Tag Archives: Vrindavan

Through the Sacred Corridors of Mathura and Vrindavan

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Day two of my sudden visit to Vrindavan began early. I wanted to make the most of the morning calm and planned to cover Mathura before the crowds swelled. The lanes grew narrower as I neared the Krishna Janmabhumi Temple — ancient walls closing in on centuries of devotion. A man pointed me toward a parking spot and casually suggested taking a guide who, he promised, would show me not just the temple but also Gokul. I agreed.

At the entrance, I had to surrender my bag and all electronic devices. The security rule was firm: no cameras, no phones — no distractions. As I stepped inside, I noticed the resident monkeys, confident and curious. I tightened my grip on my glasses, prompting my guide to chuckle, “Vrindavan ke bandar padhe likhe hain” — the monkeys of Vrindavan are educated; so they snatch glasses!

The temple complex opened into the garbha griha, the Yogmaya Mandir, and finally the Bhagvad Bhawan, where the main idols of Radha and Krishna are enshrined. My early start paid off — I reached just in time for the Mangal Aarti, the first offering of the day that wakes the deity. The chants, the incense, and flickering lamps created a rhythm that seemed to dissolve the boundary between ritual and reverence.

As I stepped out, the domes of the Shahi Idgah Mosque gleamed across the complex — a reminder that Mathura’s story, like India’s, is layered with shared histories.

Across the Yamuna: Gokul’s Cradle of Legends

Though my next stop was supposed to be the Dwarkadhish Temple, my guide gently reminded me of my promise to visit Gokul. We crossed the Yamuna — that mythical river Vasudev once forded on a stormy night carrying baby Krishna.

Gokul’s lanes were humble yet alive with myth. The centerpiece, Shri Nand Mahal, stood adorned with vibrant murals and a cradle for little Krishna. Watching people do so with gentle reverence made the mythology come alive in the most tender, human way.

Dwarkadhish Temple and the Call of Vishram Ghat

Back in Mathura, the Dwarkadhish Temple awaited at the end of another labyrinth of lanes. A rickshaw helped me glide through the festive chaos — Diwali shoppers, sweet sellers, and vendors adding color to the air. Inside the temple, serenity prevailed. I had a clear darshan of the idol and a brief, grounding silence amid the bustle.

Just a few steps away lay Vishram Ghat, the sacred stretch where Krishna is believed to have rested after slaying Kansa. My guide seemed mildly disappointed when I declined a puja, preferring instead to watch life unfold — priests lighting lamps, pilgrims taking a dip in the Yamuna, and boats plying. When I pulled out my phone for a photo, he sighed, “Aajkal sab picnic ban gaya hai.” I smiled quietly and said nothing. Sometimes, observation is devotion too.

Vrindavan Again: The Marble Glow of Prem Mandir

By afternoon, I was back in Vrindavan. The crowd at Prem Mandir looked overwhelming, but curiosity won. The line for women moved swiftly, and within minutes I stood inside a vast marble complex where devotion and architecture met in perfect harmony. Tableaux from Krishna’s life lined the approach to the temple — scenes from Govardhan, Rasleela, and Kaliya Mardan — each carved in intricate detail. The crowd no longer felt like a crowd; it felt like community.

The Curtain Falls at Banke Bihari Temple

My final stop was the Banke Bihari Temple, where the playful aspect of Krishna is worshipped. The idol, believed to have appeared in Nidhivan, is known to be so charming that the priests periodically draw a curtain — lest devotees lose themselves in his gaze.

Navigating the lanes took effort, and I nearly lost my way back, mistaking one identical shop for another while trying to retrieve my juttis. The small confusion felt fitting for Vrindavan — a town where divine playfulness extends even into mundane moments.

Evening Reflections: A City That Chooses You

As I walked back, the sound of kirtans filled the streets. Monks from ISKCON sang “Hare Krishna” in unison, their cymbals echoing through the festive air. Shops and homes glittered in Diwali lights, and everyone greeted one another with a gentle “Radhe Radhe.”

Some places you plan to visit; others seem to summon you. Vrindavan, I realised, had chosen me for this long weekend — to remind me that faith isn’t always about ritual. Sometimes, it’s about rhythm, stillness, and surrender in a place where every corner hums with devotion.

A road trip to Vrindavan: Of Chance Journeys and Quiet Realisations

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Do places choose us, or do we choose them? I’m not a psychic, but that question kept circling in my mind as I drove down to Vrindavan. I am not someone who visits temples often—especially the crowded ones that feel more like fairs than places of prayer. So, why was I headed there?

Diwali falls on Monday this year, making it a long weekend. Having just returned from a Durga Puja break, I had no plans. But as friends and colleagues began sharing theirs, the idea of doing something started tugging at me. I almost decided on Benaras, until I realized that if I went there, I would have to travel on Diwali day just to reach the office by Tuesday. That didn’t feel right.

And so, without much deliberation, the plan seemed to make itself. Saturday morning, coffee in hand, I casually searched for short drives from Delhi—and just like that, Vrindavan and Mathura appeared on my screen. A few clicks later, the hotel was booked. By Sunday morning, I was on the road.

Leaving Delhi and Gurugram behind, I cruised along the Delhi–Vadodara–Mumbai Expressway before turning onto the Western Peripheral Expressway and then NH44. The road stretched out smooth and bright, flanked by bursts of bougainvillea in pink and orange. There was even a man with his pet monkey performing tricks by the roadside. The blanket-sellers confirmed what I already felt in the breeze—that summer had finally loosened its grip.

Less than three hours later, I reached Vrindavan. My first greeting: “Radhe Radhe.” Here, Krishna is not just worshipped—He is woven into every breath, every sound, every conversation.

After a short rest, I took an e-rickshaw to explore. My first stop was the ISKCON temple. Before I got down, the driver advised me to remove my glasses—Vrindavan’s monkeys, he warned, were expert snatchers. As if to prove his point, one sat nearby watching me intently. I quickly slipped my glasses into my purse—a precaution that became routine for the rest of the day.

From ISKCON, I headed toward Kesi Ghat, stopping at Nidhivan on the way.

According to legend, Nidhivan is where Lord Krishna performs his Raas Leela with Radha each night, which is why the grove is closed to visitors after dusk. It is said to hold 16,000 kinds of tulsi plants. My rickshaw driver suggested hiring a guide, but I declined—only to find one walking beside me moments later. After some friendly persuasion, I agreed, and I’m glad I did; the lanes were narrow, winding, and easy to get lost in.

The guide led me through a series of small temples, each echoing with the soft rhythm of bells and chants. One was dedicated to Swami Haridas, a revered devotee of Krishna. By the time we reached there, I had run out of small notes. When I offered a hundred-rupee note instead, the priest smiled and handed me not only charanamrit but also a besan laddoo. I couldn’t help but laugh as I walked away, nibbling on the sweet.

Another memorable stop was the Vrindavan Bihari Dauji Maharaj Temple, its walls covered with marble plaques dedicated by devotees—including one from Lalu Prasad Yadav and Rabri Devi.

As evening approached, I made my way to Kesi Ghat. I’ve always known the Yamuna as a polluted river, so it was a pleasant surprise to see it in better shape. The sky glowed gold and lilac as people around me floated tiny diyas in the water. I joined them, releasing one that drifted gently downstream—a small offering of light.

Nearby, preparations were on for the Sandhya Aarti. I waited for over an hour, watching lamps being arranged, the air thick with anticipation. At one point, the priest scolded a woman for using a plastic plate under her diya. “If we think only of faith and not of nature,” he said, “then our prayers will bear no fruit.” His words struck me as profoundly true—for perhaps that’s the only way India’s rivers can be saved.

After another half hour of waiting, the Aarti still hadn’t begun, and I finally decided to return.

On the way back, the soundscape of Vrindavan surrounded me—kirtans from nearby temples, devotees quietly counting rosaries as they walked, and everywhere, the soft greeting of “Radhe Radhe.”

In that moment, I realized: perhaps we don’t choose places. Maybe they choose us when we need them most.