Vrindaban in northern India abounds in temples dedicated to Sri Krishna and Sri Radha. One of the well-known temples there—arguably the most famous—is that of Banke-Bihari, where worship is offered to the child Krishna. This temple has one unique feature: no devotee can have an uninterrupted darśan of the deity there. A curtain separating the deity from the devotees is continuously drawn and opened and drawn again, so no one can see the deity without being interrupted. The process of opening and drawing the curtain is repeated throughout the day.
What is the reason behind this arrangement, now known as jhāṅki-darśan, the opportunity to have only a brief glimpse of the deity? The ostensible reason is that the divine child needs to be protected from the evil eye (nazar). Another often cited reason is that the devotees may fall unconscious if they stared too long at the powerful eyes of the deity. But there well might be an altogether different reason for the jhāṅki-darśan at the temple.
A story is told of why such a strange practice was adopted by the priests a few years after the temple was built in 1864. We learn about an orphan girl in Vrindaban who sold flower garlands to devotees and pilgrims that came to worship at the Banke-Bihari temple. Seeing her beautiful garlands, the priests contracted her to supply ten garlands daily for the worship at the temple.
The girl was deeply devoted to Krishna. As often as she could, she would run inside the temple and gaze lovingly at her Lord, who sat regally on a decorated altar, adorned with the garlands she had made with her own little hands. One of her dreams was to go near her Lord and garland him herself. But only the priests were allowed to do that, and everyone had to stand at a distance and watch the priests worship the Lord on their behalf. No one else was allowed inside the sanctum.
But the girl continued to cherish in her heart the hope that somehow some day her dream would be fulfilled. Besides the ten garlands she was required to supply daily to the temple, she made an extra garland everyday as her personal offering and sent it in along with the ten. Her hope was that the priests would notice the extra garland and, when they asked her about it, she would tell them about her desire to garland the Lord herself and perhaps they would let her do it.
Unfortunately, the priests never really cared to count the garlands they received. The days, weeks and months passed and no one noticed the girl’s humble offering. She was disappointed. She could forgive the priests for not noticing her extra garland. They were human, after all. Carelessness was an understandable human failing.
But what about the Lord? Had he too failed to see her silent offering? He who knows everything, he without whose will not even a blade of grass can move—why was he silent? Couldn’t he make the priests notice it? How could Krishna be so heartless? Doesn’t he know the intense, secret desire of my heart? Can he not fulfill it?—such questions and doubts began to rumble in her head.
She could no longer concentrate on her work. With a heavy heart and a sudden impulse, she walked into the temple one day and stood in a corner, pouring out the silent anguish of her heart as she gazed at the adorable Lord, who sat on the altar with a divinely majestic look. Tears filled her eyes. She could not see the multitude of the devotees who stood praying to her Lord. She could not hear the jubilant cries of “Jai Bānke-Bihāri-Lāl ki jai!” The world disappeared into nothingness. Only her Lord and she remained. “Why? Why, O Lord? Am I not worthy of your love?” her heart cried out.
Then something strange happened. She felt a pat on her head. She looked around. No one was nearby. She was confused. She heard a playful, sweet laughter. Then she understood. “Yes, my Lord is here. This sound cannot be human,” she said to herself.
“You are absolutely right, my dear,” a voice said. It seemed to come not from outside, but somewhere deep down from her heart. The voice continued: “Do you really think that I don’t know of your love and devotion for me? Do you believe that I didn’t notice the special garland you prepared for me everyday? I want you to come and garland me with your own beautiful hands.”
“Is there anything impossible for you? You could have easily fulfilled my heart’s desire long ago.”
“If I could, I certainly would have, my child. But I have hardly any freedom here.”
“You are kidding!” she said incredulously.
“No, I am not. The priests decide everything for me. It is they who choose when I should eat, when I should sleep, when I should meet the devotees. They choose the garlands for me. They choose my clothes. They choose my food. I have no say whatsoever. Tell me, how could I have you garland me yourself under these circumstances?”
The girl shook her head. “I don’t understand all this. All I know is that you are the Supreme Being. Even the sun, the moon and the stars move in obedience to your will. You can make the impossible possible.”
Krishna seemed to lower his voice as he said this: “There is a way out, of course. Why don’t you come to me at night after the temple is closed? The priests will have gone home by then and there won’t be any difficulty.”
“But the temple doors would be locked,” she said.
“That’s not a problem,” Krishna said. “I'll take care of that. It’s settled then. Tonight at 10:00, just push the door and it will open.”
Before the girl could say anything more, she felt another friendly pat on her head. She looked at her Lord on the altar. She saw a smile on his face.
Later that evening, she made her way to the temple, carefully picking up her basket containing a pair of exquisitely prepared garlands of fresh flowers, sandalwood paste, tulasi leaves, and the sweet delicacies she had prepared with great care. She was at the door at 10:00 sharp. No one was about, but she cautiously looked in all directions every now and then to make sure that no one was following her. The temple stood silent, covered by darkness.
A sudden fear seized her heart. Would the door really open on its own? Or had she just been an imaginative fool in thinking that the Lord had really invited her? With a thumping heart, she touched the door and gave it a slight push. Wonder of wonders! The huge door opened as if it was just waiting for her arrival. She slowly made her way inside, for it was all dark. But she knew the place well and knew where to go. The door to the Lord’s room also opened as readily as the outer door had done.
“Lord, I have come. Where are you?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“Ah, here you are at last!” said the Lord. “Ever since the priests put me to bed and went away, I have been waiting for you.”
“I can’t see anything. It’s too dark. Shall I light the lamp I have brought with me?” she asked.
“No! If even a streak of light escapes through these windows and someone sees it, we shall be in trouble. Look, the best thing would be to go to your house. There we shall be free from all care, and there you can worship me to your heart’s content,” the Lord whispered.
“Wouldn’t it be even more risky for us both to go there? What if someone meets us on the way?” she asked, bewildered.
“I’ll take care of that,” the Lord said, assuringly. “You lead the way. I shall follow.”
With the basket in one hand and a lamp in the other, the girl came out of the temple. The Lord followed her. Carefully closing the door behind them, the two proceeded at a brisk pace. The girl’s house was nearby and they reached it very soon. Once inside the house, the Lord cautioned her, “Latch the door firmly from inside and close all the windows.” He sat on her bed and waited. “Come along now, dear,” he said lovingly.
The girl washed her hands with Yamuna’s water and also sprinkled it all over the room. Then she picked up the garland and approached her Lord with slow steps. Her heart beat fast, her face glowed with excitement. At last her dream was about to become a reality. After putting the garland round his neck, she bent down and washed his feet in a bowl and adorned them with sandalpaste and flowers. She offered him the sweet delicacies she had prepared.
Too excited by this time to speak to him, she began to shed tears of joy. “Lord! O Lord! You are indeed the ocean of mercy. You had compassion on an undeserving creature like me. I used to feel that, because I am an orphan, I had no one in the world. Today I can say with all conviction that I have everyone. You are my father, you are my mother, you are my friend, you are my everything, O Lord!” The Lord sat there with a sweet smile illuminating his effulgent face. “Won’t you sing some bhajans?” He asked her. “I enjoy songs when they are sung with faith and devotion. Won’t you sing for me?” The girl nodded and took her one-stringed instrument that hung in a corner of the room.
Just as she was about to begin, the Lord remembered something. He said, “I almost forgot to tell you. Look, I must be back in the temple before 7:00 in the morning. That is when the priests come. I am quite forgetful. Specially when I am in the company of devotees like you, I just lose all sense of time. Please keep an eye on the clock.” The girl nodded and said, “I shall try, my Lord.” The Lord smiled and said, “Come along. I am anxious to hear you sing.” She began singing. Now and then the Lord too joined in. She asked him the questions and doubts that had beset her heart during her devotional practices. The Lord answered all her queries and taught her the sacred truths of the inner life.
Time stood still in the room, but outside it moved on with its customary pace. The Lord and his young devotee were too preoccupied to notice the ticking away of the clock. The darkness of the night melted away as the eastern sky glowed with the rising sun. All of a sudden they heard frantic knocking at the door. “Who—who is it?” the girl asked, as she hurriedly glanced at the clock. It was past 7:00. Her heart missed a beat. She looked pale and wan at the Lord. The knocks on the door became louder and shouts could be heard: “Open the door immediately. Else we’ll break in.”
“It’s the priests!” the Lord whispered. “Go quickly and open the door. I shall hide myself.” The girl did not know what to do. Almost mechanically she obeyed his command. When she opened the door, three burly men—all priests at the temple—barged in. “Where’s the image?” they asked her.
“What—which image?” she faltered.
“We went to the temple as usual and found the image missing. Fortunately we found footprints outside the temple, and here we are. Come on, now, where have you hidden the image?”
The girl stood there, unable to say a word. The priests pushed her aside and made the oil lamp brighter to search for the image themselves. They did not have to search at all—for, there on the bed, reclining against a pillow, stood the image of Sri Banke-Bihari.
“Ahh—ha!” they exclaimed as they caught the girl by her hair and dragged her to the bed. Pointing at the image, they asked her, “Can you explain this?”
“He came on his own. I have not stolen him. He asked me to come at night and he walked all the way with me here. He talked with me the whole night and we sang together.”
“Shut up, you liar!” shouted the Head-priest. “Don’t waste our time with this fairytale.” Turning to his companions, he asked mockingly, “Any of you heard of an image that walks, talks and sings? I have been worshiping this image for more than twenty years and it has not spoken a word even once, what to speak of walking and singing!”
“Believe me, sir, he did talk to me and sing with me. Why should I steal him? He came on his own,” the girl pleaded. She rushed towards the bed and fell at the feet of Sri Banke-Bihari. Sobbing she said to him, “O Lord, why have you hidden yourself in this image? Please show yourself and tell these people that I am telling the truth. Please, O Lord, please reveal your true form. These people say that I am a liar, I am a thief. Please tell them that they are wrong.” But Sri Banke-Bihari remained silent.
The Head-priest and his companions looked on dumbfounded. Never before in their lives had they come across a situation so challenging, so puzzling. There was no mistaking the girl’s sincerity and earnestness. Even the Head-priest realized that the girl was telling the truth. But there was no time to waste. The image had to be rushed back to the temple before its absence from the altar became known to all.
For fear of public scandal the priests did not inform the police, and people in Vrindaban remained in the dark about all these happenings. Conferring among themselves, the priests decided that the best course was to take the image back to the temple without much ado and act as if nothing unusual had happened. Some excuse could be found, they thought, if people enquired why the temple didn’t open on time that day. But on no account should this story of the Lord’s disappearance at night leak out.
They quickly grabbed the image, covered it with a cloth, and hurried back to the temple. Before leaving, the Head-priest called the girl closer and ordered her to leave. “Pack your things and go to a far off place,” he said and, looking menacingly in her eyes, he continued, “and don’t ever return. Otherwise you will have to spend the rest of your life behind bars!” The girl was terrified. She quickly picked up her few belongings and walked away and was not heard of again.
The same afternoon the priests held a confidential meeting. It had become clear to them that the girl had not stolen the image. How could she? The image was quite heavy and it was physically impossible for her to lift it and carry it all the way to her house. Besides, she had not even attempted to hide it, for they had found the image on the bed, right in front of them. No, the girl was not a thief.
“It’s beyond belief but I am convinced,” the Head-priest said, “that the Lord did indeed go there by his own will. I have seen how devoted the little girl was to our Lord. We do read in our scriptures, don’t we, how God is ever compassionate to his devotees. My mind tells me that the Lord must have heard her prayers and, seeing her genuine devotion, must have decided to shower his grace on her by going to her house.”
“I still find it difficult to believe,” another priest said. “But what you say seems to be the only possible thing that could have happened.”
“Fortunately,” the Head-priest continued, “the girl’s home was nearby and we were able to recover the image without anyone knowing about it. But suppose—” and he lowered his voice and leaned closer as he said, “suppose some devotee from some far off place prays to our Lord, and suppose the Lord once again melts with compassion and goes away with them, what shall we do? It would be impossible for us to trace his whereabouts!”
There was silence in the room. The proposition was quite alarming. Was there any way to prevent the Lord from being so gracious and so compassionate? After much discussion, they worked out a plan. The Lord feels compassion, they concluded, because devotees spend hours praying to him and seeking his grace. When he sees their faith, their earnestness, their devotion, he loves them even more and is prepared to do anything for them. The only way to prevent this is to not allow the Lord to see the devotees for a long time at a stretch.
“In front of the altar, let us have a curtain which we can open and close every now and then. The Lord would be able to see the huge crowd of devotees standing before him, supplicating him with their prayers and worship, but before he can single out any particular individual for closer observation, the curtain will be drawn,” the Head-priest said to his colleagues. “How do you like the idea?”
“Excellent! Excellent!” they said, approving the plan heartily. The very next day a curtain was placed in front of the altar, and thus began the unusual practice of jhāṅki-darśan, denying devotees the opportunity of an uninterrupted darśan. The practice continues to this day.
We don’t really need to go to Vrindaban to experience jhāṅki-darśan for ourselves. If we look within, we can find it right here, right now.
As spiritual seekers we may discover the jhāṅki-darśan going on in our own hearts whenever we sit down for prayer or meditation. In the beginning, the curtain is closed. But a time does come when it opens, even if for a very short time, barely enough for a glimpse. Whenever the curtain opens, we are able to behold the Lord in the heart—ever shining, pure and effulgent. We are flooded with divine grace and feel an indescribable joy and strength within us. The vision may not always be clear. Initially it is usually hazy and lasts for a short time. Nonetheless, it fills the heart with joy and encourages us to pursue our spiritual practices with greater enthusiasm.
Soon the curtain closes, however, and darkness reigns. The vision of the Lord disappears. There is no knowing when the curtain will open again. It might take days, months, even years. Doubts come. The mind vacillates. Courage fails. The spiritual struggle becomes more fierce, sometimes frustrating. Those who cannot persevere lose all hope and give up the struggle. Their progress stops. But those who are daring, the brave ones, the ones who don’t give up easily, refuse to be cowed down. Success or failure, they say, they won’t stop trying. It is in their hearts that the curtain opens again, they see the smiling face of the Lord, which replenishes their joy and strength.
The devotee’s heart is the Lord’s home—his “drawing room,” as Sri Ramakrishna liked to call it. All our spiritual efforts are really meant to bring the Lord home. What is necessary is a pure heart, selfless devotion, and intense longing for God—the qualities that brought Sri Banke-Bihari to the home of his simple and earnest devotee.
The jhāṅki-darśan continues in the lives of all spiritual seekers. What changes is the duration between the openings of the curtain. One measure of progress in our meditation practice is that, with the passage of time, the interruptions become fewer: the curtain seems to close only occasionally and that too for a short time. When we are fully illumined, the curtain is removed once and for all. We stand in the presence of the Lord for ever. That is when we know that we have succeeded in bringing the Lord home. There is no more jhāṅki-darśan when the Lord comes home. From then on, it’s nitya-darśan.
As we behold the Lord, we are engulfed in his divine presence. In that Light of all lights, “the heart” disappears, the “I” disappears, even “the Lord” disappears. What remains is who I really am and have always been. The dream is over.