Meditations on Transcendence

Janmashtami, celebrated as the birth of Lord Krishna, paradoxically honors the one who is unborn—Ajah. Sri Adi Shankaracharya captures this essence in his explanation, where he refers to Krishna as "Ajah," the one without birth, emphasizing the eternal nature of the divine. The Rig Veda echoes this, asserting that the divine is never born, nor will ever be born. The Mahabharata’s Santi Parva strengthens this concept by stating, "I was not born, nor will I ever be born. I am the soul in all beings; hence, I am called the Unborn." In celebrating Janmashtami, one is drawn into a paradox: How does one celebrate the birth of the unborn? This seemingly contradictory idea symbolizes a profound truth. Krishna, like the sun that rises but is not born, manifests in the world yet remains beyond birth and death. His appearance in the world is a divine play, an incarnation to guide humanity.  Thus, Janmashtami becomes a celebration not of Krishna’s birth but of his timelessness,

  Happy Janmashtami In the quiet corners of the heart, where the echoes of eons linger, we find ourselves running. We turn from the dark-eyed lord, Krishna, telling ourselves it’s not time, not now, not here. We chase distractions like fireflies in the night, elusive and fleeting, whispering, "Anyone but You." Yet, in the stillness between breaths, His name stirs, unbidden, unrelenting. For how long can we deny the truth we know? That in His smile lies the universe, in His gaze, our salvation. We stumble through lifetimes, but He waits—patient as the stars. When will we see Him as He is? Not a god of distance, but the heartbeat of our own soul. Let this be the life where we stop running, where we face the truth we’ve hidden from. Let us turn to Him, not out of duty or fear, but out of love—pure, undeniable, and bright as the dawn. For in the end, it is not the world that holds us, but the one who created it. O Krishna, we surrender, at last, to You.

Happy Janmashtami  In the quiet corners of the heart, where the echoes of eons linger, we find ourselves running. We turn from the dark-eyed lord, Krishna, telling ourselves it’s not time, not now, not here. We chase distractions like fireflies in the night, elusive and fleeting, whispering, "Anyone but You." Yet, in the stillness between breaths, His name stirs, unbidden, unrelenting. For how long can we deny the truth we know? That in His smile lies the universe, in His gaze, our salvation. We stumble through lifetimes, but He waits—patient as the stars. When will we see Him as He is? Not a god of distance, but the heartbeat of our own soul. Let this be the life where we stop running, where we face the truth we’ve hidden from. Let us turn to Him, not out of duty or fear, but out of love—pure, undeniable, and bright as the dawn. For in the end, it is not the world that holds us, but the one who created it. O Krishna, we surrender, at last, to You.