The ray of light

Answer to the Question

The temple in Mathura had always been a place of solace for Advaita. But today, as she sat in front of the idols of Radha and Krishna, something felt different—almost tangible. The divine energy enveloped her, as if the very air around her was thick with purpose. Her mind still reeled from the voice she had heard once again that morning. The words echoed in her ears, *"Ab tumhare aagman ka samay ho chuka hai."*

What did it all mean?

Advaita pressed her hands together in a silent prayer, seeking clarity, seeking peace, but her heart felt restless. The voice, the sense of destiny, it all weighed heavily on her. As she stood up to leave, her gaze fell upon a small passage that led to the backyard of the temple. She had never ventured that far before. Without thinking, her feet moved, leading her toward the narrow, shaded path.

The further she walked, the quieter the temple surroundings became, as though the entire world had dimmed around her. The sunlight softened, and a strange calm settled over her. Before long, she reached a small, secluded area behind the temple. The yard was simple—there was nothing extraordinary about it, save for the ancient banyan tree that stood in the center, its roots sprawling out like ancient fingers that had touched the earth for centuries.

But what caught Advaita's eye was the figure sitting beneath the tree. A baba, dressed in saffron robes, sat with his eyes closed, his hands resting gently on his knees in meditation. There was an otherworldly aura about him—an ancient calm that seemed to emanate from him.

Advaita hesitated. She didn't know why, but her heart beat faster as she took slow, tentative steps toward him. It was as if some unseen force was drawing her closer. Before she could stop herself, she was standing directly in front of him.

The baba's eyes flickered open, and the moment they met hers, Advaita felt a jolt of recognition. His eyes were old, far older than his body seemed. They held wisdom, depth, and a strange sense of knowing, as if he had been waiting for her.

"Apne sawalon ke uttar jaan-na chahti ho?" the baba asked, his voice deep and calm, like a river that had seen many seasons.

Advaita blinked in surprise. Her throat felt dry, and she stammered, "A-aapko kaise pata?"

The baba gave her a small, cryptic smile, one that only deepened the sense of mystery surrounding him. "Jo tum dekh rahi ho aur jo tum sun rahi ho, woh mithya nahi hai... satya hai," he said softly, his gaze unwavering. "Aur is satya ko jaan-ne ke liye tumhe vahan jaana padega, jahan uska hriday basta hai."

Advaita's brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of his words. He was speaking in riddles, and the more he spoke, the more her confusion grew. "Hriday?" she echoed. "Jahan kis ka hriday basta hai?"

The baba did not answer directly. Instead, he pointed upward, his hand rising slowly toward the sky, but Advaita knew he wasn't pointing to the heavens. He was pointing toward the idol of Krishna in the temple behind them.

"Jahan janam liya tha parmeshwari ne," the baba continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Vahaan tumhein jaana hoga."

The words hung in the air, thick with mystery. Advaita's mind raced as she tried to piece together what he was saying. He was speaking about Krishna, about Radha. But where was he telling her to go? Her pulse quickened as the realization dawned on her—he was pointing her toward Barsana, the birthplace of Radha.