By Harihar Tripathy
The winter morning had wrapped the ashram in a thick, grey blanket of fog. Even though the clock struck eight, the sun was nowhere to be seen, hidden behind the misty veil that made the world feel quiet and shivering. There wasn’t a soul in sight; the biting cold had kept everyone indoors.
I walked toward the sanctum, pulling my shawl tighter. Inside, I found Baba. He was unusually busy, moving with a sense of gentle urgency. He was preparing for the morning ritual of Bala Gopala—the child deity.
On a silver tray, everything was laid out with precision. There was fragrant water infused with agarwood and sandalwood, and the Panchamrut—the five sacred nectars. Everything was ready for the Lord’s morning bath, yet Baba stood still, staring at a small vessel on the stove.
“Why the delay, Baba?” I asked, breathing out a cloud of mist.
“I am waiting for the water to warm up,” Baba replied softly, without looking away from the pot. “The morning is too cold for a bath.”
A small, logical smile crept onto my face. I looked at the small metal idol of Bala Gopala, sitting patiently on his throne. “Baba,” I ventured, “do you really think the idol feels the cold? It is made of metal, after all.”
Baba paused. He turned to look at me, his eyes reflecting a depth of devotion that made my logic feel suddenly shallow. He didn’t get angry. Instead, he smiled—a fatherly, knowing smile.
“You call Him an ‘idol,’ and that is why you ask this question,” Baba said gently.
He stepped closer and pointed toward the small deity. “Tell me something. If, instead of this deity, your own tiny son was sitting there, waiting to be bathed on a morning as freezing as this… would you pour cold water over him? Would you say, ‘It is just a body, it doesn’t matter’?”
I fell silent. The image of a shivering child flashed through my mind.
“In your eyes, this is a statue,” Baba continued, his voice as warm as the steam now rising from the pot. “But in mine, He is a child who has been placed in my care. Faith is not about believing in the power of stone; it is about the love you bring to the relationship. I do not bathe Him because He needs it; I bathe Him with warm water because my heart cannot bear to see Him cold.”
As Baba poured the warm, fragrant water over the small deity, the steam rose, filling the room with a heavenly scent. In that moment, the fog outside didn’t seem so cold anymore. I realized that while I was looking for God in the greatness of the universe, Baba had found Him in the simple act of warming a pot of water for a child.
My logic had met a truth far greater: that devotion is not a ritual, but a parent’s love for the Divine.
