Narada arrived at our ashram. My name is Kapila. You won’t find it in any great texts or epics. But I was there when the sky cracked open with truth, and a boy’s spiritual journey began.
It was a quiet morning. The river hummed nearby. I was sweeping the stone path when I saw him—a figure in saffron, veena slung over his shoulder, walking with no urgency. Narada. The Sage of the Gods. Messenger of the heavens. Singer of truths.
By then, I’d heard hundreds of stories about him: how he roamed the worlds, how he sang praises to Lord Vishnu, how even kings and devas paused at his words. I expected thunder. Instead, he smiled.
“Kapila,” he said, though I hadn’t told him my name, “I hear you seek wisdom.”
I swallowed. “Yes, revered one. I want to understand the soul. Brahman. That beyond all karma.”
He sat on a stone. The veena hummed faintly. “And what do you know so far?”
I straightened. I listed the four Vedas, had memorized dozens of hymns. I recited verses from the Upanishads I barely understood. I told him names—Om, Atman, Purusha. I knew the structure, the words, the passages.
When I finished, he was silent. Not stern. Just still.
And then he said, “You know words. But not Truth.”
I blinked. “But I’ve studied…”
Narada raised a hand gently. “So did I.”
That surprised me.
“I too learned all scripture,” he said, “and yet, I was not free. I told myself I was wise. But I had not crossed the river.”
“What river?”
He stared at the sky. “The river between knowledge... and realization.”
I felt a knot in my stomach. “What changed you?”
Narada leaned forward. “Once, I went to Lord Vishnu, thinking I had conquered knowledge. All four Vedas, six philosophies, all seventy-two arts. I believed I was the wisest on Earth. But the Lord only said, ‘You lack the most important knowledge.’”
He paused, eyes holding mine.
“What was it?” I whispered.
“Humility,” he said. “And love. The kind that sees no self and trembles before all life. Compassion, Kapila. The root of dharma. Without it, all knowledge is dust.”
I sat down. Something shifted in my chest.
He told me about karma—not as punishment, but as a mirror. How our actions, even unspoken thoughts, leave echoes. He said dharma wasn’t just duty—it was alignment. Living in such a way that the soul recognizes itself. To do the work meant for you, without expecting reward.
“But what is my work?” I asked.
He smiled. “That’s your journey, Kapila. Not as a scholar. Not even as a monk. But as a soul. Find the place where your compassion meets the world’s need. That is your dharma.”
That evening, the ashram held a fire offering. Narada sang. Not chants or rituals. Just a song praising love, surrender, and truth. Some cried. I did.
He left before dawn. No farewell. Just gone.
Years passed. I remained at the ashram, but I no longer cared for titles or mantras. I began serving the sick, tending to the dying. I taught children who had nothing. I spoke to trees. I cried when animals perished. And laughed with joy when children sang in the rain.
Once, I asked the head monk, “Have I strayed from the path?”
He smiled. “No, Kapila. You’ve finally begun walking it.”
Narada never returned. But he didn’t need to. The river had begun to flow within me.
That day by the river, I thought I’d met a sage. But I met something more.
I met truth, walking in sandals and playing a veena.
The wisdom of Narada lives on—not in verses—but in compassion, in service, in surrender. That is the epic.
That is the real journey.
---
Themes: compassion, karma, dharma
Keywords: Spiritual Journey, Mahabharata, Hinduism, Epic, Sage, India
Word Count: 598
