Why The’s Choice Still Matters
A devotional lens on spiritual courage and divine guidance.
---
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I served in the palace of King Hiranyakashipu—the gold-clad demon-king who declared himself greater than the gods. I swept floors. Polished brass pillars. Watched miracles warp into madness.
He was no ordinary king. He had won boons from Lord Brahma—the creator—that made him nearly invincible. No man, beast, or god could kill him. Not inside or outside, not by night or day, not by any weapon, not on earth or sky. Everyone feared him.
Except his son.
Prahlada.
He looked more like a sage than a boy. Quiet, bare-footed, always chanting the name of Lord Vishnu—the protector, the sustainer, the god who stands for dharma, or righteous living. That angered the king. He’d ordered the boy away from teachers. Re-education. Soldiers. Fire. Poison.
But nothing silenced Prahlada. “I bow to the Lord who lives in every heart,” he said once, while we scrubbed the marble benches. “Even in Father.”
I remember the day it happened. There was a storm. The saffron-red sun vanished behind clouds. The king had called the court together. We were packed into the great hall, golden torches lighting the dark like tongues of warning.
The king thundered, “Where is this Vishnu you worship?”
Prahlada didn’t flinch. Still as stone. “Everywhere.”
“Is He in this pillar?” Hiranyakashipu growled. His fingers curled around a mace.
Prahlada nodded. Like he always did. Calm. Certain.
I saw it in slow motion—the king lifting his mace and striking the bronze pillar with all his rage.
It split.
Not like metal. Like skin.
And from it came a sound that was not human.
It was a roar.
The creature that emerged had the torso of a man and the head of a lion. Golden mane, razor fangs, flaming eyes. This was not imagination. This was Narasimha—Lord Vishnu Himself, in a form that fit no category. Not man. Not beast.
Dharma had taken shape.
Hiranyakashipu charged, screaming curses. But what could curses do against justice?
Narasimha grabbed him. Carried him to the threshold of the hall—not inside or outside. Placed him on His lap—not earth, not sky. And with divinely sharp claws—not weapon—He tore open the king’s chest.
There was no bloodlust. Only precision. Like pulling poison from a wound.
The hall went silent.
Even the fire bowed.
And then the deity sat—still half-lion, half-man—with gore on His chest and calm in his breath.
But his rage had not passed.
I remember thinking: even Lord Vishnu, preserver of the universe, could burn with fury for the sake of dharma. Even love, when denied long enough, roars.
Prahlada, tiny and shaken, stepped forward.
We all froze.
But Narasimha looked at the boy and softened. Eyes like molten honey.
“My Lord,” the boy said, bowing low, “if I have ever done right, if I have ever spoken truth—please calm your heart.”
And I saw the impossible. The lion-face smiled.
It’s hard to explain what happened next. The light in the room changed. The beast became God again. A radiant form. Gentle. Unspeakable grace.
And just like that, He was gone.
Years have gone by. Dynasties too. Temples now honor Narasimha, and even children's books retell Prahlada’s faith. But standing in that hall, I understood something deeper than ritual.
This wasn’t just about divine power.
It was about choice.
Prahlada had chosen truth—again and again—while the world wrapped in fear. Lord Vishnu answered not because of the boy’s bloodline, but because of his clarity.
He stayed steady when everything broke around him.
That’s the lesson.
It’s not about gods appearing in impossible forms. It’s not about revenge. It’s about trusting the divine when logic fails. About listening to the voice inside that speaks of dharma, even when it costs everything.
Ramayana speaks of the same—how Lord Rama chose exile to honor truth. Or Hanuman, the mighty devotee who crossed oceans for love and duty. Even Lord Shiva sits in deep stillness, holding destruction until needed. And Ganesha, the remover of obstacles—He too teaches that real strength begins inside.
But today, when people say, “The divine is silent,” I remember the roar.
I remember The’s choice.
And I whisper to myself—truth doesn’t always look strong. Sometimes, it looks like a little boy standing before a godless king, whispering prayers.
And sometimes, that's enough to open heaven.
---
Keywords: Ramayana, Shiva, Ganesha, Dharma, Hanuman, Krishna
Word Count: 895
Why The’s Choice Still Matters
A devotional lens on spiritual courage and divine guidance.
---
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I served in the palace of King Hiranyakashipu—the gold-clad demon-king who declared himself greater than the gods. I swept floors. Polished brass pillars. Watched miracles warp into madness.
He was no ordinary king. He had won boons from Lord Brahma—the creator—that made him nearly invincible. No man, beast, or god could kill him. Not inside or outside, not by night or day, not by any weapon, not on earth or sky. Everyone feared him.
Except his son.
Prahlada.
He looked more like a sage than a boy. Quiet, bare-footed, always chanting the name of Lord Vishnu—the protector, the sustainer, the god who stands for dharma, or righteous living. That angered the king. He’d ordered the boy away from teachers. Re-education. Soldiers. Fire. Poison.
But nothing silenced Prahlada. “I bow to the Lord who lives in every heart,” he said once, while we scrubbed the marble benches. “Even in Father.”
I remember the day it happened. There was a storm. The saffron-red sun vanished behind clouds. The king had called the court together. We were packed into the great hall, golden torches lighting the dark like tongues of warning.
The king thundered, “Where is this Vishnu you worship?”
Prahlada didn’t flinch. Still as stone. “Everywhere.”
“Is He in this pillar?” Hiranyakashipu growled. His fingers curled around a mace.
Prahlada nodded. Like he always did. Calm. Certain.
I saw it in slow motion—the king lifting his mace and striking the bronze pillar with all his rage.
It split.
Not like metal. Like skin.
And from it came a sound that was not human.
It was a roar.
The creature that emerged had the torso of a man and the head of a lion. Golden mane, razor fangs, flaming eyes. This was not imagination. This was Narasimha—Lord Vishnu Himself, in a form that fit no category. Not man. Not beast.
Dharma had taken shape.
Hiranyakashipu charged, screaming curses. But what could curses do against justice?
Narasimha grabbed him. Carried him to the threshold of the hall—not inside or outside. Placed him on His lap—not earth, not sky. And with divinely sharp claws—not weapon—He tore open the king’s chest.
There was no bloodlust. Only precision. Like pulling poison from a wound.
The hall went silent.
Even the fire bowed.
And then the deity sat—still half-lion, half-man—with gore on His chest and calm in his breath.
But his rage had not passed.
I remember thinking: even Lord Vishnu, preserver of the universe, could burn with fury for the sake of dharma. Even love, when denied long enough, roars.
Prahlada, tiny and shaken, stepped forward.
We all froze.
But Narasimha looked at the boy and softened. Eyes like molten honey.
“My Lord,” the boy said, bowing low, “if I have ever done right, if I have ever spoken truth—please calm your heart.”
And I saw the impossible. The lion-face smiled.
It’s hard to explain what happened next. The light in the room changed. The beast became God again. A radiant form. Gentle. Unspeakable grace.
And just like that, He was gone.
Years have gone by. Dynasties too. Temples now honor Narasimha, and even children's books retell Prahlada’s faith. But standing in that hall, I understood something deeper than ritual.
This wasn’t just about divine power.
It was about choice.
Prahlada had chosen truth—again and again—while the world wrapped in fear. Lord Vishnu answered not because of the boy’s bloodline, but because of his clarity.
He stayed steady when everything broke around him.
That’s the lesson.
It’s not about gods appearing in impossible forms. It’s not about revenge. It’s about trusting the divine when logic fails. About listening to the voice inside that speaks of dharma, even when it costs everything.
Ramayana speaks of the same—how Lord Rama chose exile to honor truth. Or Hanuman, the mighty devotee who crossed oceans for love and duty. Even Lord Shiva sits in deep stillness, holding destruction until needed. And Ganesha, the remover of obstacles—He too teaches that real strength begins inside.
But today, when people say, “The divine is silent,” I remember the roar.
I remember The’s choice.
And I whisper to myself—truth doesn’t always look strong. Sometimes, it looks like a little boy standing before a godless king, whispering prayers.
And sometimes, that's enough to open heaven.
---
Keywords: Ramayana, Shiva, Ganesha, Dharma, Hanuman, Krishna
Word Count: 895
