फलपुष्पाणि सञ्चिनोति, प्रेम्णा नाम जपत्यहो।
पथि पथि दृष्टुं पिपासन्ती, आगमिष्यति स एव सः॥
"She gathers fruits and flowers in love, chanting His name without end.
On every path, in every breath, she thirsts to behold Him—
And come He shall, for He always does."
In the Depth of the Dandaka
The forest was still, wrapped in the breath of dawn. The leaves of the Tinduka trees trembled gently as light spilled like clarified butter across the moss-laden earth. Birds stirred without song,as if they too were waiting.
In a small clearing near a hermitage woven with vines and prayer, an old woman sat beneath a sacred **pippala** tree.
Her hands, rough like parched earth, moved with care.
She was selecting berries—ripe, sweet, unspoiled.
One by one, she tasted them.
One by one, she placed them in a leaf bowl of folded sal leaves.
She hummed as she worked. The tune was neither from this age nor the last. It came from some ancient longing, whispered to her by sages and wind, and passed through her lips like a promise.
She was Shabari—an ascetic, a devotee, a forgotten ember of devotion glowing in the cold silence of exile.
Her ashram was barren of disciples, yet rich with expectation.
She looked up suddenly.
A black feather danced down before her.
The crow landed softly on a branch, and then—transformed.
A man of undetermined age stood before her, neither glowing nor grim, clothed in the simplicity of silence. His eyes bore the wisdom of fire, flood, and yuga.
Shabari did not rise.
She placed another berry in her basket, tasted it.
Only then did she speak.
"Are you another sage come to ask me why I wait?"
The man smiled.
"No, Amma. I am the one who waits to see how you wait."
She studied him—then bowed her head slightly.
"You wear the air of those who've seen too much and forgotten nothing."
He sat upon the stone across from her, brushing aside fallen petals.
"I am called Kakbhushundi. I once asked questions like you do. Now, I answer them when they rise unspoken."
She touched her brow with reverence.
"Then tell me, Bhushunda, if you truly know—will He come? Will Rama truly walk these paths? Or am I mad, offering fruits to a silence that never replies?"
Kakbhushundi folded his hands upon his lap, voice low as thunder before the monsoon.
"You ask if He will come, as if He has not already. Do you not feel His breath in the wind that guides your hands? The sweetness of your berries, tasted for Him—do they not become prasada in that very act?"
Shabari lowered her eyes.
"I believe... but the body falters. Years fall like leaves, and still, no footsteps."
He nodded.
"That is because you await the footsteps of a man. But the Lord comes not in haste—He arrives only when the soul is ripe. And yours, Amma, is near bursting."
She laughed softly, a sound like leaves rubbing together.
"You speak in riddles. Speak then as a seer."
Kakbhushundi's eyes deepened, and a hush fell over the forest. Even the wind paused.
"In one of the Ramayanas I have seen, there is a day when the Lord sets out to perform the Ashwamedha Yajna—a sacred horse released to declare sovereignty. But the sons He never knew—Lava and Kusha—rose in arms against it."
Shabari listened, the berry forgotten in her hand.
"They were mere boys, raised in solitude by the sage Valmiki. Yet when they saw the horse, they stood as walls before it. They fought—and defeated—the entire army of Ayodhya. Lakshmana. Bharata. Shatrughna. Even Hanuman, the mountain-lifter, was laid low."
Her eyes widened.
"And Rama?"
Kakbhushundi smiled, slow as truth.
"He came at last. Bow in hand. Heart torn in wonder."
"Did He strike?"
"He could not. Not with his own sons standing before him. And in that moment, Valmiki emerged—revealing the mystery hidden for years."
"A father met his sons not in a palace, but on a battlefield. And yet, it was not war. It was reunion. The sacrifice halted. Sita reclaimed her place not by trial, but by truth."
Shabari whispered, "Even His arrows are laced with love…"
Kakbhushundi nodded.
"Yes. For His duty is not only to destroy adharma. It is to **bind hearts** in the midst of a world that severs."
She looked down at her wrinkled palms.
"And what of me? Am I too part of some Ramayana you have seen?"
He leaned forward.
"In every one, Amma. In every version, there comes a day when a tired forest woman tastes berries for sweetness—and offers them to the Lord she has never seen. And in every one, He comes."
Tears brimmed in her faded eyes.
"Truly?"
"I have watched a thousand earths spin. But never once have I seen a universe where the Lord forgets a devotee who waits in love."
She looked up at him, her voice a shiver of wind through prayer flags.
"Then I shall wait."
Kakbhushundi smiled.
"And He shall come."
He rose and stepped back into the mist, slowly taking the shape of the raven once more.
"Ask not how long it takes for God to reach you," he called as he flew, "but whether your heart is open when He does."
As his wings vanished into the canopy, Shabari turned to her little basket.
She plucked one berry.
Tasted.
Smiled.
The fruit was perfect.